'We t*t forward from this peaceful neighborhood." 
 
 — " Vicar of Wakefield " 
 
A BOOK LOVER'S LIBRARY 
 OF POETICAL LITERATURE 
 
 IN TWENTY-FIVE VOLUMES 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith 
 
 and 
 
 Thomas Gray 
 
 With Introductions 
 by William Black and 
 Hamilton W. Mabie 
 and a Frontispiece in 
 Color by A. E. Becher 
 
 THE CO-OPERATIVE 
 P U B I. I C A T I O M SOCIETY 
 
 New York London 
 
3 1822 00415 8465 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Life of Oliver Goldsmith 5 
 
 The Deserted Village 129 
 
 The Traveller 151 
 
 The Hermit 169 
 
 The Hamich of Venison 175 
 
 Retaliation ISO 
 
 Postscript 187 
 
 The Double Transformation 188 
 
 The Gift 191 
 
 An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 193 
 
 The Logicians Refute d 194 
 
 A New Simile 196 
 
 Description of an Author's Bed-chamber 198 
 
 A Prologue 199 
 
 An Elegy on the Glory of Her Sex 200 
 
 On a Beautiful Youth 201 
 
 The Clown's Reply 201 
 
 Epitaph on Dr. Parnell 201 
 
 Epitaph on Edward Purdou 202 
 
 Stanzas on the Taking of Quebec 202 
 
 Stanzas on Woman 203 
 
 A Sonnet 203 
 
 Song from the Oratorio of the " Captivity " 204 
 
 Song from the Oratorio of the " Captivity " 204 
 
 Song omitted from " She Stoops to Conquer " 204 
 
 Prologue to Zobeide 205 
 
 Epilogue to the Sisters 206 
 
 Epilogue 208 
 
 An Epilogue . . 211 
 
 22— G & G— A 
 
Sv CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Epilogue 213 
 
 Threnodia Augustalis 315 
 
 The Captivity : An Oratorio 225 
 
 Lines 238 
 
 Epilogue 238 
 
 Epilogue 240 
 
 Verses on the Death of Dr. Goldsmith 241 
 
 Extract from a Monody 244 
 
 Lines by W. Wotty 250 
 
 aho Stoops to Conquer "^^dl 
 
LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 IKTRODUCTO RY. 
 
 " Innocen'TLY to amuse the imagination in this dream 
 of life is wisdom." So wrote Oliver Goldsmith; and surely 
 among those who have earned the world's gratitude by this 
 ministration he must be accorded a conspicuous place. If, 
 in these delightful writings of his, he mostly avoids the 
 darker problems of existence — if the mystery of the tragic 
 and apparently unmerited and unrequited suffering in the 
 world is rarely touched upon — we can pardon the omission 
 for the sake of the gentle optimism that would rather look 
 on the kindly side of life. '* You come hot and tired from 
 the day's battle, and this sweet minstrel sings to you," says 
 Mr. Thackeray. " Who could harm the kind vagrant 
 harper? Whom did he ever hurt? He carries no weapon 
 save the harp on which he plays to you; and with which 
 he delights great and humble, young and old, the captains 
 in the tents, or the soldiers round the fire, or the women 
 and children in the villages, at whose porches he stops and 
 flings his simple songs of love and beauty." And it is to 
 be suspected — it is to be hoped, at least — that the cheerful- 
 ness which shines like sunlight through Goldsmith's writ- 
 ings, did not altogether desert himself even in the most 
 trying hours of his wayward and troubled career. He had, 
 with all his sensitiveness, a fine happy-go-lucky disposition; 
 was ready for a frolic when he had a guinea, and, when he 
 had none, could turn a sentence on the humorous side of 
 starvation; and certainly never attributed to the injustice 
 or neglect of society misfortunes the origin of which lay 
 nearer home. 
 
6 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Of course, a very dark picture might be drawn of Gold- 
 smith's life; and the sufferings that he undoubtedly en- 
 dured have been made a whip with which to lash the in- 
 gratitude of a world not too quick to recognize the claims 
 of genius. He has been put before us, without any 
 brigliter lights to the picture, as the most unfortunate of 
 poor devils; the heart-broken usher; the hack ground 
 down by sordid book-sellers; the starving occupant of suc- 
 cessive garrets. This is the aspect of Goldsmith's career 
 which naturally attracts Mr. Forster. Mr. Forster seems 
 to have been haunted throughout his life by the idea that 
 Providence had some especial spite against literary persons; 
 and that, in a measure to compensate them for their sad 
 lot, society should be very kind to them, while the Govern- 
 ment of the day might make them Companions of the Bath 
 or give them posts in the Civil Service. In the otherwise 
 copious, thorough and valuable Life and Times of Oliver 
 Goldsmith, we find an almost humiliating insistance 
 on the complaint that Oliver Goldsmith did not 
 receive greater recognition and larger sums of money 
 from his contemporaries. Goldsmith is here " the 
 poor neglected sizar;" his "marked ill-fortune" at- 
 tends him constantly; he shares "the evil destinies of 
 men of letters;" he was one of those who "struggled into 
 fame without the aid of English institutions;" in short " he 
 wrote and paid the penalty." Nay, even Christianity itself 
 is impeached on account of the persecution suffered by poor 
 Goldsmith. " There had been a Christian religion 
 extant for seventeen hundred and fifty-seven years," writes 
 Mr. Forster, " the world having been acquainted, for even 
 so long, with its spiritual necessities and responsibilities; 
 yet here, in the middle of the eighteenth century, was the 
 eminence ordinarily conceded to a spiritual teacher, to one 
 of those men who come upon the earth to lift their fellow- 
 men above its miry ways. He is up in a garret, writing 
 for bread he cannot get, and dunned for a milk- score he 
 cannot pay." That Christianity might have been worse 
 employed than in paying the milkman's score is true 
 enough, for then the milkman would have come by his 
 own; but that Christianity, or the state, or society should 
 be scolded because an author suffers the natural conse- 
 quences of his allowing his expenditure to exceed his 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 7 
 
 income, seems a little hard! And this is a sort of writing 
 that is peculiarly inappropriate in the case of Goldsmith, 
 who, if ever any man was author of his own misfortunes, 
 may fairly have the charge brought against him. "■ Men 
 of genius," says Mr. Forster, ''can more easily starve, than 
 the world, with safety to itself, can continue to neglect 
 and starve them." Perhaps so; but the English nation, 
 which has always had a regard and even love for Oliver 
 Goldsmith, that is quite peculiar in the history of literature, 
 and which has been glad to overlook his faults and follies, 
 and eager to sympathize with him in the many miseries of 
 his career, will be slow to believe that it is responsible for 
 any starvation that Goldsmith may have endured. 
 
 However, the key-note has been firmly struck, and it 
 still vibrates. Goldsmith was the unluckiest of mortals, 
 the hapless victim of circumstances. " Yielding to that 
 united pressure of labor, penury and sorrow, with a frame 
 exhausted by unremitting and ill-rewarded drudgery, 
 Goldsmith was indebted to the forbearance of creditors 
 for a peaceful burial." But what, now, if some foreigner 
 strange to the traditions of English literature — some Jap- 
 anese student, for example, or the New Zealander come 
 before his time — were to go over the ascertained facts of 
 Goldsmith's life, and were suddenly to announce to us, with 
 the happy audacity of ignorance, fhat he, Goldsmith, was a 
 quite exceptionally fortunate person? "Why," he might 
 say, " I find that in a country where the vast majority of 
 people are born to labor, Oliver Goldsmith was never 
 asked to do a stroke of work toward the earning of his own 
 living until he had arrived at man's estate. All that was 
 expected of him, as a youth and as a young man, was that 
 he should equip himself fully for the battle of life, lie 
 was maintained at college until he had taken his degree. 
 Again and again he was furnished with funds for further 
 study and foreign travel; and again and again he gambled 
 his opportunities away. The constant kindness of his 
 uncle only made him the best begging letter-writer the 
 world has seen. In the midst of his debt and distress 
 as a book-seller's drudge, he receives £400 for three nights' 
 performance of The Good - Nahired Man; he imme- 
 diately purchases chambers in Brick Court for £400; 
 and forthwith begins to borrow as before. It is true 
 
8 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 that he died owing £2,000, and was indebted to the for- 
 bearance of creditors for a peaceful burial; but it ap- 
 pears that during the last seven years of his life he had 
 been earning an annual income equivalent to £800 of Eng- 
 lish currency.* He was a man liberally and affectionately 
 brought up, who had many relatives and many friends, and 
 who had the proud satisfaction — which has been denied to 
 many men of genius — of knowing for years before he died 
 that his merits as a writer had been recognized by the great 
 bulk of his countrymen. And yet this strange English 
 nation is inclined to suspect that it treated him rather 
 badly; and Christianity is attacked because it did not pay- 
 Goldsmith's milk-score." 
 
 Our Japanese friend may be exaggerating; but his posi- 
 tion is, after all, fairly tenable. It may at least be looked 
 at, before entering on the following brief resume of the 
 leading facts in Goldsmith's life, if only to restore our 
 equanimity. For, naturally, it is not pleasant to think 
 that any previous generation, however neglectful of the 
 claims of literary persons (as compared with the claims of 
 such wretched creatures as physicians, men of science, 
 artists, engineers, and so forth) should so cruelly have ill- 
 treated one whom we all love now. This inheritance of 
 ingratitude is more than we can bear. Is it true that 
 Goldsmith was so harshly dealt with by those barbarian 
 ancestors of ours? 
 
 *The calculation is Lord Macauiay's. See liis Biographical 
 Essays. 
 
SCHOOL AND COLLEGE. 9 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 SCHOOL AND COLLEGE. 
 
 The Goldsmiths were of English descent; Goldsmith's 
 father was a Protestant clergyman in a poor little village 
 in the county of Longford; and when Oliver, one of sev- 
 eral children, was born in this village of Pallas, or Pallas- 
 more, on the 10th of November, 1728, the Rev. Charles 
 Goldsmith was passing rich on £40 a year. But a couple 
 of years later Mr. Goldsmith succeeded to a more lucrative 
 living; and forthwith removed his family to the village of 
 Lissoy, in the county of Westmeath. 
 
 Here at once our interest in the story begins; is this 
 Lissoy the sweet Auburn that we have known and loved 
 since our childhood? Lord Macaulay, with a great deal of 
 vehemence, avers that it is not; that there never was any 
 such hamlet as Auburn in Ireland; that The Deserted Vil- 
 lage is a hopelessly incongruous poem; and that Goldsmith, 
 in combining a description of a probably Kentish vil- 
 lage with a description of an Irish ejectment, "has 
 produced something which never was, and never will 
 be, seen in any part of the world." This criticism is 
 ingenious and plausible, but it is unsound, for it hap- 
 pens to overlook one of the radical facts of human nature 
 —the magnifying delight of the mind in what is long 
 remembered and remote. What was it that the imagina- 
 tion of Goldsmith, in his life-long banishment, could not 
 see when he looked back to the home of his cliildhood, 
 and his early friends, and the sports and occupations of 
 his youth? Lissoy was no doubt a poor enough Irish vil- 
 lage; and perhaps the farms were not too well cultivated; 
 and perhaps the village preacher, who was so dear to all 
 the country round, had to administer many a thrashing to 
 a certain graceless son of his; and perhaps Paddy Byrne 
 was something of a pedant; and no doubt pigs ran over 
 
10 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 the " nicely sanded floor "of the inn; and no doubt the 
 village statesmen occasionally indulged in a free fight. 
 But do you think that was the Lissoy that Goldsmith 
 thought of in his dreary lodgings in Fleet-street courts? 
 No. It was the Lissoy where the vagrant lad had first 
 seen the " primrose peep beneath the thorn;" where he 
 had listened to the mysterious call of the bittern by the un- 
 frequented river; it was a Lissoy still ringing with the glad 
 laughter of young people in the twilight hours; it was a 
 Lissoy forever beautiful, and tender, and far away. The 
 grown up Goldsmith had not to go to any Kentish village 
 for a model; the familiar scenes of his youth, regarded 
 with all the wistfulness and longing of an exile, became 
 glorified enough. " If I go to the opera where Signora 
 Colomba pours out all the mazes of melody," he writes to 
 Mro Hodson, " I sit and sigh for Lissoy's fireside, and 
 Johnny Armstrong's Last Good Night from Peggy 
 Golden." 
 
 There was but little in the circumstances of Goldsmith^s 
 early life likely to fit him for, or lead him into, a literary 
 career; in fact, he did not take to literature until he had 
 tried pretty nearly everything else as a method of earning 
 a living. If he was intended for anything, it was no doubt 
 his father's wish that he should enter the Church; and he 
 got such education as the poor Irish clergymen — who was 
 not a very provident person — could afford. The child 
 Goldsmith was first of all taught his alphabet at home, by 
 a maid-servant, who was also a relation of the family; 
 then, at the age of six, he was sent to that village school 
 which, with its profound and learned master, he has made 
 familiar to all of us; and after that he was sent further 
 a-field for his learning, being moved from this to the other 
 boarding-school as the occasion demanded. Goldsmith's 
 school-life could not have been altogether a pleasant time 
 for him. We hear, indeed, of his being concerned in a 
 good many frolics — robbing orchards, and the like; and it 
 is said that he attained proficiency in the game of fives. 
 But a shy and sensitive lad like Goldsmith, who was 
 eagerly desirous of being thought well of, and whose appear- 
 ance only invited the thoughtless but cruel ridicule of his 
 schoolmates, must have suffered a good deal. He was little, 
 pittfed with the small-pox, and awkward; and school-boys 
 
SCHOOL AND COLLEGE. H 
 
 are amazingly frank. He was not strong enough to thrash 
 them into respect of him; he had no big brother to become 
 his champion; his pocket-money was not lavish enough to 
 enable him to buy over enemies or subsidize allies. 
 
 In similar circumstances it has sometimes happened that 
 a boy physically inferior to his companions has consoled 
 himself by proving his mental prowess — has scored off his 
 failure at cricket by the taking of prizes, and has revenged 
 himself for a drubbing by writing a lampoon. But even 
 this last resource was not open to Goldsmith. He was 
 a dull boy; "a stupid, heavy blockhead," is Dr. 
 Strean's phrase in summing up the estimate formed 
 of young Goldsmith by his contemporaries at school. 
 Of course, as soon as he became famous, everybody began 
 to hunt up recollections of his having said or done this or 
 that, in order to prove that there were signs of the coming 
 greatness. People began to remember that he had been 
 suspected of scribbling verses, which he burned. What 
 school-boy has not done the like? We know how the 
 biographers of great painters point out to us that their 
 hero early showed the bent of his mind by drawing the 
 figures of animals on doors and walls with a piece of chalk; 
 as to which it may be observed that, if every school-boy 
 who scribbled verses and sketched in chalk on a brick wall 
 were to grow up a genius, poems and pictures would be 
 plentiful enough. However, there is the apparently 
 authenticated anecdote of young Goldsmith's turning the 
 tables on the fiddler at his uncle's dancing-party. The 
 fiddler, struck by the odd look of the boy who was caper- 
 ing about the room, called out ''^sop!" whereupon Gold- 
 smith is said to have instantly replied, 
 
 " Our herald hath proclaimed this saying, 
 See /Esop dancing and his monkey playing! " 
 
 But even if this story be true, it is worth nothing as an 
 augury; for quickness of repartee was precisely the accom- 
 plishment which the adult Goldsmith conspicuously lacked. 
 Put a pen into his hand, and shut him up in a room: then 
 he was master of the situation — nothing could be more in- 
 cisive, polished and easy than his playful sarcasm. But 
 in society any fool could get the better of him by a sudden 
 
12 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 question followed by a horse-laugh. All through his life — 
 even after he had become one of the most famous of living 
 writers — Goldsmith suffered from want of self-confidence. 
 He was too anxious to please. In his eager acquiescence, 
 he would blunder into any trap that was laid for him. A 
 grain or two of the stolid self-sufficiency of the blockheads 
 who laughed at him would not only have improved his 
 character, but would have added considerably to the hap- 
 piness of his life. 
 
 As a natural consequence of this timidity, Goldsmith, 
 when opportunity served, assumed airs of magnificent im- 
 portance. Every one knows the story of the mistake on 
 which She Stoops to Conquer is founded. Getting free at 
 last from all the turmoil, and anxieties, and mortifications 
 of school-life, and returning home on a lent hack, the 
 released school-boy is feeling very grand indeed. He is 
 now sixteen, would fain pass for a man, and has a whole 
 golden guinea in his pocket. And so he takes the journey 
 very leisurely until, getting benighted in a certain village, 
 he asks the way to the ''best house, ^^ and is directed 
 by a facetious person to the house of the squire. The 
 squire by good luck falls in with the joke; and then 
 we have a pretty comedy indeed — the impecunious school- 
 boy playing the part of a fine gentleman on the strength of 
 his solitary guinea, ordering a bottle of wine after his sup- 
 per, and inviting his landlord and his landlord's wife and 
 daughter to join him in the supper-room. The contrast, 
 in She Stoops to Conquer, between Marlow's embarrassed 
 diffidence on certain occasions and his audacious affrontery 
 on others, found many a parallel in the incidents of Gold- 
 smith's own life; and it is not improbable that the writer 
 of the comedy was thinking of some of his own experiences, 
 when he made Miss Hardcastle say to her timid suitor: 
 *' A want of courage upon some occasions assumes the ap- 
 pearance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most want 
 to excel." 
 
 It was, perhaps, just as well that the supper, and bottle 
 of wine, and lodging at Squire Featherston's had not to be 
 paid for out of the school-boy's guinea for young Gold- 
 smith was now on his way to college, and the funds at the 
 disposal of the Goldsmith family were not overabundant. 
 Goldsmith's sister having married the son of a well-to-do 
 
SCHOOL AND COLLE&E. 13 
 
 man, her father considered it a point of honor that she 
 should have a dowry; and in giving her a sum of £400 he 
 so crippled the means of the family that Goldsmith had 
 to be sent to college not as a pensioner but as a sizar. It 
 appears that the young gentleman's pride revolted against 
 this proposal; and that he was won over to consent only 
 by the persuasions of his uncle Contarine, who himself had 
 been a sizar. So Goldsmith, now in his eighteenth year, 
 went to Dublin; managed somehow or other — though he 
 was the last in the list — to pass the necessary examination; 
 and entered upon his college career (1745). 
 
 How he lived, and what he learned, at Trinity College, 
 are both largely matters of conjecture; the chief features 
 of such record as we have are the various means of raising 
 a little money to which the poor sizar had to resort; a con- 
 tinual quarreling with his tutor, an ill-conditioned brute, 
 who baited Goldsmith and occasionally beat him; and a 
 chance frolic when funds were forthcoming. It was while 
 he was at Trinity College that his father died; so that 
 Goldsmith was rendered more than ever dependent on the 
 kindness of his uncle Contarine, who throughout seems to 
 have taken much interest in his odd, ungainly nej)hew, A 
 loan from a friend or a visit to the pawnbroker tided over 
 the severer difficulties; and then from time to time the 
 writing of street-ballads, for which he got five shillings a 
 piece at a certain repository, came in to help. It was a 
 happy-go-lucky, hand-to-mouth sort of existence, involving 
 a good deal of hardship and humiliation, but having its 
 frolics and gayeties notwithstanding. One of these was 
 very near to putting an end to his collegiate career alto- 
 gether. He had, smarting under a public admonition 
 for having been concerned in a riot, taken seriously to his 
 studies and had competed for a scholarship. He missed 
 tl^e scholarship, but gained an exhibition of the value of 
 thirty shillings; whereupon he collected a number of 
 friends of both sexes in his rooms, and proceeded to have 
 high jinks there. In the midst of the dancing and uproar, 
 in comes his tutor, in such a passion that he knocks Gold- 
 smith down. This insult, received before his friends, was 
 too much for the unlucky sizar, who, the very next day, 
 sold his books, ran away from college, and ultimately, after 
 having been on the verge of starvation once or twice, made 
 
14 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 his way to Lissoy. Here his brother got hold of him, per- 
 suaded him to go back, and the escapade was condoned 
 somehow. Goldsmith remained at Trinity College until 
 he took his degrees (1749). He was again lowest in the 
 list; but still he had passed; and he must have learned 
 something. He was now twenty-one, with all the world 
 before him; and the question was as to how he was to em- 
 ploy such knowledge as he had acquired. 
 
IDLENESS AND FOREIGN THA VEL, 15 
 
 CHAPTER 111. 
 
 IDLENESS AND FOREIGN TRAVEL. 
 
 But Goldsmith was not in any hurry to acquire either 
 wealth or fame. He had a happy knack of enjoying the 
 present hour — especially when there were one or two boon 
 companions with him, and a pack of cards to be found; 
 and, after his return to his mother's house, he appears to 
 have entered upon the business of idleness with much 
 philosophical satisfaction. If he was not quite such an 
 unlettered clown as he has described in Tony Lumpkin, he 
 had at least all Tony Lumpkin's high spirits and love of 
 joking and idling; and he was surrounded at the ale-house 
 by just such a company of admirers as used to meet at the 
 famous Three Pigeons. Sometimes he helped in his 
 brother's school; sometimes he went errands for his mother; 
 occasionally he would sit and meditatively play the flute — 
 for the day was to be passed somehow; then in the evening 
 came the assemblage in Conway's inn, with the glass, and 
 the pipe, and the cards, and the uproarious jest or song. 
 " But Scripture saitli an ending to all fine things must be,'* 
 and the friends of this jovial young " buckeen " begun to 
 tire of his idleness and his recurrent visits. They gave 
 him hints that he might set about doing something to pro- 
 vide himself with a living; and the first thing they thought 
 of was that he should go into the Church — perhaps as a 
 sort of purification-house after George Conway's inn. Ac- 
 cordingly Goldsmith, who appears to have been a most 
 good-natured and compliant youth, did make application 
 to the Bishop of Elphin. There is some doubt about the 
 precise reasons which induced the Bishop to decline Gold- 
 smith's application, but at any rate the Church was denied 
 the aid of the young man's eloquence and erudition. Then 
 he tried teaching, and through the good offices of his uncle 
 he obtained a tutorship which he held for a considerable 
 
16 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 time — long enough, indeed, to enable him to amass a sum 
 of thirty pounds. When he quarreled with his patron, and 
 once more "took the world for his pillow,'' as the Gaelic 
 stories say, he had this sum in his pocket and was possessed 
 of a good horse. 
 
 He started away from Ballymahon, where his mother 
 was now living, with some vague notion of making his fort- 
 une as casual circumstance might direct. The expedi- 
 tion came to a premature end; and he returned without 
 the money, and on the back of a wretched animal, tell- 
 ing his mother a cock-and-bull story of the most amus- 
 ing simplicity. " If Uncle Contarine believed those let- 
 ters," says Mr. Thackeray, " if Oliver's mother be- 
 lieved that story which the youth related of his going to 
 Cork, with the purpose of embarking for America; of 
 his having paid his passage-money, and having sent his 
 kit on board; of the anonymous captain sailing away 
 with Oliver's valuable luggage, in a nameless ship, 
 never to return — if Uncle Contarine and the mother at 
 Ballymahon believed his stories, they must have been a 
 very simple pair; as it was a very simple rogue indeed 
 who cheated them." Indeed, if any one is anxious to 
 fill up this hiatus in Goldsmith's life, the best thing he 
 can do is to discard Goldsmith's suspicious record of his 
 adventures, and put in its place the faithful record of the 
 adventures of Mr. Barry Lyndon, when that modest youth 
 left his mother's house and rode to Dublin, with a certain 
 number of guineas in his pocket. But whether Uncle 
 Contarine believed the story or no, he was ready to give 
 the young gentleman another chance; and this time it was 
 the legal profession that was chosen. Goldsmitli got fifty 
 pounds from his uncle, and reached Dublin. In a remark- 
 ably brief space of time he had gambled away the fifty 
 pounds, and was on his way back to Ballymahon, where his 
 mother's reception of him was not very cordial, though his 
 uncle forgave him, and was once more ready to start him 
 in life. But in what direction? Teaching, the Church, 
 and the law had lost their attractions for him Well, this 
 time it was medicine. In fact, any sort of project was 
 capable of drawing forth the good old uncle's bounty. The 
 funds were again forthcoming; Goldsmith started for 
 Edinburgh, and now (1752) saw Ireland for the last time. 
 
IDLENESS AND FOREIGN TRA YEL. 17 
 
 He lived, and he informed his uncle that he studied, 
 la Edinburgh for a year and a half; at the end of which 
 time it appeared to him that his knowledge of medicine 
 would be much improved by foreign travel. There was 
 Albinus, for example, " the great professor of Leyden,'* 
 as he wrote to the credulous uncle, from whom he would 
 doubtless learn much. When, having got another twenty 
 pounds for traveling expenses, he did reach Leyden (1754), 
 he mentioned Gaubius, the cliemical professor. Gaubius 
 is also a good name. That his intercourse with these 
 learned persons, and the serious nature of his studies, were 
 not incompatible with a little light relaxation in the way of 
 gambling is not impossible. On one occasion, it is said, 
 he was so lucky that he came to a fellow-student with his 
 pockets full of money, and was induced to resolve never to 
 play again — a resolution broken as soon as made. Of course 
 he lost all his winnings, and more; and had to borrow a 
 trifling sum to get himself out of the place. Then an in- 
 cident occurs which is highly characteristic of the better 
 side of Goldsmith's nature. He had just got this money, 
 and was about to leave Leyden, when, as Mr. Forster 
 writes, " he passed a florists' garden on his return, and see- 
 ing some rare and high-priced flower, which his uncle Con- 
 tarine, an enthusiast in such things, had often spoken and 
 been in search of, he ran in without other thought than of 
 immediate pleasure to his kindest friend, bought a parcel 
 of tlie roots and sent them ofl' to Ireland." He had a guinea 
 in his pocket when he started on the grand tour. 
 
 Of this notable period in Goldsmith's life (1755-G) 
 very little is known, though a good deal has been 
 guessed. A minute record of all the personal adventures 
 that befell the wayfarer as he trudged from country to 
 country, a diary of the odd humors and fancies that must 
 have occurred to him in liis solitary pilgrimages, would 
 be of quite inestimable value; but even the letters that 
 Goldsmith wrote home from time to time are lost; while 
 The Traveller consists chiefly of a series of philosophical 
 reflections on the government of various states, more 
 likely to have engaged the attention of a Fleet street 
 author, living in an atmosphere of books, than to have 
 occupied the mind of u tramp anxious about his supper 
 and his night's lodging. Bos well says he "disputed'* 
 
18 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 his way through Europe. It is much more probable that 
 he begged his way through Europe. The romantic ver- 
 sion, which has been made the subject of many a charming 
 picture, is that he was entertained by the peasantry whom 
 he had delighted with his playing on the flute. It is quite 
 probable that Goldsmith, whose imagination had been 
 captivated by the story of how Baron von Holberg had as 
 a young man really passed through France, Germany and 
 Holland in this Orpheus-like manner, may have put a flute 
 in his pocket when he left Leydeu; but it is far from safe 
 to assume, as is generally done, that Goldsmith was himself 
 the hero of the adventures described in Chapter XXX of 
 the Vicar of Wakefield. It is the more to be regretted 
 that we have no authentic record of these devious wander- 
 ings, that by this time Goldsmith had acquired, as is shown 
 in other letters, a polished, easy and graceful style, with a 
 very considerable faculty of humorous observation. Those 
 ingenious letters to his uncle (they usually included a little 
 hint about money) were, in fact, a trifle too literary both 
 in substance and in form • we could even now, looking at 
 them with a pardonable curiosity, have spared a little of 
 their formal antithesis foi some more precise information 
 about the writer and his surroundings. 
 
 The strangest thing about this strange journey all over 
 Europe was the fril i-e of Goldsmith to pick up even a 
 common and ordinary acquaintance with the familiar facts 
 of natural history. The ignorance on this point of the 
 author of the Animated Nature was a constant subject of 
 jest among Goldsmith's friends. They declared he could 
 not tell the difference between any two sorts of barn-door 
 fowl until he saw them cooked and on the table. But it 
 may be said prematurely here that, even when he is wrong 
 as to his facts or his sweeping generalizations, one is 
 inclined to forgive him on account of the quaint graceful- 
 ness and point of his style. When Mr, Burchell says, 
 "This rule seems to extend even to other animals: the 
 little vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel and cowardly, 
 whilst those endowed with strength and power are 
 generous, brave and gentle," we scarcely stop to reflect 
 that the merlin, which is not much bigger than a thrush, 
 has an extraordinary courage and spirit, while the lion, if 
 all stories be true, is, unless when goaded by hunger, an 
 
IDLENESS AND FOREIGN TRA VEL. 19 
 
 abject skulker. Elsewhere, indeed, in the Animated 
 Nature, Goldsmith gives credit to the smaller birds for a 
 good deal of valor, and then goes on to say, with a charm- 
 ing freedom. *'But their contentions are sometimes of a 
 gentler nature. Two male birds shall strive in song till, 
 after a long struggle, the loudest shall entirely silence the 
 other. During these contentions the female sits an 
 attentive silent auditor, and often rewards the loudest 
 songster with her company during the season.^' Yet even 
 this description of the battle of the bards, with the queen 
 of love as arbiter, is scarcely so amusing as his happy-go- 
 lucky notions with regard to the variability of species. 
 Tlie philosopher, flute in hand, who went wandering from 
 the canals of Holland to the ice-ribbed falls of the Rhine, 
 may have heard from time to time that contest between 
 fiinging-birds which he so imaginatively describes; but it 
 was clearly the Fleet-street author, living among books, 
 who arrived at the conclusion that intermarriage of species 
 is common among small birds and rare among big birds. 
 Quoting some lines of Addison's which express the belief 
 that birds are a virtuous race — that the nightingale, for 
 example, does not covet the wife of his neighbor, the 
 blackbird — Goldsmith goes on to observe, ''But whatever 
 may be the poet's opinion, the probability is against this 
 fidelity among the smaller tenants of the grove. The great 
 birds are much more true to their species than these; and, 
 of consequence, the varieties among them are more few. 
 Of the ostrich, the cassowary, and the eagle, there are but 
 few species; and no arts that man can use could probably 
 induce them to mix with each other." 
 
 What he did bring back from his foreign travels was a 
 medical degree. Where he got it, and how he got it, are 
 alike matters of pure conjecture; but it is extremely im- 
 probable that — whatever he might have been willing to 
 write home from Padua or Louvain, in order to coax an- 
 other remittance from his Irish friends — he would after- 
 ward, in the presence of such men as Johnson, Burke, and 
 Reynolds, wear sham honors. It is much more probable 
 that, on his finding those supplies from Ireland running 
 ominously short, the philosopliic vagabond determined to 
 prove to his correspondents that he was really at work some- 
 where, instead of merely idling away his time, begging or 
 
20 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 borrowing the wherewithal to pass him from town to town. 
 That he did see something of the foreign universities la 
 evident from his own writings; there are touches of de- 
 scription here and there which he could not well have got 
 from books. With this degree, and with such book-learn- 
 ing and such knowledge of nature and human nature as he 
 had chosen or managed to pick up during all those years, 
 he was now called upon to begin life for himself. The 
 Irish supplies stopped altogether. His letters were left un- 
 answered. And so Goldsmith somehow or other got back 
 to London (February 1, 1756), and had to cast about for 
 some way of earning his daily bread. 
 
EABL 7 8TR UQGLES-HACK- WRITING. 21 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 EARLY STRUGGLES — HACK-WRITIN'O. 
 
 Here ensued a very dark period in his life. He was 
 alone in London, without friends, without money, without 
 introductions; his appearance was the reverse of prepos- 
 sessing; and, even despite that medical degree and his ac- 
 quaintance with the learned Albinus and the learned 
 Gaubius, he had practically nothing of any value to offer 
 for sale in the great labor-market of the world. How he 
 managed to live at all is a mystery: it is certain that he 
 must have endured a great deal of want; and one may well 
 sympathize with so gentle and sensitive a creature reduced 
 to such straits, without inquiring too curiously into the 
 causes of his misfortunes. If, on the one hand, we cannot 
 accuse society, or Christianity, or the English government 
 of injustice and cruelty because Goldsmith had gambled 
 away his chances and was now called on to pay the penalty, 
 on the other hand, we had better, before blaming Gold- 
 smith himself, inquire into the origin of those defects of 
 character which produced such results. As this would 
 involve an excursus into the controversy between 
 Necessity and Free-will, probably most people would 
 rather leave it alone. It may safely be said in any 
 case that, while Goldsmith's faults and follies, of which 
 he himself had to suffer the consequences, are patent 
 enough, his character, on the whole, was distinctly 
 a lovable one. Goldsmith was his own enemy, and every- 
 body else's friend; that is not a serious indictment, as 
 things go. He was quite well aware of his weaknesses; 
 and he was also — it may be hinted — aware of the good- 
 nature which he put forward as condonation. If some 
 foreigner were to ask how it is tliat so thoroughly a com- 
 mercial people as the English are — strict in the acknowl- 
 edgment and payment of debt — should have always be- 
 
22 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 trayed a sneaking fondness for the character of the good- 
 humored scapegrace whose hand is in everybody's pocket, 
 and who throws away other people's money with the most 
 charming air in the world. Goldsmith might be pointed 
 to as one of many literary teachers whose own circum- 
 stances were not likely to make them severe censors of the 
 Charles Surfaces, or lenient judges of the Joseph Surfaces 
 of the world. Be merry while you may; let to-morrow 
 take care of itself; share your last guinea with any one, 
 even if the poor drones of society — the butcher, and baker, 
 and milkman with his score — have to suffer; do anything 
 you like, so long as you keep the heart warm. All this is 
 a delightful philosophy. It has its moments of misery — 
 its periods of reaction — but it has its moments of high de- 
 light. When we are invited to contemplate the "evil des- 
 tinies of men of letters," we ought to be shown the flood- 
 tides as well as the ebb-tides. The tavern gayety; the 
 brand-new coat and lace and sword; the midnight frolics, 
 with Jolly companions every one — these, however brief and 
 intermittent, should not be wholly left out of the picture. 
 Of course it is very dreadful to hear of poor Boyse lying in 
 bed with nothing but a blanket over him, and with hia 
 arms thrust through two holes in the blanket, so that he 
 could write — perhaps a continuation of his poem on the 
 Deity. But then we should be shown Boyse when he was 
 spending the money collected by Dr. Johnson to get the 
 poor scribbler's clothes out of pawn; and we should also be 
 shown him, with his hands through the holes in the blanket, 
 enjoying the mushrooms and truffles on which, as a little 
 garniture for " his last scrap of beef," he had just laid out 
 his last half-guinea. 
 
 There were but few truffles — probably there was but 
 little beef — for Goldsmith during this somber period. 
 " His threadbare coat, his uncouth figure and Hibernian 
 dialect caused him to meet with repeated refusals." But 
 at length he got some employment in a chemist's shop, and 
 this was a start. Then he tried practising in a small way 
 on his own account in Southwark. Here he made the 
 acquaintance of a printer's workman; and through him he 
 was engaged as corrector of the press in the establishment 
 of Mr. Samuel Richardson. Being so near to literature, 
 he caught the infection; and naturally began with a 
 
EABL T 8TR UGGLES-EACK- WRITING. 23 
 
 tragedy. This tragedy was shown to the author of Clarissa 
 Harlowe; but it only went the way of many similar first in- 
 spiritings of the Muse. Then G-oldsmith drifted to Peck- 
 ham, where we find him (1757) installed as usher at Dr. 
 Milner's school. Goldsmith as usher had been the object 
 of much sympathy; and he would certainly deserve it, if we 
 are to assume that his description of an usher's position in 
 the Bee, and in George Primrose's advice to his cousin, was 
 a full and accurate description of his life at Peckham. 
 *' Brow-beat by the master, hated for my ugly face by the 
 mistress, worried by the boys " — if that was his life, he was 
 much to be pitied. But we cannot believe it. The M li- 
 ners were exceedingly kind to Goldsmith. It was at the 
 intercession of young Milner, who had been his fellow- 
 student at Edinburgh, that Goldsmith got the situation, 
 which at all event- kept him out of reach of immediate 
 want. It was through the Milners that he was introduced 
 to Grifiiths, who gave him a chance of trying a literary 
 career — as a hack-writer of reviews and so forth. When, 
 having got tired of that. Goldsmith was again floating 
 vaguely on the waves of chance, where did he find a harbor 
 but in that very school at Peckham? And we have the 
 direct testimony of the youngest of Dr. Milner's daughters, 
 that this Irish usher of theirs was a remarkably cheerful, 
 and even facetious person, constantly playing tricks and 
 practical jokes, amusing the boys by telling stories and by 
 performances on the flute, living a careless life, and always 
 in advance of his salary. Any beggar, or group of chil- 
 dren, even the very boys who played back practical jokes 
 on him, were welcome to a share of what small funds he 
 had; and we all know how Mrs. Milner good-naturedly 
 said one day, '' You had better, Mr. Goldsmith, let me 
 keep your money for you, as I do for some of the young 
 gentlemen;" and how he answered with much simplicity, 
 "In truth, madam, there is equal need." With Gold- 
 smith's love of approbation and extreme sensitiveness, he 
 no doubt suffered deeply from many slights, now as at 
 other times; but what we know of his life in the Peckham 
 school does not incline us to believe that it was an especi- 
 ally miserable period of his existence. His abundant 
 clieerfulncss does not seem at any time to have deserted 
 him; and what with tricks, and jokes, and playing of the 
 
24 LIFE OF 00LD8MITE. 
 
 flute, the dull routine of instructing the unruly young 
 gentlemen at Dr. Milner's was got through somehow. 
 
 When Goldsmith left the Peckham school to try hack- 
 writing in Paternoster Eow, he was going further to fare 
 worse. Griffiths the book-seller, when he met Goldsmith 
 at Dr. Milner's dinner-table and invited him to become a 
 reviewer, was doing a service to the English nation — for it 
 was in this period of machine-work that Goldsmith dis- 
 covered that happy faculty of literary expression that led 
 to the composition of his masterpieces — but he was doing 
 little immediate service to Goldsmith. 
 
 The newly captured hack was boarded and lodged at 
 Griffiths' house in Paternoster Row (1757); he was to have 
 a small salary in consideration of remorselessly constant 
 work; and — what was the hardest condition of all — he was 
 to have his writings revised by Mrs. Griffiths. Mr. Fors- 
 ter justly remarks that though at las^ Goldsmith had thus 
 become a man-of- letters, he '' had gratified no passion and 
 attained no object of ambition." He had taken to litera- 
 ture, as so many others have done, merely as a last re- 
 source. And if it is true that literature at first treated 
 Goldsmith harshly, made him work hard, and gave him 
 comparatively little for what he did, at least it must be 
 said that his experience was not a singular one. Mr. Fors- 
 ter says that literature was at that time in a transition 
 state: "The patron was gone, and the public had not 
 come." But when Goldsmith begun to do better than 
 hack-work, he found a public speedily enough. If, as 
 Lord Macaulay computes, Goldsmith received in the last 
 seven years of his life what was equivalent to £5,600 of our 
 money, even the villain book-sellers cannot be accused of 
 having starved him. At the outset of his literary career he 
 received no large sums, for he had achieved no reputation; 
 but he got the market-rate for his work. We have around 
 us at this moment plenty of hacks who do not earn much 
 more than their board and lodging with a small salary. 
 
 For the rest, we have no means of knowing whether 
 Goldsmith got through his work with ease or with diffi- 
 culty; but it is obvious, looking over the reviews which he 
 is believed to have written for Griffiths' magazine, that he 
 readily acquired the professional critic's airs of superiority, 
 along with a few tricks of the trade, no doubt taught him 
 
EARL Y 8TR UQGLE&-HACK- WRITING. 25 
 
 by Griffiths. Several of these reviews, for example, are 
 merely epitomes of the contents of the books reviewed, 
 with some vague suggestion that the writer might, if he 
 had been less careful, have done worse, and, if he had 
 been more careful, might have done better. Who does 
 not remember, how the philosophic vagabond was taught 
 to become a cognoscente? " The whole secret consisted in 
 a strict adherence to two rules: the one always to observe 
 that the picture might have been better if the painter had 
 taken more pains; and the other to praise the works of 
 Pietro Perugino.'^ It is amusing to observe the different 
 estimates formed of the function of criticism by Goldsmith 
 the critic and by Goldsmith the author. Goldsmith, sit- 
 ting at Griffith's desk, naturally magnifies his office, and 
 announces his opinion that " to direct our taste, and con- 
 duct the poet up to perfection, has ever been the critic's 
 province." But Goldsmith the author, when he comes to 
 inquire into the existing state of Polite Learning in 
 Europe, finds in criticism not a help but a danger. It is 
 " the natural destroyer of polite learning." And again, in 
 the Citizen of the World, he exclaims against the preten- 
 sions of the critic. " If any choose to be critics, it is but 
 saving they are critics; and from that time forward tliey 
 become invested with full power and authority over every 
 caitiff who aims at their instruction or entertainment." 
 
 This at least may be said, that in these early essays con- 
 tributed to the Monthly Revieiv there is much more ot 
 Goldsmith the critic than of Goldsmith the author. They 
 are somewhat labored performances. They are always de- 
 void of the sly and delicate humor that afterward marked 
 Goldsmith's best prose work. We find througkout his 
 trick of antithesis; but here it is forced and formal, whereas 
 afterward he lent to this habit of writing the subtle sur- 
 prise of epigram. They have the true manner of authority, 
 nevertheless. He says of Home's Douglas: " Those parts 
 of nature, and that rural simplicity with which the author 
 was, perhaps, best acquainted, are not unhappily described, 
 and hence we are led to conjecture tliat a more universal 
 knowledge of nature will probably increase his powers of 
 description." If the author had written otherwise, he 
 would have written differently; had he known more, he 
 would not have been so ignorant: the tragedy is a tragedy. 
 
36 LIFE OF OOLDSMITB. 
 
 but why did not the author make it a comedy, — ^this sort 
 of criticism has been heard of even in our own day. How- 
 ever, Goldsmith pounded away at his newly-found work, 
 under the eye of the exacting book-seller and his learned 
 wife. We find him dealing with Scandinavian (here called 
 Celtic) mythology, though he does not adventure on much 
 comment of his own; then he engages Smollett's History 
 of England, but mostly in the way of extract; anon we 
 find him reviewing A Journal of Eight Days' Journey, by 
 Jonas Hanway, of whom Johnson said that he made some 
 reputation by traveling abroad, and lost it all by traveling 
 at home. Then again we find him writing a disquisition 
 on Some Enquiries concerning the First Inhabitants, Lan- 
 guage, Religion, Learning, and Letters of Europe, by a 
 Mr. Wise, who, along with his critic, appears to have got 
 into hopeless confusion in believing Basque and Armorican 
 to be the remains of the same ancient language. The last 
 phrase of a note appended to this review by Goldsmith 
 probably indicates his own humble estimate of his work at 
 this time. *' It is more our business," he says, " to exhibit 
 the opinions of the learned than to controvert them." In 
 fact, he was employed to boil down books for people who 
 did not wish to spend more on literature than the price of a 
 magazine. Though he was new to the trade, it is prob- 
 able he did it as well as any other. 
 
 At the end of five months. Goldsmith and Griffiths quar- 
 reled and separated, Griffiths said Goldsmith was idle; 
 Goldsmith said Griffiths was impertinent: probably the 
 editorial supervision exercised by Mrs. Griffiths had some- 
 thing to do with the dire contention. From Paternoster 
 Eow Goldsmith removed to a garret in Fleet Street; had 
 his letters addressed to a cofEee-house; and apparently sup- 
 ported himself by further hack-work, his connection with 
 Griffiths not being quite severed. Then he drifted back to 
 Peckham again; and was once more installed as usher, Dr. 
 Milner being in especial want of an assistant at this time. 
 Goldsmith's lingering about the gates of literature had not 
 inspired him with any great ambition to enter the enchanted 
 land. But at the same time he thought he saw in litera- 
 ture a means by which a little ready money might be made, 
 in order to help him on to something more definite and sub- 
 stantial; and this goal was now put before him by Dr. Mil- 
 
EARL Y STB UGGLES-HACK- WRITING. 27 
 
 ner, in the shape of a medical appointment on the Coro- 
 mandel coast. It was in the hope of obtaining this 
 appointment that he set about composing that Enquiry 
 into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe, which 
 is now interesting to us as the first of his more ambitious 
 works. As the book grew under his hands, he begun to 
 cast about for subscribers; and from the Fleet-street coffee- 
 house — he had again left the Peckham school — he addressed 
 to his friends and relatives a series of letters of the most 
 charming humor, which might have drawn subscriptions 
 from a millstone. To his brother-in-law, Mr. Hodson, he 
 sent a glowing account of the great fortune in store for 
 him on the Coromandel coast. " The salary is but tri- 
 fling," he writes, "namely £100 per annum, but the other 
 advantages, if a person be prudent, are considerable. The 
 practice of the place, if I am rightly informed, generally 
 amounts to not less than £1,000 per annum, for which the 
 appointed physician has an exclusive privilege. This, with 
 the advantages resulting from trade, and the high interest 
 which money bears, viz., twenty per cent., are tlie induce- 
 ments which persuade me to undergo the fatigues of sea, 
 the dangers of war, and the still greater dangers of the 
 climate; which induce me to leave a place where I am 
 every day gaining friends and esteem, and where I might 
 enjoy all the conveniences of life." 
 
 The surprising part of this episode in Goldsmith's life is 
 that he did really receive the appointment; in fact, he was 
 called upon to pay £10 for the appointment-warrant. In 
 this emergency he went to the proprietor of the Critical 
 Revieiu, the rival of the Monthly, and obtained some money 
 for certain anonymous work which need not be mentioned 
 in detail here. He also moved into another garret, this 
 time in Green-Arbor Court, Fleet Street, in a wilderness of 
 Blums. The Coromandel project, however, on which so 
 many hopes had been built, fell through. No explanation 
 of the collapse could be got from either Goldsmith himself 
 or from Dr. Milner. Mr. Forster suggests that Gold- 
 smith's inability to raise money for his outfit may have 
 been made the excuse for transferring the appointment to 
 another; and that is probable enough; but it is also prob- 
 able that the need for such an excuse was based on the 
 discovery that Goldsmith was not properly qualified for the 
 
 22— G & G— B 
 
28 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 post. And this seems the more likely, that Goldsmith im- 
 mediately afterward resolved to challenge examination at 
 Surgeons'" Hall. He undertook to write four articles for 
 the Mo)ithIy Review; Griffiths became surety to a tailor for 
 a fine suit of clothes; and thus equipped, Goldsmith pre- 
 sented himself at Surgeons' Hall. He only wanted to be 
 passed as hospital mate; but even that modest ambition 
 was unfulfilled. He was found not qualified, and returned, 
 with his fine clothes, to his Fleet-street den. He was now 
 thirty years of age (1758); and had found lio definite 
 occupation in the world. 
 
JSEQINNINQ OF A UlEOUSHJF—THE BEE, 39 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 BEGIIS'KTNG OF AUTHORSHIP — THE BEE. 
 
 DuRi^N^G the period that now ensued, and amid much 
 quarreling with Griffiths and hack-writing for the Criti- 
 cal Revieio, Goldsmith- managed to get his Enquiry into 
 the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe com- 
 pleted, and it is from the publication of that work, on the 
 2d of April, 1759, that we may date the beginning of 
 Goldsmith's career as an author. The book was published 
 anonymously; but Goldsmith was not at all anxious to dis- 
 claim the parentage of his first-born; and in Grub Street 
 and its environs, at least, the authorship of the book was 
 no secret. Moreover, there was that in it which was 
 likely to provoke the literary tribe to plenty of fierce talk- 
 ing. The Enquiry is neither more nor less than an en- 
 deavor to prove that criticism has in all ages been the 
 deadly enemy of art and literature; coupled with an appeal 
 to authors to draw their inspiration from nature rather 
 than from books, and varied here and there by a gentle sigh 
 over the loss of that patronage, in the sunshine of which 
 men of genius were wont to bask. Goldsmith, not having 
 been an author himself, could not have sufl'ered much at 
 the hands of the critics; so that it is not to be supposed 
 that personal feeling dictated this fierce onslaught on the 
 whole tribe of critics, compilers and commentators. 
 They are represented to us as rank weeds growing up to 
 choke all manifestations of true art. *' Ancient Learn- 
 ing," we are told at the outset, "■ may be distinguished into 
 three periods: its commencement, or the age of poets; its 
 maturity, or the age of philosophers; and its decline, or 
 the age of critics." Then our guide carries us into the 
 dark ages; and, with lantern in hand, shows us the crea- 
 tures swarming there in the sluggish pools — '* commenta- 
 tors, compilers, polemic divines and intricate metaphysi- 
 
30 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 cians." We come to Italy: look at the affectations with 
 which the Virtuosi and Filosofi have enchained the free 
 spirit of poetry. " Poetry is no longer among them au 
 imitation of what we see, but of what a visionary might 
 wish. The zephyr breathes the most exquisite perfume; 
 the trees wear eternal verdure; fawns, and dryads, and ham- 
 adryads, stand ready to fan the sultry shepherdess, who has 
 forgot, indeed, the prettiness with which Guarini's shep- 
 herdess have been reproached, but is so simple and inno- 
 cent as often to have no meaning. Happy country, where 
 the pastoral age begins to revive! — where the wits even of 
 Rome are united into a rural group of nymphs and swains, 
 under the appellation of modern Arcadians ! — where in the 
 midst of porticoes, processions, and cavalcades, abbes 
 turned shepherds and shepherdesses without sheep indulge 
 their innocent divertimenti ! " 
 
 In Germany the ponderous volumes of the commentators 
 next come in for animadversion; and here we find an epi- 
 gram, the quaint simplicity of which is peculiarly charac- 
 teristic of Goldsmith. "Were angels to write books," he 
 remarks, "they never would write folios." But Germany 
 gets credit for the money spent by her potentates on learned 
 institutions; and it is perhaps England that is delicately 
 hinted at in these words: " Had the fourth part of the im- 
 mense su m above mentioned been given in proper rewards to 
 genius, in some neighbororing countries, it would have 
 rendered the name of the donor immortal, and added to 
 the real interests of society." Indeed, when we come to 
 England, we find that men of letters are in a bad way, 
 owing to the prevalence of critics, the tyranny of book- 
 sellers, and the absence of patrons. " The author, when 
 unpatronized by the great, has naturally recourse to the 
 book-seller. There cannot perhaps be imagined a com- 
 bination more prejudicial to taste than this. It is the in- 
 terest of the one to allow as little for writing, and of the 
 other to write as much as possible. Accordingly, tedious 
 compilations and periodical magazines are the result of 
 their joint endeavors. In these circumstances the author 
 bids adieu to fame, writes for bread, and for that only. 
 Imagination is seldom called in. He sits down to address 
 the venal muse with the most phlegmatic apathy; and, as 
 we are told of the Russian, courts his mistress by falling 
 
BEOINNINQ OF A TJTHORSHIP—THB BEE. 31 
 
 asleep in her lap. His reputation never spreads in a wider 
 circle than that of the trade, who generally value him, not 
 for the fineness of his compositions, but the quantity he 
 works off in a given time. 
 
 '^ A long habit of writing for bread thus turns the am- 
 bition of every author at last into avarice. He finds that 
 he has written many years, that the public are scarcely 
 acquainted even with his name; he despairs of applause, 
 and turns to profit, which invites him. He finds that 
 money procures all those advantages, that respect, and 
 that ease which he vainly expected from fame. Thus the 
 man, who, under the protection of the great, might have 
 done honor to humanity, when only patronized by the 
 book-seller becomes a thing little superior to the fellow 
 who works at the press. 
 
 Nor was he afraid to attack the critics of his own day, 
 though he knew that the two Eeviews for which he had 
 recently been writing would have something to say about 
 his own Enquiry. This is how he disposes of the Critical 
 and the Montlily: *' We have two literary Eeviews in Lon- 
 don, with critical newspapers and magazines without num- 
 ber. The compilers of these resemble the commoners of 
 Rome; they are all for levelling property, not by increasing 
 their own, but by diminishing that of others. The man 
 who has any good-nature in his disposition must, however, 
 be somewhat displeased to see distinguished reputations 
 often tlie sport of ignorance — to see, by one false pleasantry, 
 the future peace of a worthy man's life disturbed, and this 
 only because he has unsuccessfully attempted to instruct or 
 amuse us. Though ill- nature is far from being wit, yet it 
 is generally laughed at as such. The critic enjoys the tri- 
 umph, and ascribes to his parts what is only due to his 
 effrontery. I fire with indignation when I see persons 
 wholly destitute of education and genius indent to the 
 press,and thus turn book-makers, adding to the sin of crit- 
 icism the sin of ignorance also; whose trade is a bad one, 
 and who are bad workmen in the trade." Indeed there 
 was a good deal of random hitting in the Enquiry, which 
 was suio to provoke resentment. Why, for example, should 
 he have gone out of his way to insult the highly respectable 
 class of people who excel in mathematical studies? " This 
 seems a science," he observes, *' to which the meanest intel- 
 
32 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 lects are equal. I forget who it is that says, 'All men 
 might understand mathematics if they would. '^^ There 
 was also in the first edition of the E^iquiry a somewhat 
 ungenerous attack on stage-managers, actors, actresses, and 
 theatrical things in general; but this was afterward wisely 
 excised. It is not to be wondered at that, on the whole, 
 the E7iquiry should have been severely handled in certain 
 quarters. Smollett, who reviewed it in the Critical Review, 
 appears to have kept his temper pretty well for a Scotch- 
 man; but Kenrick, a hack employed by Griffiths to mal- 
 treat the book in the Monthly Eeview, flourished his 
 bludgeon in a brave manner. The coarse personalities and 
 malevolent insinuations of this bully no doubt hurt Gold- 
 smith considerably; but, as we look at them now, they are 
 only remarkable for their dullness. If Griffiths had had 
 another Goldsmith to reply to Goldsmith, the retort would 
 have been better worth reading: one can imagine the play- 
 ful sarcasm that would have been dealt out to this new 
 writer, who, in the very act of protesting against criticism, 
 proclaimed himself a critic. But Goldsmiths are not 
 always to be had when wanted; while Kenricks can be 
 bought at any moment for a guinea or two a head. 
 
 Goldsmith had not chosen literature as the occupation 
 of his life; he had only fallen back on it when other proj- 
 ects failed. But it is quite possible that now, as he began 
 to take up some slight position as an author, the old ambi- 
 tion of distinguishing himself — which had flickered before 
 his imagination from time to time — began to enter into 
 his calculations along with the more pressing business of 
 earning a livelihood. And he was soon to have an oppor- 
 tunity of appealing to a wider public than could have 
 been expected for that erudite treatise on the arts of 
 Europe. Mr. Wilkie, a book-seller in St. Paul's Church- 
 yard, proposed to start a weekly magazine, price 
 threepence, to contain essays, short stories, letters on the 
 topics of the day, and so forth, more or less after the 
 manner of the Spectator. He asked Goldsmith to become 
 sole contributor. Here, indeed, was a very good opening; 
 for, although there were many magazines in the field, the 
 public had just then a fancy for literature in small doses; 
 while Goldsmith, in entering into the competition, would 
 not be hampered by the dullness of collaborateurs. He 
 
BEGINNING OF AUTHORSHIP— TEE BEE. 33 
 
 closed with Wilkie's offer; and on the 6th of October, 1759, 
 appeared the first number of the Bee. 
 
 For us now there is a curious autobiographical interest 
 in the opening sentences of the first number; but surely 
 even the public of the day must have imagined that the 
 new'writer who was now addressing them was not to be 
 confounded with the common herd of magazine-hacks. 
 What could be more delightful than this odd mixture of 
 modesty, humor and an anxious desire to please? — 
 " There is not, perhaps, a more whimsically dismal figure 
 in nature than a man of real modesty, who assumes an air 
 of impudence — who, while his heart beats with anxiety, 
 studies ease and affects good-iiumor. In this situation, 
 however, a periodical writer often finds himself upon his 
 first attempt to address the public in form. AH his 
 power of pleasing is damped by solicitude, and his cheer- 
 fulness dashed with apprehension. Impressed with the 
 terrors of the tribunal before which he is gomg to appear, 
 his natural humor turns to pertness, and for real wit he is 
 obliged to substitute vivacity. His first publication draws 
 a crowd; they part dissatisfied; and the author, never 
 more to be indulged with a favorable hearing, is left to 
 condemn the indelicacy of his own address or their want 
 of discernment. For my part, as I was never distinguished 
 for address, and have often even blundered in making my 
 bow, such bodings as these had like to have totally re- 
 pressed my ambition. I was at a loss whether to give the 
 public specious promises, or give none; whether to be 
 merry or sad on this solemn occasion. If I should decline 
 all merit, it was too probable the hasty reader might have 
 taken me at my word. If, on the other hand, like laborers 
 in the magazine trade, I had, with modest impudence, 
 humbly presumed to promise an epitome of all the good 
 things that ever were said or written, this might have dis- 
 gusted those readers I most desire to please. Had I been 
 merry, I might have been censured as vastly low; and had 
 I been sorrowful, I might have been left to mourn in soli- 
 tude and silence; in short, whichever way I turned, noth- 
 ing presented but prospects of terror, despair, chandlers' 
 Bhops and waste paper." 
 
 And it is just possible that if Goldsmith had kept to 
 this vein of familiar causerie, the public might in time 
 
84 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 have been attracted by its quaintness. But nc doubt 
 Mr. Wilkie would have stared aghast; and so we find 
 Goldsmith, as soon as his introductory bow is made, set- 
 ting seriously about the business of magazine-making. 
 Very soon, however, both Mr. Wilkie and his editor per- 
 ceived that the public had not been taken by their venture. 
 The chief cause of the failure, as it appears to any one 
 who looks over the magazine now, would seem to be the 
 lack of any definite purpose. There was no marked 
 feature to arrest public attention, while many things were 
 discarded on which the popularity of other periodicals 
 had been based. There was no scandal to appeal to the 
 key-hole and back-door element in human nature; there 
 were no libels and gross personalities to delight the mean 
 and envious; there were no fine airs of fashion to charm 
 milliners anxious to know how the great talked, and posed, 
 and dressed; and there was no solemn and pompous erudi- 
 tion to impress the minds of those serious and sensible 
 people who buy literature as they buy butter — by its weight. 
 At the beginning of No. IV he admits that the new maga« 
 zine has not been a success, and, in doing so, returns to 
 that vein of whimsical, personal humor with which he had 
 started: *' Were I to measure the merit of my present 
 undertaking by its success or the rapidity of its sale, I 
 might be led to form conclusions by no means favorable to 
 the pride of an author. Should I estimate my fame by its 
 extent, every newspaper and magazine would leave me far 
 behind. Their fame is diffused in a very wide circle — that 
 of some as far as Islington, and some yet further still; 
 while mine, I sincerely believe, has hardly traveled beyond 
 the sound of Bow Bell; and, while the works of others fly 
 like unpinioned swans, I find my own move as heavily as a 
 new-plucked goose. Still, however, I have as much pride 
 as they who have ten times as many readers. It is impos- 
 sible to repeat all the agreeable delusions in which a disap- 
 pointed author is apt to find comfort. I conclude, that 
 what my reputation wants in extent is made up by its so- 
 lidity. Mintis juvat gloria lata quam magna. I have 
 great satisfaction in considering the delicacy and discern- 
 ment of those readers I have, and in ascribing my want 
 of popularity to the ignorance or inattention of those I have 
 not. All the world may forsake an author, but vanity will 
 
BEGINNING 09 A UTEOBSHIP—TEE BEE. 35 
 
 never forsake him. Yet, notwithstanding so sincere a con- 
 fession, I was once induced to show my indignation against 
 the public by discontinuing my endeavors to please; and 
 was bravely resolved, like Raleigh, to vex them by burning 
 my manuscript in a passion. IJpon recollection, however, 
 I considered what set or body of people would be displeased 
 at my rashness. The sun, after so sad an accident, might 
 shine next morning as bright as usual; men might laugh 
 and sing the next day and transact business as before, and 
 not a single creature feel any regret but myself." 
 
 Goldsmith was certainly more at home in this sort of 
 writing than in gravely lecturing people against the vice of 
 gambling; in warning tradesmen how ill it became them to 
 be seen at races; in demonstrating that justice is a higher 
 virtue than generosity; and in proving that the avaricious 
 are the true benefactors of society. But even as he con- 
 fesses the failure of his new magazine, he seenrs determined 
 to show the public what sort of writer this is, whom as yet 
 they have not regarded too favorably. It is in No. IV of 
 the Bee that the famous City Night Piece occurs. No 
 doubt that strange little fragment of description was the 
 result of some sudden and aimless fancy, striking the occu- 
 pant of the lonely garret in the middle of the night. The 
 present tense, which he seldom used — and the abuse of 
 which is one of the detestable vices of modern literature — 
 adds to the mysterious solemnity of the recital: 
 
 " The clock has just struck two, the expiring taper rises 
 and sinks in the socket, the Avatchman forgets the hour in 
 slumber, the laborious and the happy are at rest, and noth- 
 ing wakes but meditation, guilt, revelry and despair. The 
 drunkard once more fills the destroying bowl, the robber 
 walks his midnight round, and the suicide lifts his guilty 
 arm against his own sacred person. 
 
 " Let me no longer waste the night over the page of an- 
 tiquity or the sallies of contemporary genius, but pursue 
 the solitary walk, where Vanity, ever changing, but a few 
 hours past walked before me — where she kept up the 
 pageant, and now, like a froward child, seems hushed with 
 her own importunities. 
 
 "What a gloom hangs all around! The dying lamp 
 feebly emits a yellow gleam; no sound is heard but of tlie 
 chiming clock or the distant watch-dog. All the bustle of 
 
86 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 human pride is forgotten; an hour like this may well dis- 
 play the emptiness of human vanity. 
 
 " There will come a time when this temporary solitude 
 may be made continual, and the city itself, like its inhabi- 
 tants, fade away, and leave a desert in its room. 
 
 ''What cities, as great as this, have once triumphed in 
 existence, had their victories as great, Joy as just and as 
 unbounded; and, with short-sighted presumption, prom- 
 ised themselves immortality! Posterity can hardly trace 
 the situation of some; the sorrowful traveler wanders over 
 the awful ruins of others; and, as he beholds, he learns 
 wisdom, and feels the transience of every sublunary pos- 
 session. 
 
 " 'Here,' he cries, 'stood their citadel, now grown over 
 with weeds; there their senate-house, but now the haunt of 
 every noxious reptile; temples and theaters stood here, 
 now only an undistinguished heap of ruin. They are 
 fallen, for luxury and avarice first made them feeble. The 
 rewards of the state were conferred on amusing, and not 
 on useful, members of society. Their riches and opulence 
 invited the invaders, who, though at first repulsed, 
 returned again, conquered by perseverance, and at last 
 swept the defendants into undistinguished destruction.'^ 
 
FERaONAL TRAITS, 87 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 PERSONAL TRAITS. 
 
 The foregoing extracts will sufficiently show what were 
 the chief characteristics of Goldsmith's writing at this 
 time — the grace and ease of style, a gentle and some- 
 times pathetic thoughtfulness, and, above all, when he 
 speaks in the first person, a delightful vein of humorous 
 self-disclosure. Moreover, these qualities, if they were not 
 immediately profitable to the book-sellers, were beginning 
 to gain for him the recognition of some of the well-known 
 men of the day. Percy, afterward Bishop of Dromore, 
 had made his way to the miserable garret of the poor 
 author. Smollett, whose novels Goldsmith preferred to 
 his History, was anxious to secure his services as a 
 contributor to the forthcoming British Magazine. Burke 
 had spoken of the pleasure given him by Goldsmith's 
 review of the Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas 
 of the Sublitne and Beautiful. But, to crown all, the 
 great Cham himself sought out this obscure author, 
 who had on several occasions spoken with reverence and 
 admiration of his works; and so began what is perhaps 
 the most interesting literary friendship on record. At 
 what precise date Johnson first made Goldsmith's 
 acquaintance is not known; Mr. Forster is right in assum- 
 ing that they had met before the supper in Wine-Office 
 Court, at which Mr. Percy was present. It is a thousand 
 pities that Boswell had not by this time made his appear- 
 ance in London. Johnson, Goldsmith, and all the rest of 
 them are only ghosts until the pertinacious young laird of 
 Auchinleck comes on the scene to give them color, and life, 
 and form. It is odd enough that the very first remarks of 
 Goldsmith's which Boswell jotted down in his note-book 
 should refer to Johnson's systematic kindness toward the 
 poor and wretched. " He had increased my admiration of 
 
38 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH, 
 
 the goodness of Johnson's heart by incidental remarks in 
 the course of conversation, such as, when I mentioned Mr. 
 Levett, whom he entertained under his roof, ^ He is poor 
 and honest, which is recommendation enough to Johnson;' 
 and when I wondered that he was very kind to a man of 
 whom I had heard a very bad character, * He is now become 
 miserable, and that insures the protection of Johnson/" 
 
 For the rest, Boswell was not well-disposed toward Gold- 
 smith, whom he regarded with a jealousy equal to his 
 admiration of Johnson; but it is probable that his descrip- 
 tion of the personal appearance of the awkward and un- 
 gainly Irishman is in the main correct. And here also it 
 may be said that Boswell's love of truth and accuracy com- 
 pelled him to make this admission: "\i has been gener- 
 ally circulated and believed that he (Goldsmith) was a mere 
 fool in conversation; but, in truth, this has been greatly 
 exaggerated." On this exaggeration — seeing that the con- 
 tributor to the British Magazine and the Public Ledger 
 was now becoming better known among his fellow authors 
 — a word or two may fitly be said here. It pleased Gold- 
 smith's contemporaries, who were not all of them celebrated 
 for their ready wit, to regard him as a hopeless and incur- 
 able fool, who by some strange chance could produce liter- 
 ature, the merits of which he could not himself under- 
 stand. To Horace Walpole we owe the phrase which de- 
 scribes Goldsmith as an "inspired idiot." Innumerable 
 stories are told of Goldsmith's blunders; of his forced at- 
 tempts to shine in conversation; of poor Poll talking non- 
 sense, when all the world was wondering at the beauty of 
 his writing. In one case we are told he was content to 
 admit, when dictated to, that this, and not that, was what 
 he really had meant in a particular phrase. Now there can 
 be no question that Goldsmith, conscious of his pitted face, 
 his brogue, and his ungainly figure, was exceedingly ner- 
 vous and sensitive in society, and was anxious, as such peo- 
 ple mostly are, to cover his shyness by an appearance of 
 ease, if not even of swagger; and there can be as little 
 question that he occasionally did and said very awkward 
 and blundering things. But our Japanese friend, whom 
 we mentioned in our opening pages, looking through the 
 record that is preserved to us of those blunders which are 
 supposed to be most conclusive as to this aspect of Gold- 
 
PERSONAL TRAITS. 39 
 
 gmith's character, would certainly stare. " Good heavens/* 
 he would cry, "did men ever live who were so thick-headed 
 as not to see the humor of this or that ' blunder ;' or were 
 they so beset with the notion that Goldsmith was only a 
 fool, that they must needs be blind?" Take one well- 
 known instance. He goes to France with Mrs. Horneck 
 and her two daughters, the latter very handsome young 
 ladies. At Lille the two girls and Goldsmith are standing 
 at the window of the hotel, overlooking the square in which 
 are some soldiers ; and naturally the beautiful young Eng- 
 lish-women attract some attention. Thereupon Goldsmith 
 turns indignantly away, remarking that elsewhere he also 
 has his admirers. Now what surgical instrument was 
 needed to get this harmless little joke into any sane per- 
 son's head? Boswell may perhaps be pardoned for pre- 
 tending to take the incident mi serietix; for as has just 
 been said, in his profound adoration of Johnson, he was 
 devoured by jealousy of Goldsmith; but that any other 
 mortal should have failed to see what was meant by this 
 little bit of humorous flattery is almost incredible. No 
 wonder that one of the sisters afterward referring to this 
 " playful jest," should have expressed her astonishment at 
 finding it put down as a proof of Goldsmith's envious dis- 
 position. But even after that disclaimer, we find Mr. 
 Croker, as quoted by Mr. Forster, solemnly doubting 
 ** whether the vexation so seriously exhibited by Goldsmith 
 was real or assumed !" 
 
 Of course this is an extreme case; but there are others 
 very similar. "He affected," says Hawkins, "Johnson's 
 style and manner of conversation, and when he had uttered, 
 as he often would, a labored sentence, so tumid as to be 
 scarce intelligible, would ask if that was not truly John- 
 sonian?" Is it not truly dismal to find such an utterance 
 coming from a presumably reasonable human being? It 
 is not to be wondered at that Goldsmith grew shy — and in 
 some cases had to ward off the acquaintance of certain of 
 his neighbors as being too intrusive — if he ran the risk of 
 having his odd and grave humors so densely mistrans- 
 lated. The fact is this, that Goldsmith was possessed of a 
 very subtle quality of humor, which is at all times rare, 
 but which is perhaps more frequently to be found in Irish- 
 men than among other folks. It consists in the satire of 
 
40 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 the pretence and pomposities of others by means of a sort 
 of exaggerated and playful self-depreciation. It is a most 
 delicate and most delightful form of humor; but it is very 
 apt to be misconstrued by the dull. Who can doubt that 
 Goldsmith was good-naturedly laughing at himself^ his 
 own Dlain face, his vanity, and his blunders, when he pro- 
 fessed to be jealous of the admiration excited by the Miss 
 Hornecks; when he gravely drew attention to the splendid 
 colors of his coat; or when he no less gravely informed a 
 company of his friends that he had heard a very good 
 story, but would not repeat it, because they would be sure 
 to miss the point of it? 
 
 This vein of playful and sarcastic self-depreciation is 
 continually cropping up in his essay-writing, as, for ex- 
 ample, in the passage already quoted from No. IV of the 
 Bee: "I conclude that what my reputation wants in ex- 
 tent is made up by its solidity. Minus juvat gloria lata 
 quam magna. I have great satisfaction in considering the 
 delicacy and discernment of those readers I have, and in 
 ascribing my want of popularity to the ignorance or inat- 
 tention of those I have not." But here, no doubt, he re- 
 members that he is addressing the world at large, which 
 contains many foolish persons; and so, that the delicate 
 raillery may not be mistaken, he immediately adds, ''All 
 the world may forsake an author, but vanity will never 
 forsake him." That he expected a quicker apprehension 
 on the part of his intimates and acquaintances, and that 
 he was frequently disappointed, seems pretty clear from 
 those very stories of his " blunders." We may reasonably 
 suspect, at all events, that Goldsmith was not quite so 
 much of a fool as he looked; and it is far from improbable 
 that when the ungainly Irishman was called in to make 
 sport for the Philistines — and there were a good many 
 Philistines in those days, if all stories be true — and when 
 they imagined they had put him out of countenance, he 
 was really standing aghast, and wondering how it could 
 have pleased Providence to create such helpless stupidity. 
 
TME CITIZEN OF THE WORLD— BEAU NA8H. 41 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE CITIZElf OF THE WORLD — BEAU N'ASH. 
 
 Meanwhile, to return to his literary work, the Citizen 
 of the World had grown out of his contributions to the 
 Public Ledger, a daily newspaper started by Mr. Newbery, 
 another book-seller in St. Paul's Church-yard. Goldsmith 
 was engaged to write for this jDaper two letters a week at a 
 guinea apiece; and these letters were, after a short time 
 (1760), written in the character of a Chinese who had come 
 to study European civilization. It may be noted that 
 Goldsmith had in the Monthly Revieio, in mentioning Vol- 
 taire's memoirs of French writers, quoted a passage about 
 Montesquieu's Lettres Persanes as follows: "It is written 
 in imitation of the Siamese Letters of Du Freny and of the 
 Turkish Spy; but it is an imitation Avhicli shows what the 
 originals should have been. The success their works met 
 with was, for the most part, owing to the foreign air of 
 their performances; the success of the Persian Letters 
 arose from the delicacy of their satire. That satire which 
 in the mouth of an Asiatic is poignant, would lose all its 
 force when coming from an European." And it must cer- 
 tainly be said that the charm of the strictures of the Citi- 
 zen of the World lies wholly in their delicate satire, and not 
 at all in any foreign air which the author may have tried 
 to lend to these performances. The disguise is very appar- 
 ent. In those garrulous, vivacious, whimsical, and some- 
 times serious papers. Lien Chi Altangi, writing to Fum 
 Hoam in Pekin, does not so much describe the aspects of 
 European civilization which would naturally surprise a 
 Chinese, as he expresses the dissatisfaction of a European 
 with certain phases of the civilization visible everywhere 
 around him. It is not a Chinaman, but a Fleet-street 
 author by profession, who resents the competition of 
 noble amateurs whose works — otherwise bitter pills enough 
 
42 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 — are guided by their titles: '* A nobleman has but to take 
 a pen, ink, and paper, write away through three large vol- 
 umes, and then sign his name to the title-page; though 
 the whole might have been before more disgusting than his 
 own rent-roll, yet signing his name and title gives value to 
 the deed, title being alone equivalent to taste, imagination 
 and genius. As soon as a piece, therefore, is published, 
 the first questions are: Who is the author? Does he keep 
 a coach? Where lies his estate? What sort of a table 
 does he keep? If he happens to be poor and unqualified 
 for such a scrutiny, he and his works sink into irremedi- 
 able obscurity, and too late he finds, that having fed upon 
 turtle is a more ready way to fame than having digested 
 Tully. The poor devil against whom fashion has set its 
 face vainly alleges that he has been bred in every part of 
 Europe where knowledge was to be sold; that he has grown 
 pale in the study of nature and himself. His works may 
 please upon the perusal, but his pretentions to fame are 
 entirely disregarded. He is treated like a fiddler, whose 
 music, though liked, is not much praised, because he lives 
 by it; while a gentleman performer, though the most 
 wretched scraper alive, throws the audience into raptures. 
 The fiddler, indeed, may in such a ease console himself 
 by thinking, that while the other goes ofE with all the 
 praise, he runs away with all the money. But here the 
 parallel drops; for while the nobleman triumphs in un- 
 merited applause, the author by profession steals off with — 
 nothing." 
 
 At the same time it must be allowed that the utterance 
 of these strictures through the mouth of a Chinese admits 
 of a certain naivete, which on occasion heightens the sar- 
 casm. Lien Chi accompanies the Man in Black to a 
 theater to see an English play. Here is part of the per- 
 formance: "1 was going to second his remarks, when my 
 attention was engrossed by a new object; a man came in 
 balancing a straw upon his nose, and the audience were 
 clapping their hands in all the raptures of applause. ' To 
 what purpose,' cried I, ' does this unmeaning figure make 
 his appearance? is he a part of the plot?' 'Unmeaning 
 do you call him?' replied my friend in black; Hhis is one 
 of the most important characters of the play; nothing 
 pleases the people more than seeing a straw balanced: there 
 
THE CITIZEN OF TEE WORLD— BEA U NASH. 43 
 
 is, a great deal of meaning in a straw: there is something 
 suited to every apprehension in the sight; and a fellow 
 possessed of talents like these is sure of making his fort- 
 une/ The third act now began with an actor who came 
 to inform us that he was the villain of the play, and 
 intended to show strange things before all was over. He 
 was joined by another who seemed as much disposed for 
 mischief as he; their intrigues continued through this 
 whole division. * If that be a villain,' said I, 'he 
 must be a very stupid one to tell his secrets without 
 being asked; such soliloquies of late are never admitted 
 in China.' The noise of clapping interrupted me once 
 more ; a child six years old was learning to dance 
 on the stage, which gave the ladies and mandarins infinite 
 satisfaction, *I am sorry,' said I, ^to see the pretty crea- 
 ture so early learning so bad a trade; dancing being, I pre- 
 sume, as contemptible here as in China.' 'Quite the 
 reverse,' interrupted my companion; ' dancing is a very 
 reputable and genteel employment here; men have a greater 
 chance for encouragement from the merit of their heels 
 than their heads. One who jumps up and flourishes his 
 toes three times before he comes to the ground may have 
 three hundred a year; he who flourishes them four times 
 gets four hundred; but he who arrives at five is inestimable, 
 and may demand what salary he thinks proper. The female 
 dancers, too, are valued for this sort of jumping and cross- 
 ing; and it is a cant word among them, that she deserves 
 most who shows highest. But the fourth act is begun; let 
 us be attentive,'" 
 
 The Man in Black here mentioned is one of the notable 
 features of this series of papers. The mysterious person 
 whose acquaintance the Chinaman made in Westminster 
 Abbey, and who concealed such a wonderful goodness of 
 heart under a rough and forbidding exterior, is a charming 
 character indeed; and it is impossible to praise too highly 
 the vein of subtle sarcasm in which he preaches worldly 
 wisdom. But to assume that any part of his history which 
 he disclosed to the Chinaman was a piece of autobiograph- 
 ical writing on the part of Goldsmith, is a very hazardous 
 thing. A writer of fiction must necessarily use such mate- 
 rials as have come within his own experience; and Gold- 
 smith's experience — or his use of those materials — was 
 
44 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 extremely limited: witness how often a pet fancy, like his 
 remembrance of Johnny Armstrong's Last Good Night, is 
 repeated. " That of tiiese simple elements/' writes Pro- 
 fessor Masson, in his Memoir of Goldsmith, prefixed to an 
 edition of his works, " he made so many charming combi- 
 nations, really differing from each other, and all, though 
 suggested by fact, yet hung so sweetly in an ideal air, 
 proved what an artist he was, and was better than much 
 that is commonly called invention. In short, if there is a 
 sameness of effect in Goldsmith's writings, it is because 
 they consist of poetry and truth, humor and pathos, from 
 his own life, and the supply from such a life as his was not 
 inexhaustible." 
 
 The question of invention is easily disposed of. Any 
 child can invent a world transcending human experience 
 by the simj)le combination of ideas which are in themselves 
 incongruous — a world in which the horses have each five 
 feet, in which the grass is blue and the sky green, in which 
 seas are balanced on the jjeaks of mountains. The result 
 is unbelievable and worthless. But the writer of imagina- 
 tive literature uses his own experiences and the experiences 
 of others, so that his combination of ideas in themselves 
 compatible shall appear so natural and believable that the 
 reader — although these incidents and characters never did 
 actually ( xist — is as much interested in them as if they had 
 existed. The mischief of it is that the reader sometimes 
 thinks himself very clever, and, recognizing a little bit of 
 the story as having happened to the author, jumps to the 
 conclusion that such and such a passage is necessarily auto- 
 biographical. Hence it is that Goldsmith has been hastily 
 identified with the Philosophic Vagabond in the Vicar of 
 Wakefield, and with the Man in Black in the Citizen of 
 the World. That he may have used certain experiences 
 in the one, and that he may perhaps have given in the 
 other a sort of fancy sketch of a person suggested by some 
 trait in his own character, is possible enough; but further 
 assertion of likeness is impossible. That the Man in 
 Black had one of Goldsmith's little weaknesses is obvious 
 enough: we find him just a trifle too conscious of his own 
 kindliness and generosity. The Vicar of Wakefield him- 
 self is not without a spice of this amiable vanity. As for 
 Goldsmith, every one must remember his reply to Grifllths' 
 
THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD— BEA V NASH. 45 
 
 accusation: " No, sir, had I been a sharper, had I been 
 possessed of less good nature a7id native generosity, I might 
 surely now have been in better circumstances/' 
 
 The Man in Black, in any case, is a delightful character. 
 We detect the warm and generous nature even in his pre 
 tense of having acquired worldly wisdom; "I now therefore 
 pursued a course of uninterrupted frugality, seldom 
 wanted a dinner, and was consequently invited to twenty. 
 I soon began to get the character of a saving hunks that 
 had money, and insensibly grew into esteem. Neighbors 
 have asked my advice in the disposal of their daughters; 
 and I have always taken care not to give any. I have con- 
 tracted a friendship with an alderman, only by observing, 
 that if we take a farthing from a thousand pounds it will 
 be a thousand pounds no longer. I have been invited to a 
 pawnbroker's table, by pretending to hate gravy; and am 
 now actually upon treaty of marriage with a rich widow, 
 for only having observed that the bread was rising. If 
 ever I am asked a question, whether I know it or not, in- 
 stead .of answering, I only smile and look wise. If a 
 charity is proposed, I go about with the hat, but put noth- 
 ing in myself. If a wretch solicits my pity, I observe that 
 the world is filled with impostors, and take a certain 
 method of not being deceived by never relieving. In 
 short, I now find the truest way of finding esteem, even 
 from the indigent, is to give away nothing, and thus have 
 much in our power to give." This is a very clever piece of 
 writing, whether it is in strict accordance with the char- 
 acter of the. Man in Black or not. But there is in these 
 Public Ledger papers another sketch of character, which is 
 not only consistent in itself, and in every way admirable, 
 but is of still further interest to us when we remember that 
 at this time the various personages in the Vicar of Wake- 
 field were no doubt gradually assuming definite form in 
 Goldsmith's mind. It is in the figure of Mr. Tibbs, intro- 
 duced apparently at haphazard, but at once taking posses- 
 sion of us by its quaint relief, that we find Goldsmith 
 showing a firmer hand in character-drawing. With a few 
 happy dramatic touches Mr. Tibbs starts into life; ho 
 speaks for himself; he becomes one of the people whom we 
 kuow. And yet, with this concise and sharp portraiture 
 of a human being, look at the graceful, almost garrulous, 
 ease of the style: 
 
46 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 *^ Our pursuer soon came up and joined us with all the 
 familiarity of an old acquaintance. ^ My dear Drybone,' 
 cries he, shaking my friend's hand, * where have you been 
 hiding this half a century? Positively I had fancied you 
 were gone to cultivate matrimony and your estate in the 
 country.' During the reply I had an opportunity of 
 surveying the appearance 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 ribbon, 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 yel- 
 low by long service. I was so much engaged with the 
 peculiarity of his dress, that I attended only to the latter 
 part of my friend's reply, in which he complimented Mr. 
 Tibbs on the taste of his clothes and the bloom in his 
 countenance. 'Pshaw, pshaw. Will,' cried 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 appearance, and a course of 
 venison will fatten; and yet, faith I despise the great as 
 much as you do; but there are a great many damned honest 
 fellows among them, and we must not quarrel with one- 
 half because the other wants weeding. If they were all 
 such as my Lord Mudler, one of the most good-natured 
 creatures that ever squeezed a lemon, I should myself be 
 among the number of their admirers. I was yesterday to 
 dine at the Duchess of Piccadilly's. My lord was there. 
 ** Ned," says he to me, '' Ned," says he, " I'll hold gold to 
 silver, I can tell you 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's 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 under- 
 standmg, in such company?' 'Improved!' replied the other; 
 *you shall know — but let it go no further — a great secret — 
 five hundred a year to begin with — my lord's word of honor 
 for it. His lordship took me down in his own chariot yes- 
 
TEE CITIZEN OF TEE WORLD— BEA U NASE. 47 
 
 terday, and we had a tete-a-tete dinner in the country, 
 where we talked of nothing else.' 'I fancy you forget, 
 sir/ cried I; *you told us but this moment of your dining 
 yesterday in town/ 'Did I say so?' replied he, coolly; ' to 
 be sure, if I said so, it was so. Dined in town! egad, now 
 I do remember, I did dine in town; but I dined in the coun- 
 try too; for you must know, my boys, I ate two dinners. 
 By the by, I am grown as nice as the devil in my eating. 
 I'll tell you a pleasant affair about that : we were a select 
 party of us to dine at Lady Program's — an affected piece, 
 but let it go no further — a secret. Well, there happened to 
 be no assafetida in the sauce to a turkey, upon which, says 
 I, I'll hold a thousand guineas, and say done, first, that — 
 But, dear Dry bone, you are an honest creature; lend me 
 
 half-a-crown for a minute or two, or so, just till ; but 
 
 hearkee, ask me for it the next time we meet, or it may be 
 twenty to one but I forget to pay you.'" 
 
 Keturning from these performances to the author of 
 them, we find him a busy man of letters, becoming more 
 and more in request among the book-sellers and obtaining 
 recognition among his fellow-writers. He had moved into 
 better lodgings in Wine-Office Court (1760-2); and it was 
 here that he entertained at supper, as has already been 
 mentioned, no less distinguished guests than Bishop, then 
 Mr., Percy, and Dr., then Mr., Johnson, Every one 
 has heard of the surprise of Percy, on calling for John- 
 son, to find the great Cham dressed with quite unusual 
 smartness. On asking the cause of this "singular trans- 
 formation," Johnson replied, " AVhy sir, I hear that Gold- 
 smith, who is a very great sloven, justifies his disregard of 
 cleanliness and decency by quoting my practice; and I am 
 desirous this night to show him a better example." 
 That Goldsmith profitted by this example — though the 
 tailors did not — is clear enough. At times, indeed, he 
 blossomed out into the splendors of a dandy; and laughed 
 at himself for doing so. But whether he was in gorgeous 
 or in mean attire, he remained the same sort of happy-go- 
 lucky creature; working hard by tits and starts; continually 
 getting money in advance from the book-sellers; enjoying 
 the present hour; and apparently happy enough when not 
 pressed by debt. That he should have been thus pressed 
 was no necessity of the case; at all events we need not on 
 
48 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 this score begin now to abuse the book-sellers or the public 
 of that day. We may dismiss once for all the oft-repeated 
 charges of ingratitude and neglect. 
 
 When Goldsmith was writing those letters in the Public 
 Ledger — with " pleasure and instruction for others," Mr. 
 Forster says, " though at the cost of suffering to himself " 
 — he was receiving for them alone what would be equiva- 
 lent in our day to i)200 a year. No man can affirm that 
 £200 a year is not amply sufficient for all the material 
 wants of life. Of course there are fine things in the world 
 that that amount of annual wage cannot purchase. It is 
 a fine thing to sit on the deck of a yacht on a summer's 
 day, and watch the far islands shining over the blue; it is 
 a fine thing to drive four-in-hand to Ascot — if you can do 
 it; it is a fine thing to cower breathless behind a rock and 
 find a splendid stag coming slowly within sure range. But 
 these things are not necessary to human happiness: it is 
 possible to do without them and yet not ''suffer.'' Even 
 if Goldsmith had given half of his substance to the poor, 
 there was enough left to cover all the necessary wants of 
 a human being; and if he chose so to order his affairs as 
 to incur the suffering of debt, why that was his own busi- 
 ness, about which nothing further needs be said. It is to 
 be suspected, indeed, that he did not care to practise those 
 excellent maxims of prudence and frugality which he fre- 
 quently preached; but the world is not much concerned 
 about that now. If Goldsmith had received ten times as 
 much money as the book-sellers gave him, he would still 
 have died in debt. And it is just possible that we may 
 exaggerate Goldsmith's sensitiveness on this score. He had 
 had a life-long familiarity with duns and borrowing; and 
 seemed very contented when the exigencies of the hour 
 were tided cvei". An angry landlady is unpleasant, and 
 an arrest is awkward; but in comes an opportune guinea, 
 and the bottle of Maderia is opened forthwith. 
 
 In these rooms in Wine-Office Court, and at the sugges- 
 tion or entreaty of Newbery, Goldsmith produced a good 
 deal of miscellaneous writing — pamphlets, tracts, compila- 
 tions, and what not — of a more or less marketable kind. 
 It can only be surmised that by this time he may have 
 formed some idea of producing a book not solely meant for 
 the markei., and that the characters in the Vicar of Wake- 
 
THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD— BEA U NASH. 49 
 
 iield were already engaging his attention; but the surmise 
 oecomes probable enough when we remember that his pro- 
 ject of writing the Traveller, which was not published till 
 17G4-, had been formed as far back as 1755, while he was 
 wandering aimlessly about Europe, and that a sketch of 
 the poem was actually forwarded by him then to his 
 brother Henry in Ireland, But in the meantime this hack- 
 work, and the habits of life connected with it, began to 
 tell on Goldsmith's health; and so, for a time, he left 
 London (1762), and went to Tunbridge and then to Bath. 
 It is scarcely possible that his modest fame had preceded 
 him to the latter place of fashion; but it may be that the 
 distinguished folk of the town received this friend of 
 the great Dr. Johnson with some small measure of distinc- 
 tion; for we find that his next published work, The Life of 
 Richard Nash, Esq., is respectfully dedicated to the ;^ight 
 Worshipful the Mayor, Eecorder, Alderman and Common 
 Council of the City of Bath. The Life of the recently 
 deceased Master of Ceremonies was published anonymously 
 (1762); but it was generally understood to be Goldsmith's; 
 and indeed the secret of the authorship is revealed in every 
 successive line. Among the minor writings of Goldsmith 
 there is none more delightful than this: the mock-heroic 
 gravity, the half-familiar contemptuous good nature with 
 which he composes this Funeral March of a Marionette, 
 are extremely whimsical and amusing. And then what an 
 admirable picture we get of fashionable English society in 
 the beginning of the eighteenth century, when Bath and 
 Nash were alike in the heyday of their glory— the fine 
 ladies with their snuff-boxes, and their passion for play, 
 and their extremely effective language when they got 
 angry; young bucks come to flourisli awav their money, 
 and gain by their losses the sympathy of the fair; sharpers 
 on the lookout for guineas, and adventurers on the lookout 
 for weak-minded heiresses; duchesses writing letters in 
 the most doubtful English, and chairmen swearing at any 
 one who dared to walk home on foot at night. 
 
 No doubt the Life of Beau Nash was a book-seller's book, 
 and it was made as attractive as possible by the recapitu- 
 lation of all sorts of romantic stories about Miss S n, 
 
 and Mr. C e, and Captain K g; but throughout we 
 
 find the historian very much inclined to laugh at his hero. 
 
60 LIFE OF goldsmith: 
 
 and only refraining now and again in order to record in 
 serious language traits indicative of the real goodness of 
 disposition of that fop and gambler. And the fine ladies 
 and gentlemen, who lived in that atmosphere of scandal, 
 and intrigue, and gambling, are also from time to time 
 treated to a little decorous and respectful raillery. Who 
 does not remember the famous laws of polite breeding 
 written out by Mr. Nash — Goldsmith hints that neither 
 Mr. Nash nor his fair correspondent at Blenheim, the 
 Duchess of Marlborough, excelled in English compo- 
 sition — for the guidance of the ladies and gentlemen who 
 were under the sway of the King of Bath? " But were we 
 to give laws to a nursery, we should make them childish 
 laws," Goldsmith writes gravely. *'His statues, though 
 stupid, were addressed to fine gentlemen and ladies, and 
 were probably received with sympathetic approbation. It 
 is certain they were in general religiously observed by his 
 subjects, and executed by him with impartiality; neither 
 rank nor fortune shielded the refractory from his resent- 
 ment." Nash, however, was not content with prose in 
 enforcing good manners. Having waged deadly war 
 against the custom of wearing boots, and having found his 
 ordinary armory of no avail against the obduracy of the 
 country squires, he assailed them in the impassioned 
 language of poetry, and produced the following " Invi- 
 tation to the Assembly," which, as Goldsmith remarks, 
 was highly relished by the nobility at Bath on account of 
 its keenness, severity, and particularly its good rhymes. 
 
 " Come, one and all, to Hoyden Hall, 
 For there's the assembly this night; 
 
 None but prude fools 
 
 Mind manners and rules; 
 We Hoydens do decency slight. 
 
 Come, trollops and slatterns, 
 
 Cocked hats and white aprons. 
 This best our modesty suits; 
 
 For why should not we 
 
 In dress be as free 
 As Hogs-Norton squires in Boots ?" 
 
 The sarcasm was too much for the squires, who yielded in 
 a body; and when any stranger through inadvertence pre- 
 sented himself in the assembly-rooms in boots, Nash was so 
 completely master of tiie situation that he would politely 
 
THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD— BEA U NASH. 51 
 
 Btep np to the intruder and suggest that he had forgotten 
 his horse. 
 
 Goldsmith does not magnify the intellectual capacity of 
 his hero; but he gives him credit for a sort of rude wit 
 that was sometimes effective enough. His physician, for 
 example, having called on him to see whether he had fol- 
 lowed a prescription that had been sent him the previous 
 day, was greeted in this fashion: "Followed your prescrip- 
 tioned? No. Egad, if I had, I should have broken my 
 neck, for I flung it out of the two pair of stairs window.^' 
 For the rest, this diverting biography contains some excel- 
 lent warnings against the vice of gambling; with a partic- 
 ular account of the manner in which the government of 
 the day tried by statute after statute to suppress the tables 
 at Tunbridge and Bath, thereby only driving tlie sharpers 
 to new subterfuges. That the Beau was in alliance with 
 sharpers, or, at least, that he was a sleeping partner in the 
 firm, his biographer admits; but it is ui-ged on his behalf 
 tliat he was the most generous of winners, and again and 
 again interfered to prevent the ruin of some gambler by 
 whose folly he would himself have profited. His constant 
 charity was well known; the money so lightly come by was 
 at the disposal of any one who could prefer a piteous tale. 
 Moreover he made no scruple about exacting from others 
 that charity which they could well afford. One may easily 
 guess who was the duchess mentioned in the following 
 story of Goldsmith's narration: 
 
 " The sums he gave and collected for the Hospital were 
 great, and his manner of doing it was no less admirable. 
 I am told that he was once collecting money in Wiltshire's 
 room for that purpose, when a lady entered, who is more 
 remarkable for her wit than her charity, and not being able 
 to pass him by unobserved, she gave him a pat with her 
 fan, and said, ' You must put down a trifle for me, Nash, 
 for I have no money in' my pocket.' * Yes, madam,' says 
 he, ' that I will with pleasure, if your grace will tell me 
 when to stop;' then taking an handful of guineas out of 
 his pocket, he began to tell them into his white hat — * One, 
 
 two, three, four, five ' ' Hold, hold!' says the duchess, 
 
 'consider what you are about.' ' Consider your rank and 
 fortune, madam,' says Nash, and continues telling — 'six, 
 seven, eight, nine, ten.' Here the duchess called again, 
 
 22— Q & Q— C 
 
52 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 and seemed angry. ' Pray compose yourself, madam/ cried 
 Nash, ^and don't interrupt the work of charity — eleven, 
 twelve, thirteen, fourteen, ^fteen/ Here the duchess, 
 stormed, and caught hold of his hand. ' Peace, madam,' 
 says Nash, ' you shall have your name written in letters of 
 gold, madam, and upon the front of the building, madam — 
 gixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.' 'I won't 
 pay a farthing more,' says the duchess. ' Charity hides a 
 multitude of sins,' replies Nash — ' twenty-one, twenty-two, 
 twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five.' ' Nash,' says she, 
 * I protest you frighten me out of my wits. L — d, I shall 
 die!' ' Madam, you will never die with doing good; and if 
 you do, it will be the better for you,' answered Nash, and 
 was about to proceed; but perceiving her grace had lost all 
 patience, a parley ensued, when he, after much altercation, 
 agreed to stop his hand and compound with her grace for 
 thirty guineas. The duchess, however, seemed displeased 
 the whole evening, and when he came to the table where 
 she was playing, bid him, ' Stand farther, an ugly devil, 
 for she hated the sight of him.' But her grace afterward 
 having a run of good luck called Nash to her. ' Come,' says 
 she, ' I will be friends with you, though you are a fool; 
 and to let you see I am not angry, there is ten guineas 
 more for your charity. But this I insist on, that neither 
 my name nor the sum shall be mentioned.'" 
 
 At the ripe age of eighty-seven the "beau of three gen- 
 erations " breathed his last (1761); and, though he had 
 fallen into poor ways, there were those alive who remem- 
 bered his former greatness, and who chronicled it in a 
 series of epitaphs and poetical lamentations. " One thing 
 is common almost with all of them," says Goldsmith, "and 
 that is that Venus, Cupid, and the Graces are com- 
 manded to weep, and that Bath shall never find such 
 another." These effusions are forgotten now; and so would 
 Beau Nash be also but for this biography, which, no doubt 
 meant merely for the book-market of the day, lives and is 
 of permanent value by reason of the charm of its style, its 
 pervading humor, and the vivacity of its descriptions of 
 the fashionable follies of the eighteenth century. Nullum 
 fere genus scribendi non tetigit. Nullum quod tetigit non 
 ornavit. Who but Goldsmith could have written so de- 
 lightful a book about such a poor creature as Beau Nash? 
 
THE ARREST^ 53 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE ARREST. 
 
 It was no doubt owing to Newbery that Goldsmith, after 
 his return to London, was induced to abandon, temporarily 
 or altogether, his apartments in Wine-Office Court, and 
 take lodgings in the house of a Mrs. Fleming, who lived 
 somewhere or other in Islington. Newbery had rooms in 
 Canonbury House, a curious old building that still exists; 
 and it may have occurred to the publisher that Goldsmith, 
 in this suburban district, would not only be nearer him for 
 consultation and so forth, but also might pay more atten- 
 tion to his duties than when he was among the temptations 
 of Fleet Street. Goldsmith was working industriously in 
 the service of Newbery at this time (1763-4); in fact, so 
 completely was the book-seller in possession of the hack, 
 that Goldsmith's board and lodging in Mrs. Fleniing's 
 house, arranged for at £50 a year, was paid by Newbery 
 himself. Writing prefaces, revising new editions, con- 
 tributing reviews — this was the sort of work he undertook, 
 with more or less content, as the equivalent of the modest 
 sums Mr. Newbery disbursed for him or handed over as 
 pocket-money. In the midst of all this drudgery he was 
 now secretly engaged on work that aimed at something 
 higher than mere payment of bed and board. The smooth 
 lines of the Traveller were receiving further polish; the 
 gentle-natured Vicar was writing his simple, quaint, ten- 
 der story. And no doubt Goldsmith was spurred to try 
 something better than hack-work by the associations that 
 ho was now forming, chiefly under the wise and benevolent 
 friendship of Johnson. 
 
 Anxious always to be thought well of, he was now beg'n- 
 ning to meet people whose approval was worthy of being 
 sought. He had been introduced to Reynolds. He had 
 become the friend of Hogarth. He had even made the 
 
64 LIFE OF Q0LB8MITE. 
 
 acquaintance of Mr. Boswell, from Scotland. Moreover, 
 he had been invited to become one of the original members 
 of the famous Club of which so much has been written; 
 his fellow-members being Reynolds, Johnson, Burke, Haw- 
 kins, Beauclerk, Bennet Langton, and Dr. Nugent. It is 
 almost certain that it was at Johnson's instigation that he 
 had been admitted into this choice fellowship. Long before 
 eitlier the Traveller or the Vicar had been heard of, John- 
 son had perceived the literary genius that obscurely burned 
 in the uncouth figure of this Irishman, and was anxious to 
 impress on others Groldsmith's claims to respect and con- 
 sideration. In the minute record kept by Boswell of his 
 first evening with Johnson at the Mitre Tavern, we find 
 Johnson saying, " Dr. Goldsmith is one of the first men 
 we now have as an author, and he is a very worthy man 
 too. He has been loose in his principles, but he is coming 
 right." Johnson took walks with Goldsmith; did him the 
 honor of disputing with him on all occasions; bought a copy 
 of the Life of Nash when it appeared — an unusual compli- 
 ment for one author to pay another, in their day or in ours; 
 allowed him to call on Miss Williams, the blind old lady in 
 Bolt Court; and generally was his friend, counsellor, and 
 champion. Accordingly, when Mr. Boswell enterta,ined 
 the great Cham to supper at the Mitre — a sudden quarrel 
 with his landlord having made it impossible for him to 
 order the banquet at his own house — he was careful to have 
 Dr. Goldsmith of the company. His guests that evening 
 were Johnson, Goldsmith, Davies (the actor and book- 
 seller who had conferred on Boswell the invaluable favor of 
 an introduction to Johnson), Mr. Eccles, and the Rev. Mr. 
 Ogilvie, a Scotch poet who deserves our gratitude because 
 it was his inopportune patriotism that provoked, on this 
 very evening, the memorable epigram about the high-road 
 leading to England. " Goldsmith," says Boswell, who had 
 not got over his envy at Goldsmith's being allowed to visit 
 the blind old pensioner in Bolt Court, " as usual, endeav- 
 ored with too much eagerness to shine, and disputed very 
 warmly with Johnson against the well-known maxim of the 
 British constitution, ' The king can do no wrong. ' " It was a 
 dispute not so much about facts as about phraseology; and, 
 indeed, there seems to be no great warmth in the expres- 
 sions used on either side. Goldsmith affirmed that ''what 
 
THE ARREST. 55 
 
 was morally false could not be politically true;" and that, 
 in short, the king could by the misuse of his regal power 
 do wrong. Johnson replied that, in such a case, the imme- 
 diate agents of the king were the persons to be tried and 
 punished for the offence. " The king, though he sliould 
 command, cannot force a judge to condemn a man unjustly; 
 therefore it is the judge whom we prosecute and punish." 
 But when he stated that the king "is above everytliing, 
 and there is no power by which he can be tried," he was 
 surely forgetting an important chapter in English history. 
 *' What did Cromwell do for his country?" he himself 
 asked, during his subsequent visit to Scotland, of old Auch- 
 inleck, Boswell's father. *'God, Doctor," replied the vile 
 Whig, "he garred hings ken they had a lith in their 
 necks." 
 
 For some time after this evening Goldsmith drops out 
 of Boswell's famous memoir; perhaps the compiler was not 
 anxious to give him too much prominence. They had not 
 liked each other from the outset. Boswell, vexed by the 
 greater intimacy of Goldsmith with Johnson, called him a 
 blunderer, a feather-brained person, and described his ap- 
 pearance in no flattering terms. Goldsmith, on the other 
 hand, on being asked who was this Scotch cur that fol- 
 lowed Johnson's heels, answered, "He is not a cur: you 
 are too severe — he is only a bur. Tom Davies flung him 
 at Johnson in sport, and he has the faculty of sticking." 
 Boswell would probably have been more tolerant of Gold- 
 smith as a rival, if he could have known that on a future 
 day he was to have Johnson all to himself — to carry him to 
 remote wilds and exhibit him as a portentious literary phe- 
 nomenon to Highland lairds. It is true that Johnson, at 
 an early period of his acquaintance with Boswell, did talk 
 vaguely about a trip to the Hebrides; but the young Scotch 
 idolater thought it was all too good to be true. "The men- 
 tion of Sir James Macdonald," says Boswell, "led us to 
 talk of the Western Islands of Scotland, to visit which he 
 expressed a wish that then appeared to me a very romantic 
 fancy, which I little thought would be afterward realized. 
 He told me that his father had put Martin's account of 
 those islands into his hands when he was very young, and 
 that he was highly pleased with it; that he was particularly 
 struck with the St. Kilda man's notion that the High 
 
66 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Church of Glasgow had been hollowed out of a rock; a 
 circumstance to which old Mr. Johnson had directed his 
 attention/' Unfortunately Goldsmith not only disappears 
 from the pages of Bos well's biography at this time, but 
 also in great measure from the ken of his companions. He 
 was deeply in debt; no doubt the fine clothes he had been 
 ordering from Mr. Filby in order that he might "siiine" 
 among those notable persons, had something to do with it; 
 he had tried the patience of the book-sellers; and he had 
 been devoting a good deal of time to work not intended to 
 elicit immediate payment. The most patient endeavors to 
 trace out his changes of lodgings, and the fugitive writings 
 that kept him in daily bread, have not been very successful. 
 It is to be presumed that Goldsmith had occasionally to go 
 into hiding to escape from his creditors, and so was missed 
 from his familiar haunts. We only reach daylight again, 
 to find Goldsmith being under threat of arrest from his 
 landlady; and for the particulars of this famous affair it is 
 necessary to return to Boswell. 
 
 Boswell was not in London at that time; but his account 
 was taken down subsequently from Johnson's narration; 
 and his accuracy in other matters, his extraordinary mem- 
 ory, and scrupulous care, leave no doubt in the mind that 
 his version of the story is to be preferred to those of Mrs. 
 Piozzi and Sir John Hawkins. We may take it that these 
 are Johnson's own words: " I received one morning a mes- 
 sage from poor Goldsmith that he was in great distress, and, 
 as it was not in his power to come to me, begging that I 
 would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a 
 guinea, and promised to come to him directly. I accord- 
 ingly went to him as soon as I was dressed, and found that 
 his landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he was 
 in a violent passion. I perceived that he had already 
 changed my guinea, and had got a bottle of Maderia and a 
 glass before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired 
 he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means 
 by which he might be extricated. He then told me that 
 he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced to 
 me. I looked into it, and saw its merit; told the landlady 
 I should soon return; and, having gone to a book-seller, 
 sold it for £60. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he 
 discharged his rent, not without rating his landlady in a 
 high tone for having used him so ill." 
 
THE ARREST. 57 
 
 We do not know who this landlady was — it cannot now 
 be made out whether the incident occurred at Islington, 
 or in the rooms that Goldsmith partially occupied in the 
 Temple; but even if Mrs. Fleming be the landlady in 
 question, she was deserving neither of Goldsmith's rating 
 nor of the reprimands that have been bestowed upon her 
 by later writers. Mrs. Fleming had been exceedingly 
 kind to Goldsmith. Again and again in her bills we find 
 items significantly marked £0 Os, Od. And if her ac- 
 counts with her lodger did get hopelessly into arrear; 
 and if she was annoyed by seeing him go out in fine 
 clothes to sup at the Mitre; and if, at length, her patience 
 gave way, and she determined to have her rights in one 
 way or another, she was no worse than landladies — who 
 are only human beings, and not divinely appointed 
 protectresses of genius — ordinarily are. Mrs. Piozzi says 
 that when Johnson came back with the money. Goldsmith 
 " called the woman of the house directly to partake of 
 punch, and pass their time in merriment." This would be 
 a dramatic touch; but, after Johnson's quietly corking 
 the botde of Maderia, it is more likely that no such thing 
 occurred; especially as Boswell quotes' the statement as an 
 "extreme inaccuracy." 
 
 The novel which Johnson had taken away and sold to 
 Francis Newbery, a nephew of the elder book-seller, was, 
 as every o.ie knows, the Vicar of Wakefield. That Gold- 
 smith, amid all his pecuniary distresses, should have re- 
 tained this piece in his desk, instead of pawning or promis- 
 ing it to one of his book-selling patriots, points to but one 
 concliision--thit he was building high hopes on it, and 
 was determined to make it as good as lay within his power. 
 Goldsmith put an anxious finish into all his better work; 
 perhaps that is the secret of the graceful ease that is now 
 apparent in every line. Any young writer who may imag- 
 ine that the power of clear and concise literary expression 
 comes by nature, cannot do better than study, in Mr. Cun- 
 ningham's big collection of Goldsmith's writings, the con- 
 tinual and minute alterations which the author considered 
 necessary even after the first edition — sometimes when the 
 second and tiiird editions — had been published. Many of 
 these, especially in the poetical works, were merely im- 
 
58 LIFE OF O0LD8MITH. 
 
 provenients in sound as suggested by a singularly sensitive 
 ear, as when he altered the line 
 
 *' Amidst the ruin, heedless of the dead," 
 
 which had appeared in the first three editions of the 
 Traveller, into 
 
 " There in the ruin, heedless of the dead," 
 
 which appeared in the fourth. But the majority of the 
 omissions and corrections were prompted by a careful taste, 
 that abhorred every thing redundant or slovenly. It has 
 been suggested that when Johnson carried off the Vicar of 
 Wakefield to Francis Newbery, the manuscript was not 
 quite finished, but had to be completed afterward. There 
 was at least plenty of time for that. Newbery docs not 
 appear to have imagined that he had obtained a prize in 
 ilie lottery of literature. He paid the £60 for it — clearly 
 on the assurance of the great father of learning of the day, 
 that there was merit in the little story — somewhere about 
 the end of 1764; but the tale was not issued to the public 
 until March, 1766. " And, sir, remarked Johnson to 
 Boswell, with regard to the sixty pounds, " a sufficient 
 price, too, when it was sold; for then the fame of Gi-old- 
 smith had not been elevated, as it afterward was, by his 
 Traveller; and the book-seller had such faint hopes of 
 profit by his bargain, that he kept the manuscript by him 
 a long time, and did not publish it till after the Traveller 
 had appeared. Then, to be sure, it was accidentally worth 
 more money/' 
 
TEE TEA VELLER, 59 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 This poem of the Traveller, the fruit of much secret 
 labor and the consummation of the liopes of many years, 
 was lying completed in Goldsmith's desk when the inci- 
 dent of the arrest occurred; and the elder Newbery had 
 undertaken to publish it. Then, as at other times, John- 
 son lent his wayward child of genius a friendly hand. He 
 read over the proof-sheets for Goldsmith: was so kind as 
 to put in a line here or there where he thought fit; and pre- 
 pared a notice of the poem for the Critical Review. The 
 time for the appearance of this new claimant for poetical 
 honors was propitious. *' There was perhaps no point in 
 the century," says Professor Masson, " when the British 
 Muse, such as she had come to be, was doing less, or had 
 so nearly ceased to do anything, or to have any good 
 opinion of herself, as precisely about the year 1764. 
 Young was dying; Gray was recluse and indolent; John- 
 son had long given over his metrical experimentations on 
 any except the most inconsiderable scale; Akenside, Arm- 
 strong, Smollett, and others less known, had pretty well re- 
 vealed the amount of their worth in poetry; and Churchill, 
 after his ferocious blaze of what was really rage and declama- 
 tion in meter, though conventionally it was called poetry, was 
 prematurely defunct. Into this lull came Goldsmith's short 
 but carefully finished poem." "There has not been so 
 fine a poem since Pope's time," remarked Johnson to Bos- 
 well, on the very first evening after the return of young 
 Auchinleck to London. It would have been no matter for 
 surprise had Goldsmith dedicated this first work that he 
 published under his own name to Johnson, who had for so 
 long been his constant friend and adviser; and such a 
 dedication would have carried weight in certain quarters. 
 But there was a finer touch in Goldsmith's thought of 
 
60 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Inscribing the book to his brother Henry; and no doubt 
 the pubhc were surprised and pleased to find a poor devil 
 of an author dedicating a work to an Irish parson with 
 £40 a year, from whom he could not well expect any 
 return. It will be remembered that it was to this brother 
 Henry that Goldsmith, ten years before, had sent the first 
 sketch of the poem; and now the wanderer, 
 
 " Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow," 
 declares how his heart untravailed 
 
 " Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain. 
 And drags at each remove a lengthening chain." 
 
 The very first line of the poem strikes a key-note — there 
 is in it a, pathetic thrill of distance, and regret, and long- 
 ing; and it has the soft musical sound that pervades the 
 whole composition. It is exceedingly interesting to note, 
 as has already been mentioned, how Goldsmith altered and 
 altered these lines until he had got them full of gentle 
 vowel sounds. Where, indeed, in the Euglish language 
 could one find more graceful melody than this? — 
 
 "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." 
 
 It has been observed also that Goldsmith was the first to 
 introduce into English poetry sonorous American — or 
 rather Indian — names, as when he writes in this poem 
 
 "Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around. 
 And Niagara stuns with thundering sound; " 
 
 and if it be charged against him that he ought to have 
 known the proper accentuation of Niagara, it may be 
 mentioned as a set-off that Sir Walter Scott, in dealing 
 with his own country, mis-accentuated **Glenal4dale," to 
 say nothing of his having made of Koseneath an island. 
 Another characteristic of ihe'Traveller is the extraordinary 
 choiceness and conciseness of the diction, which, instead of 
 suggesting pedantry or affectation, betrays, on the contrary, 
 nothing but a delightful ease and grace. 
 
 The English people are very fond of good English; and 
 thus it is that couplets from the Traveller and the Deserted 
 
THE TRA VELLER. 61 
 
 Village have come into the common stock of our language, 
 and that sometimes not so much on account of the ideas 
 they convey, as through their singular precision of epithet 
 and musical sound. It is enough to make the angels weep 
 to find such a couplet as this, 
 
 " Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, 
 Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes," 
 
 murdered in several editions of Groldsmith's works by the 
 substitution of the commonplace " breathes '' for " breasts" 
 — and that after Johnson had drawn particular attention 
 to the line by quoting it in his Dictionary. Perhaps, 
 indeed, it may be admitted that the literary charm of the 
 Traveller is more apparent than the value of any doctrine, 
 however profound or ingenious, which the poem was sup- 
 posed to inculcate. We forget all about the "particular 
 principle of happiness " possessed by each European state, 
 in listening to the melody of the singer, and in watching 
 the successive and delightful pictures that he calls up 
 before the imagination. 
 
 "As in those domes where Caesars once bore sway, 
 Defaced by time, and tottering in decay, 
 There in the ruin, heedless of the dead. 
 The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; 
 And, wondering man could want the larger pile, 
 Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile." 
 
 Then notice the blaze of patriotic idealism that bursts 
 forth when he comes to talk of England, What sort of 
 England had he been familiar with Avhen he was consorting 
 with the meanest wretches — the poverty-stricken, the sick 
 and squalid — in those Fleet-street dens? But it is an 
 England of bright streams and spacious lawns of which he 
 writes; and as for the people who inhabit the favored 
 land — 
 
 "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. " 
 
 " Whenever I write anything," Goldsmith had said, 
 with a humorous exaggeration which Boswell, as usual, 
 takes au serieux, " the public make a point to know 
 nothing about it." But we have Johnson's testimony to 
 
62 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 the fact that the Traveller *' brought him into high repu- 
 tation." No wonder. When the great Cham deckires it 
 to be the finest poem published since the time of Pope, we 
 are irresistibly forced to think of the Essay on Man. 
 What a contrast there is between that tedious and stilted 
 effort and this clear burst of bird-song! The Traveller, 
 however, did not immediately become popular. It was 
 largely talked about, naturally, among Goldsmith's friends; 
 and Johnson would scarcely suffer any criticism of it. At 
 a dinner given long afterward at Sir Joshua Reynold's, and 
 fully reported by the invaluable Boswell, Reynolds re- 
 marked, " I was glad to hear Charles Fox say that it was 
 one of the finest poems in the English language." " Why 
 were you glad?" said Langton. "You surely had no 
 doubt of this before?" Hereupon Johnson struck in: 
 ** No; the merit of the Traveller is so well established that 
 Mr. Fox^s praise cannot augment it nor his censure di- 
 minish it." And he went on to say— Goldsmith having 
 died and got beyond the reach of all critics and creditors 
 some three or four years before this time — " Goldsmith 
 was a man who, whatever he wrote, did it better than any 
 other man could do. He deserved a place in Westminster 
 Abbey; and every year he lived would have de^ei'ved it 
 better." 
 
 Presently people began to talk about the new poem. 
 A second edition was issued; a third; a fourth. It is 
 not probable that Goldsmith gained any pecuniary benefit 
 from the growing popularity of the little book; but he 
 had " struck for honest fame," and that was now 
 coming to him. He even made some slight acquaintance 
 with " the great;" and here occurs an incident which is 
 one of many that account for the love that the English 
 people have for Goldsmith. It appears that Hawkins, 
 calling one day on the Earl of Northumberland, found 
 the author of the Traveller waiting in the outer room, in 
 response to an invitation. Hawkins, having finished his 
 own business, retired, but lingered about until the inter- 
 view between Goldsmith and his lordship was over, having 
 some curiosity about the result. Here follows Goldsmith's 
 report to Hawkins: "His lordship told me he had read my 
 poem, and was much delighted with it; that he was going 
 to be Lord -lieutenant of Ireland; and that, hearing that I 
 
TEE TRAVELLER. 63 
 
 was a native of that country, he should be glad to do me 
 any kindness." " What did you answer?" says Hawkins, 
 no doubt expecting to hear of some application for pension 
 or post. "Why," said Goldsmith,"! could say nothing 
 but that 1 nao d brother there, a clergyman, that stood in 
 need of help ^' — and then he explained to Hawkins that he 
 looked to the oook-sellers for support, and was not inclined 
 to place dependence o'-> ^-hc promises of great men. " Thus 
 did this idiot in tiic aJiairs of the world," adds Hawkins, 
 with a fatuity that is quite remarkable in its way, " trifle 
 with hig .ortttisHt., -lau- put back the hand that was held out 
 to assist him! Other oilers of a like kind he either rejected 
 or failed to ^wr^ifove, contenting himself with the patronage 
 of one nobieman, whose mansion afforded him the delights 
 of a splendid taole and a retreat for a few days from the 
 metropolis." It is a great pity we have not a description 
 from the same pen of Johnson's insolent ingratitude m 
 flinging the pair of boots dowa-stairs. 
 
64 LIFE OF Q0LD8MITB. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS WKITiNG. 
 
 But one pecuniary result of thi? growing fame was a 
 
 joint offer on the part of Griffin and Newbery of £20 for a 
 selection from his printed essays; and this selection was 
 forthwith made and published, with a preface written for 
 the occasion. Here at once we can see that Goldsmith 
 takes firmer ground. There is an air of confidence — of 
 gayety, even — in his address to the public; although, as 
 usual, accompanied by a whimsical mock-modesty that is 
 extremely odd and effective. " Whatever right I have to 
 complain of the public," he says, " they can, as yet, have 
 no just reason to complain of me. If I have written dull 
 Essays, they have hitherto treated them as dull Essays. 
 Thus far we are at least upon par, and until they think fit 
 to make me their humble debtor by praise, I am resolved 
 not to lose a single inch of my self-importance. Instead, 
 therefore, of attempting to establish a credit among them, 
 it will perhaps be wiser to apply to some more distant corres- 
 pondent; and as my drafts are in some danger of being 
 protested at home, it may not be imprudent, upon this 
 occasion, to draw my bills upon Posterity. 
 
 "Mr. Posterity: — 
 
 "Sir: Nine hundred and ninety-nine years after sight 
 hereof pay the bearer, or order, a thousand pounds' worth 
 of praise, free from all deductions whatsoever, it being a 
 commodity that will then be very serviceable to him, and 
 place it to the account of, etc." 
 
 The bill is not yet due; but there can in the meantime 
 be no harm in discounting it so far as to say that these 
 Essays deserve very decided praise. They deal with all 
 manner of topics, matters of fact, matters of imagination. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITmO. 65' 
 
 hnmoions descriptions, learned criticisms; and then, when- 
 ever the entertainer thinks he is becoming dull, he sud- 
 denly tells a quaint little story and walks off amid the 
 laughter he knows he has produced. It is not a very am- 
 bitious or sonorous sort of literature; but it was admirably 
 fitted for i' s aim — the passing of the immediate hour in an 
 agreeable and fairly intellectual wa3^ One can often see, 
 no doubt, that these Essays are occasionally written in a 
 more or less perfunctory fashion, the writer not beiug 
 moved by much enthusiasm in his subject; but even then a 
 quaint literary grace seldom fails to atone, as when, writing 
 about the English clergy, and complaining that they do not 
 sufficiently in their addresses stoop to mean capacities, he 
 says: " Whatever may become of the higher orders of man- 
 kind, who are generally possessed of collateral motives to 
 virtue, the vulgar should be particularly regarded, whose 
 behavior in civil life is totally hinged upon their hopes and 
 fears. Those who constitute the basis of the great fabric of 
 society should be particularly regarded; for in policy, as in 
 architecture, ruin • is most fatal when it begins from the 
 bottom.^' There was indeed, throughout Goldsmith's mis- 
 cellaneous writing much more common-sense than might 
 have been expected from a writer who was sujiposed to have 
 none. 
 
 As regards his chance criticisms on dramatic and poet- 
 ical literature, these are generally found to be incisive and 
 just; while sometimes they exhibit a wholesome disregard 
 of mere tradition and authority. '^ Milton's translation of 
 Horace's Ode to Pyrrha," he says, for example, " is uni- 
 versally known and generally admired, in our opinion much 
 above its merit." If the present writer might for a mo- 
 ment venture into such an arena, he would express the 
 honest belief that that translation is the very worst trans- 
 lation that was ever made of anything. But there is the 
 happy rendering of simplex munditiis, which counts for 
 much. 
 
 By this time Goldsmith had also written his charming 
 ballad of Edtoin and Angelina, which was privately 
 " printed for the amusement of the Countess of Northum- 
 berland," and which afterward appeared in the Vicar of 
 Wakefield. It seems clear enough that this quaint and pa- 
 thetic piece was suggested by an old ballad beginning. 
 
66 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 " Gentle herdsman, tell to me, 
 Of curtesy I thee pray, 
 Unto the towne of Walsingham 
 Which is the right and ready way," 
 
 which Percy had shown to Goldsmith, and which, patched 
 up, subsequently appeared in the Reliques. But Goldsmith's 
 ballad is original enough to put aside all the discussion 
 about plagiarism which was afterward started. In the old 
 fragment the weeping pilgrim receives directions from the 
 herdsman, and goes on her way, and we hear of her no 
 more; in Bdwin and Angelifia the forlorn and despairing 
 maiden suddenly finds herself confronted by the long-lost 
 lover whom she had so cruelly used. This is the dramatic 
 touch that reveals the hand of the artist. And here again 
 it is curious to note the care with which Goldsmith repeat- 
 edly revised his writings. The ballad originally ended with 
 these two stanzas: 
 
 "Here amidst sylvan bowers we'll rove. 
 From lawn to woodland stray; 
 Blest as the songsters of the grove. 
 And innocent as they. 
 
 " To all that want, and all that wail. 
 Our pity shall be given, 
 And when this life of love shall fail, 
 We'll love again in heaven." 
 
 But subsequently it must have occurred to the author 
 that, the dramatic disclosure once made, and the lovers 
 restored to each other, any lingering over the scene only 
 weakened the force of the climax; hence these stanzas 
 were judiciously excised. It may be doubted, however, 
 whether the original version of the last couplet, 
 
 " And the last sigh that rends the heart 
 Shall break thy Edwin's too," 
 
 was improved by being altered into 
 
 " The sigh that rends thy constant heart 
 Shall break thy Edwin's too." 
 
 Meanwhile Goldsmith had resorted to hack-work again; 
 nothing being expected from the Vicar of Wakefield, now 
 lying in Newbery's shop, for that had been paid for, and 
 his expenses were increasing, as became his greater station. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRTTING. 67 
 
 In the interval between the publication of the Traveller and 
 of the Vicar, he moved into better chambers in Garden 
 Court; he hired a man-servant, he blossomed out into very 
 fine clothes. Indeed, so effective did his first suit seem to 
 be — the purple silk small-clothes, the scarlet roquelaure, 
 the wig, sword, and gold-headed cane — that, as Mr. For- 
 ster says, he " amazed his friends with no less than three 
 similar suits, not less expensive, in the next six months." 
 Part of this display was no doubt owing to a suggestion 
 from Reynolds that Goldsmith, having a medical degree, 
 might just as well add the practice of a physician to his 
 literary work, to magnify his social position. Goldsmith, 
 always willing to please his friends, acceded; but his prac- 
 tice does not appear to have been either extensive or long- 
 continued. It is said that he drew out a prescription for a 
 certain Mrs. Sidebotham which so appalled the apothecary 
 that he refused to make it up; and that, a the lady sided 
 with the apothecary, he threw up the case and his profes- 
 sion at the same time. If it was money Goldsmith wanted, 
 he was not likely to get it in that way; he had neither the 
 appearance nor the manner fitted to humor the sick and 
 transform healthy people into valetudinarians. If it was 
 the esteem of his friends and popularity outside that 
 circle, he was soon to acquire enough of both. On the 
 27th of March, 1766, fifteen months after the appearance of 
 the Iraveller, the Vicar of Wakefield was published. 
 
68 J^Ii'^ OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE VICAK OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 The Vicar of Wakefield, considered structurally, fol- 
 lows the lines of the Book of Job. You take a good man, 
 overwhelm him with successive misfortunes, show the pure 
 flame of his soul burning in the midst of the darkness, and 
 then, as the reward of his patience and fortitude and sub- 
 mission, restore him gradually to happiness, with even 
 larger flocks and herds than before. The machinery by 
 which all this is brought about is, in the Vicar of Wake- 
 field, the weak part of the story. The plot is full of wild 
 improbabilities; in fact, the expedients by which all the 
 members of the family are brought together and made 
 happy at the same time are nothing short of desperate. It 
 is quite clear, too, that the author does not know what to 
 make of the episode of Olivia and her husband; they are 
 allowed to drop through; we leave him playing the French 
 horn at a relation's house; while she, in her father's home, 
 is supposed to be unnoticed, so much are they all taken up 
 ■with the rejoicings over the double wedding. It is very 
 probable that when Goldsmith began the story he had no 
 very definite plot concocted; and that it was only when the 
 much-persecuted Vicar had to be restored to happiness, 
 that he found the entanglements surrounding him, and 
 had to make frantic efforts to break through them. But, 
 be that as it may, it is not for the plot that people now 
 read the Vicar of Wakefield; it is not the intricacies of the 
 story that have made it the delight of the world. Surely 
 human nature must be very much the same when this sim- 
 ple description of a quiet English home went straight to 
 the heart of nations in both hemispheres. 
 
 And the wonder is that Goldsmith of all men should 
 have produced such a perfect picture of domestic life. 
 What had his own life been but a moving about between 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 69 
 
 garret and tavern, between bachelor's lodgings and clubs? 
 Where had he seen — unless, indeed, he looked back through 
 the mist of years to the scenes of his childhood — all this 
 gentle government, and wise blindness; all this affection, 
 and consideration, and respect? There is as much human 
 nature in the character of the Vicar alone as would have 
 furnished any fifty of the novels of that day, or of this. 
 Who has not been charmed by his sly and quaint humor, 
 by his moral dignity and simple vanities, even by the little 
 secrets he reveals to us of his paternal rule. *"Ay,' re- 
 turned I, not knowing well what to think of the matter, 
 * heaven grant that they may be both the better for it this 
 day three months I' This was one of those observations I 
 usually made to impress my wife with an opinion of my 
 sagacity; for if the girls succeeded, then it was a pious wish 
 fulfilled; but if anything unfortunate ensued, then it might 
 be looked on as a prophecy." We know how Miss Olivia 
 was answered, when, at her mother's promj)ting, she set up 
 for being well skilled in controversy: 
 
 " ' Why, my dear, what controversy can she have read?' 
 cried I. 'It does not occur to me that I ever put 
 such books into her hands: you certainly overrate her 
 merit.' — ^Indeed, papa,' replied Olivia, 'she does not; I 
 have read a great deal of controversy. I have read the 
 disputes between Thwackum and Square; the controversy 
 between Kobinson Crusoe and Friday, the savage; and I am 
 employed in reading the controversy in Religious Court- 
 ship.' — 'Very well,' cried I, 'that's a good girl; 1 find you 
 are perfectly qualified for making converts, and so go help 
 your mother to make the gooseberry pie.' " 
 
 It is with a great gentleness that the good man reminds 
 his wife and daughters that, after their sudden loss of 
 fortune, it does not become them to wear much finery. 
 " The first Sunday, in particular, their behavior served to 
 mortify me. I had desired my girls the preceding night 
 to be dressed early the next day; for I always loved to be 
 at church a good while before the rest of the congregation. 
 They punctually obeyed my directions; but when we 
 were to assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came 
 my wife and daughters, dressed out in all their former 
 splendor; their hair plastered up with pomatum, their 
 faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up in a heap 
 
70 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 behind, and rustling at every motion. I could not help 
 Bmiling at their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from 
 whom I expected more discretion. In this exigence, there- 
 fore, my only resource was to order my son, with an im- 
 portant air, to call our coach. The girls were amazed at 
 the command; but I repeated it with more solemnity than 
 before. * Surely, my dear, you jest,' cried my wife; ' we 
 can walk it perfectly well; we want no coach to carry us 
 now.' — ' You mistake, child,' returned I, ' we do want a 
 coach; for if we walk to church in this trim, the very 
 children in the parish will hoot after us.' — 'Indeed,' re- 
 plied my wife, ' I always imagined that my Charles was 
 fond of seeing his children neat and handsome about him.' 
 — ' You may be as neat as you please,' interrupted I, * and 
 I shall love you the better for it; but all this is not neat- 
 ness, but frippery. These rufflings, and pin kings, and 
 patchings will only make us hated by all the wives of our 
 neighbors. No, my children,' continued I, more gravely, 
 * those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer 
 cut; for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want the 
 means of decency, I do not know whether such flouncing 
 and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, 
 upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the 
 indigent world might be clothed from the trimmings of 
 the vain.' 
 
 "This remonstrance had the proper effect: they went 
 with great composure, that very instant, to change their 
 dress; and the next day I had the satisfaction of finding 
 my daughters, at their own request, employed in cutting 
 up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, 
 the two little ones; and, what was still more satisfactory, 
 the gowns seemed improved by this curtailing." And 
 again when he discovered the two girls making a wash for 
 their faces: "My daughters seemed equally busy with the 
 rest; and I observed them for a good while cooking some- 
 thing over the fire. I at first supposed they were assisting 
 their mother, but little Dick informed me in a whisper 
 that they were making a wash for the face. Washes of all 
 kinds I had a natural antipathy to; for I knew that, in- 
 stead of mending the complexion, they spoil it. I there- 
 fore approached my chair by sly degrees to the fire, and 
 grasping the poker, as if it wanted mending, seemingly by 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 71 
 
 accident overturned the whole composition, and it was too 
 late to begin another/' 
 
 And this is done with such a light, homely touch, that 
 one gets familiarly to know these people without being 
 aware of it. There is no insistence. There is no dragging 
 you along by the collar; confronting you with certain 
 figures; and compelling you to look at this and study that. 
 The artist stands by you, and laughs in his quiet way; 
 and you are laughing too, when suddenly you find that 
 human beings have silently come into the void before you; 
 and you know them for friends; and even after the vision 
 has faded away, and the beautiful light and color and glory 
 of romance-land have vanished, you cannot forget them. 
 They have become part of your life; you will take them to 
 the grave with you. 
 
 The story, as every one perceives, has its obvious blem- 
 ishes. "There are an hundred faults in this thing," says 
 Goldsmith himself, in the prefixed advertisement. But 
 more particularly, in the midst of all the impossibilities 
 taking place in and around the Jail, when the chameleon- 
 like deus ex machmd, Mr. Jenkinson, winds up the tale 
 in hot haste, Goldsmith pauses to put in a sort of apology. 
 *'Nor can I go on without a reflection," he says gravely, 
 *'on those accidental meetings, which, though they hap- 
 pen every day, seldom excite our surprise but upon some 
 extraordinary occasion. To what a fortuitous concurrence 
 do we not owe every pleasure and convenience of our lives! 
 How many seeming accidents must unite before we can be 
 clothed or fed I The peasant must be disposed to labor, the 
 shower must fall, the wind fill the merchant's sail, or num- 
 bers must want the usual supply." This is Mr. Thackeray's 
 ''simple rogue" appearing again in adult life. Certainly, 
 if our supply of food and clothing depended on such acci- 
 dents as happened to make the Vicar's family happy all at 
 once, there would be a good deal of shivering and starva- 
 tion in the world. Moreover it may be admitted that on 
 occasion Goldsmith's fine instinct deserts him; and even in 
 describing those domestic relations which are the charm of 
 the novel, he blunders into the unnatural. When Mr. 
 Burchell, for example, leaves the house in consequence of 
 a quarrel with Mrs. Primrose, the Vicar questions his 
 daughter as to whether she had received from that poor 
 
73 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 gentleman any testimony of his affection for her. She 
 replies No; but remembers to have heard him remark that 
 he never knew a woman who could find merit in a man 
 that was poor. " Such, my dear," continued the Vicar, 
 " is the common cant of all the unfortunate or idle. But 
 I hope you have been taught to judge properly of such 
 men, and that it would be even madness to expect happi- 
 ness from one who has been so very bad an economist of 
 his own. Your mother and I have now better prospects 
 for you. The next winter, which you will probably spend 
 in town, will give you opportunities of making a more 
 prudent choice." Now it is not at all likely that a father, 
 however anxious to have his daughter well married and 
 settled, would ask her so delicate a question in open domes- 
 tic circle, and would then publicly inform her that she was 
 expected to choose a husband on her forthcoming visit to 
 town. 
 
 Whatever may be said about any particular incident 
 like this, the atmosphere of the book is true. Goethe, 
 to whom a German translation of the Vicaj- was read by 
 Herder some four years after the publication in England, 
 not only declared it at the time to be one of the best 
 novels ever written, but again and again throughout liis 
 life reverted to the charm and delight with which he had 
 made the acquaintance of the English "prose id 3d," and 
 took it for granted that it was a real picture of English 
 life. Despite all the machinery of Mr. Jenkinson's schemes, 
 who could doubt? Again and again there are recui-rent 
 strokes of such vividness and naturalness that we yield 
 altogether to the necromancer. Look at this perfect pict- 
 ure — of human emotion and outside nature — put in a few 
 sentences. The old clergyman, after being in search of 
 his daughter, has found her, and is now — having left her 
 in an inn — returning to his family and home. *' And now 
 my heart caught new sensations of pleasure, the nearer I 
 approached that peaceful mansion. As a bird that had 
 been frighted from its nest, my affections outwent my 
 haste, and hovered round my little fireside with all the 
 rapture of expectation. I called up the many fond things 
 I had to say, and anticipated the welcome I was to receive. 
 I already felt my wife^s tender embrace, and smiled at the 
 joy of my little ones. As I walked but slowly, the night 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 73 
 
 waned apace. The laborers of the day were all retired to 
 rest; the lights were out in every cottage; no sounds were 
 heard but of the shrilling cock, and the deep-mouthed 
 watch-dog at hollow distance. I approached my little 
 abode of pleasure, and, before I was within a furlong of 
 the place, our honest mastiff came running to welcome 
 me." " The deep-mouthed tLHitch-dog at hollow distance" — 
 what more perfect description of the stillness of night was 
 ever given? 
 
 And then there are other qualities in this delightful 
 Vicar of Wakefield than merely idyllic tenderness, and 
 pathos, and sly humor. There is a firm presentation of 
 the crimes and brutalities of the world. The pure light 
 that shines within that domestic circle is all the brighter 
 because of the black outer ring that is here and there in- 
 dicated rather than described. How could we appreciate 
 all the simplicities of the good man's household, but for 
 the rogueries with which they are brought in contact? 
 And although we laugh at Moses and his gross of green 
 spectacles, and the manner in which the Vicar's wife and 
 daughter are imposed on by Miss Wilhelmina Skeggs and 
 Lady Blarney, with their lords and ladies and their tributes 
 to virtue, there is no laughter demanded of us when we 
 find the simplicity and moral dignity of the Vicar meeting 
 and beating the jeers and taunts of the abandoned wretches 
 in the prison. This is really a remarkable episode. The 
 author was under the obvious temptation to make much 
 comic material out of the situation; while another tempta- 
 tion, toward the goody-goody side, was not far off. But 
 the Vicar undertakes the duty of reclaiming these cast- 
 aways with a modest patience and earnestness in every way 
 in keeping with his character; while they, on the otlier 
 hand, are not too easily moved to tears of repentance. His 
 first efforts, it will be remembered, were not too successful. 
 " Their insensibility excited my highest compassion, and 
 blotted my own uneasiness from my mind. It even ap- 
 peared a duty incumbent upon me to attempt to reclaim 
 them. I resolved, therefore, once more to return, and, in 
 &pite of their contempt, to give them my advice, and con- 
 quer tiiem by my perseverance. Going, tlierefore, among 
 them again, I informed Mr. Jenkinson of my design, at 
 which he laughed heartily, but communicated it to the rest. 
 
74 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The proposal was received with the greatest good-humor, 
 as it promised to afford a new fund of entertainment to 
 persons who had now no other resource for mirth but what 
 could be derived from ridicule or debauchery. 
 
 " I therefore read them a portion of the service with a 
 loud, unaffected voice, and found my audience perfectly 
 merry upon the occasion. Lewd whispers, groans of con- 
 trition burlesqued, winking and coughing, alternately ex- 
 cited laughter. However, I continued with my natural 
 solemnity to read on, sensible that what I did might mend 
 some, but could itself receive no contamination from any. 
 
 " After reading, 1 entered upon my exhortation, which 
 was rather calculated at first to amuse them than to re- 
 prove. I previously observed, that no other motive but 
 their welfare could induce me to this; that I was their 
 fellow-prisoner, and now got nothing by preaching. I 
 was sorry, I said, to hear them so very profane; because 
 they got nothing by it, but might lose a great deal : * For 
 be assured, my friends,^ cried I — ' for you are my friends, 
 however the world may disclaim your friendship — though 
 you swore twelve thousand oaths in a day, it would not put 
 one penny in your purse. Then what signifies calling 
 every moment upon the devil, and courting his friendship, 
 since you find howscurvilyhe uses you? He has given you 
 nothing here, you find, but a mouthful of oaths and an 
 empty belly; and, by the best accounts I have of him, he 
 will give you nothing that's good hereafter. 
 
 " ' If used ill in our dealings with one man, we naturally 
 go elsewhere. Were it not worth your while, then, just to 
 try how you may like the usage of another master, 
 who gives you fair promises at least to come to him? 
 Surely, my friends, of all stupidity in the world, his must 
 be the greatest, who, after robbing a house, runs to the 
 thief-takers for protection. And yet, how are you more 
 wise? You are all seeking comfort from one that has 
 already betrayed you, applying to a more malicious being 
 than any thief-taker of them all; for they only decoy and 
 then hang you; but he decoys and hangs, and, what is 
 worst of all, will not let you loose after the hangman has 
 done.' 
 
 ** When I had concluded, I received the compliments of 
 my audience, some of whom came and shook me by the 
 
TEE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 75 
 
 hand, swearing that I was a very honest fellow, and that 
 they desired my further acquaintance. I therefore prom- 
 ised to repeat my lecture next day, and actually con- 
 ceived some hopes of making a reformation here; for it had 
 ever been my opinion, that no man was past the hour of 
 amendment, every heart lying open to the shafts of re- 
 proof, if the archer could but take a proper aim." 
 
 His wife and children, naturally dissuading him from an 
 effort which seemed to them only to bring ridicule upon 
 him, are met by a grave rebuke; and on the next morning 
 he descends to the common prison, where, he says, he 
 found the prisoners very merry, expecting his arrival, and 
 each prepared to play some jail-trick on the Doctor. 
 
 " There was one whose trick gave more universal pleasure 
 than all the rest; for, observing the manner in which I 
 had disposed my books on the table before me, he very 
 dexterously displaced one of them, and put an obscene jest- 
 book of his own in the place. However, I took no notice 
 of all that this mischievous group of little beings could do, 
 but went on, perfectly sensible that what was ridiculous in 
 my attempt would excite mirth only the first or second 
 time, while what was serious would be permanent. My 
 design succeeded, and in less than six days some were peni- 
 tent and all attentive. 
 
 "It was now that I applauded my perseverance and 
 address, at thus giving sensibility to wretches divested of 
 every moral feeling, and now began to think of doing them 
 temporal services also, by rendering their situation some- 
 what more comfortable. Their time had hitherto been 
 divided between famine and excess, tumultuous riot and 
 bitter repining. Their only employment was quarreling 
 among each other, playing at cribbage, and cutting 
 tobacco-stoppers. From this last mode of idle industry I 
 took the hint of setting such as choose to work at cutting 
 pegs for tobacconists and shoemakers, the proper wood 
 being bought by a general subscription, and, when manu- 
 factured, sold by my appointment; so that each earned 
 something every day — a triile indeed, but suflicient to 
 maintain him. 
 
 " I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the punish- 
 ment of immorality, and rewards for peculiar industry. 
 Thus, in less than a fortnight I had formed them into 
 
 22— Q & G— D 
 
76 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 something social and humane, and had the pleasure of 
 regarding myself as a legislator who had brouglit men 
 from their native ferocity into friendship and obedience.'* 
 
 Of course, all this about jails and thieves was calculated 
 to sliock the nerves of those who liked their literature per- 
 fumed with rose-water. Madame Eiccoboni, to whom 
 Burke had sent the book, wrote to Garrick, " Le plaidoyer 
 en favour des voleurs, des petits larrons, des gens de mau- 
 vaises moeurs, est fort eloigne de me plaire." Others, no 
 doubt, considered the introduction of Miss Skeggs and 
 Lady Blarney as ** vastly low.'' But the curious thing is 
 that the literary critics of the day seem to have been 
 altogether silent about the book — perhaps they were 
 ''puzzled" by it, as Southey has suggested. Mr. Forster, 
 who took the trouble to search the periodical literature of 
 the time, says that, ^' apart from bald recitals of the plot, 
 not a word was said in the way of criticism about the 
 book, either in praise or blame." The St. James' 
 Chronicle did not condescend to notice its appearance, and 
 the MontTily Revieio confessed frankly that nothing was to 
 be made of it. The better sort of newspapers, as well as 
 the more dignified reviews, contemptuously left it to the 
 patronage of Lloyd's Evening Post, the London Chronicle, 
 and journals of that class; which simply informed their 
 readers that a new novel, called the Vicar of Wakefield, 
 had been published, that " the editor is Doctor Goldsmith, 
 who has affixed his name to an introductory advertise- 
 ment, and that such and such were the incidents of the 
 story." Even his friends, with the exception of Burke, 
 did not seem to consider that any remarkable new birth in 
 literature had occurred; and it is probable that this was a 
 still greater disappointment to Goldsmith, who was so 
 anxious to be thought well of at the Club. However, the 
 public took to the story. A second edition was published 
 in May; a third in August. Goldsmith, it is true, received 
 no pecuniary gain from this success, for, as we have seen, 
 Johnson had sold the novel outright to Francis Newbery; 
 but his name was growing in importance with the book- 
 sellers. 
 
 There was need that it should, for his increasing ex- 
 penses — his fine clothes, his suppers, his whist at the 
 Devil Tavern — were involving him in deeper and deeper 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 77 
 
 difficulties. How was he to extricate himself? — or rather 
 the question that would naturally occur to Goldsmith 
 was liow was he to continue that hand-to-mouth existence 
 that had its compensations along with its troubles? Novels 
 like the Vicar of Wakefield are not written at a moment's 
 notice, even though any Newbery, judging by results, is 
 wilHng to double that £60 which Johnson considered to be 
 a fair price for the story at the time. There was the usual 
 resource of hack-writing; and, no doubt, Goldsmith was 
 compelled to fall back on that, if only to keep the elder 
 Newbery, in whose debt he was, in a good humor. But 
 the author of the Vicar of Wakefield may be excused if he 
 looked round to see if there was not some more profitable 
 work for him to turn his hand to. It was at this time that 
 he began to think of writing a comedy. 
 
78 ^^^^ OF QOLDHMITH. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Amid much miscellaneous work, mostly of the compila- 
 tion order, the play of the Good-natured Man began to 
 assume concrete form; insomuch that Johnson, always the 
 friend of this erratic Irishman, had promised to write a 
 prologue for it. It is with regard to this prologue that 
 Boswell tells a foolish and untrustworthy story about Gold- 
 smith. Dr. Johnson had recently been honored by an in- 
 terview with his Sovereign; and the members of the Club 
 were in the habit of flattering him by begging for a repe- 
 tition of his account of that famous event. On one occa- 
 sion, during this recital, Boswell relates, Goldsmith 
 '' remained unmoved upon a sofa at some distance, affect- 
 ing not to join in the least in the eager curiosity of the 
 company. He assigned as a reason for his gloom and 
 seeming inattention that he apprehended Johnson had re- 
 linquished his purpose of furnishing him with a prologue 
 to his play, with the hopes of which he had been flattered; 
 but it was strongly suspected that he was fretting with 
 chagrin and envy at the singular honor Doctor Johnson 
 had lately enjoyed. At length the frankness and simplicity 
 of his natural character prevailed. He sprung from the 
 sofa, advanced to Johnson, and, in a kind of flutter, from 
 imagining himself in the situation which he had just been 
 hearing described, exclaimed, ' Well, you acquitted your- 
 self in this conversation better than I should have done; 
 for I should have bowed and stammered through the whole 
 of it.'" It is obvious enough that the only part of this 
 anecdote which is quite worthy of credence is the actual 
 phrase used by Goldsmith, which is full of his customary 
 generosity and self-depreciation. All those "suspicions" 
 of his envy of his friend may safely be discarded, for they 
 are mere guess-work; even though it might have been nat- 
 
THE OOOD-NATURED MAN. 79 
 
 ural enough for a man like Goldsmith, conscious of his 
 singular and original genius, to measure himself against 
 Johnson, who was merely a man of keen perception and 
 shrewd reasoning, and to compare the deference paid to 
 Johnson with the scant courtesy shown to himself. 
 
 As a matter of fact, the prologue was written by Dr. 
 Johnson; and the now complete comedy was, after some 
 little arrangement of personal differences between Gold- 
 smith and Garrick, very kindly undertaken by Reynolds, 
 submitted for Garrick's approval. But nothing came of 
 Reynolds's intervention. Perhaps Goldsmith resented 
 Garrick's airs of patronage toward a poor devil of an author.; 
 perhaps Garrick was surprised by the manner in which 
 well-intentioned criticisms were taken; at all events, after 
 a good deal of shilly-shallying, the play was taken out of 
 Garrick's hands. Fortunately a project was just at this 
 moment on foot for starting the rival theater in Covent 
 Garden, under the management of George Colman; and to 
 Colman Goldsmith's play was forthwith consigned. The 
 play was accepted; but it was a long time before it was pro- 
 duced; and in that interval it may fairly be presumed the 
 res angusta domi of Goldsmith did not become any more 
 free and generous than before. It was in this interval that 
 the elder Newberry died; Goldsmith had one patron the 
 less. Another patron who oifered himself was civilly bowed 
 to the door. This is an incident in Goldsmith's career 
 which, like his interview with the Earl of Northumberland, 
 should ever be remembered in his honor. The Govern- 
 ment of the day were desirous of enlisting on their behalf 
 the services of writers of somewhat better position than the" 
 mere libellers whose pens were the slaves of anybody's 
 purse; and a Mr. Scott, a chaplain of Lord Sandwich, ap- 
 pears to have imagined that it would be worth while to buy 
 Goldsmith. lie applied to Goldsmith in due course; and 
 this is an account of the interview: ** I found him in a mis- 
 erable set of chambers in the Temple. I told him my 
 authority; I told him I was empowered to pay most liber- 
 ally for his exertions; and, would you believe it! he was so 
 absurd as to say, ' I can earn as much as will supply my 
 wants without writing for any party; the assistance you 
 offer is therefore unnecessary to me.' And I left him in 
 his garret." Needy as he was, Goldsmith had too much 
 
80 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 self-respect to become a paid libeller and cut-throat of 
 public reputations. 
 
 On the evening of Friday, the 29th of January, 1768, 
 when Goldsmith had now reached the age of forty, the 
 comedy of Tlie Good-natured Man was produced at Covent 
 Garden Theater. The prologue had, according to prom- 
 ise, been written by Johnson; and a very singular prologue 
 it was. Even Boswell was struck by the odd contrast be- 
 tween this sonorous piece of melancholy and the fun that 
 was to follow. ''The first lines of this prologue,'' he con- 
 scientiously remarks, ''are strongly characteristical of the 
 dismal gloom of his mind; which, in his case, as in the 
 case of all who are distressed with the same malady of 
 imagination, transfers to others its own feelings. AVho 
 could suppose it was to introduce a comedy, when Mr. 
 Lensley solemnly begun — 
 
 " ' Pressed with, the load of life, the weary mind 
 Surveys the general toil of humankind V 
 
 But this dark ground might make Goldsmith's humor 
 shine the more." When we come to the comedy itself, we 
 find but little bright humor in the opening passages. The 
 author is obviously timid, anxious, and constrained. There 
 is nothing of the brisk, confident vivacity with which She 
 Stoops to Conquer opens. The novice does not yet under- 
 stand the art of making his characters explain themselves; 
 and accordingly the benevolent uncle and honest Jarvis in- 
 dulge in a conversation which, laboriously descriptive of the 
 character of young Honey wood, is spoken "at" the 
 audience. With the entrance of young Honeywood him- 
 self. Goldsmith endeavors to become a little more sprightly; 
 but there is still anxiety hanging over him, and the epi- 
 grams are little more than merely formal antitheses. 
 
 "Jarvis. 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. 
 
 " Hon. That I don't know; but I'm sure we were at a great deal of 
 trouble in getting him to lend it. 
 
 "Jar. He has lost all patience. 
 
 " Hon. Then he has lost a very good thing. 
 
 " Jar. There's that ten guineas you were sending to the poor gen- 
 tleman and his children in the Fleet. I believe that would stop his 
 mouth, for a while at least. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 81 
 
 " Hon. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their mouths in the mean- 
 time? " 
 
 This young Honeywood, the hero of the play, is, and 
 remains throughout, a somewhat ghostly personage. He 
 has attributes, but no flesh or blood. There is much more 
 substance in the next character introduced — the inimitable 
 Croaker, who revels in evil forbodings and drinks deep of 
 the luxury of woe. These are the two chief characters; 
 but then a play must have a plot. And perhaps it would 
 not be fair, so far as the plot is concerned, to judge of The 
 Good- natured Ma)i merely as a literary production. Intri- 
 cacies that seem tedious and puzzling on paper appear to 
 be clear enough on the stage; it is much more easy to re- 
 member the history and circumstances of a person whom 
 we see before us, than to attach these to a mere name — 
 especially as the name is sure to be clipped down from 
 Honeywood to Hon. and from Leontine to Leon. How- 
 ever, it is in the midst of all the cross-purposes of the 
 lovers that we once more come upon our old friend Beau 
 Tibbs — though Mr, Tibbs is now in much better circum- 
 stances, and has been renamed by his creator Jack Lofty. 
 Garrick had objected to the introduction of Jack, on the 
 ground that he was only a distraction. But Goldsmith, 
 whether in writing a novel or a play, was more anxious to 
 represent human nature than to prune a plot, and paid but 
 little respect to the unities, if only he could arouse our in- 
 terest. And who is not delighted with this Jack Lofty 
 and his "duchessy " talk — his airs of patronage, his mys- 
 terious hints, his gay familiarity with the great, his auda- 
 cious lying? 
 
 " Lofty. Waller? Waller? Is he of the house? 
 
 " Mrs. Croaker. The modern poet of that name. sir. 
 
 " Lof. 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 1 stand that know nothing of books. I say, madam, 
 I know nothing of books; and yet, 1 beUeve, upon a land-carriage 
 fishery, a stamp act, or a jag-hire, I can talk my two hours without 
 feeling the want of them. 
 
 '^ Mrs. Gro. The world is no stranger to Mr. Lofty's eminence in 
 every capacity. 
 
 " Lof. I vow to gad, madam, you make me blush. I'm nothing, 
 nothing, nothing in the world; a mere obscure gentleman. To be sure 
 
82 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 indeed, one or two of the present ministers are pleased to represent me 
 as a formidable man. I know they are pleased to bespatter me at all 
 their little dirty levees. Yet, upon my soul, I wonder what they see 
 in me to treat me so! Measures, not men, have always been my 
 mark ; and I vow, by all that's honorable, my resentment has never 
 done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm — that is, as mere 
 men. 
 
 "Mrs. Cro. What importance, and yet what modesty! 
 
 " Lof. 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 informa- 
 tion; 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 Cro. And yet, I dare say, you don't want assurance when 
 you come to solicit for your friends. 
 
 " Lof. Oh, there indeed I'm in bronze. Apropos! I have just 
 heen mentioning Miss Richland's case to a certain personage; we 
 must name no names. When I ask, I am not to be put off, madam. 
 No, no, I take my friend by the button. A fine girl, sir; great justice 
 in her case. A frienJl of mine^ — borough interest — business must be 
 done, Mr. Secretary. — I say, Mr. Secretary, her business must be 
 done, sir. That's my way, madam. 
 
 "Mrs Cro. Bless me! you said all this to the Secretary of State, 
 did you? 
 
 " Lof. I did not say the Secretary, did I? Well, curse it, since you 
 have found me out, I will not deny it. It was to the Secretary." 
 
 Strangely enough, what may now seem to some of us 
 the very best scene in the Good-natured Man — the scene, 
 that is, in which young Honeywood, suddenly finding Miss 
 Richland without, is compelled to dress up the two bailiifs 
 in possession of his house and introduce them to her as 
 gentlemen friends — was very nearly damning the play on the 
 first night of its production. The pit was of the opinion that 
 it was *' low," and subsequently the critics took up the cry, 
 and professed themselves to be so greatly shocked by the vul- 
 gar humors of the bailiffs that Goldsmith had to cut them 
 out. But on the opening night the anxious author, who had 
 been rendered nearly distracted by the cries and hisses 
 produced by this soene, was somewhat reassured when the 
 audience began to laugh again over the tribulations of Mr. 
 Croaker. To the actor who played the part he expressed 
 his warm gratitude when the piece was over, assuring him 
 that he had exceeded his own conception of the character, 
 and that *' the fine comic richness of his coloring made it 
 
TEE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 83 
 
 almost appear as new to him as to any other person in the 
 house." 
 
 The new play had been on the whole favorably received; 
 and, when Goldsmith went along afterward to the Club, 
 his companions were doubtless not at all surprised to find 
 him in good spirits. He was even merrier than usual, and 
 consented to sing his favorite ballad about the Old Woman 
 tossed in a Blanket. But those hisses and cries were still 
 rankling in his memory; and he himself subsequently con- 
 fessed that he was ''suffering horrid tortures." Nay, 
 when the other members of the Club had gone, leaving 
 him and Johnson together, he "burst out a-crying, and 
 
 even swore by that he would never write again." 
 
 When Goldsmith told this story in after-days, Johnson was 
 naturally astonished; perhaps — himself not suffering much 
 from an excessive sensitiveness — he may have attributed 
 that little burst of hysterical emotion to the excitement of 
 the evening increased by a glass or two of punch, and de- 
 termined therefore never to mention it. " All which. 
 Doctor," he said, " I thought had been a secret between 
 you and me; and I am sure I would not have said anything 
 about it for the world." Indeed there was little to cry 
 over, either in the first reception of the piece or in its sub- 
 sequent fate. With the offending bailiffs cut out, the 
 comedy would seem to have been fairly successful. The 
 proceeds of three of the evenings were Goldsmith's pay- 
 ment; and in this manner he received £400, Then Griffin 
 published the play; and from this source Goldsmith re- 
 ceived an additional £100; so that altogether he was very 
 well paid for his work. Moreover he had appealed against 
 the judgment of the pit and the dramatic critics, by print- 
 ^lig in the published edition the bailiff scene which had 
 been removed from the stage; and the Monthly Revieio 
 was so extremely kind as to say that " the bailiff and his 
 blackguard follower appeared intolerable on the stage, yet 
 we are not disgusted with them in the perusal," Perhaps 
 we have grown less scrupulous since then; but at all events 
 it would be difficult for anybody nowadays to find anything 
 but good-natured fun in that famous scene. There is an 
 occasional "dam," it is true; but then English officers 
 have always been permitted that little playfulness, and 
 these two gentlemen were supposed to "serve in the 
 
84 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Fleet;" while if they had been particularly refined in their 
 speech and manner, how could the author have aroused 
 Miss Richland's suspicions? It is possible that the two 
 actors who played the baliff and his follower may have in- 
 troduced some vulgar "gag" into their parts; but there is 
 no warranty for anything of the kind in the play as we 
 now read it. 
 
GOLDSMITH IN SOCIETY, 85 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 GOLDSMITH IN SOCIETY. 
 
 The appearance of the Good-Natured Man ushered in 
 a halcyon period in Goldsmith's life. The Traveller and 
 the Vicar had gained for him only reputation: this new 
 comedy put £500 in his pocket. Of course that was too 
 big a sum for Goldsmith to have about him long. Four- 
 fifths of it he immediately expended on the purchase and 
 decoration of a set of chambers in Brick Court, Middle 
 Temple; with the remainder he appears to have begun a 
 series of entertainments in this new abode, which were 
 perhaps more remarkable for their mirth than their deco- 
 rum. There was no sort of frolic in which Goldsmith 
 would not indulge for the amusement of his guests; he 
 would sing them songs, he would throw his wig to the 
 ceiling; he would dance a minuet. And then they had 
 cards, forfeits, blind-man's-buff, until Mr. Blackstone, 
 then engaged on his Commentaries in the rooms below, 
 was driven nearly mad by the uproar. These parties 
 would seem to have been of a most nondescript character 
 — chance gatherings of any obscure authors or actors whom 
 he happened to meet; but from time to time there were 
 more formal entertainments, at which Johnson, Percy, and 
 similar distinguished persons were present. Moreover, Dr. 
 Goldsmith himself was much asked out to dinner too; and 
 so, not content with the " Tyrian bloom, satin grain and 
 garter, blue-silk breeches," which Mr. Filby had provided 
 for the evening of the production of the comedy, he now 
 had another suit ''lined with silk, and gold buttons," that 
 he might appear in proper guise. Then he had his airs of 
 consequence too. This was liis answer to an invitation 
 from Kelly, who was his rival of the hour: " I would Avith 
 pleasure accept your kind invitation, but to tell you the 
 truth, my dear boy, my Traveller has found me a home in 
 
86 LIFE OF 00LD8MITE. 
 
 so many places, that I am engaged, I believe, three days. 
 Let me see. To-day I dine with Edmund Burke, to- 
 morrow with Dr. Nugent, and the next day with Topham 
 Beauclerc; but I'll tell you what I'll do for you, I'll dine 
 with you on Saturday." Kelly told this story as against 
 Goldsmith; but surely there is not so much ostentation in 
 the reply. Directly after Tristram Shandy was published, 
 Sterne found himself fourteen deep in dinner engagements: 
 why should not the author of the Traveller and the Vicar 
 and the Good-Natured Man have his engagements also? 
 And perhaps it was but right that Mr. Kelly, who was after 
 all only a critic and scribbler, though he had written a 
 play which was for the moment enjoying an undeserved 
 popularity, should be given to understand that Dr. Gold- 
 smith was not to be asked to a hole-and-corner shop at a 
 moment's notice. To-day he dines with Mr. Burke; to- 
 morrow with Dr. Nugent; the day after with Mr. Beau- 
 clerc. If you wish to have the honor of his company, you 
 may choose a day after that; and then, with his new wig, 
 with his coat of Tyrian bloom and blue-silk breeches, with 
 a smart sword at his side, his gold-headed cane in his hand, 
 and his hat under his elbow, he will present himself in due 
 course. Dr. Goldsmith is announced, and makes his 
 grave bow: this is the man of genius about whom all the 
 town is talking; the friend of Burke, of Reynolds, of 
 Johnson, of Hogarth; this is not the ragged Irishman who 
 was some time ago earning a crust by running errands for 
 an apothecary. 
 
 Goldsmith's grand airs, however, were assumed but 
 seldom; a\id they never imposed on anybody. His ac- 
 quaintances treated him with a familiarity which testified 
 rather to his good nature than to their good taste. Now 
 and again, indeed, he was prompted to resent this famili- 
 arity; but the effort was not successful, h\ the ''high 
 jinks " to which he good-humoredly resorted for the enter- 
 tainment of his guests he permitted a freedom which it 
 was afterward not very easy to discard; and as he was 
 always ready to make a butt of himself for the amusement 
 of his friends and acquaintances, it came to be recognized 
 that anybody was allowed to play off a joke on * Goldy.'* 
 The jokes, such of them as have been put on raaord, are 
 of the poorest sort. The horse-collar is never far off. 
 
GOLDSMITH IN SOCIETY. 87 
 
 One gladly turns from these dismal humors of the tavern 
 and the club to the picture of Goldsmith's enjoying what 
 he called a ''Shoemaker's Holiday" in the company of one 
 or two chosen intimates. Goldsmith, baited and bothered 
 by the wits of a public-house, became a different being 
 when he had assumed the guidance of a small party of 
 chosen friends bent on having a day's frugal pleasure. 
 We are indebted to one Cooke, a neighbor of Goldsmith's 
 in the Temple, not only for a most interesting description 
 of one of those shoemaker's holidays, but also for the 
 knowledge that Goldsmith had even now begun writing 
 the Deserted Village, which was not published till 1770, 
 two years later. Goldsmith, though he could turn out 
 plenty of manufactured stuff for the book-sellers, worked 
 slowly at the special story or poem with which he meant to 
 "strike for honest fame." This Mr. Cooke, calling on 
 him one morning, discovered that Goldsmith had that day 
 written these ten lines of the Deserted Village : 
 
 " Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could pleas©. 
 How often have I loitered o'er thy green. 
 Where humble happiness endeared each scenel 
 How often have I paused on every charm, 
 The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 
 The decent church, that topt the neighboring hill, 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made!" 
 
 "Come," said he, "let me tell you this is no bad morn- 
 ing's work; and now, my dear boy, if you are not better 
 engaged, I should be glad to enjoy a shoemaker's holiday 
 with you." " A shoemaker's holiday," continues the 
 writer of these reminiscences, "was a day of great festivity 
 to poor Goldsmith, and was spent in the following inno- 
 cent manner: Three or four of his intimate friends rendez- 
 voused at his chambers to breakfast about ten o'clock in 
 the morning; at eleven they proceeded by the City Road 
 and through the fields to Highbury Barn to dinner; about 
 six o'clock in the evening they adjourned to White Con- 
 duit House to drink tea; and concluded by supping at the 
 Grecian or Temple Exchange coffee-honse or at the Globe 
 in Fleet Street. There was a very good ordi''itiry of two 
 
88 LIFE OP GOLDSMITH. 
 
 dishes and pastry kept at Highbury Barn about this time 
 at tenpence per head, including a penny to the waiter; and 
 the company generally consisted of literary characters, a 
 few Templars, and some citizens who had left off trade. 
 The whole expenses of the day's fete never exceeded a 
 crown, and oftener were from three-and-sixpence to four 
 shillings; for which the party obtained good air and exer- 
 cise, good living, the example of simple manners, and good 
 conversation." 
 
 It would have been well indeed for Goldsmith had he 
 been possessed of sufficient strength of character to remain 
 satisfied with these simple pleasures, and to have lived the 
 quiet and modest life of a man of letters on such income as 
 he could derive from the best work he could produce. But 
 it is this same Mr. Cooke who gives decisive testimony as 
 to Goldsmith's increasing desire to "shine" by imitating 
 the expenditure of the great; the natural consequence of 
 which was that he only plunged himself into a morass of 
 debt, advances, contracts for hack-work, and misery. 
 *^ His debts rendered him at times so melancholy and de- 
 jected that I am sure he felt himself a very unhappy 
 man." Perhaps it was with some sudden resolve to flee 
 from temptation, and grapple with the difficulties that beset 
 him, that he, in conjunction with another Temple neigh- 
 bor, Mr. Bott, rented a cottage some eight miles down the 
 Edgware road; and here he set to work on the History of 
 Rome, which he was writing for Davies. Apart from this 
 hack-work, now rendered necessary by his debt, it is prob- 
 able that one strong inducement leading him to this occa- 
 sional seclusion was the progress he miglit be able to make 
 with the Deserted Village. Amid all his town gayeties and 
 country excursions, amid his dinners and suppers and 
 dances, his borrowings, and contracts, and the hurried 
 literary produce of the moment, he never forgot what was 
 due to his reputation as an English poet. The journalistic 
 bullies of the day might vent their spleen and envy on him; 
 his best friends might smile at his conversational failures; 
 the wits of the tavern might put up the horse-collar as be- 
 fore; but at least he had the consolation of his art. No 
 one better knew than himself the value of those finished 
 and musical lines ne was gradually adding to the beautiful 
 poem, the grace, and sweetness, and tender, pathetic 
 
O0LD8MITE IN SOCIETY. 89 
 
 charm of which make it one of the literary treasures of the 
 English people. 
 
 The sorrows of debt were not Goldsmith's only trouble 
 at this time. For some reason or other he seems to have 
 become the especial object of spiteful attack on the part of 
 the literary cut-throats of the day. And Goldsmith, though 
 he might listen with respect to the wise advice of Johnson 
 on such matters, was never able to cultivate Johnson's habit 
 of absolute indifference to any thing that might be said or 
 sung of him. '* The Kenricks, Campbells, MacNicols, 
 and Hendersons," says Lord Macaulay — speaking of John- 
 son, "did their best to annoy him, in the hope that he 
 would give them importance by answering them. But the 
 reader will in vain search his works for any alUision to 
 Kenrick or Campbell, to MacNicol or Henderson. One 
 Scotchman, bent on vindicating the fame of Scotch learn- 
 ing, defied him to the combat in a detestable Latin 
 hexameter — 
 
 "Maxime, si tu vis, cupio contendere tecum." 
 
 But Johnson took no notice of the challenge. He had 
 learned, both from his own observation and from literary 
 history, in which he was deeply read, that the place of 
 books in the public estimation is fixed, not by what is 
 written about them, but by what is written in them; and 
 that an author whose works are likely to live is very unwise 
 if he stoops to wrangle with detractors whose works are 
 certain to die. He always maintained that fame was a 
 Bhuttlecock which could be kept up only by being beaten 
 back, as well as beaten forward, and which would soon fall 
 if there were only one battledore. No saying was of tener 
 in his mouth than that fine apothegm of Bentley, that 
 no man was ever written down but by himself." 
 
 It was not given to Goldsmith to feel "like the Monu- 
 ment " on any occasion whatsoever. He was anxious to 
 have the esteem of his friends; he was sensitive to a degree; 
 denunciation or malice, begotten of envy that Johnson 
 would have passed unheeded, wounded him to the quick. 
 " The insults to which he had to submit," Thackeray wrote 
 with a quick and warm sympathy, "are shocking to read 
 of — slander, contumely, vulgar satire, brutal malignity 
 perverting his commonest motives and actions: he had his 
 
90 LIFE OF O OLD SMITH. 
 
 share of these, and one's anger is roused at reading of them, 
 as it is at seeing a woman insulted or a child assaulted, at 
 the notion that a creature so very gentle, and weak, and 
 full of love should have had to suffer so." Goldsmith's 
 revenge, his defence of himself, his appeal to the public, 
 were the Traveller, the Vicar of Wakefield, the Deserted 
 Village; but these came at long intervals; and in the 
 meantime he had to bear with the anonymous malignity 
 that pursued him as best he might. No doubt, when 
 Burke was entertaining him at dinner, and when Johnson 
 was openly deferring him in conversation at the Club, 
 and when Eeynolds was painting his portrait, he could 
 afford to forget Mr. Kenrick and the rest of the libelling 
 clan. 
 
 The occasions on which Johnson deferred to Goldsmith 
 in conversation were no doubt few; but at all events the 
 bludgeon of the great Cham would appear to have come 
 down less frequently on " honest Goldy " than on the other 
 members of that famous coterie. It could come down 
 heavily enough. " Sir,'' said an incautious person, 
 *' drinking drives away care, and makes us forget whatever 
 is disagreeable. Would not you allow a man to drink for 
 that reason?" "Yes, sir," was the reply, "if he sat next 
 you." Johnson, however, was considerate toward Gold- 
 smith, partly because of his affection for bim, and partly 
 because he saw under what disadvantages Goldsmith en- 
 tered the lists. For one thing, the conversation of those 
 evenings would seem to have drifted continually into the 
 mere definition of phrases. Now Johnson had spent years 
 of his life, during the compilation of his Dictionary, in 
 doing nothing else but defining; and, whenever the dispute 
 took a phraseological turn, he had it all his own way. 
 Goldsmith, on the other hand, was apt to become confused 
 in his eager self-consciousness. " Goldsmith," said John- 
 son to Boswell, " should not be forever attempting to shine 
 in conversation; he has not temper for it, he is so much 
 mortified when he fails. . . . When he contends, if he 
 gets the better, it is a very little addition to a man of his 
 literary reputation: if he does not get the better, he is 
 miserably vexed." Boswell, nevertheless, admits that 
 Goldsmith was " often very fortunate in his witty contests, 
 even when he entered the lists with Johnson himself/' and 
 
GOLDSMITH IN SOCIETY. 91 
 
 goes on to tell how Goldsmith, relating the fable of the 
 little fishes who petitioned Jupiter, and perceiving that 
 Johnson was laughing at him, immediately said, " Why, 
 Dr. Johnson, this is not so easy as you seem to think; for 
 if you were to make little fishes talk, they would talk like 
 whales/' Who but Groldsmith would have dared to play 
 jokes on the sage? At supper they have rumps and kid- 
 neys. The sage expresses his approval of " the pretty little 
 things;" but profoundly observes that one must eat a good 
 many of them before being satisfied. " Ay, but how many 
 of them," asks Goldsmith, ''would reach to the moon?'' 
 The sage professes his ignorance; and, indeed, remarks 
 that that would exceed even Goldsmith's calculations; 
 when the practical joker observes, *' Why, one, sir, if it 
 were long enough." Johnson was completely beaten on 
 this occasion. " Well, sir, I have deserved it. I should 
 not have provoked so foolish an answer by so foolish a 
 question." 
 
 It was Johnson himself, moreover, who told the story of 
 Goldsmith and himself being in Poets' Corner; of his say- 
 ing to Goldsmith, 
 
 " Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis," 
 
 and of Goldsmith subsequently repeating the quotation 
 when, having walked toward Fleet Street, they were con- 
 fronted by the heads on Temple Bar. Even when Gold- 
 smith was opinionated and wrong, Johnson's contradiction 
 was in a manner gentle. ''If you put a tub full of blood 
 into a stable, the horses are like to go mad," observed 
 Goldsmith. " I doubt that," was Johnson's reply. 
 "Nay, sir, it is a fact well authenticated," Here Thrale 
 interposed to suggest that Goldsmith should have the 
 experiment tried in the stable; but Johnson merely said 
 that, if Goldsmith began making these experiments, he 
 would never get his book written at all. Occasionally, of 
 course, Goldsmith was tossed and gored just like another. 
 " Bat, sir," he had ventured to say, in opposition to John- 
 son, " when people live together who have something as to 
 which they disagree, and which they want to shun, tliey 
 will be in the situation mentioned in the story of Blue- 
 beard, ' You may look into all the chambers but one,' 
 But we should have the greatest inclination to look into 
 
92 LIFE OF 00LD8MITE. 
 
 that chamber, to talk of that subject." Here, according 
 to Boswell, Johnson answered in a loud voice, " Sir, I am 
 not saying that you could live in friendship with a man 
 from whom you differ as to one point; I am only saying 
 that / could do it." But then again he could easily 
 obtain pardon from the gentle Goldsmith for any occasional 
 rudeness. One evening they had a sharp passage of arms 
 at dinner; and thereafter the company adjourned to the 
 Club, where Goldsmith sat silent and depressed. "John- 
 son perceived this," says Boswell, "and said aside to some 
 of us, ' rU make Goldsmith forgive me;' and then called 
 to him in a loud voice, ' Dr. Goldsmith, something passed 
 to-day where you and I dined: I ask your pardon.' Gold- 
 smith answered placidly, ' It must be much from you, sir, 
 that I take ill.' And so at once the difference was over, 
 and they were on as easy terms as ever, and Goldsmith 
 rattled away as usual." For the rest, Johnson was the 
 constant and doughty champion of Goldsmith as a man of 
 letters. He would suffer no one to doubt the power and 
 versatility of that genius which he had been among the 
 first to recognize and encourage. 
 
 " Whether, indeed, we take him as a poet, as a comic 
 writer, or as an historian," he announced to an assemblage 
 of distinguished persons met together at dinner at Mr. 
 Beauclerc's, "he stands in the first class." And there was 
 no one living who dared dispute the verdict — at least in 
 Johnson's hearing. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 93 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 But it is time to return to the literary performances 
 that gained for this uncouth Irisliman so great an amount 
 of consideration from the first men of his time. The 
 engagement with GriflSn about tlie History of Animated 
 Nature was made at the beginning of 1769. The work 
 was to occupy eight volumes; and Dr. Goldsmith was to 
 receive eight hundred guineas for the complete copyright. 
 Whether the undertaking was originally a suggestion of 
 Griffin's or of Goldsmith's own, does not appear. If it w^as 
 the author's, it was probably only the first means that 
 occurred to him of getting another advance; and that 
 advance — £500 on account — he did actually get. But if it 
 was the suggestion of the publisher. Griffin must have been 
 a bold man. A writer whose acquaintance with animated 
 nature was such as to allow him to make the " insidious 
 tiger" a denizen of the back woods of Canada,* was not a 
 very safe authority. But perhaps Griffin had consulted 
 Johnson before making this bargain; and we know that 
 Johnson, though continually remarking on Goldsmith's 
 extraordinary ignorance of facts, was of the opinion that 
 the History of Animated Nature would be "as entertain- 
 ing as a Persian tale." However, Goldsmith — no doubt 
 after he had spent the five hundred guineas — tackled the 
 work in earnest. When Boswell subsequently went out to 
 call on him at another rural retreat he had taken on the 
 Edgwaro Road, Boswell and Mickle, the translator of the 
 Lusiad, found Goldsmithat home; "but having a curiosity 
 to see his apartment, we went in and found curious scraps 
 of descriptions of animals scrawled upon the wall with a 
 black lead-pencil," Meanwhile, this Animated Nature 
 
 * See Citizen of the World, Letter XVII. 
 
94 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 being in hand, the Roman History was published, and was 
 very well received by the critics and by the public, " Gold- 
 smith's abridgment," Johnson declared, " is better than 
 that of Lucius Florus or Eutropius; and I will venture to 
 say that if you compare him with Vertot, in the same 
 places of the Roman History, you will find that he excels 
 Vertot. Sir, he has the art of compiling, and of saying 
 everything he has to say in a pleasing manner/' 
 
 So thought the book-sellers too; and the success of the 
 Roman History only involved him in fresh projects o-f 
 compilation. By an offer of £500 Davies induced him 
 to lay aside for the moment the Animated Nature and 
 begin "An History of England, from the Birth of the 
 British Empire to the death of George the Second, in 
 four volumes octavo." He also about this time under- 
 took to write a Life of Thomas Parnell. Here, indeed, 
 was plenty of work, and work promising good pay; but 
 the depressing thing is that Goldsmith should have been 
 the man who had to do it. He may have done it better 
 than any one else could have done — indeed, looking over 
 the results of all that drudgery, we recognize now the happy 
 turns of expression which were never long absent from 
 Goldsmith's prose-writing — but the world could well afford 
 to sacrifice all the task-work thus got through for another 
 poem like the Deserted Village or the Traveller. Pei-haps 
 Goldsmith considered he was making a fair compromise 
 when, for the sake of his reputation, he devoted a certain 
 portion of his time to his poetical work, and then, to have 
 money for fine clothes and high jinks, gave the rest to the 
 book-sellers. One critic, on the appearance of the Roman 
 History, referred to the Traveller, and remarked that it 
 was a pity that the "author of one of the best poems that 
 has appeared since those of Mr. Pope should not apply 
 wholly to works of imagination." We may echo that regret 
 now; but Goldsmith Avould at the time have no doubt re- 
 plied that, if he had trusted to his poems, he would never 
 have been able to pay £400 for chambers in the Temple. 
 In fact he said as much to Lord Lisburn at one of the 
 Academy dinners: " I cannot afford to court the draggle- 
 tail muses, my Lord; they would let me starve; but by my 
 other labors I can make shift to eat and drink, and have 
 good clothes." And there is little use in our regretting 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 95 
 
 now that Goldsmith was not cast in a more heroic mold; 
 we have to take him as he is; and be grateful for what he 
 has left us. 
 
 It is a grateful relief to turn from these book-sellers' 
 contracts and forced labors to the sweet clear note of sing- 
 ing that one finds in the Deserted Village. This poem, 
 after having been repeatedly announced and as often with- 
 drawn for further revision, was at last published on the 
 26th of May, 1770, when Goldsmith was in his forty-second 
 year. The leading idea of it he had already thrown out in 
 certain lines in the Traveller : 
 
 " Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, 
 Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? 
 Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
 Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste 1 
 Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 
 Lead stern depopulation in her train. 
 And over fields where scattered hamlets rose 
 In barren solitary pomp repose ? 
 Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call 
 The smiling long- frequented village fall? 
 Beheld the duteous son, the sire decayed. 
 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 ?" 
 
 — and elsewhere, in recorded conversations of his, we find 
 that he had somehow got it into his head that the accumu- 
 lation of wealth in a country was the parent of all evils, 
 including depopulation. We need not s<"-ay here to discuss 
 Goldsmith's position as a political economist; even although 
 Johnson seems to sanction his theory in the four lines he 
 contributed to the end of the poem. Nor is it worth while 
 returning to that objection of Lord Macaulay's which has 
 already been mentioned in these pages, further than to 
 repeat that the poor Irish village in which Goldsmith was 
 brought up no doubt looked to him as charming as any 
 Auburn, when he regarded it through the softening and 
 beautifying mist of years. It is enough that the abandon- 
 ment by a number of poor people of the homes in wliich 
 they and theirs have lived their lives is one of the most 
 pathetic facts in our civilization; and that out of the various 
 circumstances surrounding this forced migration Goldsmith 
 
96 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 has made one of the most graceful and touching poems in 
 the Enghsh language. It is clear bird-singing; but there 
 is a pathetic note in it. That imaginary ramble through 
 the Lissoy that is far away has recalled more than his boy- 
 ish sports; it has made him look back over his own life — 
 the life of an exile. 
 
 " I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; 
 To husband out life's taper at the close, 
 And keep the flame from wasting by repose; 
 I still had hopes, for pride attends us still. 
 Amidst the swains to show my book learned skill. 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw. 
 And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; 
 And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue 
 Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations past. 
 Here to return — and die at home at last." 
 
 Who can doubt that it was of Lissoy he was thinking? Sir 
 Walter Scott, writing a generation ago, said that '' the 
 church which tops the neighboring hill," the mill and the 
 brook were still to be seen in the Irish village: and that 
 even 
 
 " The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade, 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made," 
 
 had been identified by the indefatigable tourist, and was of 
 course being cut to pieces to make souvenirs. But indeed 
 it is of little consequence whether we say that Auburn is an 
 English village, or insist that it is only Lissoy idealized, as 
 long as the thing is true in itself. And we know that this 
 is true: it is not that one sees the place as a picture, but 
 that one seems to be breathing its very atmosphere, and 
 listening to the various cries that thrill the *' hollow 
 silence." 
 
 "Sweet was the sound, wh«n oft at evening's close 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 
 There, as I passed with careless steps and slow. 
 The mingling notes came softened from below; 
 The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung. 
 The sober herd that lowed 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 bayed the whispering wind. 
 And the loud laugh that spake the vacant mind." 
 
TEE DESERTED VILLAGE. 97 
 
 Nor is it any romantic and impossible jDeasantiy that is 
 gradually brought before us. There are no Norvals in 
 Lissoy. There is the old woman — Catherine Geraghty, 
 they say, was her name — who gathered cresses in the 
 ditches near her cabin. There is the village preacher 
 whom Mrs. Hodson, Goldsmith's sister, took to be a por- 
 trait of their father; but whom others have identified as 
 Henry Goldsmith, and even as the uncle Contarine: they 
 may all have contributed. And then comes Paddy Byrne. 
 Amid all the pensive tenderness of the poem this descrip- 
 tion of the school-master, with its strokes of demure 
 humor, is introduced with delightful effect: 
 
 " Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way. 
 With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, 
 There, in his noisy mansion, skilled 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 learned to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face; 
 Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 
 Full well the busy whisper circling round 
 Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. 
 Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault; 
 The village all declared how much he knew: 
 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too: 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. 
 And e'en the story ran that he could gauge: 
 In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill; 
 For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still; 
 While words of learned length and thundering sound 
 Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; 
 And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
 That one small head could carry all he knew." 
 
 All this is so simple and natural that we cannot fail to 
 believe in the reality of Auburn, or Lissoy, or whatever the 
 village may be supposed to be. We visit the clergyman's 
 cheerful fireside; and look in on the noisy school; and sit 
 in the evening in the ale-house to listen to the profound 
 politics talked there. But the crisis comes. Auburn dc- 
 lenda est. Here, no doubt, occurs tiie least probable part 
 of the poem. Poverty of soil is a common cause of emi- 
 gration; land that produces oats (when it can produce oats 
 
98 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 at all) three-fourths mixed with weeds, and hay chiefly 
 consisting of rushes, naturally discharges its surplus popu- 
 lation as families increase; and though the wrench of part- 
 ing is painful enough, the usual result is a change from 
 starvation to competence. It more rarely happens that a 
 district of pe^ace and plenty, such as Auburn was supposed 
 to see around it, is depopulated to add to a great man's 
 estate. 
 
 " The man of wealtli and pride 
 Takes up a space that many poor supplied; 
 Space for liis lake, his park's extended bounds. 
 Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: 
 
 His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;" 
 
 and so forth. This seldom happens; but it does happen; 
 and it has happened, in our day in England. It is within 
 the last twenty years that an English landlord, having 
 faith in his riches, bade a village be removed and cast else- 
 where, so that it should no longer be visible from his win- 
 dows: and it was forthwith removed. But any solitary 
 instance like this is not sufficient to support the theory 
 that wealth and luxury are inimical to the existence of a 
 hardy peasantry; and so we must admit, after all, that it 
 is poetical exigency rather than political economy that has 
 decreed the destruction of the loveliest village of the plain. 
 Where, asks the poet, are the driven poor to find refuge, 
 when even the fenceless commons are seized upon and di- 
 vided by the rich? In the great cities? — 
 
 " To see profusion that he must not share; 
 To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
 To pamper luxury and thin mankind. " 
 
 It is in this description of a life in cities that there occurs 
 an often quoted passage, which has in it one of the most 
 perfect lines in English poetry: 
 
 " Ah! turn thine eyes 
 Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 
 She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 
 Has wept at tales of innocence distrest; 
 Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn; 
 Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled. 
 
TEE DESERTED VILLAGE. 99 
 
 Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. 
 
 And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower. 
 
 With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour. 
 
 When idly first, ambitious of the town. 
 
 She left her wheel and robes of country brown." 
 
 Goldsmith wrote in a pre-Wordsworthian age, when, 
 even in the realms of poetry, a primrose was not much 
 more than a primrose; but it is doubtful whether, either 
 before, during, or since Wordsworth's time, the sentiment 
 that the imagination can infuse into the common and famil- 
 iar things around us ever received more happy expression 
 than in the well-known line, 
 
 " Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn." 
 
 No one has as yet succeeded in defining accurately and 
 concisely what poetry is; but at all events this line is sur- 
 charged with a certain quality which is conspicuously ab- 
 Bent in such a production as the Essay on Man. Another 
 similar line is to be found further on in the description of 
 the distant scenes to which the proscribed people are 
 driven: 
 
 " Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go. 
 Where vyUd Altama murmurs to their woe." 
 
 Indeed, the pathetic side of emigration has never been so 
 powerfully presented to us as in this poem: 
 
 " When the poor exiles, every pleasure past. 
 Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last. 
 And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
 For seats like these beyond the western main, 
 And shuddering still to face the distant deep. 
 Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. 
 ******* 
 
 Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
 
 I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
 
 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail. 
 
 That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 
 
 Downward they move a melancholy band, 
 
 Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
 
 Contented toil, and hospitable care. 
 
 And kind connubial tenderness are there; 
 
 And piety with wishes placed above, 
 
 And steady loyalty, and faithful love." 
 
 22— G & G— E 
 
100 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH, 
 
 And worst of all, in this imaginative departure, we find 
 that Poetry herself is leaving our shores. She is now to 
 try her voice: 
 
 " On Torno's cliffs or Pambamarca's side;" 
 
 and the poet, in the closing lines of the poem, bids her a 
 passionate and tender farewell: 
 
 " And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
 Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; 
 Unfit in these degenerate times of shame 
 To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; 
 Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
 My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; 
 Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, 
 That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; 
 Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel. 
 Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! 
 Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried. 
 On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side. 
 Whether where equinoctial fervors glow; 
 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. 
 Redress the rigors of the inclement clime; 
 Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; 
 Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; 
 Teach him, that states of native strength i>ossest. 
 Though very poor, may still be very blest; 
 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
 As ocean sweeps the labored mole away; 
 While self-dependent power can time defy, 
 As rocks resist the billows and the sky." 
 
 Se ends this graceful, melodious tender poem, the posi- 
 tion of which in English literature, and in the estimation 
 of all who love English literature, has not been disturbed 
 by any fluctuations of literary fashion. We may give more 
 attention at the moment to the new experiments of the 
 poetic method; but we return only with renewed gratitude 
 to the old familiar strain, not the least merit of which is 
 that it has nothing about it of foreign tricks or graces. In 
 English literature there is nothing more thoroughly Eng- 
 lish than these writings produced by an Irishman. And 
 whether or not it was Paddy Byrne, and Catharine Ger- 
 aghty, and the Lissoy ale-house that Goldsmith had in his 
 mind when he was writing the poem, is not of much con- 
 sequence: the manner and language and feeling are all 
 
TEE DESERTED VILLAGE. 101 
 
 essentially English; so that we never think of calling 
 Goldsmith any thing but an English poet. 
 
 The poem met with great and immediate success. Of 
 course every thing that Dr. Goldsmith now wrote was read 
 by the public; he had not to wait for the recommendation 
 of the reviews; but, in this case, even the reviews had 
 scarcely any thing but praise in the welcome of his new 
 book. It was dedicated, in graceful and ingenious terms, 
 to Sir Joshua Keynolds, who returned the compliment by 
 painting a picture and placing on the engraving of it this 
 inscription: " This attempt to express a character in the 
 Deserted Village is dedicated to Dr. Goldsmith by his sincere 
 friend and admirer, Sir Joshua Eeynolds." What Gold- 
 smith got from Griffin for the poem is not accurately 
 known; and this is a misfortune, for the knowledge would 
 have enabled us to judge whether at that time it was possible 
 for a poet to court the draggle-tail muses without risk of 
 starvation. But if fame were his chief object in the com- 
 position of the poem, he was sufficiently rewarded; and it 
 18 to be surmised that by this time the people in Ireland — 
 no longer implored to get subscribers — had heard of the 
 proud position won by the vagrant youth who had "taken 
 the world for his pillow " some eighteen years before. 
 
 That his own thoughts had sometimes wandered back to 
 the scenes and friends of his youth during this labor of 
 love, we know from his letters. In January of this year, 
 while as yet theDeserted Village was not quite through the 
 press, he wrote to his brother Maurice, and expressed him- 
 self as most anxious to hear all about the relatives from 
 whom he had been so long parted. He has something to 
 say about himself too; wishes it to be known that the King 
 has lately been pleased to make him Professor of Ancient 
 History " in a Royal Academy of Painting which he had 
 
 i'ust established;" but gives no very flourishing account of 
 lis circumstances. *' Honors to one in my situation are 
 something like ruffles to a man that wants a shirt." How- 
 ever, there is some small legacy of fourteen or fifteen 
 pounds left him by his uncle Contarine, which he under- 
 stands to be in keeping of his cousin Lawder; and to this 
 wealth he is desirous of foregoing all claim: his relations 
 must settle how it may be best expended. But there is 
 not a reference to his literary achievements, or the position 
 
103 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 won by them; not the slightest yielding to even a pardon- 
 able vanity; it is a modest, affectionate letter. The only 
 hint that Maurice Goldsmith receives of the esteem in 
 which his brother is held in London, is contained in a 
 brief mention of Johnson, Burke and others, as his 
 friends. " I have sent my cousin Jenny a miniature pict- 
 ure of myself, as I believe it is the most acceptable present 
 I can offer. I have ordered it to be left for her at George 
 Faulkenors, folded in a letter. The face, you well know, 
 is ugly enough; but it is finely painted. I will shortly 
 also send my friends over the Shannon some mezzotint 
 prints of myself, and some more of my friends here, such as 
 Burke, Johnson, Reynolds and Colman. I believe I have 
 written an hundred letters to different friends in your coun- 
 try, and never received an answer from any of them. I 
 do not know how to account for this, or why they are un- 
 willing to keep up for me those regards which I must ever 
 retain for them," The letter winds up with an appeal for 
 news, news, news. 
 
OGQASIONAL WmTINQ8» 103 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 0CCASI02S-AL WRITINGS. 
 
 Some two months after the publication of the Deserted 
 Village, when its success had been well assured, Goldsmith 
 proposed to himself the relaxation of a little Continental 
 tour; and he was accompanied by three ladies, Mrs. Hor- 
 neck and her two pretty daughters, who doubtless took 
 more charge of him than he did of them. This Mrs. Hor- 
 neck, the widow of a certain Captain Horneck, was con- 
 nected with Reynolds, while Burke was the guardian of the 
 two girls; so that it was natural that they should make the 
 acquaintance of Dr. Goldsmith. A foolish attempt has 
 been made to weave out of the relations supposed to exist 
 between the younger of the girls and Goldsmith an imagi- 
 nary romance; but there is not the slightest actual founda- 
 tion for any thing of the kind. Indeed the best guide we 
 can have to the friendly and familiar terms on which he 
 stood with regard to the Hornecks and their circle, is the 
 following careless and jocular reply to a chance invitation 
 sent him by the two sisters: 
 
 " Your mandate I got, 
 You may all go to pot: 
 Had your senses been right, 
 You'd have sent before night; 
 As I hope to be saved, 
 I put off being shaved; 
 For I could not make bold, 
 While the matter was cold. 
 To meddle in suds. 
 Or to put on my duds; 
 So tell Horneck and Nesbitt 
 And Baker and his bit, 
 And Kauffinan beside, 
 And the Jessamy bride; 
 With the rest of the crew. 
 The Reynoldses two. 
 
104 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Little Comedy's face 
 And the Captain in lace. 
 
 m * * * 
 
 Yet how can I when vext 
 
 Thus stray from my text ? 
 
 Tell each other to rue 
 
 Your Devonshire crew. 
 
 For sending so late 
 
 To one of my state. 
 
 But 'tis Reynold's way 
 
 From wisdom to stray, 
 
 And Angelica's whim 
 
 To be frolic like him. 
 But, alas! your good worships, how could they be wiser, 
 When both have been spoiled in to-day's Advertiser? " 
 
 "The Jessamy Bride" was the pet nickname he had 
 bestowed on the younger Miss Horneck — the heroine of 
 the speculative romance just mentioned; '' Little Comedy" 
 was her sister; "the Captain in lace" their brother, 
 who was in the Guards. No doubt Mrs. Eorneck and 
 her daughters were very pleased to have with them on 
 this Continental trip so distinguished a person as Dr. 
 Goldsmith; and he must have been very ungrateful if he 
 was not glad to be provided with such charming compan- 
 ions. The story of the sudden envy he displayed of the 
 admiration excited by the two handsome young English- 
 women as they stood at a hotel window in Lille, is so 
 incredibly foolish that it needs scarcely be repeated here; 
 unless to repeat the warning that, if ever anybody was so 
 dense as not to see the humor of that piece of acting, one 
 had better look with grave suspicion on every one of the 
 stories told about Goldsmith's vanities and absurdities. 
 
 Even with such pleasant companions, the trip to Paris 
 was not every thing he had hoped. " I find," he wrote 
 to Reynolds from Paris, " that traveling at twenty and 
 at forty are very different things. I set out with all my 
 confirmed habits about me, and can find nothing on the 
 Continent so good as when I formerly left it. One of 
 our chief amusements here is scolding at every thing we 
 meet with, and praising eveiy thing and every person we 
 left at home. You may judge therefore whether your 
 name is not frequently bandied at table among us. To 
 tell you the truth, I never thought I could regret your 
 absence so much, as our various mortifications on the 
 
OCCASIONAL WRITINGS. 105 
 
 road have often taught me to do. I could tell you of 
 disasters and adventures without number, of our lying in 
 barns, and of my being half poisoned with a dish of 
 green peas, of our quarreling with postilions and being 
 cheated by our landladies, but I reserve all this for a 
 happy hour which I expect to share with you upon my 
 return." The fact is that although Goldsmith had seen 
 a good deal of foreign travel, the manner of his making 
 the grand tour in his youth was not such as to fit him for 
 acting as courier to a party of ladies. However, if they 
 increased his troubles, they also shared them; and in 
 this same letter he bears explicit testimony to the value 
 of their companionship. "I will soon be among you, 
 better pleased with my situation at home than I ever was 
 before. And yet I must say, that if anything could make 
 France pleasant, the very good women with whom I am 
 at present would certainly do it. I could say more about 
 that, but I intend showing them this letter before I send it 
 away." Mrs. Horneck, Little Comedy, the Jessamy Bride, 
 and the Professor of Ancient History at the Royal Academy, 
 all returned to London; the last to resume his round of 
 convivialities at taverns, excursions into regions of more 
 fashionable amusement along with Reynolds, and task-work 
 aimed at the pockets of the book-sellers. 
 
 It was a happy-go-lucky sort of life. We find him now 
 showing off his fine clothes and his sword and wig at Rane- 
 lagh Gardens, and again shut up in his chambers compil- 
 ing memoirs and histories in hot haste; now the guest of 
 Lord Clare, and figuring at Bath, and again delighting 
 some small domestic circle by his quips and cranks; playing 
 jokes for the amusement of children, and writing comic 
 letters in verse to their elders; everywhere and at all times 
 merry, thoughtless, good-natured. And, of course, we 
 find also his humorous pleasantries being mistaken for 
 blundering stupidity. In perfect good faith Boswell de- 
 ficribcs how a number of people burst out laughing when 
 Goldsmith publicly complained that he had met Lord 
 Camden at Lord Clare's house in the country, " and he 
 took no more notice of me than if I had been an ordinary 
 man." Goldsmith's claiming to be a very extraordinary 
 person was precisely a stroke of that humorous cielf-depre- 
 ciation in which he was continually indulging; and tho 
 
106 LIFE OF Q0LD8MITE. 
 
 Jessamy Bride has left it on record that **oii many occa- 
 sions, from the peculiar manner of his humor, and assumed 
 frown of countenance, what was often uttered in jest was 
 mistaken by those who did not know him for earnest/' 
 This would appear to have been one of those occasions. 
 The company burst out laughing at Goldsmith's having 
 made a fool of himself; and Johnson was compelled to 
 come to his rescue. " Nay, gentlemen. Dr. Goldsmith is 
 in the right. A nobleman ought to have made up to such 
 a man as Goldsmith; and I think it is much against Lord 
 Camden that he neglected him." 
 
 Mention of Lord Clare naturally recalls the Haunch of 
 Venison. Goldsmith was particularly happy in writing 
 bright and airy verses; the grace and lightness of his 
 touch has rarely been approached. It must be confessed, 
 however, that in this direction he was somewhat of an 
 Autolycus; unconsidered trifles he freely appropriated; but 
 he committed these thefts with scarcely any concealment, 
 and with the most charming air in the world. In fact 
 some of the snatches of verse which he contributed to the 
 Bee scarcely profess to be any thing else than translation, 
 though the originals are not given. But who is likely to 
 complain when we get as the result such a delightful piece 
 of nonsense as the famous Elegy on that Glory of her Sex, 
 Mrs. Mary Blaize, which has been the parent of a vast pro- 
 geny since Goldsmith's time? 
 
 " 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 passed her door, 
 And always found her kind; 
 She freely lent to all the poor — 
 Who left a pledge behind. 
 
 ** She strove the neighborhood to please, 
 With manners wondrous winning; 
 And never followed wicked ways — 
 Unless when she was sinning. 
 
 ** At church, in silks and satins new. 
 With hoop of monstrous size, 
 She never slumbered in her pew— 
 But when she shut her eyes. 
 
OCCASIONAL WRITINGS. 107 
 
 ' Her love was sought, I do aver, 
 By twenty beaux and more; 
 The king himself has followed her — • 
 When she has walked before. 
 
 ** But now her wealth and finery fled, 
 Her hangers-on cut short all; 
 The doctors found, when she was dead— 
 Her last disorder mortal. 
 
 " Let us lament, in sorrow sore. 
 For Kent Street well may say. 
 That had she lived a twelvemonth more — 
 She had not died to-day." 
 
 The Haunch oj Venison, on the other hand, is a poetical 
 letter of thanks to Lord Clare — an easy, jocular epistle, in 
 which the writer has a cut or two at certain of his literary 
 brethren. Then, as he is looking at the venison, and de- 
 termining not to send it to any such people as Hiffernan 
 or Higgins, who should step in but our old friend Beau 
 Tibbs, or some one remarkably like him in manner and 
 speech ? — 
 
 " While thus I debated, in reverie centred, 
 An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, entered; 
 An under- bred, fine spoken fellow was he. 
 And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me. 
 ' What have we got here? — Why this is good eating! 
 Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting ?' 
 ' Why, whose should it be?' cried I with a flounce; 
 ' I get these things often ' — but that was a bounce; 
 ' Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation. 
 Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostentation.' 
 ' If that be the case then,' he cried, very gay, 
 ' I'm glad I have taken this house in my way, 
 To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; 
 No words — I insist on't — precisely at three; 
 We'll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits will be there; 
 My acquaintance is sliglit, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. 
 And now tliat I think on't, as I am a sinner? 
 We wanted this venison to make out the 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 I' 
 Thus, snatching his hat, he brushed off like the wind, 
 And the porter and eatables followed behind." 
 
 We need not follow the vanished venison — which did not 
 
108 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 make its appearance at the banquet any more than did 
 Johnson or Burke — furtlier than to say that if Lord Clare 
 did not make it good to the poet he did not deserve to have 
 his name associated with such a clever and careless jeu 
 d'esprit. 
 
SEE STOOPS TO CONQUER,, lOf 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 8HE STOOPS TO COISTQUER. 
 
 But the writing of smart verses could not keep Dr. Gold- 
 smith alive, more especially as dinner-parties, Rauelagh 
 masquerades, and similar diversions pressed heavily on his 
 finances. When his History of England appeared, the 
 literary cut-throats of the day accused him of having been 
 bribed by the Government to betray the liberties of the 
 people:* a foolish charge. What Goldsmith got for the 
 English History was the sum originally stipulated for, and 
 now, no doubt, all spent; with a further sum of fifty 
 guineas for an abridgment of the work. Then, by this time, 
 he had persuaded Griffin to advance him the whole of the 
 eight hundred guineas for the Animated Nature, though 
 he had only done about a third part of the book. At the 
 instigation of Newbery he had begun a story after the 
 manner of the Vicar of Wakefield; but it appears that 
 such chapters as he had written were not deemed to be 
 promising, and the undertaking was abandoned. The 
 fact is, Goldsmith was now thinking of another method of 
 replenishing his purse. The Vicar of Wakefield had 
 brought him little but reputation; the Good-natured Man 
 had brought him £500. It was to the stage that he now 
 looked for assistance out of the financial slough in which 
 he was plunged. He was engaged in writing a comedy ; 
 and that comedy was She Stoojys to Conquer. 
 
 In the Dedication to Johnson which was prefixed to this 
 play on its appearance in type. Goldsmith hints that the 
 attempt to write a comedy not of the sentimental order 
 then in fashion, was a hazardous thing ; and also that Col- 
 
 * " God knows I had no thought for or against liberty in my 
 head; my whole aim being to make up a book of a decent size that, 
 as Squire Richard says, ' would do no harm to nobody.' " — Goldsmith. 
 to Langton, Sept<3mber, 1771. 
 
110 LIFE OF Q0LD8MITE. 
 
 man, who saw the piece in its various stages, was of this 
 opinion, too. Colman threw cold water on. the under- 
 taking from the very beginning. It was only extreme 
 pressure on the part of Goldsmith's friends that induced — 
 or rather compelled — him to accept the comedy ; and that, 
 after he had kept the unfortunate author in the tortures of 
 suspense for month after month. But although Goldsmith 
 knew the danger, he was resolved to face it. He hated the 
 sentimentalists and all their works ; and determined to 
 keep his new comedy faithful to nature, whether people 
 called it low or not. His object was to raise a genuine, 
 hearty laugh ; not to write a piece for school declamation ; 
 and he had enough confidence in himself to do the work in 
 his own way. Moreover he took the earliest possible oppor- 
 tunity, in writing this piece, of poking fun at the sensitive 
 creatures who had been shocked by the "vulgarity" of 
 The Oood-natured Man. "Bravo! Bravo !" cry the jolly 
 companions of Tony Lumpkin, when that promising 
 buckeen has finished his song at the Three Pigeons ; then 
 follows criticism : 
 
 " First Fellow. The squire has got spunk in him. 
 
 "Second Fel. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays he never gives UB 
 nothing that's low. 
 
 " Third Fel. O damn any thing that's low, I cannot bear it. 
 
 " Fourth Fel. The genteel thing is the genteel thing any time: if 
 60 be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly. 
 
 " Third Fel. I likes 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 ' The Minuet in 
 Ariadne. ' " 
 
 Indeed, Goldsmith, however he might figure in society, 
 was always capable of holding his own when he had his 
 pen in his hand. And even at the outset of this comedy 
 one sees how much he has gained in literary confidence 
 since the writing of the Good-natured Man. Here there 
 is no anxious stiffness at all; but a brisk, free conversation, 
 full of point that is not too formal, and yet conveying all 
 the information that has usually to be crammed into a first 
 scene. In taking as the groundwork of his plot that old 
 adventure that had befallen himself — his mistaking a 
 squire's house for an inn — he was hampering himself with 
 something that was not the less improbable because it had 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. m 
 
 actually happened; but we begin to forget all the improb- 
 abilities through the naturalness of the people to whom we 
 are introduced, and the brisk movement and life of the 
 piece. 
 
 Fashions in dramatic literature may come and go; but 
 the wholesome good-natured fun of She Stoops to Conquer 
 Is as capable of producing a hearty laugh now as it was when 
 it first saw the light in Covent Garden. Tony Lumpkin is 
 one of the especial favorites of the theater-going public; 
 and no wonder. With all the young cub's jibes and jeers, 
 his impudence and grimaces, one has a sneaking love for 
 the scapegrace; we laugh with him, rather than at him;- 
 how can we fail to enjoy those malevolent tricks of his 
 when he so obviously enjoys them himself? And Diggory 
 — do we not owe an eternal debt of gratitude to honest 
 Diggory for telling us about Ould Grouse in the gun-room, 
 that immortal joke at which thousands and thousands of 
 people have roared with laughter, though they never any 
 one of them could tell what the story was about? The 
 scene in which the old squire lectures his faithful attend- 
 ants on their manners and duties, is one of the truest bits 
 of comedy on the English stage: 
 
 "Mr. Hardcastle. 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 
 iands this way when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being 
 upon drill 
 
 " Uwrd. 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 
 Bee us eat, and not think of eating. 
 
 '* Dig. By the laws, your worship, that's perfectly unpossible. 
 Whenever Diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod, he's always 
 wishing for a mouthful himself. 
 
 " Hard. Blockhead! Is not a bellyful ii the kitchen as good as a 
 bellyful in the parlor ? Stay your stomach with that reflection. 
 
 "Dig. Ecod, I thank your worship, I'll make a shift to stay my 
 stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantry. 
 
 "' Hard. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then, if I happen to say 
 a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not all burst out 
 a-laughing, as if you made pan of the company. 
 
 " Dig. Then ecod your worship must not tell the story of Ould 
 Grouse in the gun-room; I can't helplaughingat that— hel hel hel— 
 
112 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 for the soul of me. We have laughed at that these twenty years— 
 ha! ha! ha! 
 
 " Hard. Ha! ha! ha! The story is a good one. Well, honest Dig- 
 gory, you may laugh at that — but still remember to be attentive. 
 Suppose one of the company should call for a glass of wine, how will 
 you behave? A glass of wine, sir, if you please {to Diggory). — Eh, 
 why don't you move ? 
 
 " Dig. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage till I see the 
 eatables and drinkables brought upo' the table, and then I'm as 
 bauld as a lion. 
 
 " Hard. What, will nobody move ? 
 
 '* First Serv. I'm not to leave this pleace. 
 
 " Second Serv. I'm sure it's no pleace of mine. 
 I " Third Serv. Nor mine, for sartain. 
 
 " Dig. Wauns, and I'm sure it canna be mine." 
 
 No doubt all this is very "low" indeed; and perhaps 
 Mr. Colmau may be forgiven for suspecting that the refined 
 wits of the day would be shocked by these rude humors of 
 a parcel of servants. But all that can be said in this direc- 
 tion was said at the time by Horace Walpole, in a letter to 
 a friend of his; and this criticism is so amusing in its pre- 
 tence and imbecility that it is worth quoting at large. 
 " Dr. Goldsmith has written a comedy/^ says this profound 
 critic, '' — no, it is the lowest of all farces; it is not the sub- 
 ject I condemn, though very vulgar, but the execution. 
 The drift tends to no moral, no edification of any kind — 
 the situations, however, are well imagined, and make one 
 laugh in spite of the grossness of the dialogue, the forced 
 witticisms, and total improbability of the whole plan and 
 conduct. But what disgusts me most is, that though the 
 characters are very low, and aim at low humor, not one of 
 them says a sentence that is natural, or marks any charac- 
 ter at all." Horace Walpole sighing for edification — from 
 a Co vent Garden comedy! Surely, if the old gods have 
 any laughter left, and if they take any notice of what is 
 done in the literary world here below, there must have 
 rumbled through the courts of Olympus a guft'aw of sar- 
 donic laughter when that solemn criticism was put down 
 on paper. 
 
 Meanwhile Colman's original fears had developed into a 
 sort of stupid obstinacy. He was so convinced that the 
 play would not succeed, that he would spend no money in 
 putting it on the stage; while far and wide he announced 
 its failure as a foregone conclusion. Under this doom of 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. ng 
 
 vaticination the rehearsals were nevertheless proceeded 
 with — the brunt of the quarrels among the players failing 
 wholly on Goldsmith, for the manager seems to have with- 
 drawn in despair; while all the Johnson confraternity were 
 determined to do what they could for Goldsmith on the 
 opening night. That was the 15th of March, 1773. His 
 friends invited the author to dinner as a prelude to the 
 play; Dr. Johnson was in the chair; there was plenty of 
 gayety. But this means of keeping up the anxious author's 
 spirits was not very successful. Goldsmith's mouth, we 
 are told by Eeynolds, became so parched ''from the agita- 
 tion of his mind, that he was unable to swallow a single 
 mouthful." Moreover, he could not face the ordeal of sit- 
 ting through the play; when his friends left the tavern and 
 betook themselves to the theater, he went away by himself; 
 and was subsequently found walking in St. James' Park. 
 The friend who discovered him there persuaded him that 
 his presence in the theater might be useful in case of an 
 emergency; and ultimately got him to accompany him to 
 Covent Garden. When Goldsmith reached the theater the 
 fifth act had been begun. 
 
 Oddly enough, the first thing he heard on entering the 
 stage-door was a hiss. The story goes that the poor author 
 was dreadfully frightened; and that in answer to a hurried 
 question, Colman exclaimed, ''Pshaw! Doctor, don't be 
 afraid of a squib, when we have been sitting these two 
 hours on a barrel of gunpowder." If this was meant as a 
 hoax, it was a cruel one; if meant seriously, it was untrue. 
 For the piece had turned out a great hit. From beginning 
 to end of the performance the audience were in a roar of 
 laughter; and the single hiss that Goldsmith unluckily 
 heard was so markedly exceptional, that it became the talk 
 of the town, and was variously attributed to one or other 
 of Goldsmith's rivals. Colman, too, suffered at the hands 
 of the wits for his gloomy and falsified predictions; and 
 had, indeed, to beg Goldsmith to intercede for him. It is 
 a great pity that Boswell was not in London at this time; 
 for then we might have had a description of the supper 
 that naturally would follow the play, and of Goldsmith's 
 demeanor under this new success. Besides the gratification, 
 moreover, of his choice of materials being approved by the 
 public, there was the material benefit accruing to him from 
 
114 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 the three ''author's nights." These are supposed to have 
 produced nearly live hundred pounds — a substantial sum in 
 those days. 
 
 Boswell did not come to London till the second of April 
 following; and the first mention we find of Goldsmith is in 
 connection with an incident which has its ludicrous as well 
 as its regretable aspect. The further success of She Stoops 
 to Cojiquer was not likely to propitiate the wretched hole- 
 and-corner cut-throats that infested the journalism of that 
 day. More especially was Kenrick driven mad with envy; 
 and so, in a letter addressed to the London Packet, this 
 poor creature determined once more to set aside the judg- 
 ment of the public, and show Dr. Goldsmith in his true 
 colors. The letter is a wretched production, full of per- 
 sonalities only fit for an angry washerwoman, and of rancor 
 without point. But there was one passage in it that effect- 
 ually roused Goldsmith's rage; for here the Jessamy Bride 
 was introduced as *'the lovely H — k." The letter was 
 anonymous; but the publisher of the print, a man called 
 Evans, was known; and so Goldsmith thought he would go 
 and give Evans a beating. If he had asked Johnson's 
 advice about the matter, he would no doubt have been told 
 to pay no heed at all to anonymous scurrility — certainly 
 not to attempt to reply to it with a cudgel. When John- 
 son heard that Foote meant to ** take him off," he turned 
 to Davies and asked him what was the common price of an 
 oak stick; but an oak stick in Johnson's hands and an oak 
 stick in Goldsmith's hands were two different things. 
 However, to the book-seller's shop the indignant poet pro- 
 ceeded, in company with a friend; got hold of Evans; ac- 
 cused him of having insulted a young lady by putting her 
 name in his paper; and, when the publisher would fain 
 have shifted the responsibility on to the editor, forthwith 
 denounced him as a rascal, and hit him over the back with 
 his cane. The publisher, however, was quite a match for 
 Goldsmith; and there is no saying how the deadly combat 
 might have ended, had not a lamp been broken overhead, 
 the oil of which drenched both the warriors. This inter- 
 vention of the superior gods was just as successful as a 
 Homeric cloud; the fray ceased; Goldsmith and his friend 
 withdrew; and ultimately an action for assault was com- 
 promised by Goldsmith's paying fifty pounds to a charity. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUBB. 115 
 
 Then the howl of the journals arose. Their prerogative 
 had been assailed. "■ Attacks upon private character were 
 the most liberal existing source of newspaper income/' Mr. 
 Forster writes: and so the pack turned with one cry on the 
 unlucky poet. There was nothing of "the Monument" 
 about poor Goldsmith; and at last he was worried into 
 writing a letter of defense addressed to the public. " He 
 has indeed done it very well/' said Johnson to Boswell, 
 ''but it is a foolish thing well done." And further he re- 
 marked, " Why, sir, I believe it is the first time he has 
 leat; he may have leen beaten before. This, sir, is a new 
 plume to iiim/' 
 
116 I'l^Sl OF GOLDBMITM. 
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 nrCREASING DIFFICULTIES — THE EITD. 
 
 The pecuniary success of She Stoops to Conquer did but 
 little to relieve Goldsmith from those financial embarrass- 
 ments which were now weighing heavily on his mind. 
 And now he had less of the old high spirits that had en- 
 abled him to laugh off the cares of debt. His health be- 
 came disordered; an old disease renewed its attacks, and 
 was grown more violent because of his long-continued 
 sedentary habits. Indeed, from this point to the day of 
 his death — not a long interval^ either — we find little but a 
 record of successive endeavors, some of them wild and 
 hopeless enough, to obtain money anyhow. Of course he 
 went to the club, as usual; and gave dinner-parties, and 
 had a laugh or a song ready for the occasion. It is pos- 
 sible, also, to trace a certain growth of confidence in him- 
 self, no doubt the result of the repeated proofs of his 
 genius he had put before his friends. It was something 
 more than mere personal intimacy that justified the 
 rebuke he administered to Reynolds, when the latter 
 painted an allegorical picture representing the triumph of 
 Beattie and Truth over Voltaire and Scepticism. *' It 
 very ill becomes a man of your eminence and character," 
 he said, ''to debase so high a genius as Voltaire before 
 so mean a writer as Beattie. Beattie and his book will be 
 forgotten in ten years, while Voltaire's fame will last for- 
 ever. Take care it does not perpetuate this picture, to the 
 shame of such a man as you." He was aware, too, of the 
 position he had won for himself in English literature. He 
 knew that people in after-days would ask about him; 
 an J it was with no sort of unwarrantable vainglory that 
 he gave Percy certain materials for a biography which he 
 wished him to undertake. Hence the Percy Memoir. 
 
 He was only forty-fiv3 when lie made this request; and 
 
INGBEASING DIFFlOULTIESr—THE END. 117 
 
 he had not suffered much from illness during his life; so 
 that there was apparently no grounds for imagining that 
 the end was near. But at this time Goldsmith begun to 
 suffer severe fits of depression; and he grew irritable and 
 capricious of temper — no doubt another result of failing 
 health. He was embroiled in disputes with the book- 
 sellers; and, on one occasion, seems to have been much 
 hurt because Johnson, who had been asked to step in as 
 arbiter, decided against him. He was offended with John- 
 eon on another occasion because of his sending away 
 certain dishes at a dinner given to him by Goldsmith, as a 
 hint that these entertainments were too luxurious for one 
 in Goldsmith's position. It was probably owing to some 
 temporary feeling of this sort — jierhaps to some expression 
 of it on Goldsmith's part — that Johnson spoke of Gold- 
 smith's "malice" toward him. Mrs. Thrale had suggested 
 that Goldsmith would be the best person to write John- 
 son's biography. " The dog would write it best, to be 
 sure," said Johnson, *'but his particular malice toward 
 me, and general disregard of truth, would make the book 
 useless to all and injurious to my character." Of course it 
 is always impossible to say what measure of jocular exag- 
 geration there may not be in a chance phrase such as this: 
 of the fact that there was no serious or permanent quarrel 
 between the two friends we have abundant proof in Bos- 
 well's faithful pages. 
 
 To return to the various endeavors made by Goldsmith 
 and his friends to meet the difficulties now closing in 
 around him, we find, first of all, the familiar hack-work. 
 For two volumes of a History of Greece he had received 
 from Griffin £250. Then his friends tried to get him a 
 pension from the Government; but this was definitely 
 refused. An expedient of his own seemed to promise well 
 at first. He thought of bringing out a Popular Dictionary 
 of Arts and Sciences, a series of contributions mostly by 
 his friends, with himself as editor; and among those who 
 offered to assist him Avere Johnson, Reynolds, Burke and 
 Dr. Burney. But the book-sellers were afraid. The pro- 
 ject would involve a large expense; and they had no high 
 opinion of Goldsmith's business habits. Then he offered 
 to alter Tlie Good-natured Man for Garrick; but Garrick 
 preferred to treat with him for a new comedy, and gener- 
 
118 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 ously allowed him to draw on him for the money in 
 advance. This last help enabled him to go to Barton for a 
 brief holiday; but the relief was only temporary. On his 
 return to London even hisnearest friends begun to observe 
 the change in his manner. In the old days Goldsmith had 
 faced pecuniary difficulties with a light heart; but now, his 
 health broken, and every avenue of escape apparently 
 closed, he was giving way to despair. His friend Cradock, 
 coming up to town, found Goldsmith in a most despondent 
 condition; and also hints that the unhappy author was 
 trying to conceal the true state of affairs. " I believe," 
 says Cradock, " he died miserable, and that his friends 
 "were not entirely aware of his distress." 
 
 And yet it was during this closing period of anxiety, 
 despondency, and gloomy foreboding that the brilliant and 
 humorous lines of Retaliation were written — that last 
 scintillation of the bright and happy genius that was 
 soon to be extinguished forever. The most varied ac- 
 counts have been given of the origin of this jeu d'esprit; 
 and even Garrick's, which was meant to supersede and cor- 
 rect all others, is self -contradictory. For according to this 
 version of the story, which was found among the Garrick 
 papers, and which is printed in Mr. Cunningham's edition 
 of Goldsmith's works, the whole thing arose out of Gold- 
 smith and Garrick resolving one evening at the St. James' 
 Coffee-House to write each other's epitaph. Garrick's well- 
 known couplet was instantly produced: 
 
 " Here lies Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll, 
 Who wrote like an angel, but talked like poor Poll." 
 
 Goldsmith, according to Garrick, either would not or could 
 not retort at the moment; " but went to work, and some 
 weeks after produced the following printed poem, called 
 Retaliation," But Garrick himself goes on to say, '* The 
 following poems in manuscript were written by several of 
 the gentlemen on purpose to provoke the Doctor to an 
 answer, which came forth at last with great credit to him 
 in Retaliation." The most probable version of the story, 
 which may be pieced together from various sources, is that 
 at the coffee-house named this business of writing comic 
 epitaphs was started some evening or other by the whole 
 company; that Goldsmith and Garrick pitted themselves 
 
LNCBEASINO DIFFICULTIES—TEE END. 119 
 
 against each other; that thereafter Goldsmith began as oc- 
 casion served to write similar squibs about his friends, which 
 were shown about as they were written; that thereupon those 
 gentlemen, not to be behindhand, composed more elaborate 
 pieces in proof of their wit; and that, finally. Goldsmith 
 resolved to bind these fugitive lines of his together in a 
 poem, which he left unfinished, and which under the name 
 of Betaliation, was published after his death. This liypo- 
 thetical account receives some confirmation from the fact 
 that the scheme of the poem and its compotent parts do 
 not fit together well; the introduction looks like an after- 
 thought, and has not the freedom and pungency of a piece 
 of improvisation. An imaginary dinner is described, the 
 guests being Garrick, Reynolds, Burke, Cumberland, and 
 the rest of them. Goldsmith last of all. More wine is 
 called for, until the whole of his companions have fallen 
 beneath the table: 
 
 " Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head. 
 Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead." 
 
 This is a somewhat clumsy excuse for introducing a 
 series of epitaphs; but the epitaphs amply atone for it. 
 That on Garrick is especially remarkable as a bit of char- 
 acter-sketching; its shrewd hints — all in perfect courtesj 
 and good-humor — going a little nearer to the truth than h 
 common in epitaphs of any sort: 
 
 " Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can; 
 An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man. 
 As an actor, confessed without rival to shine; 
 As a wit, if not first, in the very first line; 
 Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart. 
 The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 
 Like an ill- judging beauty, his colors he spread, 
 And beplastered 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 turned 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; 
 lie cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack. 
 For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back 
 Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came; 
 And tlie puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame; 
 Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease. 
 
laO LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Who peppered the highest was surest to please. 
 
 But let us be candid, and speak out our mind: 
 
 It dunces applaud, he paid them in kind. 
 
 Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls 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-Rosciused, and you were bepraised. 
 
 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 skiU 
 
 Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will; 
 
 Old Shakespeare receive Mm with praise and with love, 
 
 And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above." 
 
 The truth is that Goldsmith, though he was ready to bless 
 his " honest little man " when he received from him sixty 
 pounds in advance for a comedy not begun, never took 
 quite so kindly to Garrick as to some of his other friends. 
 There is no pretence of discrimination at all, for examnle, 
 in the lines devoted in this poem to Eeynolds. All the 
 
 fenerous enthusiasm of Goldsmith's Irish nature appears 
 ere; he will admit of no possible rival to this especial 
 friend of his: 
 
 " Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, 
 He has not left a wiser or better behind." 
 
 There is a tradition that the epitaph on Eeynolds, ending 
 with the unfinished line 
 
 " By flattery unspoiled " 
 
 was Goldsmith's last piece of writing. One would like to 
 believe that, in any case. 
 
 Goldsmith had returned to his Edgware lodgings, and 
 had, indeed, formed some notion of selling his chambers 
 in the Temple, and living in the country for at least ten 
 months in the year, when a sudden attack of his old dis- 
 order drove him into town again for medical advice. He 
 would appear to have received some relief; but a nervous 
 fever followed; and on the night of the 25th of March, 1774, 
 when he was but forty-six years of age, he took to his bed 
 for the last time. At first he refused to regard his illness 
 as serious, and insisted on dosing himself with certain 
 fever-powders from which he had received benefit on pre- 
 Yious occasions; but by and by as his strength gave way he 
 
INCREASING DIFFICULTIES-^THE END. 131 
 
 submitted to the advice of the physicians who were in at- 
 tendance on him. Day after day passed, his weakness 
 visibly increasing, though, curiously enough, the symptoms 
 of fever were gradually abating. At length one of the 
 doctors, remarking to him that his pulse was in greater 
 disorder than it should be from the degree of fever, asked 
 him if his mind was at ease. "No, it is not," answered 
 Goldsmith; and these were his last words. Early in the 
 morning of Monday, Ajsril 4th, convulsions set in; these 
 continued for rather more than an hour; then the troubled 
 brain and the sick heart found rest forever. 
 
 When the news was carried to his friends, Burke, it is 
 said, burst into tears, and Reynolds put aside his work 
 for the day. But it does not appear that they had vis- 
 ited him during his illness; and neither Johnson nor 
 Reynolds, nor Burke, nor Garrick, followed his body to 
 the grave. It is true, a public funeral was talked of; 
 and, among others, Reynolds, Burke and Garrick were 
 to have carried the pall; but this was abandoned; and Gold- 
 smith was privately buried in the grounds of the Temple 
 Church on the 9th of April, 1774. Strangely enough, too, 
 Johnson seems to have omitted all mention of Goldsmith 
 from his letters to Boswell. It was not until Boswell had 
 written to him, on June 24th, " You have said nothing to 
 me about poor Goldsmith," that Johnson, writing on July 
 4th, answered as follows: "Of jjoor dear Dr. Goldsmith there 
 is little to be told, more than the papers have made public. 
 He died of a fever, made, I am afraid, more violent by 
 uneasiness of mind. His debts begun to be heavy, and all 
 his resources were exhausted. Sir Joshua is of opinion 
 that he owed not less than two thousand pounds. Was ever 
 poet so trusted before?" 
 
 But if the greatest grief at the sudden and premature 
 death of Goldsmith would seem to have been shown at the 
 moment by certain wretched creatures who were found 
 weeping on the stairs loading to his chambers, it must not 
 be supposed that his fine friends either forgot him, or 
 ceased to regard his memory with a great gentleness and 
 kindness. Some two years after, when a monument was 
 about to be erected to Goldsmith in Westminster Abbey, 
 Johnson consented to write " the poor clear Doctor's epi- 
 taph;" and SO anxious were the members of that famous 
 
122 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 circle in which Goldsmith had figured, that a just tribute 
 should be paid to his genius, that they even ventured to 
 send a round-robin to the great Cham desiring him to 
 amend his first draft. Now, perhaps, we have less interest 
 in Johnson's estimate of Goldsmith's genius — though it 
 contains the famous Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit — than 
 in the phrases which tell of the honor paid to the memory 
 of the dead poet by the love of his companions and the 
 faithfulness of his friends. It may here be added that the 
 precise spot where Goldsmith was buried in the Temple 
 church- yard is unknown. So lived and so died Oliver 
 Goldsmith. 
 
 In the foregoing pages the writings of Goldsmith have 
 been given so prominent a place in the history of his life 
 that it is unnecessary to take them here collectively and 
 endeavor to sum up their distinctive qualities. As much 
 as could be said within the limited space has, it is hoped, 
 been said about their genuine and tender pathos, that never 
 at any time verges on the affected or theatrical; about their 
 quaint, delicate, delightful humor ; about that broader 
 humor that is not afraid to provoke the wholesome laughter 
 of mankind by dealing with common and familiar ways, 
 and manners and men; about that choiceness of diction, 
 that lightness and grace of touch, that lend a charm even 
 to Goldsmith's ordinary hack-work. 
 
 Still less necessary, perhaps, is it to review the facts and 
 circumstances of Goldsmith's life, and to make of them an 
 example, a warning, or an accusation. That has too often 
 been done. His name has been used to glorify a sham Bohe- 
 mianism — a Bohemianism that finds it easy to live in tav- 
 erns, but does not find it easy, so far as one sees, to write 
 poems like the Deserted Village. His experiences as 
 an author have been brought forward to swell the cry 
 about neglected genius — that is, by writers who assume 
 their genius in order to prove the neglect. The misery 
 that occasionally befell him during his wayward career 
 has been made the basis of an accusation against 
 society, the English constitution, Christianity — Heaven 
 knows what. It is time to have done with all this non- 
 eense. Goldsmith resorted to the hack-work of literature 
 
INCkEASma DIFFICULTIES-TEE END. 133 
 
 when everything else had failed him ; and he was fairly paid 
 for it. When he did better work, when he ** struck for 
 honest fame," the nation gave him all the honor that he 
 could have desired. With an assured reputation, and with 
 ample means of subsistence, he obtained entrance into the 
 most distinguished society then in England — he was made 
 the friend of England's greatest in the arts and literature — 
 and could have confined himself to that society exclusively 
 if he had chosen. His temperament, no doubt, exposed 
 him to suffering ; and the exquisite sensitiveness of a man 
 of genius may demand our sympathy ; but in far greater 
 measure is our sympathy demanded for the thousands upon 
 thousands of people who, from illness or nervous excita- 
 bility, suffer from quite as keen a sensitiveness without the 
 consolation of the fame that genius brings. 
 
 In plain truth. Goldsmith himself would have been the 
 last to put forward pleas humiliating alike to himself and 
 to his calling. Instead of beseeching the State to look 
 after authors ; instead of imploring society to grant them 
 ** recognition ;" instead of saying of himself '* he wrote, 
 and paid the penalty ;" he would frankly have admitted 
 that he chose to live his life his own way, and therefore 
 paid the penalty. This is not written with any desire of 
 upbraiding Goldsmith. He did choose to live his own life 
 his own way, and we now have the splendid and beautiful 
 results of his work ; and the world — looking at these with 
 a constant admiration, and with a great and lenient love 
 for their author — is not anxious to know what he did with 
 his guineas, or whether his milkman was ever paid. " He 
 had raised money and squandered it, by every artifice of 
 acquisition and folly of expense. But let not his frail- 
 ties BE remembered; he was AVERY GREAT MAN." This 
 
 is Johnson's wise summing up ; and with it we may her© 
 take leave of gentle Goldsmith. 
 
 22— G & G — r 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 A POEM. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 To Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
 
 Deae Sir : I can have no expectation, in an address 
 of this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to 
 establish my own. You can gain nothing from my 
 admiration, as I am ignorant of that art in which you 
 are said to excel ; and I may lose much by the severity 
 of your judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry 
 than you. Setting interest, therefore, aside, to which 
 I never paid much attention, I must be indulged at 
 present in following my affections. The only dedica- 
 tion I ever made was to my brother, because I loved 
 him better than most other men. He is since dead. 
 Permit me to inscribe this poem to you. 
 
 How far you may be pleased with the versification 
 and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I don't 
 pretend to inquire ; but I know you will object (and 
 indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in 
 the opinion), that the depopulation it deplores is no- 
 where to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only 
 to be found in the poet's irapgination. To this I can 
 scarce make any other answer than that I sincerely 
 believe what I have written ; that I have taken all ]ios- 
 sible pains, in my country excursions, for these four or 
 
 five years past, to be certain of what I allege ; and that 
 
 127 
 
128 DEDICATION. 
 
 all my views and inquiries have led me to believe those 
 miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But 
 this is not the place to enter into an inquiry whether 
 the country be depopulating or not : the discussion 
 would take up much room, and I should prove myself, 
 at best, an indifferent politician, to tire the reader with 
 a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention 
 to a long poem. 
 
 In regretting the depopulation of the country, I in 
 veigh 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 question, that, merely 
 for the sake of novelty and variety, one would some- 
 times wish to be in the right. 
 
 I am, dear sir, your sincere friend, and ardent ad- 
 mirer, 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.* 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
 Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain, 
 "Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
 And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd : 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 
 How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 
 Where humble happiness endear'd each scene! 
 How often have I paused on every charm, 
 The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm. 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 
 The decent church that topt the neighboring hill. 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
 For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made. 
 How often have I blest the coming day. 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
 And all the village train, from labor free, 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 
 
 * Tlie locality of this poem is supposed to be Lissoy, near Bally- 
 mahon, where the poet's brother Henry had his living. As usual 
 in such cases, the place afterward became the fashionable resort 
 of poetical pilgrims, and paid the customary penalty of furnish- 
 ing relics for the curious. The hawthorn hush has been converted 
 into snuff-boxes, and now adorns the cabinets of virtuosi. 
 9 129 
 
130 TEE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 
 The young contending as the old survey'd ; 
 
 And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went round; 
 
 And still as each repeated pleasure tired, 
 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 
 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 
 
 By holding out to tire each other down ; 
 
 The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face. 
 
 While secret laughter titter'd round the place ; 
 
 The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 
 
 The matron's glance that would those looks reprove : 
 
 These were thy charms sweet village ! sports like these^ 
 
 With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
 
 These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, 
 
 These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 
 
 Sweet, smiling village, loveliest of the lawn. 
 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ! 
 Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
 And desolation saddens all thy green : 
 One only master grasps the whole domain, 
 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
 But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
 Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
 Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies. 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries : 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
 And the long grass o'ertops the moldering wall ; 
 And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
 Far, far away, thy children leave the land. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 131 
 
 111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
 Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
 Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made; 
 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
 When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. 
 
 A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
 When every rood of ground maintain'd its man : 
 For him light labor spread her wholesome store, 
 Just gave what life required, but gave no more : 
 His best companions, innocence and health, 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 
 But times are alter'd : trade's unfeeling train 
 Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
 Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose. 
 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose. 
 And every want to opulence allied. 
 And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
 These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
 Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 
 Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scenes, 
 Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green, — 
 These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
 And rural mirth and manners are no more. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
 Here, as I take my solitary rounds. 
 Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, 
 
132 TRE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 And, many a year elapsed, return to view * 
 Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew„ 
 Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. 
 Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 
 
 In all my wand'rings round this world of care, 
 In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
 I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
 To husband out life's taper at the close. 
 And keep the flame from wasting, by repose : 
 I still had hopes — for pride attends us still — 
 Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill,; 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
 And tell of all I felt and all I saw ; 
 And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
 Pants to the place from whence at first 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, 
 Retreats from care that never must be mine ! 
 How happy he who crowns, in shades like these, 
 A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
 "Who quits a world where strong temptations try. 
 And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep ; 
 
 *At Lissoy it was believed that Goldsmith visited Ireland 
 shortly after his return from his wanderings on the Continent, as 
 he said he would in his letter to his brother-in-law Hodson (Dec. 
 27, 1757), and that part of this poem was actually written in the 
 village. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 133 
 
 No surly porter stands in guilty state, 
 To spurn imploring famine from the gate: 
 But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
 Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
 Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, 
 While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
 And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
 flis 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 sof ten'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 fiU'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
 But now the sounds of population fail. 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
 No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 
 But all the bloomy flush of life is fled ! 
 All but yon widow'd, solitary thing. 
 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
 
 * Sir Joshua Reynolds drew the idea of his "Resignation" 
 from these lines. When the picture was engraved by T. Wat- 
 son, the painter inscribed it to Goldsmith, saying : " This at- 
 tempt to describe a character in ' The Deserted Village ' is 
 dedicated to Dr. Goldsmith by his sincere friend and admirer 
 Joshua Reynolds." 
 
134 TEE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 
 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
 
 To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 
 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 
 
 She only left, of all the harmless train. 
 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain. 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild, 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year : 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place ; 
 Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power, 
 By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; 
 Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 
 More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train. 
 He chid their wand'rings, but relieved their pain : 
 The long remember'd beggar was his guest. 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
 The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd ; 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
 Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away, 
 Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, 
 Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were 
 
 won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to 
 
 glow. 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe: 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 135 
 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the "wretched was his pride, 
 And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; 
 But in his duty prompt at every, call ; 
 He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all ; 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
 To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, 
 The reverend champion stood. At his control, 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
 And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
 His looks adorn' d the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway. 
 And fools who came to scoff, remain 'd to pray. 
 The service past, around the pious man, 
 With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
 E'en children followed, with endearing wile. 
 And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest ; 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
 As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. 
 
136 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
 "With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, 
 There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 
 The village master taught his little school. 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
 I knew him vs^ell, and every truant knew : 
 Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
 Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee, 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
 Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
 Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd : 
 Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught. 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
 The village all declared how much he knew ; 
 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
 And e'en the story ran — that he could gauge : 
 In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill. 
 For ev'n though vanquish'd he could argue still ; 
 "While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound, 
 Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
 And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
 That one small head could carry all he knew. 
 But past is all his fame. The very spot 
 Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. 
 
 Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
 Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye. 
 Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, 
 Where gray beard mirth, and smiling toil retired, 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 137 
 
 "Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
 
 And news much older than their ale went round. 
 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
 
 The parlor splendors of that festive place : 
 
 The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
 
 The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ; 
 
 The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
 
 The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
 
 The Twelve Good Rules,* the Royal Game of Goose; 
 
 The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 
 
 With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay, 
 
 "While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, 
 
 Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 
 
 Yain, transitory splendors ! Could not all 
 Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
 An hour's importance to the poor man's heart : 
 Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care; 
 No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
 No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
 No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
 Relax his pond'rous strength, and 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 pressed, 
 Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.f 
 
 * King Charles' " Twelve Good Rules," a wall decoration of 
 the time, is also mentioned by Goldsmith in his " Description of 
 the Author's Bed-chamber" (p. 198). Crabbe likewise mentions 
 them in his " Parish Register." — Ed. 
 
 t The Lissoy ale-house, tlien or afterward called the Three 
 Pigeons, is sketched here, no doubt. 
 
138 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 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 firstborn sway ; 
 Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
 Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined : 
 But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
 With all the freaks of wanton wealth array 'd, — 
 In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
 The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
 And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
 The 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 litnits stand 
 Between a splendid and a happy land. 
 Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
 And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
 Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish abound. 
 And rich men flock from all the world around. 
 Yet, count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
 That leaves our useful products still the same. 
 Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
 Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
 Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds ; 
 Space for his horses, equipage and hounds : 
 The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, 
 Has robb'd the neighboring fields of half their growth ; 
 His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 139 
 
 Around the world each needful product flies, 
 For all the luxuries the world supplies : — 
 While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure, all 
 In barren splendor feebly w^aits the fail. 
 
 As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain. 
 Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
 Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies. 
 Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
 But when those charms are past — for charms are 
 
 frail — 
 "When time advances, and when lovers fail. 
 She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
 In all the glaring impotence of dress : 
 Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd ; 
 In Nature's simplest charms at first array'd : 
 But verging to decline, its splendors rise, 
 Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
 While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, 
 The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
 And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
 The country blooms — a garden, and a grave. 
 
 Where, then, ah ! where, shall Poverty reside, 
 To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
 If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, 
 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
 Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
 And ev'n the bare-worn common is denied. 
 
 If to the city sped — what waits him there? 
 To see profusion that he must not share ; 
 
140 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
 
 To pamper luxury and thin mankind ; 
 
 To see those joys the sons of pleasure know 
 
 Extorted from his fellow-creatures' woe. 
 
 Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
 
 There the pale artist plies his sickly trade ; 
 
 Here, while the proud their long drawn pomps display, 
 
 There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
 
 The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, 
 
 Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ; 
 
 Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
 
 The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
 
 Sure, scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy. 
 
 Sure, these denote one universal joy ! 
 
 Are these thy serious thoughts ? — Ah, turn thine eyes 
 
 Where the poor houseless shivering female lies : 
 
 She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 
 
 Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
 
 Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : 
 
 Now lost to all — her friends, her virtue fled. 
 
 Near her betra3^er's door she lays her head. 
 
 And, pinch'd with cold and shrinking from the shower, 
 
 "With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 
 
 When idly first, ambitious of the town, 
 
 She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 
 
 Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, 
 Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
 E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
 At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 
 
 Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene. 
 Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
 
TEE DESERTED VILLAGE. 141 
 
 Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
 
 Where wild Altama * murmurs to their woe. 
 
 Far different there from all that charm'd before, 
 
 The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
 
 Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
 
 And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
 
 Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing, 
 
 But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
 
 Those poisonous fields, with rank luxuriance crown'd, 
 
 Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
 
 Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
 
 The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
 
 Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey. 
 
 And savage men, more murd'rous still than they ; 
 
 While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
 
 Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
 
 Far different these from every former scene, 
 
 The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green. 
 
 The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
 
 That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 
 
 Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that parting 
 day 
 That caird them from their native walks away ; 
 When the poor exiles, every pleasure past. 
 Hung round their bowers, and fondly look'd their last. 
 And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
 For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
 And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
 Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep ! 
 
 *The Altama (or Altamaha) is a river iu Georgia, Uuited 
 States. 
 
142 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 The good old sire, the first prepared to go 
 
 To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; 
 
 But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
 
 He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave : 
 
 His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
 
 The fond companion of his helpless years. 
 
 Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
 
 And left a lover's for a father's arms : 
 
 With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 
 
 And blest the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
 
 And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
 
 And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear; 
 
 Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
 
 In all the silent manliness of grief. 
 
 O, luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 
 How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
 How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
 Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
 Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
 Boast of a florid vigor not their own : 
 At every draught more large and large they grow, 
 A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
 Till, sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, 
 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 
 
 E'en now the devastation is begun, 
 And half the business of destruction done ; 
 E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, 
 I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 
 That idly waiting flaps with every gale. 
 Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 143 
 
 Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand t 
 Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
 And kind connubial tenderness are there; 
 And piety, with wishes placed above, 
 And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
 And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
 Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
 Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, 
 To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 
 Dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
 My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
 Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, 
 That found'st me poor at first, and keepst me so; 
 Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, 
 Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
 Farewell ; and O ! where'er thy voice be tried. 
 On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,* 
 Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, 
 Or winter wraps the polar world m snow, 
 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
 Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime ; 
 Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
 Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
 Teach him, that states of native strength possess'd, 
 Though very poor, may still be very blessed ; 
 
 * That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
 
 * As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away ; 
 
 * While self-dependent power can time defy, 
 
 * As rocks resist the billows and the sky.f 
 
 * Tornea, Gulf of Bothnia, Sweden. Pambamarca is said to be 
 a mountain near Quito, South America. 
 
 t The four Hues marked witli an asterisk were vvritten by Dr. 
 Johnson, according to Bos well. 
 
THE TRAVELLER; 
 
 OR, 
 
 A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 To the Rev. Henry Ooldsmith. 
 
 Dear Sm : I am sensible that the friendship between 
 us can acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a 
 Dedication ; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus 
 to prefix your name to my attempts, which you de- 
 cline 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 laborers 
 are but few ; while you have left the field of ambi- 
 tion, where the laborers are many, and the harvest 
 not worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambi- 
 tion — what from the refinement of the times, from 
 different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of 
 party — that which pursi^es poetical fame is the wildest.* 
 
 *This passage the author altered twice. In the first edition it 
 appears thus : " But of all ^inds of ambition, as things are now 
 
 147 
 
 2a— G & Q—Q 
 
148 DEDICATION. 
 
 Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpol- 
 ished nations ; but in a country verging to the ex- 
 tremes of refinement, painting and music comes in 
 for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less 
 laborious entertainment, they at first rival poetry, 
 and at length supplant her ; they engross all that 
 favor once shown to her, and though but younger 
 sisters, seize upon the elder's birthright. 
 
 Yet, however this art may be neglected by the 
 powerful, it is still in greater danger from the mis- 
 taken efforts of the learned to improve it. "What 
 criticisms have we not heard of late in favor of blank 
 verse and Pindaric odes, choruses, anapests and 
 iambics, alliterative care and happy negligence ! 
 Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it ; 
 and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has 
 always much to say ; for error is ever talkative. 
 
 But there is an enemy to this art still more dan- 
 gerous, — I mean party. Party entirely distorts the 
 judgment, and destroys the taste. "When the mind is 
 once infected with this disease, it can only find pleas- 
 ure 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 
 
 cii'cumstanced, perhaps that which pursues poetical fame is the 
 wildest. What from the increased refinement of the times, 
 from the diversity of judgments produced by opposing criti- 
 cism, and from the more prevalent opinion influenced by party, 
 the strongest and happiest efforts can expect to please but in a 
 very narrow circle. [Though the poet were as sure of his aim 
 as the imperial archer of antiquity, who boasted that he never 
 missed the heart, yet would many of his shafts now fly at ran- 
 dom, for the heart too often is in the wrong place."] In the 
 second edition the bracketed paragraph was cut off ; aud in the 
 sixth the fi.nal curtailment was effected, 
 
DEDICATION. 149 
 
 who has once gratified his appetite with calumny 
 makes ever after the most agreeable feast upon mur- 
 dered reputation. Such readers generally admire 
 some half-witted thing, who wants to be thought a 
 bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. 
 Him they dignify with the name of poet ; his tawdry * 
 lampoons are called satires ; his turbulence is said to 
 be force, and his frenzy fire. 
 
 What reception a poem may find, which has neither 
 abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, I cannot 
 tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are 
 right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I 
 have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have 
 endeavored to show, that there may be equal happi- 
 ness in states that are differently governed from our 
 own ; that every state has a particular principle of 
 happiness, and that this principle in each [state, and 
 in our own in particular f] 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. 
 
 *This wordy " tawdry " was first given in the sixth edition. 
 Goldsmith is thought to have had Churchill in his mind in this 
 sketch. 
 
 ' In the first five editions. 
 
THE TRAYELLEE. 
 
 Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
 Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ; 
 Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
 Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; 
 Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
 A weary waste expanding to the skies : 
 "Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
 My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee ; 
 Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
 And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 
 
 Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
 And round his dwelling guardian saints attend: 
 Blest be the spot, where cheerful guests retire 
 To pause from toil, and trim their ev'ning fire ; 
 Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
 And every stranger finds a ready chair ; 
 Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, 
 "Where all the ruddy family round 
 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 I 
 
 151 
 
152 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 But me, not destin'd such delights to share, 
 My prime of life in wandering spent and care, 
 Impell'd with steps unceasing, to pursue 
 Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view ; 
 That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
 Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; 
 My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
 And find no spot of all the world my own. 
 
 E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
 I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
 And, plac'd on high above the storm's career. 
 Look downward where a hundred realms appear ; 
 Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide. 
 The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 
 
 When thus Creation's charms around combine. 
 Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine? 
 Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
 That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? 
 Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can. 
 These little things are great to little man ; 
 And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 
 Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
 Ye glitt'ring towns, with wealth and splendor crown'd ; 
 Ye fields, where summer spread profusion round. 
 Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale, 
 Ye bending swains, that dress the flow'ry 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 : 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 153 
 
 Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
 
 Pleas'd with each good that heaven to man supplies : 
 
 Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall. 
 
 To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 
 
 And oft 1 wish, amidst the scene to find 
 
 Some spot to real happiness consign'd, 
 
 Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest, 
 
 May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 
 
 But where to find that happiest spot below 
 Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 
 The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone 
 Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own, 
 Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
 And his long nights of revelry and ease : 
 The naked negro, panting at the Line, 
 Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine. 
 Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave. 
 And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.} 
 Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam, 
 His first, best country, ever is at home. 
 And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 
 And estimate the blessings which they share, 
 Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find . 
 An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
 As different good, by art or nature given, 
 To different nations makes their blessing even. 
 
 Nature, a mother kind alike to all. 
 Still grants her bliss at Labor's earnest call ; 
 With food as well the peasant is supplied 
 On Lira's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; 
 And though the rocky crested summits frown, 
 These rocks by custom turn to beds of down. 
 
154 TEE TRAVELLER. 
 
 From art more various are the blessings sent, 
 
 Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content. 
 
 Yet these each other's power so strong contest. 
 
 That either seems destructive of the rest. 
 
 "Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails, 
 
 And honor sinks where commerce long prevails. 
 
 Hence every state, to one loved blessing prone. 
 
 Conforms and models life to that alone. 
 
 Each to the favorite happiness attends. 
 
 And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; 
 
 'Till carried to excess in each domain. 
 
 This favorite good begets peculiar pain. 
 
 But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
 And trace them through the prospect as it lies ; 
 Here, for a while, my proper cares resign'd. 
 Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
 Like yon neglected shrub at random cast. 
 That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 
 
 Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, 
 Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
 Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side ; 
 Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; 
 While oft some temple's mold'ring 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 ; 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 155 
 
 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 the nation knows. 
 In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
 Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
 Contrasted faults through all his manners reign : 
 Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain ; 
 Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue, 
 And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 
 All evils here contaminate the mind. 
 That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
 For wealth was theirs ; not far remov'd the date. 
 When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state : 
 At her command the palace learn'd to rise, 
 Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies, 
 The canvas glow'd beyond e'en nature warm. 
 The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form : 
 Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
 Commerce on other shores display'd her sail ; 
 While nought remain'd, of all that riches gave, 
 But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave; 
 And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, 
 Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 
 
 Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
 By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride : 
 From these the feeble heart and long fall'n mind 
 An easy compensation seem to find. 
 Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, 
 The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; 
 
156 TEE TRAVELLER. 
 
 Processions form'd for piety and love, 
 
 A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
 
 By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd ; 
 
 The sports of children satisfy the child. 
 
 Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control, 
 
 !Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
 
 While low delights succeeding fast behind. 
 
 In happier meanness occupy the mind : 
 
 As in those domes where Caesars once bore sway, 
 
 Defac'd by time, and tottering in decay. 
 
 There in the ruin, heedless of the dead. 
 
 The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed : 
 
 And, wond'ring 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 mansions tread, \ 
 And force a churlish soil for scanty bread : 
 No product here the barren hills afford, 
 But man and steel, the soldier and his sword ; 
 No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array. 
 But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May ; 
 No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
 But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 
 
 Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm, 
 Kedress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
 Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts 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 ; 
 
TEE TRAVELLER. 157 
 
 But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, 
 Each wish contracting, tits him to the soil. 
 Cheerful, at morn, he wakes from short repose, 
 Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 
 With patient angle trolls the iinny deep. 
 Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep ; 
 Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way 
 And drags the struggling savage into day. 
 At night returning, every labor sped. 
 He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
 Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 
 His children's looks that brighten at the blaze ; 
 "While his lov'd 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 w^hich his soul conforms. 
 And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms; 
 And as a child, w^hen 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 confin'd, 
 Yet let them only share the praises due, — 
 H few their wants, their pleasures are but few : 
 For every want that stimulates the breast. 
 Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. 
 
158 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 Hence from such lands each pleasing science flies, 
 That first excites desire, and then supplies ; 
 Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, 
 To till 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 smold'ring fire, 
 Unquench'd by want, unf ann'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,— i- 
 Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low ; 
 For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
 Unalter'd, unimproved the manners run ; 
 And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart 
 Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
 Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
 May sit, like falcons cow'ring on the nest ; 
 But all the gentler morals, — such as play 
 Through life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the 
 
 way,— 
 These, far dispers'd, 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, 
 Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please, 
 How often have I led thy sportive choir. 
 With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring Loire ! 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 159 
 
 Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
 And freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew ; 
 And haply, though 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, skilPd in gestic lore, 
 Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 
 
 So blest a life these thoughtless realms display; 
 Thus idly busy rolls their world away : 
 Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, 
 For honor forms the social temper here : 
 Honor, that praise which real merit gains, 
 Or ev'n imaginary worth obtains. 
 Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, 
 It shifts in splendid traflBc round the land ; 
 From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, 
 And all are taught an avarice of praise : 
 They please, are pleas'd ; they give to get esteem ; 
 Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 
 
 But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
 It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
 For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought, 
 Enfeebles all eternal 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 ; 
 
160 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
 To boast one splendid banquet once a year : 
 The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, 
 Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 
 
 To men, of other minds my fancy flies, 
 Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 
 Methinks her patient sons before me stand. 
 Where the broad ocean leans against the land, 
 And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
 Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
 Onward, methinks, and diligently slow. 
 The firm connected bulwark seems to grow. 
 Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, 
 Scoops out an empife, and usurps the shore ; 
 While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile. 
 Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
 The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale, 
 The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 
 The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
 A new creation rescued from his reign. 
 
 Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil 
 Impels the native to repeated toil, 
 Industrious habits in each bosom reign. 
 And industry begets a love of gain. 
 Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 
 With all those ills superfluous treasure brings. 
 Are here display'd. Their much-loved wealth imparts 
 Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; 
 But view them closer, craft and fraud appear ; 
 
 Even liberty itself is barter'd here : 
 
 At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 
 The needy sell it, and the rich man buys. 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 161 
 
 A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, 
 Here wretches seek dishonorable graves, 
 And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, 
 Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 
 
 Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old I 
 Eough, poor, content, ungovernably bold, 
 War in each breast, and freedom on each brow, 
 How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 
 
 Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing. 
 And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; 
 "Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 
 And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide. 
 There all around the gentlest breezes stray, 
 There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
 Creation's mildest charms are there combined, 
 Extremes are only in the master's mind ! 
 Stern o'er each bosom Keason holds her state, 
 With daring aims irregularly great. 
 Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
 1 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 imagin'd right, above control, — 
 While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 
 And learns to venerate himself as man. 
 
 Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, 
 Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ! 
 Too blest indeed were such without alloy ; 
 But foster'd e'en by Freedom, ills annoy : 
 
162 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 That independence Britons prize too high, 
 Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; 
 The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, 
 All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown ; 
 Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
 Mmds combat minds, repelling and repell'd ; 
 Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
 Represt ambition struggles round her shore ; 
 Till, overwrought, the general system feels 
 Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 
 
 Nor this the worst. As Nature's ties decay, 
 As duty, love, and honor fail to sway. 
 Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 
 Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
 Hence all obedience bows to these alone. 
 And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown : 
 Till time may come, when, stripped of all her charms, 
 The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, 
 "Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame. 
 Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame, 
 One sink of level avarice shall lie. 
 And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonor'd die. 
 
 Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, 
 I mean to flatter kings, or court the great : 
 Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire. 
 Far from my bosom drive the low desire ! 
 And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
 The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ; 
 Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
 By proud contempt, or favor's fostering sun — 
 Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, 
 I only would repress them to secure ! 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 163 
 
 For just experience tells, in every soil, 
 That those who 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. 
 
 O, 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, 
 Pillag'd from slaves to purchase slaves at home, — 
 Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start, 
 Tear oif 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 ; 
 And thus, polluting honor in its source. 
 Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
 Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, 
 Her useful sons exchang'd for useless ore ? 
 Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
 Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste ? 
 Seen Opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 
 Lead stern Depopulation in her train. 
 
164 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
 In barren, solitary pomp repose? 
 Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, 
 The smiling, long frequented village fall ? * 
 Behold 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 Niagra f stuns with thund'ring sound ? 
 
 E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
 Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways. 
 Where beasts with man divided empire claim. 
 And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim ; 
 There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
 And all around distressful yells arise. 
 The pensive exile, bending with his woe, 
 * To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, 
 Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
 And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. 
 
 Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
 That bliss which only centres in the mind : 
 Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose, 
 To seek a good each government bestows ? 
 In every government, though terrors reign. 
 Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain, 
 
 * This passage is viewed by several editors as disclosing the 
 same theme as that which inspired the "Deserted Village," 
 published five years later. Sir James Prior points to "Have not 
 we " (the author addressing his brother) as evidence that Auburn 
 was an Irish village. 
 
 t Niagara, it will be observed. This, Prior says, was the old 
 pronunciation of the name of the American river. 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 165 
 
 * How small, of all that human hearts endure, 
 
 * That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ! 
 
 * Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, 
 
 * Our own felicity we make or find : 
 
 * With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 
 
 * Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
 The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
 
 Luke's * iron crown, and Damien's f bed of steel, 
 
 * To men remote from power but rarely known, 
 
 * Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. % 
 
 * In 1514, two brothers, Luke and George Zeck, headed a des- 
 perate rebellion in Hungary. When it was quelled, Geoi'ge, not 
 Luke, was punished by having his head encircled with a red-hot 
 crown, in mockery of his supposed ambitious views.— B. The 
 real name of the brothers seems to have been Dosa. Forster 
 says they were of the race of the Szeklers, or Zecklers, of 
 Transylvania. Bolton Corney has on this account substituted 
 "Zeck's" for "Luke's" in the poem. 
 
 t Robert Francis Damien, a mad fanatic, who, in 1757, made 
 an attempt to assassinate Louis XV of France. He was put 
 to the most exquisite tortures, and at last torn to pieces by 
 horses. — B. 
 
 X The nine lines to which an asterisk is prefixed were written 
 by Dr. Johnson, when the poem was submitted to his friendly 
 revision, previous to publication. 
 
THE HERMIT. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 The following letter, addressed to the printer of the St. James's 
 Chronicle, appeared in that paper in June, 1767. 
 
 Sir, — As there is nothing I dislike so much as news- 
 paper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me 
 to be as concise as possible in informing a correspond- 
 ent of yours, that 1 recommended Blainville's Travels, 
 because I thought the book was a good one, and I 
 think so still. I said I was told by the bookseller that 
 it was then first published, but in that it seems 1 was 
 misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough 
 to set me right. 
 
 Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having 
 taken a ballad I published some time ago, from one* 
 by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is 
 any great resemblance between the two pieces in ques- 
 tion. If there be any his ballad is taken from mine. 
 I read it to Mr, Percy some years ago ; and he (as we 
 both considered these things as trifles at best) told me 
 with his usual good humor the next time I saw him, 
 that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of 
 
 * Friar of Orders Gray. Reliqiies of Ancient Poetry, vol. i, 
 book 2, No. 17. 
 
 167 
 
168 THE HERMIT. 
 
 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 printing ; and, were it not for the busy disposi- 
 tion 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 learn- 
 ing for communications of a much more important 
 nature. 
 
 I am, Sir, yours, etc., 
 
 OuvEB Goldsmith. 
 
THE HEKMIT. 
 
 ** TuKN, 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. 
 
 169 
 
170 TEE HERMIT. 
 
 " ]No flocks that range the valley free, 
 To slaughter I condemn ; 
 
 Taught by that Power that pities me, 
 I learn to pity them ; 
 
 " But from the mountain's grassy side, 
 A guiltless feast I bring ; 
 
 A script with herbs and fruits supplied, 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 " Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego 
 All earth-born cares are wrong : 
 
 Man wants but little here below, 
 Nor wants that little long." 
 
 Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 
 
 His gentle accents fell : 
 The modest stranger lowly bends, 
 
 And follows to the cell. 
 
 Far in the wilderness obscure. 
 
 The lonely mansion lay, 
 A refuge to the neighb'ring poor. 
 
 And strangers led astray. 
 
 No stores beneath its humble thatch 
 Required a master's care ; 
 
 The wicket, opening with a latch, 
 Received the harmless pair. 
 
 And now, when busy crowds retire 
 To take their evening rest, 
 
 The Hermit trimm'd his little fire, 
 And cheer'd his pensive guest : 
 
THE HERMIT. 171 
 
 And spread his vegetable store, 
 
 And gaily press'd and smiled ; 
 And skill'd m legendary lore, 
 
 The lingering hours beguiled. 
 
 Around, in sympathetic mirth, 
 
 Its tricks the kitten tries, 
 The cricket chirrups on the hearth, 
 
 The crackling fagot flies. 
 
 But nothing could a charm impart 
 
 To soothe the stranger's woe ; 
 For grief was heavy at his heart. 
 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 His rising cares the Hermit spied, 
 
 "With answering care oppress' d ; 
 And, " Whence, unhappy youth," be cried, 
 
 "The sorrows of thy breast? 
 
 " From better habitations spurn'd, 
 
 Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
 Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 
 
 Or unregarded love ? 
 
 " Alas ! the joys that fortune brings, 
 
 Are trifling, and decay ; 
 And those who prize the 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 ? 
 
 82— G & G— H 
 
172 THE HERMIT. 
 
 " And love is still an emptier sound, 
 
 The modern fair one's jest ; 
 On earth unseen, or only found 
 
 To warm the turtle's nest. 
 
 " For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
 
 And spurn the sex," he said ; 
 But while he spoke, a rising blush 
 
 His love-lorn guest betray'd. 
 
 Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, 
 
 Swift mantling to the view ; 
 Like colors o'er the morning skies, 
 
 As bright, as transient too. 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast, 
 
 Alternate spread alarms : 
 The lovely stranger stands confess'd, 
 
 A mai4 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 stray ; 
 
 "Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
 Companion of her way. 
 
 " My father lived beside the Tyne, 
 
 A wealthy lord was he : 
 And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, 
 
 He had but only me. 
 
THE HERMIT. 1?S 
 
 " To win me from his tender arms, 
 
 Unnumber'd suitors came, 
 Who praised me for imputed charms, 
 
 And felt, or feign'd, a flame. 
 
 " Each hour a mercenary crowd 
 
 "With richest proffers strove ; 
 Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, 
 
 But never talk'd of love. 
 
 " In humble, simplest habit clad, 
 
 No wealth nor power had he ; 
 Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
 
 But these were all to me. 
 
 " And when, beside me in the dale. 
 
 He caroll'd lays of love. 
 His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 
 
 And music to the grove.* 
 
 " The blossom opening to the day, 
 
 The dews of heaven refined, 
 Could nought of purity display 
 
 To emulate his mind. 
 
 . " The dew, the blossom on the tree. 
 
 With charms inconstant shine ; 
 Their charms were his, but, woe to me 
 Their constancy was mine. 
 
 " For still I tried each fickle art, 
 
 Importunate and vain ; 
 And while his passion touch'd my heart, 
 
 I triumph'd in his pain ; 
 
 *This stanza was preserved by Richard Archdale, Esq.. a 
 member of the Irish Parliament, to whom it was given by Gold- 
 smith, and was first inserted after tlie author's death. 
 
174 THE UEEMIT. 
 
 " Till, quite dejected with my scorn, 
 
 He left me to my pride ; 
 And sought a solitude forlorn, 
 
 In secret, where he died. 
 
 " But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 
 And well my life shall pay ; 
 
 I'll seek the solitude he sought, 
 And stretch me where he lay. 
 
 " And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 
 
 I'll lay me down and die ; 
 'Twas so for me that Edwin did. 
 
 And so for him will I," 
 
 " Forbid it. Heaven ! " the Hermit cried, 
 And clasp'd her to his breast ; 
 
 The wondering fair one turn'd to chide— 
 'Twas Edwin's self that press'd ! 
 
 " Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 
 
 My charmer, turn to see 
 Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 
 
 Kestored 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 break thy Edwin's too." 
 
THE HA UNCH OF VENISON. 175 
 
 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 shown to my friends as a piece of virtu ; 
 As in some Irish houses, where things are so so. 
 One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show ; 
 But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, 
 They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. 
 But hold — let me pause — don't I hear you pronounce, 
 This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce ? 
 "Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, 
 By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 
 
 But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest, in my turn, 
 It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.f 
 To go on with my tale : as I gazed on the haunch, 
 I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, 
 
 *The description of the dinner party in this poem is imitated 
 from Boileau's fourth Satire. Boileau liimself took the hint from 
 Horace, Lil. ii. Sat. 8, which has also been imitated by Rognier, 
 Sat. 10. 
 
 f Lord Clare's nephew. 
 
176 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 
 
 So I cut it, and sent it to Keynolds undrest, 
 
 To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. 
 
 Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose — 
 
 'T was a neck and a breast that might rival Munro's ; 
 
 But in parting with these I was puzzled again. 
 
 With the how, and the who, and the where, and the 
 
 when. 
 There's H — d, and C — y, and H — rth, and H — flf, 
 I think they love venison — I know they love beef ; 
 There's my countryman, Higgins — oh ! let him alone 
 For making a blunder, or picking a bone : 
 But, hang it ! to poets who seldom can eat, 
 Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; 
 Such dainties to them their health it might hurt ; 
 It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt. 
 
 While thus I debated, in reverie centred, 
 An acquaintance — a friend, as he call'd himself — en- 
 
 ter'd ; 
 An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he. 
 And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me, — 
 " What have you got here ? — Why, this is good eating ; 
 Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting ? " 
 " Why, whose should it be ? " cried I, with a flounce, 
 " I get these things often" — but that was a bounce: 
 " Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, 
 Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostentation." 
 " If that be the case, then," cried he, very gay, 
 " I'm glad I have taken this house in my way : 
 To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; 
 No words — I insist on't — precisely at three ; 
 We'll have Johnson, and Burke, — all the wits will be 
 
 there : 
 My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. 
 
TEE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 177 
 
 And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner, 
 We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. 
 What say you — a pasty ? it shall, and it must, 
 And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
 Here, porter — this venison with me to Mile-end: 
 No stirring, I beg — my dear friend, — my dear friend." 
 Thus, snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, 
 And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. 
 
 Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 
 And " nobody with me at sea but myself ; " * 
 Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, 
 Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty. 
 Were things that I never disliked in my life, 
 Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. 
 So next day, in due splendor to make my approach, 
 I drove to his door in ray own hackney-coach. 
 
 When come to the place where we all were to dine, 
 (A chair-lumbered closet, just twelve feet by nine). 
 My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb 
 With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; 
 " For I knew it," he cried, " both eternally fail. 
 The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale : f 
 But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party 
 With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. 
 The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew : 
 They're both of them merry, and authors like you : 
 The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; 
 Some, thinks he writes Cinna — he owns to Panurge." 
 
 * See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry 
 Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor. 12mo. 1769. 
 
 t An eminent London brewer, M. P., for the borough of South- 
 wark, at whose table Dr. Johnson was a frequent guest. 
 
178 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 
 
 While thus he described them, by trade and by name, 
 They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came. 
 
 At the top, a fried liver and bacon were seen ; 
 At the bottom, was tripe in a swinging tureen ; 
 At the sides, there was spinage, and pudding made hot ; 
 In the middle, a place where the pasty — was not. 
 Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, 
 And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
 So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, 
 "While the bacon and liver went merrily round : 
 
 But what vex'd me most was that d 'd Scottish 
 
 rogue. 
 With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his 
 
 brogue ; 
 And, " Madame," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison, 
 A prettier dinner I never set eyes on : 
 Pray, a slice of your liver, though may 1 be curst, 
 But I've ate 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 : 
 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-echoed the Scot, 
 ' Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.' 
 ' We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out ; 
 ' We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about. 
 While thus we resolved, and the party delay 'd, 
 With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid : 
 
 35 
 
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 179 
 
 A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, 
 "Waked Priam, in drawing his curtains by night. 
 But we quickly found out — for who could mistake 
 
 her? — 
 That she came with some terrible news from the baker 
 And so it fell out : for that negligent sloven 
 Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. 
 Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — 
 And now that I think on't, the story may stop. 
 
 To be plain, my good lord, it's but labor misplaced. 
 To send such good verses to one of your taste ; 
 You've got an odd something — a kind of discerning, 
 A relish — a taste — sicken'd over by learning ; 
 At least it's your temper, as very well known, 
 That you think very slightly of all that's your own, 
 So perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, 
 You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 
 
180 RETALIATION, 
 
 RETALIATIOK 
 
 Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the 
 St. James's Coffee-house. One day, it was proposed to write 
 epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished 
 subjects of witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, and, 
 at their next meeting, produced the following poem. 
 
 Of old, when Scarron his companion 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 : 
 Oar Deanf shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; 
 Our Burke:}: shall be tongae, with a garnish of brains; 
 Our Will § shall be wild-fowl of excellent flavor, 
 And Dick I with his pepper shall heighten the savor ; 
 Our Cumberland's 1^ sweetbread its place shall obtain, 
 And Douglas ** is pudding, substantial and plain ; 
 
 * The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, where the Doctor 
 and the friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally 
 dined. 
 
 t Doctor Barnard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland, afterw^ards Bishop 
 of Kiilaloe. 
 
 t The Right Hon. Edmund Burke. 
 
 § Mr. "Williain Burke, formerly secretary to General Conway 
 and member for Bedwin. 
 
 I Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada. 
 
 T[ Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of TJie West Indian, The 
 Jew, and other dramatic works. 
 
 ** Doctor Douglas, Canon of Windsor, and afterwards Bishop 
 of Salisbury, was himself a native of Scotland, and obtained 
 considprable reputation by his detection of the forgeries of his 
 countrymen, Lauder and Bower. 
 
RETALIATION. 181 
 
 Our Garrick's * a salad, for in him we see 
 Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : 
 To make out the dinner, full certain I am, 
 That Ridge f is anchovy, and Reynolds X is lamb ; 
 That Hickey's § a capon, and, by the same rule, 
 Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. 
 At a dinner so various — at such a repast, 
 Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last? 
 Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able. 
 Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
 Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, 
 Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. 
 
 Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth, 
 Who mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with 
 
 mirth : 
 If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt — 
 At least, in six weeks I could not find 'em out ; 
 Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, 
 That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. 
 
 Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, 
 We scarcel}'' 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 I to lend him a vote ; 
 
 * David Garrick, Esq. 
 
 t Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging td the Irish 
 bar. 
 
 X Sir Jojhua Reynolds. 
 
 §An eminent attorney. 
 
 ( Mr. T. Townsheud, member for Whitchurch, afterwards Lord 
 Sydney. 
 
182 BETALIATION. 
 
 Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, 
 And thought of convincing, while they thought of 
 
 dining : * 
 Though equal to all things, for all things unfit ; 
 Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; 
 For a patriot, too cool ; for a drudge disobedient ; 
 And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 
 In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir, 
 To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 
 
 Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint. 
 While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was 
 
 in't: 
 The pupil of impulse, it forced him along. 
 His conduct still right, with his argument wrong ; 
 Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam, 
 The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home. 
 Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none ; 
 What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his 
 own. 
 
 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 ! f 
 
 * Mr. Burke's speeches in Parliament, though distinguished by- 
 all the force of reasoning and eloquence of their highly-gifted 
 author, were not always listened to with patience by his brother 
 members, who not unfrequently took the opportunity of retiring 
 to dinner when he rose to speak. To this circumstance, which 
 procured for the orator the sobriquet of the Dinner Bell, allusion 
 is here made. 
 
 f Mr. Richard Burke having slightly fractured an arm and a 
 leg at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on these acci- 
 dents, as a kind of retributive justice, for breaking jests upon 
 other people. 
 
BETALIATION. 183 
 
 Kow -wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball, 
 
 Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! 
 
 In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
 
 That we wished him full ten times a-day at Old 
 
 Xick. 
 But missing his mirth and agreeable vein, 
 As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. 
 
 Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, 
 The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; 
 A flattering painter, who made it his care 
 To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 
 His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, 
 And Comedy wonders at being so fine ; 
 Like a tragedy queen he has dizeu'd her out, 
 Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout. 
 His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd. 
 Of virtues and feelings, that Folly grows proud ; 
 And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone. 
 Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their owq 
 Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? 
 Or wherefore his characters thus without fault ? 
 Say, was it, that vainly directing his view 
 To find out men's virtues, and finding them few. 
 Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 
 He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself ? 
 
 Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, 
 The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : 
 Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divine^*-, 
 Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant re- 
 clines. 
 When satire and censure encircled his throne, 
 I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own ; 
 But now he is gone, and we want a detector, 
 
184 RETALIATION. 
 
 Our Dodds ^' shall be pious, our Kenricks f shall lec- 
 ture; 
 Macpherson ^ write bombast, and call it a style ; 
 Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile : 
 New Landers § 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 colors he spread, 
 And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 
 
 * The Rev. Dr, Dodd, who was executed for forgery. 
 
 \ Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under 
 the title of " The School of Shakspeare." He was a well-known 
 writer, of prodigious versatility, and some talent. Dr. Johnson 
 observed of him, " He is one of the many who have made them- 
 selves pwbZic, without making themselves known." 
 
 |: James Macpherson, Esq., who from the mere force of his 
 style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. 
 
 § William Lauder, who, by interpolating certain passages from 
 the Adamus Exul of Grotius, with translations from Paradise 
 Lost, endeavored to fix on Milton a charge of plagiarism from the 
 modern Latin poets. Dr. Douglas detected and exposed this im- 
 posture, and extorted from the author a confession and apology. 
 
 II Archibald Bower, a Scottish Jesuit, and author of a History 
 of the Popes from St. Peter to Lambertini. Dr. Douglas con- 
 victed Bower of gross imposture, and totally destroyed the credit 
 of his history. 
 
RETALIATION. 185 
 
 Ott the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 
 'T^yas only that when he was off he was acting. 
 With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
 He turn'cl and he varied full ten times a day : 
 Though secure of our hearts yet confoundedly sick, 
 If they were not his own by finessing and trick : 
 He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, 
 For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them 
 
 back. 
 Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, 
 And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; 
 Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease, 
 Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. 
 But let us be candid, and speak out our mind. 
 If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
 Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,* and Woodfalls f so grave. 
 What a commerce was yours, while you got and you 
 
 gave! 
 How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you 
 
 raised. 
 While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-praised I 
 But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
 To act as an angel and mix with the skies : 
 Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill, 
 Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; 
 Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with 
 
 love, 
 And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 
 
 Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature, 
 And slander itself must allow him good nature ; 
 
 * Mr. Hugh Kelly, originally a stayniaker, afterwards a news* 
 pa]K>r oditor and dramatist, and latterly a barrister, 
 t Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. 
 
186 RETALIATION. 
 
 He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper ; 
 
 Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. 
 
 Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? 
 
 I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser. 
 
 Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? 
 
 His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. 
 
 Perhaps he confided in men as they go, 
 
 And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah, no ! 
 
 Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and burn ye : 
 
 He was, could he help it ? a special attorney. 
 
 Here Keynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, 
 He has not left a wiser or better behind ; 
 His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand. 
 His manners were gentle, complying, and bland : 
 Still born to improve us in every part. 
 His pencil our faces, his manners our heart. 
 To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 
 When they judged without skill, he was still hard of 
 
 hearing : 
 When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and 
 
 stuff, 
 He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff. 
 
 * Sir Joshua Reynolds was so deaf as to be under the necessity 
 of using an ear-trumpet in company. 
 
POSTSCEIPT, 187 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher 
 received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord,* from a 
 friend of the late Dr. Goldsmith. 
 
 Here Whitefoord reclines, and, deny it who can, 
 Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man : f 
 Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun ! 
 Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun ; 
 Whose temper was generous, open, sincere, 
 A stranger to flattery a stranger to fear ; 
 Who scatter'd around wit and humor at will-; 
 Whose daily 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 J confess'd him a wit. 
 
 Ye newspaper witlings, ye pert scribbling folks I 
 Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes ; 
 Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, 
 Still follow your master, and visit his tomb ; 
 
 * Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. 
 
 t Mr. Wliitefoord was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Gold- 
 smith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, with- 
 out beinp; infected with the itch of punning. 
 
 X Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. 
 
188 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, 
 And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; 
 Then strew all around it (you can do no less) 
 Cross Headings, Ship JVews, and Mistakes of the Press.* 
 
 Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for thy sake I admit 
 That a Scot may have humor, I had almost said wit ; 
 This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse. 
 
 Thou best-humor'd man with the worst-humor'd 
 Muse. 
 
 THE 
 
 DOUBLE TKANSFOKMATION. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 Secluded from domestic strife, 
 
 Jack Book-worm led a college life ; 
 
 A fellowship at twenty-five 
 
 Made him the happiest man alive ; 
 
 He drank his glass, and cracked his joke, 
 
 And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke. 
 
 Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care, 
 Could any accident impair ? 
 Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix 
 Our swain, arrived at thirty -six ? 
 
 Oh, had the archer ne'er come down 
 To ravage in a country town ! 
 Or Flavia been content to stop 
 At triumphs in a Fleet Street shop ! 
 Oh, had her eyes forgot to blaze ! 
 Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ! 
 
 * Mr. Whitefoord had frequently indulged the town with 
 humorous pieces under those titles in the Pvblic Advertiser. 
 
THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 189 
 
 Oh ! — but let exclamation cease, 
 
 Her presence banished all his peace ; 
 
 So with decorum all things carried, 
 
 Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was — married. 
 
 Need we expose to vulgar sight 
 The raptures of the bridal night ? 
 Need we intrude on hallo w'd ground, 
 Or draw the curtains closed around ? 
 Let it suffice that each had charms : 
 He clasped a goddess in his arms ; , 
 And though she felt his usage rough, 
 Yet in a man 'twas well enough. 
 
 The honey-moon like lightning flew, 
 The second brought its transports too ; 
 A third, a fourth, were not amiss, 
 The fifth was friendship mixed with bliss : 
 But, when a twelvemonth passed awa}^, 
 Jack found his goddess made of clay ; 
 Found half the charms that deck'd her face 
 Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ; 
 But still the worst remain'd behind, — 
 That very face had robb'd her mind. 
 Skill'd in no other arts was she, 
 But dressing, patching, repartee ; 
 And, just as humor rose or fell, 
 By turns a slattern or a belle. 
 'Tis true she dressed with modern grace, 
 Half naked, at a ball or race ; 
 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 
 
190 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION, 
 
 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 powdered 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 known. 
 He thinks her features coarser grown ; 
 He fancies every vice she shows. 
 Or thins her lips, or points her nose : 
 Whenever rage or envy rise, 
 How wide her mouth, how wild her eyesl 
 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 beautv'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 : 
 
THE GIFT. 191 
 
 Each former art she vainly tries 
 To bring back lustre to her eyes ; 
 In vain she tries her paste and creams 
 To smooth her skin, or hide its seams ; 
 Her country beaux and city cousins, 
 Lovers no more, flew off by dozens ; 
 The squire himself was seen to yield, 
 And e'en the captain quit the field. 
 
 Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack 
 The rest of life with anxious Jack, 
 Perceiving others fairly flown. 
 Attempted pleasing him alone. 
 Jack soon was dazzled to behold 
 Her present face surpass the old : 
 "With modesty her cheeks are dyed, 
 Humility displaces pride ; 
 For tawdry finery is seen 
 A person ever neatly clean ; 
 No more presuming on her sway, 
 She learns good nature every day : 
 Serenely gay, and strict in duty, 
 Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. 
 
 THE GIFT.* 
 
 TO IRIS, IX BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake. 
 
 Dear mercenary beauty, 
 What annual offering shall I make 
 
 Expressive of my duty ? 
 
 ♦ Imitated from Grecourt, a witty French poet. 
 
192 AN ELEGY. 
 
 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 rosebud more in fashion ; 
 
 Such short-lived offerings but disclose 
 A transitory passion — 
 
 I'll give thee something yet unpaid, 
 Not less sincere than civil, — 
 
 I'll give thee — ah ! too charming maid !- 
 I'll give thee — to the Devil ! 
 
 AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG 
 
 Good people all, of every sort, 
 
 Give ear unto my song, 
 And if you find it wondrous short, 
 
 It cannot hold you long. 
 
 In Islington there was a man. 
 Of whom the world might say, 
 
 That still a godly race he ran, 
 Whene'er he went to pray. 
 
AN ELEGY. 198 
 
 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 neighboring streets 
 
 The wond'ring neighbors ran. 
 And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
 
 To bite so good a man. 
 
 The wound it seem'd both sore and sad 
 
 To every Christian eye ; 
 And while they swore the dog was mad, . 
 
 They swore the man would die. 
 
 But soon a wonder came to light. 
 That show'd the rogues they lied : ' 
 
 The man recover'd of the bite — 
 The dog it was that died. 
 
1»4 . THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 
 
 THE LOGICIANS EEFUTED * 
 
 IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT. 
 
 Logicians have but ill defined 
 
 As rational the human mind : 
 
 Reason, they say, belongs to man, 
 
 But let them prove it if they can. 
 
 "Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, 
 
 By ratiocinations specious, 
 
 Have strove to prove with great precision, 
 
 "With definition and division. 
 
 Homo est ratione preditum / 
 
 But for my soul I cannot credit 'em ; 
 
 And must in spite of them maintain, 
 
 That man and all his ways are vain ; 
 
 And that this boasted lord of nature 
 
 Is both a weak and erring creature ; 
 
 That instinct is a surer guide 
 
 Than reason, boasting mortals' pride ; 
 
 And that brute beasts are far before 'em— > 
 
 Deus est anima hrutorum. 
 
 "Whoever knew an honest brute 
 
 At law his neighbor prosecute. 
 
 Bring action for assault and battery ? 
 
 Or friend beguile with lies and flattery ? 
 
 * This happy imitation was adopted by his Dublin publisher, 
 as a genuine poem of Swift, and as such it has been reprinted in 
 almost every edition of the Dean's works. Even Sir Walter Scott 
 has inserted it without any remark in his edition of Swift's 
 Works. 
 
THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 195 
 
 O'er plains they ramble unconfined, 
 
 No politics disturb their mind ; 
 
 They eat their meals, and take their sport, 
 
 Nor know who's in or out at court : 
 
 They never to the levee go 
 
 To treat as dearest friend a foe : 
 
 They never importune his grace, 
 
 Nor ever cringe to men in place ; 
 
 Nor undertake a dirty job, 
 
 Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.* 
 
 Fraught with invective they ne'er go 
 
 To folks at Paternoster Row : 
 
 No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, 
 
 No pickpockets, or poetasters, 
 
 Are known to honest quadrupeds ; 
 
 No single brute his fellow leads, 
 
 Brutes never meet in bloody fray, 
 
 Nor cut each other's throats for pay. 
 
 Of beasts, it is confess'd. the ape 
 
 Comes nearest us in human shape : 
 
 Like man, he imitates each fashion. 
 
 And malice is his ruling passion : 
 
 But both in malice and grimaces, 
 
 A courtier any ape surpasses. 
 
 Behold him humbly cringing wait 
 
 Upon the minister of state ; 
 
 View him soon after to inferiors 
 
 Aping the conduct of superiors: 
 
 He promises with equal air, 
 
 And to perform takes equal care. 
 
 He in his turn finds imitators ; 
 
 At court the porters, lacqueys, waiters, 
 
 * Sir Kobort Walpole, 
 
 88— Q & G— I 
 
196 A NEW SIMILE. 
 
 Their masters' manners still contract, 
 And footmen, lords and dukes can act. 
 Thus at the court, both great and small 
 Behave alike, for all ape all. 
 
 A NEW SIMILE. 
 
 IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. 
 
 Long had I sought in vain to find 
 A likeness for the scribbling kind — 
 The modern scribbling kind, who write 
 In wit, and sense, and nature's spite — 
 Till reading — I forgot what day on — 
 A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, 
 I think I met with something there 
 To suit my purpose to a hair. 
 But let us not proceed too furious, — 
 First please to turn to god Mercurius ; 
 You'll find him pictured at full length, 
 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 f i 
 Why, these denote a brain of feather. 
 A brain of feather ! very right ; 
 With wit that's flighty, learning light ; 
 Such as to modern bard's decreed : 
 A just comparison — proceed. 
 
A NEW SIMILE. 197 
 
 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 : — 
 Ilis wand's a modern author's pen ; 
 The serpents round about it twin'd 
 Denote him of the reptile kind. 
 Denote the rage with which he writes, 
 His frothy slaver, venom'd bites ; 
 An equal semblance still to keep, 
 Alike, too, both conduce to sleep; 
 This difference only, as the god 
 Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod, 
 With his goose-quill the scribbling el^ 
 Instead of others, damns himself. 
 And here my simile almost tript. 
 
198 DESCRIPTION OF A BED-CHAMBEB. 
 
 Yet grant a word by way of postscript. 
 
 Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing ; 
 
 "Well ! what of that ? out with it — stealing. 
 
 In which all modern bards agree, 
 
 Being each as great a thief as be. 
 
 But e'en this deity's existence 
 
 Shall lend my simile assistance : 
 
 Our modern bards ! why, what a pox. 
 
 Are they but senseless stones and blocks % 
 
 DESCRIPTION 
 
 OF AN 
 
 AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER. 
 
 Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, 
 Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; 
 Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne, 
 Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane : 
 There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, 
 The Muse found Scroggin stretched beneath a rug ; 
 A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray. 
 That dimly show'd the state in which he lay ; 
 The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread ; 
 The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; 
 The royal game of goose was there in view, 
 And the twelve rules the Royal Martyr drew ; 
 The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place. 
 And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face. 
 The morn was cold ; he views with keen desire 
 The rusty grate unconscious of a lire ; 
 
'A PROLOGUE, 199 
 
 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 1 * 
 
 A PEOLOGUE, 
 
 WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAN 
 KNIGHT,WH0M 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 ! 
 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 honor dear : 
 But this vile hour disperses all my store, 
 And all my hoard of honor is no more ; 
 For, ah ! too partial to ray life's decline, 
 Caesar persuades, submission must be mine ; 
 Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys. 
 Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please. 
 Here then at once I welcome every shame. 
 And cancel, at threescore, a life of fame : 
 No more my titles shall my children tell, 
 The old buffoon will fit mv name as well : 
 This day beyond its term my fate extends, 
 For life is ended when our honor ends. 
 
 *The author has pn"^en, with a very Rlip:ht alteration, a similar 
 descriptiou of the alehoiuie in the Deserted Village. 
 
200 TEE GLORY OF HER SE2[. 
 
 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 alway found her kind ; 
 She freely lent to all the poor — 
 
 Who left a pledge behind. 
 
 She strove the neighborhood to please 
 With manners wondrous winning j 
 
 And never follow'd wicked ways — 
 Unless when she was sinning. 
 
 At church, in silks and satin new, 
 
 With hoop of monstrous size, 
 She never slumber'd in her pew— 
 
 But when she shut her eyes. 
 
 Her love was sought, I do aver, 
 
 By twenty beaux and more ; 
 The king himself has follow'd her— 
 
 When she has walk'd before. 
 
 But now, her wealth and finery fled, 
 
 Her hangers-on cut short all ; 
 The doctors found, when she was deaa— 
 
 Her last disorder mortal. 
 
STANZAS. 201 
 
 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 BUND 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 Parnell's name, 
 
 May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. 
 
 "What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay. 
 
 That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way ? 
 
 Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid ; 
 
 And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. 
 
202 STANZAS. 
 
 Needless to him the tribute we bestow, 
 
 The transitory breath of fame below : 
 
 More lasting rapture from his works shall risCj 
 
 While converts thank their poet in the skies. 
 
 EPITAPH ON EDWAED PUEDON * 
 
 Here lies Ned Purdon, from misery freed, 
 Who long was a bookseller's hack : 
 
 He led such a damnable life in this world, 
 I don't think he'll wish to come back. 
 
 STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. 
 
 Amidst the clamor of exulting joys, 
 
 Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, 
 
 Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, 
 And quells the raptures which from pleasure start, 
 
 O Wolfe ! t to thee a streaming flood of woe 
 Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear ; 
 
 Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, 
 Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. 
 
 * This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin ; but 
 having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. 
 Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, 
 and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Vol- 
 taire's Renriade. 
 
 t Goldsmith claimed relationship with this gallant soldier, 
 ■whose character he greatly admired. 
 
STANZAS. 203 
 
 Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigor fled, 
 
 And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : 
 
 yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead 1 
 Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. 
 
 STANZAS ON WOMAN. 
 
 "When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
 And finds too late that men betray, 
 
 What charm can soothe her melancholy ? 
 What art can wash her guilt away 3 
 
 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 why impair thy bright perfection, 
 Or dim thy beauty with a tear ? 
 
 Had Myra followed my direction. 
 She long had wanted cause of fear. 
 
 *This sonnet is imitated from a French madrigal of St. Pa vies. 
 
204 SONGS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 From the Oratorio of the Captivity. 
 
 The wretch condemned with life to part, 
 
 Still, still on hope relies ; 
 And every pang that rends the heart 
 
 Bids expectation rise. 
 
 Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, 
 Adorns and cheers the way ; 
 
 And still, as darker grows the night, 
 Emits a brighter ray. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 From the Oratorio of the Captivity. 
 O MEMORY ! thou fond deceiver. 
 
 Still importunate and vain. 
 To former joys recurring ever. 
 
 And turning all the past to pain. 
 
 Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing. 
 Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe ; 
 
 And he who wants each other blessing, 
 In thee must ever find a foe. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Intended to have been sung in the Comedy of She Stoops to 
 Conquer, but omitted, because Mrs. Bulkley, who acted the 
 part of Miss Hardcastle, could not sing. 
 
 Ah me ! when shall I marry me ? 
 
 Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me ; 
 
 He, fond youth, that could carry me. 
 
 Offers to love, but means to deceive me. 
 
PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE. 205 
 
 But 1 will rally, and combat the ruiner : 
 
 Not a look, nor a smile, shall my passion discover. 
 
 She that gives all to the false one pursuing her. 
 Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover. 
 
 PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE, A TRAGEDY ; 
 
 WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADOCK, ESQ., ACTED AT THE 
 THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN, 1772. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK. 
 
 In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore 
 
 The distant climates and the savage shore ; 
 
 "When wise astronomers to India steer. 
 
 And quit for Venus many a brighter here ; 
 
 "While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, 
 
 Forsake the fair, and patiently — go simpling : 
 
 Our bard into the general spirit enters. 
 
 And fits his little frigate for adventures. 
 
 "With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden. 
 
 He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading ; 
 
 Yet ere he lands he's ordered me before, 
 
 To make an observation on the shore. 
 
 "Where are we driven ? our reckoning sure is lost ! 
 
 This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. 
 
 Lord, what a sultry climate am I under ! 
 
 Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder : 
 
 [ Upper Gallery. 
 There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 
 'em— [Pit. 
 
 Here trees of stately size — and billing turtles in 'em. 
 
 \_Bal conies. 
 Here ill-condition'd oranges abound — [Stage. 
 
206 EPILOGUE TO THE SISTERS. 
 
 And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground : 
 
 [Tasting them. 
 The inhabitants are cannibals, 1 fear : 
 1 heard a hissing — there are serpents here ! 
 Oh ! there the people are — best keep my distance : 
 Our Captain, gentle natives, craves assistance ; 
 Our ship's well stored — in yonder creek we've laid her, 
 His honor is no mercenary trader. 
 This is his first adventure : lend him aid, 
 And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. 
 His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, 
 Equally fit for gallantry and war. 
 What ! no reply to promises so ample ? 
 I'd best step back — and order up a sample. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS.* 
 
 "What! five long acts — and all to make us wiser, 
 Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. 
 Had she consulted me, she should have made 
 Her moral play a speaking masquerade : 
 Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage. 
 Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. 
 My life on't this had kept her play from sinking, 
 Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking. 
 "Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, 
 "What if / give a masquerade ? — I will. 
 
 * By Mrs, Charlotte Lennox, author of the Female Quixote, 
 Shakspeare Illustrated, etc. It was performed one night only at 
 Covent Garden, in 1769. This lady was praised by Dr. Johnsoa 
 as the cleverest female writer of her age. 
 
EPILOGUE TO THE SISTERS. 207 
 
 But how ? ay, there's the rub ! \j)ausi?ig'] 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 wit, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses 1 
 Statesmen with bridles on ; and, close beside 'em, 
 Patriots in party-color'd suits that ride 'em : 
 There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more 
 To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore ; 
 These in their turn, with appetites as keen, 
 Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen : 
 Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, 
 Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman : 
 The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure. 
 And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure. 
 Thus 't is with all : their chief and constant care 
 Is to seem everything — but what they are. 
 Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on. 
 Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion ; 
 "Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade, 
 Looking, as who should say, Damme ! who's afraid ? 
 
 [Mi?nicking, 
 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 candor you attack, 
 lie bows, turns round, and whip — the man's in black : 
 
208 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Yon critic, too — but whither do I run? 
 
 If I proceed, our bard will be undone ! 
 "Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too, 
 Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you. 
 
 EPILOGUE, 
 
 SPOKEN BY 
 
 MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY. 
 
 Enter Mi'S. Biilkley, tvho courtesies very low, as beginning to 
 speak. Then enter Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and 
 courtesies to th( audience. 
 
 Mrs. BulTdey. Hold, Ma'am, your pardon. What's 
 your business here ? 
 
 Mi^s Catley. The Epilogue. 
 
 Mrs. B. The Epilogue ? 
 
 Miss. C. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear. 
 
 Mrs. B. Sure, you mistake, Ma'am. The Epi- 
 logue ? / bring it. 
 
 Miss. C. Excuse me, Ma'am. The author bid me 
 sing it. 
 
 Hecitative. 
 
 Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring. 
 Suspend your conversation while I sing. 
 
 Mrs. B. Why sure, the girl 's beside herself ? an 
 Epilogue of singing? 
 A hopeful end, indeed, to such a blest beginning. 
 Besides, a singer in a comic set — 
 Excuse me, Ma'am, I know the etiquette. 
 
 Miss. C. What if we leave it to the house ? 
 
 Mrs. B. The house ? — Agreed. 
 
EPILOGUE. 209 
 
 Miss G. Agreed. 
 
 Mrs. B. And she whose party's largest shall pro- 
 ceed. 
 And first, I hope you'll readily agree 
 I've all the critics and the wits for me. 
 They, I am sure, will answer my commands : 
 Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands. 
 "What ! no return ? I find too late, I fear, 
 That modern judges seldom enter here. 
 
 Miss 0. I'm for a different set : — Old men, whose 
 trade is 
 Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies. 
 
 Recitative. 
 Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling, 
 Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling : 
 
 Air. — Cotillon. 
 
 Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever 
 
 Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye, 
 Pity take on your swain so clever. 
 Who without your aid must die. 
 
 Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu ! 
 Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 Da Capo. 
 
 Mrs. B. Let all the old pay homage to your merit ; 
 Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. 
 Ye travell'd tribe, ye macaroni train. 
 Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain, 
 Who take a trip to Paris once a-year, 
 To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here, — 
 Lifnd me your hands : O, fatal news to tell, 
 Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle. 
 
210 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Miss C. Ay, take your travellers — travellers indeed, 
 Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed. 
 Where are the chiels ? Ah, ah, I well discern 
 The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn. 
 
 Air. — A honnie young lad is my Jockey. 
 
 I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day, 
 
 And be unco merry when you are but gay ; 
 
 When you with your bagpipes are ready to play, 
 
 My voice shall be ready to carol away 
 
 With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, 
 With Sawnie, and Jarvie, and Jockey. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit, 
 Make but of all your fortune one va toute : 
 Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, 
 " I hold the odds — Done, done, with you, with you.'* 
 Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, 
 " My Lord, your Lordship misconceives the case ; " 
 Doctors, who answer every misfortuner, 
 " 1 wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner : " 
 Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, 
 Come, end the contest here, and aid my party. 
 
 Air. — Ballinamony. 
 
 Miss C. Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the cracky 
 Assist me, I pray, in this woeful attack ; 
 j'or — sure, I don't wrong you — you seldom are slack. 
 When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back. 
 For you are always so polite and attentive, 
 Still to amuse us inventive, 
 . And death is your only preventive ; 
 Your hands and voices for me. 
 
EPILOGUE. 211 
 
 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, 
 What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Agreed. 
 
 Miss C. Agreed. 
 
 Mrs. B. And now with late repentance, 
 Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence. 
 Condemn the stubborn fool, who can't submit 
 To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit. 
 
 Exeunt, 
 
 AN EPILOGUE. 
 
 INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY. 
 
 There is a place — so Ariosto sings — 
 
 A treasury for lost and missing things. 
 
 Lost human wits have places there assign'd them, 
 
 And they who lose their senses, there may find them, 
 
 But Where's this place, this storehouse of the age ? 
 
 The Moon, says he ; but I affirm, the Stage — 
 
 At least, in many things I think I see. 
 
 His lunar and our mimic world agree : 
 
 Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone, 
 
 We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down : 
 
 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, Kakes, Macaronies, Cits, 
 
 Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits. 
 
212 EPILOGUE. 
 
 The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, 
 Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. 
 Hither th' affected city dame advancing, 
 Who sighs for Operas, and doats on dancing, 
 Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on, 
 Quits the Ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. 
 The Gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low, 
 Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw, 
 Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, 
 Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. 
 The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stored — 
 As, " Damme, Sir ! " and " Sir, I wear a sword 1 " 
 Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating, 
 Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. 
 Here comes the sons of scandal and of news. 
 But find no sense — for they have none to lose. 
 Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser, 
 Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser ; 
 Has he not seen how you your favor place 
 On sentimental queens, and lords in lace % 
 Without a star, a coronet, or garter. 
 How can the piece expect or hope for quarter ? 
 No high-life scenes, no sentiment : the creature 
 Still stoops among the low to copy Nature. 
 Yes, he's far gone : and yet some pity fix, 
 The English laws forbid to punish lunatics. 
 
EPILOGUE. 213 
 
 EPILOGUE, 
 
 SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OF 
 HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT. 
 
 Hold ! Prompter, hold ! a word before your nonsense, 
 I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. 
 My pride forbids it ever should be said 
 My heels eclipse the honors of my head ; 
 That I found humor in a piebald vest. 
 Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. 
 
 [ Takes of his mask. 
 "Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth ? 
 Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth : 
 In thy black aspect every passion sleeps, 
 The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps. 
 How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood 
 Of fools pursuing and of fools pursued ! 
 Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses, 
 Whose only plot it is to break our noses ; 
 Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise, 
 And from above the dangling deities : 
 And shall 1 mix in this unhallow'd crew ? 
 May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do ! 
 No — I will act — I'll vindicate the stage: 
 Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. 
 Off ! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns! 
 The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins. 
 Oh ! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme, — 
 " Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds ! '' — soft^ 
 'twas but a dream. 
 
214 EPILOGUE. 
 
 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 : 
 
 " The deuce confound," he cries, " these drumstick 
 shanks. 
 
 They never have my gratitude nor thanks ; 
 
 They're perfectly disgraceful ! strike me dead ! 
 
 But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head : 
 
 How piercing is that eye ! how sleek that brow ! 
 
 My horns ! — I'm told that horns are the fashion now.'* 
 Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd to his view, 
 
 Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew ; 
 
 " Hoicks ! hark forward ! " came thund'ring from be- 
 hind. 
 
 He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind ; 
 
 He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways ; 
 
 He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze : 
 
 At length, his silly head, so prized before, 
 
 Is taught his former folly to deplore ; 
 
 Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, 
 
 And at one bound he saves himself — like me, 
 
 \_Taking a jump through the stage door. 
 
TERENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 515 
 
 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS * 
 
 SACRED TO THE MEMORY OP HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE 
 
 PRINOESS DOWAGEE OF WALES. 
 
 SPOKEN AND SUNG IN THE GREAT ROOM IN SOHO-SQUARE, 
 
 Thursday, the 30tli day of February, 1772. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following may more properly be termed a com- 
 pilation than a poem. It was prepared for the com- 
 poser in little more than two days : and may therefore 
 rather be considered as an industrious effort of grati- 
 tude than of genius. 
 
 In justice to the composer, it may likewise be right 
 to inform the public, that the music was adapted in a 
 period of time equally short. 
 
 Speakers. — Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy. 
 Singers.— Ji/r. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson. 
 
 THE MUSIC PREPARED AND ADAPTED BY SIGNIOR VENTO. 
 
 * This poem was first printed in Chalmer's edition of the Eng" 
 lish Poets, from a copy given by Goldsmith to his friend, Joseph 
 Cradock, Esq., author of the tragedy of Zobeide. 
 
216 TERENODIA AUGUST ALIS. 
 
 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 
 
 OVERTURE — A SOLEMN DIRGE. 
 AIR— TRIO. 
 
 Aeise, ye sons of worth, arise, 
 And waken every note of woe ! 
 
 When truth and virtue reach the skieSj 
 'Tis ours to weep the want below. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 "When truth and virtue, etc. 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 
 The praise attending pomp and power, 
 
 The incense given to kings, 
 Are but the trappings of an hour, 
 
 Mere transitory things. 
 The base bestow them ; but the good agree 
 To spurn the venal gifts as flattery. 
 But when to pomp and power are join'd 
 An equal dignity of the mind ; 
 
 When titles are the smallest claim ; 
 When wealth and rank, and noble blood, 
 But aid the power of doing good : 
 
 Then all their trophies last — and flattery turns to 
 fame. 
 Blest spirit, thou, whose fame, just born to bloom, 
 Shall spread and flourish from the tomb. 
 
 How hast thou left mankind for Heaven ! 
 Even now reproach and faction mourn, 
 And, wondering how their rage was born, 
 
TRRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 217 
 
 Kequest to be forgiven ! 
 Alas ! they never had thy hate ; 
 
 Unmoved, in conscious rectitude, 
 
 Thy towering mind self-centred stood, 
 Nor wanted man's opinion to be great. 
 
 In vain, to charm the ravish'd sight, 
 A thousand gifts would fortune send ; 
 
 In vain, to drive thee from the right, 
 A thousand sorrows urged thy end : 
 Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood 
 And purchased strength from its increased load. 
 Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free, 
 Affliction still is virtue's opportunity ! 
 Virtue, on herself relying, 
 
 Every passion hushed to rest. 
 Loses every pain of dying 
 
 In the hopes of being blest. 
 Every added pang she suffers 
 
 Some increasing good bestows, 
 And every shock that malice offers 
 
 Only rocks her to repose. 
 
 SONG. BY A MAN. — AFFETUOSO. 
 
 Virtue, on herself relying, etc. 
 
 to 
 Only rocks her to repose. 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER. 
 
 Yet ah ! what terrors frown'd upon her fate, 
 
 Death, with its formidable band, 
 fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care, 
 
 Determined took their stand. 
 
218 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 
 
 Nor did the cruel ravagers design 
 
 To finish all their efforts at a blow ; 
 
 But, mischievously slow, 
 They robb'd the relic and defaced the shrine. 
 
 With unavailing grief, 
 
 Despairing of relief, 
 Her weeping children round 
 
 Beheld each hour 
 
 Death's growing pow'r, 
 And trembled as he frown'd. 
 As helpless friends who view from shore 
 The laboring ship, and hear the tempest roar, 
 
 While winds and waves their wishes cross, — 
 They stood, while hope and comfort fail, 
 Not to assist, but to bewail 
 
 The inevitable loss. 
 Relentless tyrant, at thy call 
 How do the good, the virtuous fall! 
 Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, 
 But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage. 
 
 SONG. BY A MAN.— BASSO, STOCCATO, SPIRITUOSO. 
 
 When vice my dart and scythe supply, 
 How great a King of Terrors I ! 
 If folly, fraud, your hearts engage, 
 Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage ! 
 
 Fall, round me fall, ye little things, 
 Te statesmen, warriors, poets, kings. 
 If virtue fail her counsel sage, 
 Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage ! 
 
 MAN SPEAKEB. 
 
 Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example, 
 Teach us to estimate what all must suffer : 
 
THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 219 
 
 Let us prize death as the best gift of nature, 
 
 As a safe inn where weary travellers, 
 
 When they have journey'd through a world of cares, 
 
 May put off life, and be at rest forever. 
 
 Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables. 
 
 May oft distract us with their sad solemnity, 
 
 The preparation is the executioner. 
 
 Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face, 
 
 And is a terror only at a distance : 
 
 !Nor as the line of life conducts me on 
 
 To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair, 
 
 'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open 
 
 To take us in when we have drained the cup 
 
 Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness. 
 
 In that secure, serene retreat, 
 
 Where all the humble, all the great. 
 
 Promiscuously recline ; 
 Where wildly huddled to the eye, 
 The beggar's pouch, and prince's purple lie : 
 
 May every bliss be thine ! 
 And, ah ! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight, 
 Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light. 
 May cherubs welcome their expected guest ! 
 May saints with songs receive thee to their rest ! 
 May peace, that claim'd while here, thy warmest love, 
 May blissful, endless peace be thine above ! 
 
 SONG. BY A WOMAN. — AMOROSO. 
 
 Lovely, lasting Peace, below, 
 Comforter of every woe. 
 Heavenly born, and bred on high. 
 To crown the favorites of the sky ! 
 
 22— Q & G— J 
 
220 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 
 
 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. 
 
 Oar vows are heard ! Long, long to mortal eyes, 
 Her soul was flitting to its kindred skies : 
 Celestial like her bounty fell, 
 "Where modest "Want and patient Sorrow dwell ; 
 "Want pass'd for Merit at her door, 
 
 Unseen the modest were supplied. 
 Her constant pity fed the poor, — 
 
 Then only poor, indeed, the day she died. 
 And, oh ! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine, 
 
 And art exhausts profusion round. 
 The tribute of a tear be mine, 
 
 A simple song, a sigh profound. 
 There faith shall come — a pilgrim gray, 
 To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay ! 
 And calm Religion shall repair 
 To dwell a weeping hermit there. 
 Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree 
 To blend their virtues while they think of thee. 
 
 AIR— CHORUS POMPOSO. 
 
 Let us — let all the world agree, 
 To profit by resembling thee. 
 
 ■'i 
 
 PART II. 
 
 OVERTURE— PASTORALE. 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 
 Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent stream, 
 
 Reflects new glories on his breast, 
 
THRENODIA AUOUSTALIS. 231 
 
 Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream, 
 
 He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest ; 
 Where sculptured elegance and native grace 
 Unite to stamp the beauties of the place ; 
 While, sweetly blending, still are seen 
 The wavy lawn, the sloping green ; 
 While novelty, with cautious cunning, 
 Through every maze of fancy running. 
 From China borrows aid to deck the scene : 
 There, sorrowing by the river's glassy bed, 
 
 Forlorn, a rural band complain'd, 
 All whom Augusta's bounty fed. 
 
 All whom her clemency sustain'd ; 
 The good old sire, unconscious of decay. 
 The modest matron, clad in home-spun gray. 
 The military boy, the orphan'd maid, 
 The shatter'd veteran now first dismay'd, — 
 These sadly join beside the murmuring deep, 
 
 And, as they view the towers of Kew, 
 Call on their mistress — now no more — and weep. 
 
 CHORUS. — AFFETUOSO, LARGO. 
 
 Ye shady walks, ye waving greens. 
 
 Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes. 
 
 Let all your echoes now deplore. 
 
 That she who form'd your beauties is no 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 : 
 
222 THEENODIA AUGUSTALI8. 
 
 " And where," he cried, " shall now my babes have 
 bread, 
 
 Or how shall age support its feeble fire ? 
 !No lord will take me now, my vigor fled, 
 
 Nor can my strength perform what they require, 
 Each grudging master keeps the laborer bare, 
 A sleek and idle race is all their care. 
 My noble mistress thought not so : 
 
 Her bounty, like the morning dew, 
 Unseen, though constant, used to flow. 
 
 And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew." 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER. 
 
 In decent dress, and coarsely clean, 
 
 The pious matron next was seen, 
 
 Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne, 
 
 By use and daily meditation worn ; 
 
 That decent dress, this holy guide, 
 
 Augusta's cares had well supplied. 
 
 " And ah ! " she cries, all woe-begone, 
 
 " What now remains for me ? 
 Oh ! where shall weeping want repair 
 
 To ask for charity ? 
 Too late in life for me to ask, 
 
 And shame prevents the deed. 
 And tardy, tardy are the times 
 
 To succor, should I need. 
 But all my wants, before I spoke. 
 
 Were to my mistress known ; 
 She still relieved, nor sought my praise. 
 
 Contented with her own. 
 But every day her name I'll bless. 
 
 My morning prayer, my evening song, 
 
THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 223 
 
 I'll praise her while my life shall last, 
 A life that cannot last me long." 
 
 SONG.— BY A WOMAN. 
 
 Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless, 
 
 My morning and my evening song, 
 And when in death my vows shall cease, 
 
 My children shall the note prolong. 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 
 The hardy veteran after struck the sight, 
 
 Scarr'd, mangled, maim'd in every part, 
 Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight, 
 
 In nought entire — except his heart : 
 Mute for a while, and sullenly distrest, 
 At last th' impetuous sorrow fired his breast :— 
 
 Wild is the whirlwind rolling 
 O'er Afric's sandy plain. 
 
 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 SPIRITUOSO. 
 
 Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, 
 Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field. 
 To do thy memory right : 
 
224 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 
 
 For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel, 
 Again they snatch the gleamy steel, 
 And wish th' avenging fight. 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER. 
 
 In innocence and youth complaining, 
 
 Next appear'd a lovely maid ; 
 Affliction, o'er each feature reigning, 
 
 Kindly came in beauty's aid : 
 Every grace that grief dispenses, 
 
 Every glance that warms the soul. 
 In sweet succession charms the senses, 
 
 While Pity harmonized the whole. 
 " The garland of beauty," 'tis thus she would say, 
 
 " No more shall my crook or my temples adorn ; 
 I'll not wear a garland — Augusta's away — 
 
 I'll not wear a garland until she return. 
 But, alas ! that return I never shall see : 
 
 The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim, 
 There promised a lover to come — but, ah me ! 
 
 'Twas death — 'twas the death of my mistress that 
 came. 
 But ever, forever, 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. 
 
 SONa.— BY A WOMAN. — PASTORALE. 
 
 "With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May 
 No more will her crook or her temples adorn ; 
 
 For who'd wear a garland when she is away, 
 When she is removed, and shall never return ! 
 
TEE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 225 
 
 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 water her tomb. 
 
 THE CAPTIVITY : AK ORATOKIO * 
 
 THE PERSONS. 
 
 J^irst Jewish Prophet. First Chaldean Priest. 
 
 Second Jewish Prophet. Second Chaldean Priest. 
 Isra^litish Woman. Chaldean Woman. 
 
 Choims of Youths and Virgins. 
 Scene. — The Banks of the River Euphrates near Babylon. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 Ye captive tribes that hourly work and weep 
 Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep 
 Suspend your woes a while, the task suspend. 
 And turn to God, your father and your friend : 
 Insulted, chain'd, and all the world our foe. 
 Our God alone is all we boast below. 
 
 * This was first printed from the original, in Dr. Goldsmith's 
 own handwriting, in the 8vo. edition of his Miscellaneous 
 Work^, published in 1820. 
 15 
 
226 THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 
 
 Air. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 Our God is all we boast below, 
 
 To him we turn our eyes ; 
 And every added weight of woe 
 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. 
 
 l^The first stanza repeated hy the CHOEua 
 
 ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 
 
 That strain once more ! it bids remembrance rise, 
 
 And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes : 
 
 Ye fields of Sharon, dress'd in flowery pride, 
 
 Ye plains where Kedron rolls its glassy tide, 
 
 Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd, 
 
 Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around, — 
 
 How sweet those groves ! that plain how wondrous 
 
 fair ! 
 How doubly sweet when Heaven was with us there ! 
 
 Air. 
 
 O Memory ! thou fond deceiver, 
 
 Still importunate and vain ; 
 To former joys recurring ever. 
 
 And turning all the past to pain. 
 
 Hence, intruder most distressing ! 
 
 Seek the happy and the free : 
 The wretch who wants each other blessing, 
 
 Ever wants a friend in thee. 
 
THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 227 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 Yet why complain ? What though by bonds con- 
 fined! 
 Should bonds repress the vigor of the mind ? 
 Have we not cause for triumph, when we see 
 Ourselves alone from idol worship free ? 
 Are not, this very morn, those feasts begun 
 "Where prostrate error hails the rising sun ? 
 Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain 
 For superstitious rites and mirth profane? 
 And should we mourn ? Should coward virtue fly, 
 When vaunting folly lifts her head on high ? 
 No ! rather let us triumph still the more, 
 And as our fortune sinks, our spirits soar. 
 
 Air. 
 
 The triumphs that on vice attend 
 Shall ever in confusion end ; 
 The good man suffers but to gain, 
 And every virtue springs from pain : 
 As aromatic plants bestow 
 No spicy fragrance while they grow ; 
 But crush'd, or trodden to the ground, 
 Diffuse their balmy sweets around. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near, 
 
 The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine ear ; 
 
 Triumphant music floats along the vale, 
 
 Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale : 
 
 The growing sound their swift approach declares — 
 
 Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs. 
 
228 THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 
 
 Enter Chat.dkan 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 suppliesj 
 
 Both similar blessings bestow : 
 The sun with his splendor illumines the skies, 
 
 And our monarch enlivens below. 
 
 Air. 
 
 CHALDEAN WOMAN. 
 
 Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure, 
 Love presents the fairest treasure. 
 Leave all other joys for me. 
 
 A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT. 
 
 Or rather, love's delights despising. 
 Haste to raptures ever rising, 
 
 "Wine shall bless the brave and free. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 "Wine and beauty thus inviting. 
 Each to dififerent joys exciting, 
 Whither shall my choice incline. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 I'll waste no longer thought in choosing. 
 But, neither this nor that refusing, 
 I'll make them both together mine. 
 
TEE CAPTIVITY : AN ORATORIO. 229 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the bud, 
 This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band ? 
 Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung ? 
 Or why those harps on yonder willows hung ? 
 Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along ; 
 The day demands it : sing us Sion's song, 
 Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir, 
 For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre ? 
 
 Air. 
 
 Every moment as it flows, 
 Some peculiar pleasure owes. 
 
 Come, then, providently wise, 
 Seize the debtor e'er it flies. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 Think not to-morrow can repay 
 The debt of pleasure lost to-day 
 
 Alas ! to-morrow's richest store 
 Can but pay its proper score. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 Chain'd as we are, the scorn of all mankind, 
 To want, to toil, and every ill consign'd. 
 Is this a time to bid us raise the strain. 
 Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain? 
 No, never ! may this hand forget each art 
 That wakes to finest joys the human heart, 
 Ere I forget to land that gave me birth. 
 Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth I 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 Kebellious slaves ! if soft persuasions fail. 
 More formidable terrors shall prevail. 
 
230 THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATOBIO. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 Why, let them come, one good remains to cheer— 
 "We fear the Lord, and scorn all other fear. 
 
 [JSxeunt Chaldeans. 
 
 CHORUS OP ISRAELITES. 
 
 Can chains or tortures bend the mind 
 
 On God's supporting breast reclined ? 
 
 Stand fast, and let our tyrant see 
 
 That fortitude is victory. [Mveunt 
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 Israelites and Chaldeans as before. 
 
 Air. 
 first prophet. 
 
 O peace of mind, angelic guest. 
 Thou soft companion of the breast, 
 
 Dispense thy balmy store ! 
 "Wing all our thoughts to reach the skies, 
 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 ; 
 Compliance with his will your peace secures, 
 Praise but our gods, and every good is yours. 
 But if, rebellious to his high command. 
 You spurn the favors offer'd from his hand, 
 
THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 231 
 
 Think, timely think, what terrors are behind ; 
 Keflect, nor tempt to rage the royal mind. 
 
 Air. 
 
 Fierce is the tempest howling 
 
 Along the furrow 'd main, 
 And jBerce the whirlwind rolling 
 
 O'er Afric's sandy plain. 
 
 But storms that fly 
 
 To rend the sky, 
 Every ill presaging, 
 
 Less dreadful show 
 
 To worlds below 
 Than angry monarchs raging. 
 
 ISRAELITISH WOMEN. 
 
 Ah me ! what angry terrors round us grow ! 
 How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten'd blow ; 
 Ye prophets, skill'd in Heaven's eternal truth, 
 
 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 loth 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. 
 
232 THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 Why this delay ? At length for joy prepare. 
 I read your looks, and see compliance there. 
 Come on, and bid the warbling r" pture 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. 
 Here 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 ? 
 Hence, intruder ! we'll pursue 
 Nature, a better guide than you. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 But bold ! 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 I 
 And now his voice, accordant to the string. 
 Prepares our monarch's victories to sing. 
 
THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATOBIO. 233 
 
 Air. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 From north, from south, from east, from west, 
 
 Conspiring nations come : 
 Tremble, thou vice- polluted breast! 
 
 Blasphemers, all be dumb. 
 
 The tempest gathers all around, 
 
 On Babylon it lies ; 
 Down with her ! down, down to the ground 
 
 She sinks, she groans, she dies. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 Down with her. Lord, to lick the dust. 
 
 Before yon setting sun ; 
 Serve her as she hath served the just ! 
 
 'Tis fix'd — it "shall be done. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 'No more ! when slaves thus insolent presume, 
 
 The king himself shall judge and fix their doom. 
 
 Unthinking wretches ! have not you and all 
 
 Beheld our power in Zedekiah's fall ? 
 
 To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes : 
 
 See where dethroned your captive monarch lies, 
 
 Deprived of sight, and rankling in his chain ; 
 
 See where he mourns his friends and children slain. 
 
 Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind 
 
 More ponderous chains, and dungeons more confined. 
 
 CHORUS OF ALL. 
 
 Arise, all potent ruler, rise, 
 
 And vindicate the people's cause, 
 
 Till every tongue in every land 
 Shall ofl'er up unfeigned applause. 
 
234 THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 Yes, my companions, Heav^en's decrees are pass'd, 
 
 And our fix'd empire shall forever last : 
 
 In vain the madd'ning prophet threatens woe, 
 
 In vain rebellion aims her secret blow ; 
 
 Still shall our name and growing power be spread, 
 
 And still our justice crush the traitor's head. 
 
 Air. 
 
 Coeval with man 
 Our empire began, 
 And never shall fall 
 Till ruin shakes all, 
 "When ruin shakes all. 
 Then shall Babylon fall. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 'Tis thus the proud triumphant rear the head, — 
 A little while and all their power is fled. 
 But, ha ! what means yon sadly plaintive train, 
 That onward slowly bends along the plain ? 
 And now, behold, to yonder bank they bear 
 A pallid corse, and rest the body there. 
 Alas ! too well mine eyes indignant trace 
 The last remains of Judah's royal race: 
 Fall'n is our king, and all our fears are o'er. 
 Unhappy Zedekiah is no more. 
 
 Air. 
 
 Ye wretches, who, by fortune's hate, 
 
 In want and sorrow groan. 
 Come, ponder his severer fate, 
 
 And learn to bless your own. 
 
TEE CAPTIVITY : AN ORATORIO. 235 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 Te vain, whom youth and pleasure guide, 
 
 Awhile 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 ? 
 How long, how long. Almighty God of all. 
 Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall? 
 
 Air. 
 
 ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 
 
 As panting flies the hunted hind. 
 
 Where brooks refreshing stray ; 
 And rivers through the valley wind, 
 
 That stop the hunter's way : 
 
 Thus we, O Lord, alike distress'd, 
 
 For streams of mercy long ; 
 Streams which cheer the sore oppress'd, 
 
 And overwhelm the strong. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET, 
 
 But whence that shout? Good Heavens I Amaze- 
 ment all ! 
 See yonder tower just nodding to the fall : 
 Behold, an army covers all the ground, 
 'Tis Cyrus here that pours destruction round. 
 
236 THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 
 
 And now, behold, the battlements recline — 
 o God of hosts, the victory is thine ! 
 
 CHORUS OF CAPTIVES. 
 
 Down with them, Lord, to lick the dust ; 
 
 Thy vengeance be begun ; 
 Serve them as they have served the just, 
 
 And let thy will be done. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 All, all is lost ! The Syrian army fails, 
 Cyrus, the conqueror of the world prevails. 
 The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along — 
 How low the proud, how feeble are the strong ! 
 Save us, O Lord ! to Thee, though late, we pray ; 
 And give repentance but an hour's delay. 
 
 Air. 
 
 FIRST AND SECOND PRIESTS. 
 
 O happy, who in happy hour 
 To God their praise bestow, 
 
 And own his all-consuming power 
 Before they feel the blow ! 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 Kow, 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 morn. 
 
 Of Heaven alike, and man the foe, — 
 Heaven, men, and all, 
 Now press thy fall. 
 And sink the lowest of the low. 
 
THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 237 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 Babylon, how art thou fallen ! 
 Thy fall more dreadful from, delay I 
 
 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 I 
 Our great restorer, Cyrus, is at hand, 
 And this way leads his formidable band. 
 Give, give your songs of Sion to the wind, 
 And hail the benefactor of mankind : 
 He comes, pursuant to divine decree, 
 To chain the strong, and set the captive free. 
 
 CHORUS OF YOUTHS. 
 
 Rise to transports past expressing. 
 
 Sweeter by remember'd woes ; 
 Cyrus comes, our wrongs redressing. 
 
 Comes to give the world repose. 
 
 CHORUS OF VIRGINS. 
 
 Cyrus comes, the world redressing, 
 
 Love and pleasure in his train ; 
 Comes to heighten every blessing, 
 
 Comes to soften every pain. 
 
 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. 
 
238 EPILOGUE. 
 
 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 I 
 
 LINES ATTKIBUTED 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 cheek ; 
 
 I gazed, I sigh'd, I caught the tender flame. 
 Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion weak. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 BY DR. GOLDSMITH. 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY IN THE CHARACTER OF MISS HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Well, having stoop'd to conquer with success, 
 And gain'd a husband without aid from dress. 
 Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too, 
 As I have conquer'd him to conquer you : 
 And let me say, for all your resolution, 
 That pretty bar-maids have done execution. 
 
EPILOGUE. 239 
 
 Our life is all a play, composed to please ; 
 
 " We have our exits and our entrances." 
 
 The first act shows the simple country maid, 
 
 Harmless and young, of everything 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-councilmen forget to eat. 
 
 The fourth act shows her wedded to the squire. 
 
 And madam now begins to hold it higher; 
 
 Pretend to taste, at opera cries caro^ 
 
 And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che Faro : 
 
 Doats upon dancing, and, in all her pride. 
 
 Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside. 
 
 Ogles and leers, with artificial skill. 
 
 Till, having lost in age the power to kill, 
 
 She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille. 
 
 Such, through our lives, th' eventful history ! 
 
 The fifth and last act still remains for me : 
 
 The bar-maid now for your protection prays, 
 
 Turns female Barrister, and pleads for Bays. 
 
240 EPILOGUE. 
 
 EPILOGUE* 
 
 TO BE SPOKEN IN THE CHARACTER OF TONY LUMPKIN, 
 BY J. CKADOCK, 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 ain't polite : 
 To Sadler's Wells, perhaps, or operas go, 
 And once, by chance, to the roratorio. 
 Thus, here and there, forever up and down ; 
 We'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 make these London gentry say. 
 We know what's damn'd genteel as well as they I 
 
 *This came too late to be spoken. 
 
COMMENDATORY VERSES. 241 
 
 7EKSES 
 
 ON THE 
 
 DEATH OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM A POEM 
 
 WRITTEN BY COURTNEY MELMOTH, ESQ. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF EMINENT ENGLISH POETS. 
 
 THE TEARS OF GENIUS, 
 
 The village bell tolls out the note of death, 
 And through the echoing air the length'ning sound, 
 With dreadful pause, reverberating deep. 
 Spreads the sad tidings o'er fair Auburn's vale. 
 There, to enjoy the scenes her bard had praised 
 In all the sweet simplicity of song. 
 Genius, in pilgrim garb, sequester'd sat, 
 And herded jocund with the harmless swains ; 
 But when she heard the fate-foreboding knell, 
 "With startled step, precipitate and swift, 
 And look pathetic, full of dire presage, 
 The church-way walk beside the 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. 
 
242 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 The briar-bound grave shadowing with funeral gloom, 
 Forlorn she hied ; and there the crowding woe 
 (Swell'd by the parent) press'd on bleeding thought, 
 Big ran the drops from her maternal eye, 
 Fast broke the bosom-sorrow from her heart, 
 And pale Distress sat sickly on her cheek. 
 As thus her plaintive Elegy began : — 
 
 " And must my children all expire ? 
 
 Shall none be left to strike the lyre ? 
 
 Courts Death alone a learned prize ? 
 
 Falls his shafts only on the wise ? 
 
 Can no fit marks on earth be found, 
 
 From useless thousands swarming round ? 
 
 "What crowding ciphers cram the land, 
 
 What hosts of victims, at command ! 
 
 Yet shall the ingenious drop alone ? 
 
 Shall Science grace the tyrant's throne ? 
 
 Thou murd'rer of the tuneful train 
 
 I charge thee with my children slain ! 
 Scarce has the sun thrice urged his annual tour, 
 Since half my race have felt thy barbarous power 
 
 Sore hast thou thinn'd each pleasing art, 
 
 And struck a muse with every dart ; 
 Bard after bard obey'd thy slaughtering call, 
 Till scarce a poet lives to sing a brother's fall. 
 
 Then let a widow'd mother pay 
 
 The tribute of a parting lay ; 
 Tearful, inscribe the monumental strain. 
 And speak aloud her feelings and her pain ! 
 " And first, farewell to thee, my son," she cried, 
 
 " And first, farewell to thee, my son," she cried, 
 Long for thy sake the peasant's tear shall flow. 
 And many a virgin bosom heave with woe ; 
 
COMMENDATORY VERSES. 243 
 
 For thee shall sorrow sadden all the scene, 
 
 And every pastime perish on the green ; 
 
 The sturdy farmer shall suspend his tale, 
 
 The woodman's ballad shall no more regale, 
 
 No more shall Mirth each rustic sport inspire, 
 
 But every frolic, every feat, shall tire. 
 
 No more the evening gambol shall delight, 
 
 Nor moonshine-revels crown the vacant night ; 
 
 But groups of villagers (each joy forgot) 
 
 Shall form a sad assembly round the cot. 
 
 Sweet bard, farewell ! — and farewell, Auburn's bliss, 
 
 The bashful lover, and the yielded kiss : 
 
 The evening warble Philomela made. 
 
 The echoing forest, and the whispering shade. 
 
 The winding brook, the bleat of brute content. 
 
 And the blithe voice that " whistled as it went : " 
 
 These shall no longer charm the ploughman's care. 
 
 But sighs shall fill the pauses of despair. 
 
 " Goldsmith, adieu ; the ' book-learn'd priest ' for 
 thee 
 Shall now in vain possess his festive glee, 
 The oft-heard jest in vain he shall reveal. 
 For now, alas ! the jest he cannot feel. 
 But ruddy damsels o'er thy tomb shall bend. 
 And conscious weep for their and virtue's friend ; 
 The milkmaid shall reject the shepherd's song, 
 And cease to carol as she toils along : 
 All Auburn shall bewail the fatal day, 
 "When from her fields their pride was snatch'd away. 
 And even the matron of the cressy lake, 
 In piteous plight, her palsied head shall shake, 
 "While all adown the furrows of her face 
 Slow shall the lingering tears each other trace. 
 
 22— G & G— K 
 
244 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 " And, ohj my child ! severer woes remain 
 To all the houseless and unshelter'd train ! 
 Thy fate shall sadden many an humble guest, 
 And heap fresh anguish on the beggar's breast ; 
 For dear wert thou to all the sons of pain, 
 To all that wander, sorrow or complain : 
 Dear to the learned, to the simple dear, 
 For daily blessing mark'd thy virtuous year. 
 The rich received a moral from thy head. 
 And from thy heart the stranger found a. bed ; 
 Distress came always smiling from thy door ; 
 For God had made thee agent to the poor, 
 Had form'd thy feelings on the noblest plan, 
 To grace at once the poet and the man." 
 
 EXTRACT FROM A MONODY. 
 
 Daek 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 laureate bloom, 
 
 With artless hands, to deck a poet's tomb, — 
 
 The tomb where Goldsmith sleeps. Fond hopes, 
 
 adieu, 
 No more your airy dreams shall mock my view ; 
 Here will I learn ambition to control. 
 And each aspiring passion of the soul : 
 E'en now, methinks, his well-known voice I hear, 
 
COMMENDATORY VERSES. 245 
 
 "When late he meditated flight from care, 
 
 When, as imagination fondly hied 
 
 To scenes of sweet retirement, thus he cried : — 
 
 " Ye splendid fabrics, palaces, and towers, 
 "Where dissipation leads the giddy hours, 
 "Where pomp, disease, and knavery reside 
 And folly bends the knee to wealthy pride ; 
 Where luxury's purveyors learn to rise. 
 And worth, to want a prey, unfriended dies; 
 Where warbling eunuchs glitter in brocade, 
 And hapless poets toil for scanty bread : 
 Farewell ! to other scenes I turn my eyes, 
 Embosom'd in the vale where Auburn lies — 
 Deserted Auburn, those now ruin'd glades. 
 Forlorn, yet ever dear and honor'd shades, 
 There, though the hamlet boasts no smiling train, 
 Nor sportful pastime circling on the plain, 
 No needy villains prowl around for prey, 
 No slanderers, no sycophants betray ; 
 No gaudy foplings scornfully deride 
 The swain, whose humble pipe is all his pride, — 
 There will I fly to seek that soft repose. 
 Which solitude contemplative bestows. 
 Yet, oh, fond hope ! perchance there still remains 
 One lingering friend behind, to bless the plains ; 
 Some hermit of the dale, enshrined in ease. 
 Long lost companion of my youthful days ; 
 With whose sweet converse in his social bower, 
 I oft may chide away some vacant hour ; 
 To whose pure sympathy I may impart 
 Each latent grief that labors at my heart, 
 Whate'er I felt, and what I saw, relate, 
 The shoals of luxury, the wrecks of state, — 
 
246 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 Those busy scenes, where science wakes in vain, 
 In which I shared, ah ! ne'er to share again. 
 But whence that pang ? does nature now rebel ? 
 Why falters out my tongue the Avord 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 Avishes to the wind, 
 And lingering leaves her better half behind. 
 Can I forget the intercourse I shared. 
 What friendship cherish'd, and what zeal endear'd ? 
 Alas ! remembrance still must turn to you. 
 And, to my latest hour, protract the long adieu. 
 Amid the woodlands, wheresoe'er I rove, 
 The plain, or secret cover of the grove, 
 Imagination shall supply her store 
 Of painful bliss, and what she can restore ; 
 Shall strew each lonely path with fiow'rets gay, 
 And wide as is her boundless empire stray ; 
 On eagle pinions traverse earth and skies. 
 And bid the lost and distant objects rise. 
 Here, where encircled o'er the sloping land 
 Woods rise on woods, shall Aristotle stand ; 
 Lyceum round the godlike man rejoice, 
 And bow with reverence to wisdom's voice. 
 There, spreading oaks shall arch the vaulted dome, 
 The champion, there, of liberty and Rome, 
 In Attic eloquence shall thunder laws. 
 And uncorrupted senates shout applause. 
 Not more ecstatic visions rapt the soul i 
 
COMMENDATORY VERSES. 247 
 
 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'rite stream 
 
 Of beauty and enchantment will I dream ; 
 
 Elysium, seats of arts, and laurels won. 
 
 The Graces three, Japhet's ^ fabled son ; 
 
 "Whilst Angelo shall wave the mystic rod, 
 
 And see a new creation wait his nod ; 
 
 Prescribe his bounds to Time's remorseless power, 
 
 And to my arms my absent friends restore ; 
 
 Place me amidst the group, each well known face, 
 
 The sons of science, lords of human race ; 
 
 And as oblivion sinks at his command. 
 
 Nature shall rise more finish'd from his hand. 
 
 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. 
 Dnfetter'd from the toil of wretched gain, 
 
 * Promethevis. 
 
248 COMMENDATORY VJEBSES. 
 
 My raptured muse shall pour her noblest strain, 
 Within her native bowers the notes prolong, 
 And, grateful, meditate her latest song. 
 Thus, as adovvn the slope of life I bend. 
 And move, resign'd, to meet my latter end. 
 Each worldly wish, each worldly care repress'd 
 A self-approving heart alone possess'd, 
 Content, to bounteous Heaven I'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 woe. 
 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. 
 Which late they fann'd. Now other scenes than dales 
 Of woody pride, succeed, or flowery vales : 
 As when a sudden tempest veils the sky. 
 Before serene, and streaming lightnings fly, 
 The prospect shifts, and pitchy volumes roll 
 Along the drear expanse, from pole to pole ; 
 Terrific horrors all the void invest. 
 Whilst the arch spectre issues forth confest. 
 The Bard beholds him beckon to the tomb 
 
COMMENDATORY VERSES. 249 
 
 Of yawning night, eternity's dread womb ; 
 In vain attempts to fly, th' impassive air 
 Ketards his steps, and yields him to despair ; 
 He feels a gripe that thrills through every vein, 
 And panting struggles in the fatal chain. 
 Here paused the fell destroyer, to survey 
 The pride, the boast of man, his destined prey ; 
 Prepared to strike, he pois'd aloft the dart, 
 And plunged the steel in Virtue's bleeding heart ; 
 Abhorrent, back the springs of life rebound, 
 And leave on Nature's face a ghastly wound, 
 A wound enroU'd among Britannia's woes, 
 That ages yet to follow cannot close. 
 
 O Goldsmith ! how shall Sorrow now essay 
 To murmur out her slow, incondite lay ? 
 In what sad accents mourn the luckless hour, 
 That yielded thee to unrelenting power ; 
 Thee, the proud boast of all the tuneful train 
 That sweep the lyre, or swell the polish'd strain? 
 Much honored Bard ! if my ututor'd verse 
 Could pay a tribute worthy of thy hearse. 
 With fearless hands I'd build the fane of praise. 
 And boldly strew the never-fading bays. 
 But, ah ! with thee my guardian genius fled. 
 And pillow'd in thy tomb his silent head : 
 Pain'd Memory alone behind remains, 
 And pensive stalks the solitary plains. 
 Rich in her sorrows ; honors without art 
 She pays in tears redundant from the heart. 
 And say, what boots it o'er tliy hallow' d dust 
 To heap the graven pile, or laurell'd bust ; 
 Since by tliy hands, already raised on high, 
 We see a fabric tow'ring to the sky ; 
 
250 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 "Where, hand in hand with Time, the sacred lore 
 Shall travel on, till Nature is no more ? 
 
 LINES BY W. WOTTY. 
 
 Adieu, sweet Bard ! to each fine feeling true, 
 
 Thy virtues many, and thy foibles few, — 
 
 These form'd to charm e'en vicious minds, and these 
 
 "With harmless mirth the social soul to please. 
 
 Another's woe thy heart could always melt ; 
 
 None gave more free, for none more deeply felt. 
 
 Sweet Bard, adieu ! thy own harmonious lays 
 
 Have sculptured out thy monument of praise. 
 
 Yes, these survive to Time's remotest day ; 
 
 "While drops the bust, and boastful tombs decay. 
 
 Reader, if number'd in the Muse's train. 
 
 Go, tune the lyre, and imitate his strain ; 
 
 But, if no poet thou, reverse the plan, 
 
 Depart in peace, and imitate the man. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 5 
 
 OR, 
 THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 She stoops to Conquer was represented for the first time, March 
 15, 1773. It was very successful, and became a stock play. 
 Goldsmith originally entitled it. The Old House a New Inn. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. 
 
 Dear Sir, — By inscribing this slight performance to 
 you, I do not mean so much to compliment you as my- 
 self. It may do me some honor to inform the public 
 that I have lived many years in intimacy with you. 
 It may serve the interests of mankind also to inform 
 them that the greatest wit may be found in a char- 
 acter, without impairing the most unaffected piety. 
 
 I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your 
 partiality to this performance. The undertaking a 
 comedy, not merely 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 necessarily 
 delayed till late in the season, 1 have every reason to 
 be grateful. 
 
 I am, dear Sir, 
 Your most sincere friend and admirer, 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 251 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEIi. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Sir Charles Marlow. 
 
 Young Marlow {his son), 
 
 Hardcastle. 
 
 Hastings. 
 
 Tony Lurajglcin. 
 
 Diggory. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 Miss Hardcastle, 
 Miss Neville. 
 Maid. 
 
 Landlord, Servants, etG> 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 ~ THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 
 
 •' PROLOGUE. 
 
 BY DAVID GAKRICK, ESQ. 
 
 JEnter Mr. Woodward, dressed in hlach, 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 crying ? 
 
 The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying ! 
 
 And if she goes, my tears will never stop ; 
 
 For, as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop ; 
 
 I am undone, that's all, — shall lose my bread, — 
 
 I'd rather, — but that's nothing, — lose my head. 
 
 When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, 
 
 Shuter and 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. 
 
 253 
 
254 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 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). 
 
 Thus 1 begin, " All is not gold that glitters, 
 
 Pleasures seem sweet, but prove a glass of bitters. 
 
 "When ign'rance enters, folly is at hand : 
 
 Learning is better far than house or land. 
 
 Let not your virtue trip : who trips may stumble, 
 
 And virtue is not virtue if she tumble." 
 
 I give it up — morals won't do for me ; 
 
 To make you laugh, I must play tragedy. 
 
 One hope remains, — hearing the maid was ill, 
 
 A Doctor comes this night to show his skill ; 
 
 To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion. 
 
 He, in Five Draughts prepared, presents a potion, 
 
 A kind of magic charm ; for, be assured. 
 
 If you will swallow it, the maid is cured : 
 
 But desperate the Doctor's and her case is, 
 
 If you reject the dose and make wry faces. 
 
 This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, 
 
 No pois'nous drugs are mixed in what he gives. 
 
 Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree ; 
 
 If not, within he will receive no fee. 
 
 The college, you, must his pretensions back, 
 
 Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 255 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 Scene I.— a chamber in an old-fashioned house. 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Ha/rdcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're 
 very particular. Is there a creature in the whole coun- 
 try but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town 
 now and then, to rub off the rust a little ? There's the 
 two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbor Mrs. Grigsby, go 
 to take a month's polishing every winter. 
 
 Hardcastle. Aj, and bring back vanity and affecta- 
 tion to last them the whole year. I wonder why Lon- 
 don cannot keep its own fools at home. In my time, 
 the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now 
 they travel faster than a stage coach. Its fopperies 
 come down not only as inside passengers, but in the 
 very basket. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, your times were fine times 
 indeed : you have been telling us of them for many a 
 long year. Here we live in an old rumbling mansion, 
 that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we 
 never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. 
 Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the 
 lame dancing master ; and all our entertainment your 
 old stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marl- 
 borough. I hate such old-fashioned trumpery. 
 
 Hardcastle. And I love it. I love everything that's 
 old : old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old 
 wine ; and, I believe, Dorothy, {taking her hand,) you'll 
 own, I've been pretty fond of an old wife. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for- 
 
256 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 ever at your Dorothys, and your old wives. You may 
 be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I promise you, I'm 
 not so old as you'd make me, by more than one good 
 year. Add twenty to twenty and make money of that. 
 
 Hardcastle. Let me see ; twenty added to twenty, 
 makes just fifty and seven. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle ; I was 
 but twenty when I was brought to-bed of Tony, that I 
 had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband ; and he's not 
 come to years of discretion yet. 
 
 Hardcastle. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. 
 Ay, you have taught him finely. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has 
 a good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. 
 I don't think a bo}'" wants much learning to spend fif- 
 teen hundred a-year. 
 
 Hardcastle. Learning, quotha ! a mere composition 
 of tricks and mischief. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Humor, my dear, nothing but 
 humor. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the 
 boy a little humor. 
 
 Hardcastle. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If 
 burning the footman's shoes, frightening the maids, 
 and worrying the kittens, be humor, he has it. It was 
 but yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my 
 chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popt my 
 bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. And I am to blame % The poor 
 boy was always too sickly to do any good. A school 
 would be his death. When he comes to be a little 
 stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin may 
 do for him ? 
 
 Hardcastle. Latin for him ! A cat and fiddle. No, 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEB. 257 
 
 no ; the alehouse and the stable are the only school 
 he'll ever go to. 
 
 Mrs. Rardcastle. Well, we must not snub the poor 
 boy now, for 1 believe we shan't have him long among 
 us. Anybody that looks in his face may see he's con- 
 sumptive. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the 
 symptoms. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. He coughs sometimes. 
 
 Hardcastle. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong 
 way. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I'm actually afraid of his lungs. 
 
 Hardcastle. And truly so am I ; for he sometimes 
 whoops like a speaking trumpet — {Tony hallooing he- 
 hind the scenes.) — Oh, there he goes — a very consump- 
 tive figure, truly ! 
 
 Enter Tony, crossing the stage. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Tony, where are you going, my 
 charmer ? Won't you give papa and I a little of your 
 company, lovey ? 
 
 Tony. I'm in haste, mother ; I cannot stay. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. You shan't venture out this raw 
 evening, my dear ; you look most shockingly. 
 
 Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons 
 expects me down every moment. There's some fun 
 going forward. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, the alehouse, the old place ; I 
 thought so. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. A low, paltry set of fellows. 
 
 Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Muggins, 
 the exciseman, Jack Slang, the horse-doctor, little 
 
258 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Aminadab, that grinds the music-box, and Tom Twist, 
 that spins the pewter platter. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray, my dear, disappoint them 
 for one night at least. 
 
 Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not so 
 much mind ; but I can't abide to disappoint myself. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. {Detaining him.) You shan't go. 
 
 Tony. 1 will, I tell you. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I say you shan't. 
 
 Tony. We'll see which is the strongest, you or T. 
 
 [Axit, hauling her out. 
 
 Hardcastle. {Alone.) Ay, there goes a pair that 
 only spoil each other. But is not the whole age in 
 combination to drive sense and discretion out of doors ? 
 There's my pretty darling, Kate ! the fashions of the 
 times have almost infected her too. By living a year 
 or two in town, she is as fond of gauze and French 
 frippery as the best of them. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. Blessings on my pretty innocence ! 
 drest out as usual, my Kate. Goodness! what a quan- 
 tity of superfluous silk hast thou got about thee, girl ! 
 I could never teach the fools of this age, that the indi- 
 gent world could be clothed out of the trimmings of 
 the vain. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. You know our agreement, sir. 
 You allow me the morning to receive and pay visits, 
 and to dress in my own manner ; and in the evening I 
 put on my housewife's dress to please you. 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, remember I insist on the terms 
 of our agreement, and, by-the-bye, I believe I shall havQ 
 4^ occasion to try your obedience this very evening. 
 
^ 
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 259 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I protest, sir, 1 don't comprehend 
 your meaning. 
 
 Hardcastle. Then, to be plain with you, Kate, I ex- 
 pect the young gentleman 1 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 him shortly after. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Indeed ! I wish I had known 
 something of this before. Bless me, how shall I be- 
 have. It's a thousand to one 1 shan't like him ; our 
 meeting will be so formal and so like a thing of 
 business, that I shall find no room for friendship or 
 esteem. 
 
 Hardcastle. Depend upon it, child, I never will con- 
 trol your choice ; but Mr. Mario w, whom I have pitched 
 upon, is the son of my old friend, Sir Charles Mario w, 
 of whom you have heard me talk so often. The young 
 gentleman has been bred a scholar, and is designed for 
 an employment in the service of his country. I am 
 told he's a man of an excellent understanding. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Is he % 
 
 Hardcastle. Very generous. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I believe I shall like him. 
 
 Hardcastle. Young and brave. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I'm sure I shall like him. 
 
 Hardcastle. And verv handsome. 
 
 Miss Hardcastlcs, My dear papa, say no more, 
 {kissing his hand ) he's mine — I'll have him. 
 
 Hardcastle. 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 
 
260 BHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 his accomplishments. A reserv^ed lover, it is said, at 
 ways 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 be 
 so young, so handsome, and so everything as you men- 
 tion, I 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 Hardcastle. My dear papa, why will you mor- 
 tify one so ? Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking 
 m}'^ 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 I In 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. Sensible, good-na- 
 tured ; I like all that. But then, reserved and sheep- 
 ish ; that's much against him. Yet can't he be cured 
 of his timidity by being taught to be proud of his wife? 
 Yes ; and can't I — but I vow I'm disposing of the hus- 
 band, before I have secured the lover. 
 
 Enter Miss Neville. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I'm glad you're come, Neville, 
 my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this even- 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 261 
 
 ing ? Is there anything whimsical about me ? Is it 
 one of my well-looking days, child ? Am I in face to- 
 day ? 
 
 Miss Neville. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look 
 again — bless me! — sure no accident has happened 
 among the canary birds or the gold fishes ? Has your 
 brother or the cat been meddling ? or has the last 
 novel been too moving ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. No ; nothing of all this. 1 have 
 been threatened — I can scarce get it out — I have been 
 threatened with a lover. 
 
 Miss Neville . And his name ' 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Is Marlow. 
 
 Miss Neville. Indeed ! 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. 
 
 Miss Neville. As I live, the most intimate friend of 
 Mr. Hastings, my admirer. They are never asunder. 
 I believe you must have seen him when we lived in 
 town. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Never. 
 
 Miss Neville. He's a very singular character, I assure 
 you. Among women of reputation and virtue, he is 
 the modestest man alive ; but his acquaintance give 
 him a very different character among creatures of an- 
 other stamp — you understand me. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. An odd character indeed. I shall j^ 
 never be able to manage him. What shall I do ! Pshaw, 
 think no more of him, but trust to occurrences for suc- 
 cess. But how goes on your own affair, ray 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-d-tetes. She had been saying a hundred 
 
262 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEB. , 
 
 tender things, and setting off her pretty monster as 
 the very pink of perfection. 
 
 Miss Hardastle. 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 manage- 
 ment of it, I'm not surprised to see her unwilling to let 
 it go out of the family. 
 
 Miss Neville. A fortune like mine, which chiefly 
 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 hold s 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 our 
 afternoon's walk round the improvements. Ailons I 
 Courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Would it were bed-time, and all 
 were well. [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene n. — an alehouse room. 
 
 Several shabby fellows with punch and tobacco / Tony 
 at the head of the table, a little higher tha/n the 7'est^ 
 a mallet in his hand. 
 
 Om-nes. Hurrea ! hurrea ! hurrea ! bravo 1 
 J^irst Fellow. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song: 
 The Squire is going to knock himself down for a song. 
 
 Orrmes. Ay, a song, a song I 
 
 •-■ ■ / 
 
 4 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 263 
 
 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 ge7ius 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, toroU. 
 
 When methodist preachers come down, 
 
 A-preaching that drinking is sinful, 
 I'll wager the rascals a crown, 
 
 They always preach best with a skinf ull. 
 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, torolL 
 
 Then come, put the jorum about, 
 
 And let us be merry and clever. 
 Our hearts and our liquors are stout. 
 
 Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. 
 Let some cry up woodcock or hare. 
 
 Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons ; 
 But of all the birds in the air. 
 
 Here's health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 
 
 Omnes. Bravo, bravo ! 
 
 First Fellow. The Squire has got some spunk in 
 him. 
 
 Second Fellow. I loves to hoar him sing, bekeays 
 he never gives us nothing that's low. 
 
264 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Third Fellow. Oh, damn anything that's low, I 
 cannot bear it. 
 
 Fourth Fellow. The genteel thing is the genteel 
 thing any time ; if so be that a gentleman bees in a 
 concatenation accordingly. 
 
 Third Fellow. I like the maxum of it, Master Mug- 
 gins. "What though I am obligated to dance a bear, 
 a man may be a gentleman for all that. May this be 
 my poison, if my bear ever dances but to the very gen- 
 teelest of tunes; " "Water parted," or " The minuet in 
 Ariadne." 
 
 Second Felloiu. "What a pity it is the Squire is not 
 come to his own. It would be well for all the publi- 
 cans with ten miles round of him. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I'd 
 then show what it was to keep choice of company. 
 
 Second Fellow. Oh, he takes after his own father 
 for that. To be sure, old Squire Lumpkin was the 
 finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For winding 
 the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a hare or a 
 wench, he never had his fellow. It was a saying in 
 the place, that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls, 
 in the whole county. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Enter Landlord. 
 
 Landlord. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise 
 at the door. They have lost their way upon the 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 265 
 
 forest; and they are talking something about Mr. 
 Hardcastle. 
 
 Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be the 
 gentleman that's coming down to court my sister. Do 
 they seem to be Londoners ? 
 
 Landlord. I believe they may. They look woundily 
 like Frenchmen. 
 
 Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I'll 
 set them right in a twinkling. {^Exit Landlord. 
 
 Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough company 
 for you, step down for a moment, and I'll be with you 
 in the squeezing of a lemon. \Exeunt mob. 
 
 Tony. (Alone.) Father-in-law has been calling me 
 whelp and hound this half year. Now, if I pleased, I 
 could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian. 
 But then I'm afraid, — afraid of what ? I shall soon be 
 worth fifteen hundred a year, and let him frighten me 
 out of that if he can. 
 
 Enter Jjandlord, 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 w^ay. 
 
 Marlow. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay 
 myself under an obligation to every one I meet ; and 
 often stand the chance of an unmannerly answer. 
 
 Hastings. At present, however, we are not likely 
 to receive any answer. 
 
266 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told you 
 have been inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle, in these 
 parts. Do you know what part of the country you 
 are in ? 
 
 Hastings. Not in the least, sir, but should thank 
 you for information. 
 
 Tony. Nor the way you came ? 
 
 Hastings. No, sir ; but if you can inform us 
 
 Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the 
 road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road 
 you came, the first thing I have to inform you is, that 
 — you have lost your way. 
 
 Marlow. "We wanted no ghost to tell us that. 
 
 Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask 
 the place from whence you came ? 
 
 Marlow. That's not necessary towards directing us 
 where we are to go. 
 
 Tony. No offence ; but question for question is all 
 fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same 
 Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical 
 fellow,with an ugly face : a daughter, and a prett}'- son ? 
 
 Hastvngs. We have not seen the gentleman ; but 
 lie 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 
 daughter is said to be well-bred, and beautiful ; the 
 son an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at his 
 mother's apron-string. 
 
 Tony. He-he-hem ! — Then, gentlemen, all I have 
 to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr, Hardcastle's 
 house this night, I believe. 
 
SEE STOOPS TO CONQUEB. 267 
 
 Hastings. Unfortunate ! 
 
 Tony. It's a damned long, dark, boggy, dirty, dan- 
 gerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to 
 Mr. Hardcastle's {wmking ujpon the Landlord)^ Mr. 
 Hardcastle's of Quagmire Marsh — you understand me ? 
 
 Landlord. Master Hardcastle's ! Lock-a-daisy, my 
 masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong! "When 
 you came to the bottom of the hill, you should have 
 crossed down Squash Lane. 
 
 Marlow. Cross down Squash Lane ? 
 
 Landlord. Then you were to keep straight forward, 
 till you came to four roads. 
 
 Marlow. Come to where four roads meet ? 
 
 Tony. Ay ; but you must be sure to take only one 
 of them. 
 
 Marlow. O sir, you're facetious. 
 
 Tony. Then keeping to the right, you are to go 
 sideways, till you come upon Crack-skull common : 
 there you must look sharp for the track of the wheel, 
 and go forward till you come to farmer Murrain's 
 barn. Coming to the farmer's barn, you are to turn 
 to the right, and then to the left, and then to the right 
 about again, till you find out the old mill 
 
 Marlow. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out 
 the longitude. 
 
 Hastings. "What's to be done, Marlow ? 
 
 Marlow. This house promises but a poor reception ; 
 though perhaps the landlord can accommodate us. 
 
 Landlord. Alack, master, we have but one spare 
 bed in the whole house. 
 
 Tony. And to my knowledge, that's taken up by 
 three lodgers already. {After a pause in which the 
 rest seem disconcerted.) I have hit it : don't you think, 
 
 22— G & G— L 
 
268 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Stingo, our landlady could accommodate the gentle- 
 men by the fireside, with — three chairs and a bolster ? 
 
 Hastings. I hate sleeping by the fireside. 
 
 Marlow. And I detest your three chairs and a bol- 
 ster. 
 
 Tony. You do, do you ? — then, let me see, — what 
 if 3'ou 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 
 w^hole country. 
 
 Hastings. O ho ! so we have escaped an. adventure 
 for this night, however. 
 
 Landlord. {Ajyart to Tony.) Sure, you ben't send- 
 ing them to your father's as an inn, be you ? 
 
 To7iy. Mum, you fool you. Let them find that out. 
 {To thein.) You have only to keep on straight for- 
 ward, till you come to a large old house by the road- 
 side. You'll see a pair of large horns over the door. 
 That's the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly 
 about you. 
 
 Hastings. Sir, w^e 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 ! 
 be ! 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 as keeps good wanes and beds as any in the whole 
 countrv. 
 
 Marlow. "Well, if he supplies us with these, we 
 shall want no further connection. We are to turn to 
 the right, did you say % 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 269 
 
 Tony. No, no, straight forward ; I'll just step my- 
 self, and show you a piece of the way. {To the Land- 
 lord.) Mum ! 
 
 Landlord. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleas- 
 ant — damned mischievous son of a whore. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 Scene I.— an old-fashioned house. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle, followed hy three or four aioTcward 
 
 Servants. 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, I hope you are perfect in the 0> 
 table exercise 1 have been teaching you these three 
 days. You all know your posts and your places, and 
 can show that you have been used to good company, 
 without ever stirring from home. 
 
 Omnes. Ay, ay. 
 
 Llardcastle. "When company comes, you are not to 
 pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frighted 
 rabbits in a warren. 
 
 Omnes. No, no. 
 
 Hardcastle. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from 
 the barn, are to make a show at the side table ; and 
 you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough, 
 are to place yourself behind my chair. But you're not 
 to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. Take 
 your hands from your pockets, Roger — and from your 
 head, you blockhead, you. See how Diggory carries 
 his hands. They're little too stiff, indeed, but that's 
 no great matter. 
 
270 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Diggory. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned 
 to hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill for 
 the militia. And so being upon drill 
 
 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 ; 3^ou 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 per- 
 fectly un possible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating 
 going forward, ecod, he's always wishing for a mouth- 
 ful himself. 
 
 Hardaastle. Blockhead ! is not a bellyful in the 
 kitchen as good as a bellyful in the parlor ? Stay your 
 stomach with that reflection. 
 
 Diggory. Ecod, I thank 3'^our worship, I'll make a 
 shift to stay my stomach wdth a slice of cold beef in 
 the pantry. 
 
 Hardcastle. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then 
 if I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story at 
 table, you must not all burst out a-laughing, as if you 
 made part of the company. 
 
 Diggory. Then, ecod, your worship must not tell 
 the story of the Ould Grouse in the gun-room ; I can't 
 help laughing at that — he ! he ! he ! — for the soul of 
 me. We have laughed at that these twenty years — 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 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 the 
 company should call for a glass of wine, how will you 
 behave ? A glass of wine, sir, if you please. {To 
 Diggory) — Eh, why don't you move % 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 271 
 
 Diggory. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage, 
 till I see the eatables and drinkables brought upo' the 
 table, and then I'm as bauld as a lion. 
 
 Hardcastle. What, will nobody move ? 
 
 First Servant. I'm not to leave this pleace. 
 
 Second Servant. I'm sure it 's no pleace of mine. 
 
 Third Servant. Nor mine, for sartain, 
 
 Diggory. Wauns, and I'm sure it canna be mine. 
 
 Hardcastle. You numskulls ! and so Avhile, like 
 your betters, you are quarrelling for places, the guests 
 must be starved, O you dunces ! I find I must begin 
 
 all over again But don't I hear a coach drive into 
 
 to the yard ? To your posts, you blockheads. I'll go 
 in the meantime, and give my old friend's son a hearty 
 welcome at the gate. [^Exit Hardcastle. 
 
 Diggory. By the elevens, my place is quite gone 
 out my head. 
 
 Roger. I know that my place is to be every where. 
 
 First Servant. "Where the devil is mine ? 
 
 Second Servant. My pleace is to be no where at all, 
 and so Ize go about my business. 
 
 \_Exeunt Servants, running about as if 
 frightened, several ways. 
 
 Enter Servant, with candles, showing in Marlow and 
 
 Hastings. 
 
 Servant. "Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome ! This 
 way. 
 
 Hastings. After the disappointments of the day, 
 welcome once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean 
 room and a good fire. Upon ray word, a very well- 
 looking house : antique, but creditable. 
 
272 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Marlow. The usual fate of a large mansion. 
 Having first ruined the master by good housekeeping, 
 it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn. 
 
 Hastings. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed 
 to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good 
 sideboard, or a marble chimney-piece, though not 
 actually put in the bill, inflame a reckoning con- 
 foundedly. 
 
 Mai-iow. Travellers, George, must pay in all places ; 
 the only difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly 
 for luxuries, in bad inns you are fleeced and starved. 
 
 Hastings. You have lived pretty much among them. 
 In truth I have been often surprised, that you who 
 have seen so much of the world, with your natural 
 good sense, and your many opportunities, could never 
 yet acquire a requisite share of assurance. 
 
 Marlovj. The Englishman''s malady. But tell me, 
 George, where could I have learned that assurance you 
 talk of ? My life has been chiefly spent in a college 
 or an inn, in seclusion from that lovely part of the crea- 
 tion that chiefly teach men confidence. I don't know 
 that I was ever familiarly acquainted with a single 
 modest woman, except my mother. — But among females 
 of another class, you know 
 
 Hastings. Ay, among them you are impudent 
 enough, of all conscience. 
 
 Marlow. They are of us, you know. 
 
 Hastings. But in the company of women of reputa- 
 tion I never saw such an idiot — such a trembler ; you 
 look for all the world as if j^ou wanted an opportunity 
 of stealing out of the room. 
 
 Marlow. Why, man, that's because I do want to 
 steal out of the room. Faith, I have often formed a 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 273 
 
 resolution to break the ice, and rattle away at any rate. 
 But I don't know how, a single glance from a pair of 
 fine eyes has totally overset my resolution. An im- 
 pudent fellow may counterfeit modesty, but I'll be 
 hanged if a modest man can ever counterfeit impu- 
 dence. 
 
 Hastings. If you could but say half the fine things 
 to them that 1 have heard 3'ou lavish upon the bar- 
 maid of an inn, or even a college bed-maker 
 
 Marlow. Why, George, I can't say fine things to 
 them — they freeze, they petrify me. They may talk 
 of a comet, or a burning mountain, or some such 
 bagatelle, but to me a modest woman, dressed out in 
 all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the 
 whole creation. 
 
 Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! At this rate, man, how 
 can you ever expect to marry ? 
 
 Marlow. Never ; unless as among kings and princes 
 my bride were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like 
 an Eastern bridegroom, one were to be introduced to a 
 wife he never saw before, it might be endured. But to 
 go through all the terrors of a formal courtship,together 
 with the episode of aunts, grandmothers, and cousins, 
 and, at last to blurt out the broad staring question of 
 * Madam, will you marry me ? ' No, no, that's a strain 
 much above me, I assure you, 
 
 Hastings. 1 pity you. But how do you intend 
 behaving to the lady you are come down to visit at the 
 request of your father ? 
 
 Marlov). 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 shnll venture to look in her face 
 till I see my father's again. 
 
274 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hastings. I'm surprised that one who is so warm 
 a friend can be so cool a lover, 
 
 Marloiv. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my 
 chief inducement down was to be instrumental m 
 forwarding your happiness, not my own. Miss Neville 
 loves you, the family don't know you ; as my friend, 
 you are sure of a reception, and let honor do the 
 rest. 
 
 Hastings. My dear Marlow ! — But I'll suppress the 
 emotion. Were I a wretch, meanly seeking to carry 
 off a fortune, you should be the last man in the world 
 I would apply to for assistance. But Miss Neville's 
 person is all I ask, and that is mine, both from her 
 deceased father's consent, and her own inclination. 
 
 Marlow. Happy man ! You have talents and art to 
 captivate any woman. I'm doomed to adore the sex, 
 and yet to converse with the only part of it I despise. 
 This stammer in my address, and this awkward, unpre- 
 possessing visage of mine can never permit me to soar 
 above the reach of a milliner's prentice or one of the 
 Duchesses of Drury lane. Pshaw ! this fellow here 
 to interrupt us. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily 
 welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow ? Sir, you are heartily 
 welcome. It 's not my way, you see, to receive my 
 friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them 
 a hearty reception in the old style at my gate. I like 
 to see their horses and trunks taken care of. 
 
 Marlow. {Aside.) He has got our names from the 
 servants already. {To him.) We approve your cau- 
 tion and hospitality, sir. {To Hastings^ I have been 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 275 
 
 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 cere- 
 mony in this house. 
 
 Hastings. I fancy, Charles, you 're right ; the first 
 blow is half the battle. I intend opening the campaign 
 with the white and gold. 
 
 Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow — Mr. Hastings — gentle- 
 men, pray be under no restraint in this house. This is 
 Liberty-hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you 
 please here. 
 
 Marlow. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too 
 fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is 
 over. I think to reserve the embroidery to secure a 
 retreat. 
 
 Hardcastle. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, 
 puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when 
 we went to besiege Denaiu. He first summoned the 
 
 garrison 
 
 Marlow. Don't you think the ventre d''or waistcoat 
 will do with the plain brown ? 
 
 Hardcastle. He first summoned the garrison, wiiich 
 might consist of about five thousand men 
 
 Hastings. I think not : brown and yellow mix but 
 very poorly. 
 
 Hardcastle. I, sa}'', gentlemen, as I was telling you, 
 he summo'ned the garrison, which might consist of 
 about five thousand men 
 
 Marlow. The girls like finery. 
 
 Hardcastle. Which might consist of about five thou- 
 sand men, well appointed Avith stores, ammunition, and 
 other implements of war. Now, says the Duke of 
 
276 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 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 vigor. 
 
 Hardcastle. Punch, sir ! {Aside.) This is the 
 most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch 
 after our journey, will be comfortable. This is Liberty- 
 hall, you know. 
 
 Enter Roger with a cup. 
 
 Hardcastle. Here's a cup, sir. 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.) So this fellow, in his Liberty- 
 hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. 
 
 Hardcastle. {Taking the cup.) I hope you'll find it 
 to your mind. I have prepared it with my own hands, 
 and I believe you'll own the ingredients are tolerable. 
 Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir ? Here, Mr. 
 Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. {Drinks.) 
 
 Marlow. {Aside.) A very impudent fellow this ; 
 but he's a character, and I'll humor him a little. Sir, 
 my service to you. {Drinks.) 
 
 Hastings. {Aside.) I see this fellow wants to give 
 us his company, and forgets that he's an innkeeper, 
 before he has learned to be a gentleman. 
 
 Marlow. From the excellence of your cup, my old 
 friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in 
 this part of the country. Warm work, now and then, 
 at elections, I suppose. 
 
 Hardcastle. No, sir, I have long given that work 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 277 
 
 over. Since our betters have hit upon the expedient 
 of electing each other, there is no business " for us that 
 sell ale." 
 
 Hastings. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I 
 find. 
 
 Hardcastle. Not in the least. There was a time, 
 indeed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of govern- 
 ment, like other people ; but, finding myself every day 
 grow more angry, and the government growing no 
 better, I left it to mend itself. Since that, I no more 
 trouble my head about Hyder Ally, or Ally Cawn, 
 than about Ally Croaker. Sir, my service to you. 
 
 Hastings. So that with eating above stairs and 
 drinking below, with receiving your friends within 
 and amusing them without, you lead a good, pleasant, 
 bustling life of it. 
 
 Hardcastle. I do stir about a great deal, that's cer- 
 tain. Half the differences of the parish are adjusted 
 in this very parlor. 
 
 Marlow. {After dri7iking.) And you have an argu- 
 ment in 3^our cup, old gentleman, better than any in 
 Westminster-hall. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little 
 philosophy. 
 
 Marlovj. {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 rea- 
 son manageable, you attack it with your philosophy ; 
 if you find they have no reason, you attack them with 
 tins. Here 's your health, my philosopher. {Drinks.) 
 
 Hardcastle. Good, very good, thank you ; ha ! ha ! 
 ha! Your generalship puts me in mind of Princo 
 
278 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 believe 
 it 's almost time to talk about supper. What has your 
 philosophy got in the house for supper ? 
 
 Hardcastle. For supper, sir! {Aside.) Was ever 
 such a request to a man in his own house ! 
 
 Marlow. Yes, sir, supper, sir ; I begin to feel an 
 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 ? 
 
 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 I always choose to regulate my own supper. 
 Let the cook be called. No offence, I hope, sir. 
 
 Hardcastle. O, no, sir, none in the least ; yet I 
 don't know now, 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 favor. I always match my appetite to my 
 bill of fare. 
 
 Marlow. {To Hardcastle^ who looJcs at them with 
 surprise.) Sir, he 's very right, and it 's my way, too. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEB. 279 
 
 nardcastle. 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 Wal- 
 lop. It was a saying of his, that no man was sure of 
 his supper till he had eaten it. 
 
 Enter Roger, 
 
 Hastings. {Aside.) All upon the high rope ! His 
 uncle a colonel ! we shall soon hear of his mother 
 being a justice of the peace. But let's hear the bill of 
 fare. 
 
 Marlow. {Perusing.) What's here ? For the first 
 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 ? Two or three little 
 things, clean and comfortable, will do. 
 
 Hastings. But let's hear it. 
 
 Ma/rlow. {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 them- 
 selves. 
 
 Hardcastle. {Aside.) Their impudence confounds 
 
280 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 me. {To them.) Gentlemen, you are my guests, make 
 what alterations you please. Is there anything elso 
 you wish to retrench, or alter, gentlemen ? 
 
 Marlow. " Item : A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and 
 sausages, a Florentine, a shaking pudding, and a dish 
 of tiff — taff — taffety cream ! " 
 
 Hastings. Confound your made dishes ; I shall be 
 as much at a loss in this house as at a green and yellow 
 dinner at the French ambassador's table. I'm for 
 plain eating. 
 
 Hardcastle. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have noth- 
 ing 3''ou like ; but if there be anything you have a 
 particular fancy to 
 
 Marlow. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so 
 exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as an- 
 other. Send us what you please. So much for sup- 
 per. And now to see that our beds are aired, and 
 properly taken care of. 
 
 Hardcastle. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. 
 You shall not stir a step. 
 
 Harlow. Leave that to you ! I protest, sir, you 
 must excuse me : I always look to these things my- 
 self. 
 
 Hardcastle. 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 I never saw anything look so like old-fashioned 
 impudence. \_Exeunt Marlow and Hardcastle. 
 
 Hastings. {Alone.) So I find this fellow's civil- 
 fbies begin to grow troublesome. But who can be an- 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEB. 281 
 
 gry at those assiduities which are meant to please 
 him ? Ha ! what do I see ? Miss Neville, by all that's 
 happy I 
 
 Enter Miss Neville. 
 
 Miss Neville. My dear Hastings ! To what unex- 
 pected good fortune — to what accident, am I to as- 
 cribe this happy meeting ? 
 
 Hastings. Either 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 ! sure you mistake : my aunt, 
 my guardian, lives here. What could induce you to 
 think this house an inn ? 
 
 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- 
 ful cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard me talk 
 so often ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hastings. He whom your aunt intends for you ? he 
 of whom I have such just apprehensions ? 
 
 Miss Neville. You have nothing to fear from him, 
 I assure you. You'd adore him if you knew how 
 heartily he despises me. My aunt knows it too, and 
 has undertaken to court me for him, and actually be- 
 gins to think she has made a conquest. 
 
 Hastings. Thou dear dissembler ! You must know, 
 my Constance, I have just seized this happy opportu- 
 nity 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- 
 
282 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 freshed ; and, then, if my dearest girl will trust in her 
 faithful Hastings, we shall soon be landed in France, 
 where even among the slaves the laws of marriage are 
 respected. 
 
 Miss Nemlle. I have often told you, that though 
 ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little fortune 
 behind with reluctance. The greatest part of it was 
 left me by my uncle, the India director, and chiefly 
 consists in jewels. I have been for some time persuad- 
 ing 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 aU 
 I desire. In the meantime, my friend Marlow must 
 not be let into his mistake. I know the strang^e 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 Nemlle. 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 \T^^y confer. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. The assiduities of these good people tease 
 me beyond bearing. My host seems to think it iU 
 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 
 
SHE STOOPS TO COJSTQUER. 283 
 
 • 
 
 you — The most fortunate accident ! — Who do you 
 think is just alighted ? 
 
 Marlow. Cannot guess. 
 
 Hastings. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle and 
 Miss Neville. Give me leave to introduce Miss Con- 
 stance Neville to your acquaintance. Happening to 
 dine in the neighborhood, they called on their return 
 to take fresh horses here. Miss Hardcastle has just 
 stept into the next room, and will be back in an in- 
 stant. "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 ? 
 
 Marlow. Oh, yes. Yery fortunate — a most joyful 
 encounter. But our dresses, George, you know, are in 
 disorder — What if we should postpone the happiness 
 till to-morrow ? — to-morrow at her own house — It will 
 be every bit as convenient — and rather more respect- 
 ful — To-morrow let it be. [ Offering to go. 
 
 Hastings. By no means, sir. Your ceremony will 
 displease her. The disorder of your dress will show 
 the ardor of your impatience. Besides, she knows you 
 are in the house, and will permit you to see her. 
 
 Marlow. Oh, the devil ! How shall I support it ? 
 — Hem ! hem ! Hastings, you must not go. You are 
 to assist me, you know. I shall be confoundedly ridic- 
 ulous. Yet hang it ! I'll take courage. Hem ! 
 
 Hastings. Pshaw, man I it's but the first plunge, 
 and all's over. She's but a woman, you know. 
 
 Marlow. And of all women, she that I dread most 
 to encounter. 
 
284 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 « 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle, as returned from walking. 
 
 Hastings. {Introducing them.) Miss Hardcastle, 
 Mr. Mario \v, 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 own manner. {After a pause, in which he appears 
 very uneasy and disconcerted.) I'm glad of your safe 
 arrival, sir. I'm told you had some accidents by the 
 way. 
 
 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, can 
 find little entertainment in an obscure corner of the 
 country. 
 
 Marlow. {Gathering courage.) I have lived, indeed, 
 in the world, madam ; but I have kept very little com- 
 pany. 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 forever. 
 
 Marlow. {To him.) Hem ! stand by me then, and 
 when I'm down, throw in a word or two to set me up 
 again. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 285 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. An observer, like you, upon life, 
 were, 1 fear, disagreeably employed, since you must 
 have had much more to censure than to approve. 
 
 Marlow. Pardon me, madam, I was always will- 
 ing to be amused. The folly of most people is rather 
 an object of mirth than uneasiness. 
 
 Hastings. {To him.) Bravo, bravo. Never spoke 
 so well in your whole life. Well, Miss Hardcastle, I 
 see that you and Mr. Marlow are going to be very 
 good company. I believe our being here will but em- 
 Wrrass the interview. 
 
 MaHow. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We like 
 your company of all things. {To him.) Zounds, 
 George, sure you won't go ? how can you leave us ? 
 
 Hastings. 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 
 t6te-a-tete of our own. \Exeunt. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. {After a jyause.) But you have 
 not been wholly an observer, I presume, sir : the ladies, 
 I should hope, have employed some part of your ad- 
 dresses. 
 
 Marlow. {Relapsing into timidittj.) Pardon me, 
 madam, I — I — I — as yet have studied — only — to — de- 
 serve them. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And that, some say, is the very 
 worst way to obtain them. 
 
 Marlow. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to con- 
 verse only with the more grave and sensible part of 
 the sex — But I'm afraid I grow tiresome. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Not at all, sir ; there is nothing 
 I like so much as grave conversation myself ; I could 
 bear it forever. Indeed I have often been surprised 
 
286 SEE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 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, want- 
 ing a relish for um — u — um — 
 
 Miss Ilardcastle. I understand you, sir. There 
 must be some who, wanting a relish for refined pleas- 
 ures, pretend to despise what they are incapable of 
 tasting. 
 
 Marlow. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better 
 expressed. And 1 can't help observing—, -a 
 
 Miss Ilardcastle. {Aside.) Who could ever suppose 
 this fellow impudent upon some occasions ! {To him.) 
 You were going to observe, sir, 
 
 Marlow. I was observing, madam, — I protest, 
 madam, I forget what I was going to observe. 
 
 Miss JSardcastle. {Aside.) I vow and so do I. {To 
 him.) You were observing, sir, that in this age of 
 hypocrisy, — something about hypocrisy, sir. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, madam. In this age of hypocrisy 
 there are few who, upon strict inquiry, do not — a — 
 
 a 
 
 Miss Ilardcastle. I understand you perfectly, sir. 
 
 Marlow. {Aside.) Egad! and that's more than I 
 do myself. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. You mean that, in this hypocritical 
 age, there are a few who 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 Ma/rdcastle. Not in the least, sir ; there's some- 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 287 
 
 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. Morally speaking, madam 
 — but I see Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. 
 I would not intrude for the world. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I protest, sir, I never was more 
 agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray go on. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, madam, I was But she beckons 
 
 us to join her. Madam, shall I do myself the honor 
 to attend you ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Well, then, I'll follow. 
 
 Marlow. {Aside.) This pretty smooth dialogue has 
 done for me. [JExif. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. {Alone.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! Was there 
 ever such a sober, sentimental interview ? I'm certain 
 he scarce looked in my face the whole time. Yet the 
 fellow, but for his unaccountable bashf ulness, is pretty 
 well too. He has good sense, but then so buried in 
 his fears, that it fatigues one more than ignorance. If 
 I could teach him a little confidence, it would be doing 
 somebody that I know of a piece of service. But who 
 is that somebody. That, faith, is a question I can 
 scarce answer. [JExit. 
 
 Enter Tony and Miss Neville^ followed hj Mrs. Hard- 
 castle and Hastings. 
 
4 
 
 288 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Tony. What do you follow me for, cousin Con ? I 
 wonder you're not ashamed to be so very engaging. 
 
 Miss Neville. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one's 
 own relations, and not be to blame. 
 
 Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation you 
 ■want to make me though ; but it won't do. I tell you, 
 cousin Con, it won't do ; so I beg you'll keep your 
 distance — I want no nearer relationship. 
 
 [She follows, coquetting! him to the hack scene. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. "Well, I vow, Mr. Hastings, you 
 are very entertaining. There's nothing in the world 
 I love to talk of so much as London, and the fashions ; 
 though I was never there myself. 
 
 Hastings, l^ever there ! You amaze me ! From your 
 air and manner, I concluded you had been bred all 
 your life either at Eanelagh, St. James's or Tower 
 Wharf. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, sir, you're only pleased to say 
 so. We country persons can have no manner at all. 
 I'm in love with the town, and that serves to raise me 
 above some of our neighboring rustics ; but who can 
 have a manner, that has never seen the Pantheon, the 
 Grotto Gardens, the Borough, and such places, where 
 the nobility chiefly resort % All I can do is to enjoy 
 London at second-hand. I take care to know every 
 tete-a-tete from the Scandalous Magazine, and have 
 all the fashions, as they come out, in a letter from the 
 two Miss Eickets of Crooked Lane. Pray, how do you 
 like this head, Mr. Hastings ? 
 
 Hastings. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon my 
 word, madam. Your friseur is a Frenchman, I sup- 
 pose? 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 289 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I protest, I dressed it myself from 
 a print in tlie 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. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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 crowd. 
 
 Hastings. But that can never be your case, madam, 
 in any dress. {Bowing.) 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Yet what signifies my dressing 
 when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side as 
 Mr. Hardcastle ? all I 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 ray Lord Pately, with 
 powder. 
 
 Hastings. You are right, madam ; for, as among the 
 ladies there are none ugly, so among the men there are 
 none old. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. But what do you think his answer 
 was ? Why, with his usual Gothic vivacity, he said I 
 only wanted him to throw off his wig to convert it into 
 a tete for my own wearing. 
 
 Hastings. Intolerable ! At your age you may wear 
 what you please, and it must become you. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you 
 take to be the most fashionable age about town ? 
 
 Hastings. Some time ago, forty was all the mode ; 
 but I'm told the ladies intend to bring up fifty for the 
 ensuing winter. 
 
290 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEB. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Seriously ? 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 her- 
 self 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 ? 
 
 Tony. I have been saying no soft things ; but that 
 it's very hard to be followed about so. Ecod ! I've 
 not a place in the house now that's left to myself, but 
 the stable. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Never mind him, Con, my dear : 
 he's in another story behind your back. 
 
 Miss Neville. There's something generous in my 
 cousin's manner. He falls out before faces, to be for- 
 given in private, 
 
 Tony. That's a damned confounded — crack. 
 
 Mi's. Hardcastle. Ah ! he's a sly one. Don't you 
 think they're like each other about the mouth, Mr. 
 Hastings ? The Blenkmsop mouth to a T. They're of 
 a size, too. Back to back, my pretties, that Mr. Hast- 
 ings may see you. Come, Tony. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 291 
 
 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 shame, 
 Tony. You a man, and behave so ! 
 
 Tony. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin. Ecod, 
 I'll not be made a fool of no longer. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that 
 I'm to get for the pains I have taken in your educa- 
 tion ? I that have rocked you in your cradle, and fed 
 that pretty mouth with a spoon ? Did not I work that 
 waistcoat to make you genteel ? Did not I prescribe 
 for you every day, and weep while the receipt was 
 operating ? 
 
 Tony. Ecod ! you had reason to weep, for you have 
 been dosing me ever since I was born. I have gone 
 through every receipt in the Complete Housewife ten 
 times over ; and you have thoughts of coursing 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? 
 "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 ding- 
 ing 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 ale- 
 house or kennel. I'm never to be delighted with your 
 agreeable wild notes, unfeeling monster ! 
 
 Tuny. Ecod ! mamma, your own notes are the 
 wildest of the two. 
 
 22r—Q & a— M 
 
292 SEE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. "Was ever the like ? But I see he 
 wants to break my heart ; T see he does. 
 
 Hastings. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the 
 young gentleman a little. I'm certain I can persuade 
 him to his duty. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. "Well, I must retire. Come, Con- 
 stance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the wretch- 
 edness of my situation : was ever poor woman so 
 plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, unduti- 
 f ul boy ! 
 
 \Exeunt Mrs. Hardcastle and Miss Neville. 
 
 Tony. {Singing.) 
 
 There was a young man riding by, 
 And fain would have his will. 
 
 Rang do didlo dee. 
 
 Don't mind her. Let her cry. It's the comfort of 
 her heart. I have seen her and sister cry over a book 
 for an hour together ; and they said they liked the 
 book the better the more it made them cry. 
 
 Hastings. Then you're no friend to the ladies, I 
 find, my pretty young gentleman ? 
 
 Tony. That's as I find 'um. 
 
 Hastings. Not to hear of your mother's choosing, I 
 dare answer ? And yet she appears to me a pretty, 
 well-tempered girl, 
 
 Tony. That's because you don't know her as well 
 as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her ; and 
 there's not a more bitter cantanckerous toad in all 
 Christendom. 
 
 Hastings. {Aside.) Pretty encouragement for a 
 lover. 
 
 Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEE. 293 
 
 She has as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a colt 
 the first day's breaking. 
 
 Hastings. To me she appears sensible and silent. 
 
 Tony. Aj, before company. But when she's 
 with her playmates, she's as loud as a hog in a 
 gate, 
 
 Hastings. But there is a meek modesty about her 
 that charms me. 
 
 Tony. Yes, but curb her never so little, she kicks 
 up, and you're flung in a ditch. 
 
 Hastings. Well, but you must allow her a little 
 beauty. Yes, you must allow her some beauty. 
 
 Tony. Bandbox ! She's all a made-up thing, mun. 
 Ah ! could you but see Bet Bouncer of these parts, you 
 might then talk of beauty. Ecod ! she has two eyes as 
 black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and red as a pulpit 
 cushion. She'd make two of she. 
 
 Hastings. Well, what say you to a friend that would 
 take this bitter bargain off your hands ? 
 
 Tony. An an ! 
 
 Hastings. "Would you thank him that would take 
 Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and your dear 
 Betsey ? 
 
 Tony. Ay ; but where is there such a friend — for 
 who would take her ? 
 
 Hastings. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll 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 besides, in jewels, that 
 you little dream of. 
 
294 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hastings. My dear Squire, this looks like a lad of 
 spirit. 
 
 To7iy. Come along, then, and you shall see more of 
 my spirit before you have done with me. {Singing.) 
 
 We are the boys 
 
 That fears no noise, 
 
 Where the thundering cannons roar. 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
 ■i 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Enter Ilardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. "What could my old friend Sir Charles 
 mean by recommending his son as the modestest young 
 man in town ? To me he appears the most impudent 
 piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. He has 
 taken possession of the easy chair by the fire-side al- 
 ready. He took off his boots in the parlor, and de- 
 sired me to see them taken care of. I'm desirous to 
 know how his impudence affects my daughter. She 
 will certainly be shocked at it. 
 
 Enter Miss Ilardcastle, plainly dressed. 
 
 Ilardcastle. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed 
 your dress, as I bid you ; and yet, I believe, there was 
 no great occasion. 
 
 Miss Ilardcastle. I find such a pleasure, sir, in obey- 
 ing your commands, that I take care to observe them 
 without ever debating their propriety. 
 
 Ilardcastle. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you 
 some cause, particularly when I recommended my 
 modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 295 
 
 Miss Hardeastle. You taught me to expect some- 
 thing extraordinary, and I find the original exceeds 
 the description. 
 
 Ha/rdcastle. I was never so surprised iu my life ! 
 He has quite confounded all my faculties. 
 
 Miss Hardeastle. I never saw anything like it ; and -^ 
 a man of the world, too ! 
 
 Hardeastle. 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 raas- 
 "juerade. 
 
 Miss Hardeastle. It seems all natural to him. 
 
 Hardeastle. A good deal assisted by bad company 
 and a French dancing-master. 
 
 Miss Hardeastle. Sure you mistake, papa. A 
 French dan ing-master could never have taught him 
 that timid look — that awkward address — that bashful 
 manner. 
 
 Hardeastle. "Whose look ? whose manner, child ? 
 
 Miss Hardeastle. Mr. Marlow's : his mauvaise horde, 
 his timidity, struck me at the first sight. 
 
 Hardeastle. Then your first sight deceived you : 
 for I think him one of the most brazen first sights that 
 ever astonished my senses. 
 
 Miss Hardeastle. Sure, sir, you rally ! I never saw 
 any one so modest. 
 
 Hardeastle. And can you be serious ? I never saw 
 such a bouncing, swaggering puppy since I was born. 
 Bully Dawson was but a fool to him. 
 
 Miss Hardeastle. Surprising ! He met me with a 
 respectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look fixed 
 on the ground. 
 
 Hardeastle. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly 
 
296 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 air, and a familiarity that made my blood freeze 
 again. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. He treated me with diffidence and 
 respect ; censured the manners of the age ; admired 
 the prudence of girls that never laughed, tired me with 
 apologies for being tiresome, then left the room with 
 a bow, and ' Madame, I would not for the world detain 
 you.' 
 
 Hardcastle. He spoke to me as if he knew me all 
 his life before, asked twenty questions, and never 
 waited for an answer, interrupted my best remarks 
 with some silly pun, and when I was in my best story 
 of the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, he 
 asked if I had not a good hand at making punch. 
 Yes, Kate, he asked your father if he was a maker of 
 punch. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. One of us must certainly be mis- 
 taken. 
 
 Hardcastle. If he be what he has shown himself, 
 I'm determined he shall never have my consent. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And if he be the sullen thing I 
 take him, he shall never have mine. 
 
 Hardcastle. In one thing, then, we are agreed — to 
 reject him. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Yes — but upon conditions. For 
 if you should find him less impudent, and I more 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. 
 
 Hardcastle. If we should find him so But that's 
 
 impossible. The first appearance has done my busi- 
 ness. I'm seldom deceived in that. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 297 
 
 Miss Rardcastle. And yet there may be many good 
 qualities under that first appearance. 
 
 Rardcastle. 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 Rardcastle. "I hope, sir, a conversation begun 
 with a compliment to my good sense, won't end with 
 a sneer at my understanding ! 
 
 Rardcastle. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. 
 Brazen can find the art of reconciling contradictions, 
 he may please us both, perhaps. 
 
 Miss Rardcastle. And as one of us must be mis- 
 taken, what if we go to make farther discoveries ? 
 
 Rardcastle. Agreed. But depend on't, I'm in the 
 right. 
 
 Miss Rardcastle. And, depend on't, I'm not much 
 in the wrong. \Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Tony, running in with a casket. 
 
 Tony. Ecod ! I have got them. Here they are. 
 My cousin Con's necklaces, bobs and all. My mother 
 shan't cheat the poor souls out of their fortin neither. 
 O my genus, is that you ? 
 
 Enter Rastings. 
 
 Rastings. 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 will- 
 ing to be reconciled at last ? Our horses will be re- 
 freshed in a short time, and we shall soon be ready to 
 set off. 
 
 Tony. And here's something to bear your charges 
 
298 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 by the way — {giving the casket) — your sweetheart's 
 jewels. Keep them ; and hang those, I say, that would 
 rob you of one of them. 
 
 Hastings. But how have you procured them from 
 your mother ? 
 
 Tony. Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no 
 fibs. I procured them by the rule of thumb, if I had 
 not a key to every draw in my mother's bureau, how 
 could I go to the alehouse so often as I do ? An 
 honest man may rob himself of his own at any time. 
 
 Hastings. Thousands do it every day. But, to be 
 plain with you. Miss Neville is endeavoring to procure 
 them from her aunt this very instant. If she suc- 
 ceeds it will be the most delicate way, at least, of 
 obtaining them. 
 
 Tony. Well, keep them, until 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 ! [^Exit Hastings. 
 
 Tony^ Mrs. Hardcastle^ and Miss Neville. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Indeed, Constance, you amaze 
 me. Such a girl as you want jewels ! It will be time 
 enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence, when 
 your beauty begins to want repairs. 
 
 Miss Neville. But what will repair beauty at forty, 
 will certainly improve it at twenty, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle, Yours, my dear, can admit of 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 299 
 
 none. That natural blush is beyond a thousand orna- 
 ments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at present. 
 Don't you see half the ladies of our acquaintance, my 
 Lady Kildaylight, 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 ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Consult your glass, my dear, and 
 then see if, with such a pair of eyes, you want any 
 better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, my dear? 
 Does your cousin Con want any jewels in your eyes to 
 set off her beauty ? 
 
 Tony. That's as hereafter may be. 
 
 Miss Nemlle. My dear aunt, if you knew how it 
 would oblige me. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. A parcel of old-fashioned rose 
 and table-cut things. They would make you look like 
 the court of King Solomon at a puppet-show. Besides, 
 I believe I can't readily come at them. They may be 
 missing for aught I know to the contrary. 
 
 Tony. {Apart to Mrs. Hardcastle.) Then why don't 
 you tell her so at once, as she's so longing for them ? 
 Tell her they're lost. It's the only way to quiet her. 
 Say they're lost, and call me to bear witness. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. {Apart to Tony.) You know, my 
 dear, I'm only keeping them for you. So if I say they 
 are gone, you'll bear me witness, will you ? He ! he ! 
 bo! 
 
 Tony. Never fear me. Ecod ! I'll say I saw them 
 taken out with my own eyes. 
 
 Miss Neville. I desire them but for a day, madam 
 
300 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 — just to be permitted to show them as relics, and then 
 they may be locked up again. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. To be plain with you, my dear 
 Constance, if I could find them you should have them. 
 They are missing, I assure you. Lost, for aught I 
 know ; but we must have patience, wherever they are. 
 
 Miss Neville. I'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 
 misfortunes of others. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Now, I wonder a girl of your good 
 sense should waste a thought upon such trumpery. We 
 shall soon find them ; and in the mean time you shall 
 make use of my garnets till your jewels be found. 
 
 Miss Neville. I detest garnets. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. The most becoming things in the 
 world to set off a clear complexion. You have often 
 seen how well they look upon me. You shall have 
 them. \_Exit. 
 
 Miss Neville. I dislike them of all things. You 
 shan't stir. Was ever any thing so provoking, to mis- 
 lay ray own jewels and force me to wear her trumpery ? 
 
 Tony. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the gar- 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 301 
 
 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 % 
 
 Tony. Vanish. She's here, and has missed them 
 already. {Exit Miss Neville.'] Zounds ! how she fid- 
 gets and spits about like a Catharine wheel. 
 
 EnterMrs. Harclcastle. 
 
 Mrs Hardcastle. Confusion ! thieves ! robbers ! we 
 are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone. 
 
 Tony. What's the matter, what's the matter, 
 mamma ? I hope nothing has happened to any of the 
 good family ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. We are robbed. My bureau has 
 been broken open, the jewels taken out, and I'm undone. 
 
 Tony. Oh! is that all? Ha! ha! ha! By the 
 laws I never saw it better acted in my life. Ecod, I 
 thought you was ruined in earnest, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest. 
 My bureau has been broken open, and all taken 
 away. 
 
 Tony. Stick to that, ha ! ha ! ha ! stick to that. I'll 
 bear witness, you know ! call me to bear witness. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I tell you, Tony, by all that's pre- 
 cious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined for- 
 ever. 
 
 Tony. Sure I know they are gone, and I am to say 
 so. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. My dearest Tony, but hear me. 
 They're gone, I say. 
 
 Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to 
 
302 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 laugh, ha ! ha 1 I know who took them well enough, 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Was there ever such a blockhead, 
 that can't tell the difference between jest and earnest I 
 I can tell you I'm not in jest, booby. 
 
 Tony. That's right, that's right ; you must be in a 
 bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect either of 
 us. I'll bear witness that they are gone. 
 
 Jf/'s. Hardcastle. Was there ever such a cross- 
 grained brute, that won't hear me! Can you bear 
 witness that you're no better than a fool ? Was ever 
 poor woman so beset with fools on one hand, and 
 thieves on the other 1 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Bear witness again, you block- 
 head, you, and I'll turn you out of the room directly. 
 My poor niece, what will become of her ? Do you laugh, 
 you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my distress ? 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 Mrs. HardcasUe. Do you insult me, monster. I'll 
 teach you to vex your mother, I will. 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. {He runs off, 
 she follows him.) 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle and Maid. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. What an unaccountable creature 
 is that brother of mine, to send them to the house as 
 an inn ; ha ! ha I I don't wonder at his impudence. 
 
 Maid. But what is more, madam, the young gentle- 
 man, as you passed by in your present dress, asked me 
 if you were the bar-maid. He mistook you for the 
 bar-maid, madam ! 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Did he? Then, as I live, I'm 
 
BHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 303 
 
 resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, 
 how do you like my present dress ? Don't you think 
 I look something like Cherry in the Beaux' Stratagem. 
 
 Maid. It's the dress, madam, that every lady 
 wears in the country, but when she visits or receives 
 company. 
 
 Miss Ha/rdcastle. And are you sure he does not 
 remember my face or person % 
 
 Maid. Certain of it. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I vow I thought so ; for though 
 we spoke for some time together, yet his fears were 
 such that he never once looked up during the 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 2 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. In the first place, I shall be seen, 
 and that is no small advantage to a girl who brings 
 her face to market. Then I shall perhaps make an 
 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, ex- 
 amine the giant's force before I offer to combat. 
 
 Maid. But are you sure you can act your part, and 
 disguise your voice so that he may mistake that, as he 
 has already mistaken your person ? 
 
 Miss Ha/rdcastle. Never fear me. I think I have got 
 the true bar cant — Did your honor call ? — Attend the 
 Lion there. — Pipes and tobacco for the Angel. — The 
 Lamb has been outrageous this half hour. 
 
 Maid. It will do, madam. But he's here. 
 
 \lkit Maid. 
 
304 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Miter Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. What a bawling in every part of the 
 house. I have scarce a moment's repose. If I go to 
 the best room, there I find my host and his story ; if 
 I fly to the gallery, there we have my hostess with 
 her courtesy down to the ground. I have at last a 
 moment to myself, and now for recollection. 
 
 [ Walks and muses. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Did you call, sir? Did your 
 honor call ? 
 
 Marlow. {Musing.) As for Miss Hardcastle, she's 
 too grave and sentimental for me. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Did your honor call ? 
 
 [She still places herself hefore him 
 he turning away. 
 
 Marlow. No, child. {Musing.) Besides, from the 
 glimpse I had of her, I think she squints. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I'm sure, sir, I heard the bell ring. 
 
 Marlow. No, no. {Mtising.) 1 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. 
 
 Marlow. I tell you no. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. 1 should be glad to know, sir ; we 
 have such a parcel of servants. 
 
 Marlow. No, no, I tell you. {ZooJcs 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 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 305 
 
 eye. Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you got 
 any of your — a — what d'ye call it, in the house ? 
 
 Miss Jlardcastle. No, sir, we have been out of that 
 these ten days. 
 
 Maidow. One may call in this house, I find, to very 
 little purpose. Suppose I should call for a taste, just 
 by way of trial, of the nectar of your lips, perhaps I 
 might be disappointed in that too. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Nectar ! nectar ! That's a liquor 
 there's no call for in these parts. French, I suppose. 
 "We keep no French wines here, sir. 
 
 Marlow. Of true English growth, I assure you. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Then it's odd I should not know 
 it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I 
 have lived here these eighteen years. 
 
 Marlow. Eighteen years ! Why, one would think, 
 child, you kept the bar before you were born. How 
 old are you ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Oh, sir, I must not tell my age. 
 They say women and music should never be dated. 
 
 Marlow. To guess at this distance, you can't be 
 much above forty, (Approaching.) Yet nearer, I 
 don't think so much. (Approaching.) By coming 
 close to some women, they look younger still ; but when 
 we come very close indeed — (Attempting to kiss her.) 
 
 Miss 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 
 
306 SEE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle, that was here 
 a while ago, in this obstopalous manner. I'll warrant 
 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 favorite, 
 I find, among the ladies ? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, my dear, a great favorite. 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. Solomons, 
 my dear, at your service. {Offering to salute her.) 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Hold, sir, you are introducing me 
 to your club, not to yourself. And you're so great a 
 favorite there, you say ? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, my dear. There's Mrs. Mantrap, 
 Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. Lang- 
 horns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your humble 
 servant, keep up the spirit of the place. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Then it's a very merry place, I 
 suppose ? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, as merry as cards, suppers, wine, and 
 old women can make us. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And their agreeable Rattle, ha! 
 ha ! ha ! 
 
 Harlow. {Aside.) Egad! I don't quite like this 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 307 
 
 chit. She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, 
 child ? 
 
 Miss Ilardcastle. I can't but laugh to think what 
 time they all have for minding their work, or their 
 family. 
 
 Hm-iow. (Aside.) All 's well ; she don't laugh at 
 me. {To her.) Do you ever work, child ? 
 
 Miss Ilardcastle. Aye, sure. There's not a screen 
 or a quilt in the whole house but what can bear wit- 
 ness to that. 
 
 Marlow. Odso ! then you must show me your era- 
 broidery. I embroider and draw patterns myself a 
 little. If you want a judge of your work, you must 
 apply to me. {Seising her hand.) 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Ay, but the colors don't look 
 well by candle-light. You shall see all in the morn- 
 ing. {Struggling.) 
 
 Harlow. And why not now, my angel? Such 
 beauty fires beyond the power of resistance. Pshaw ! 
 the father here ! My old luck ; I never nicked seven 
 that I did not throw ames ace three times following.* 
 
 \_Exit Harlow. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle who stands in surprise. 
 
 Hardcastle. So, madam. So I find this is your 
 modest lover. This is your humble admirer, that kept 
 his eyes fixed on the ground, and only adored at hum- 
 ble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not ashamed to 
 deceive your father so ? 
 
 * Ames ace, or ambs ace, is two aces thrown at the same time 
 on two dice. As seven is the main, to throw ames ace thrice 
 running, when the player nicks, that is, hazards his money on 
 seven, ia singularly bad luck. 
 
308 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 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, I believe his 
 impudence is infectious ! Didn't I see him seize your 
 hand ? Didn't I see him hawl you about like a milk- 
 maid? And now you talk of his respect and his 
 majesty, 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 convinced. 
 He has scarcely been three hours in the house, and he 
 has already encroached on all my prerogatives. You 
 may like his impudence, and call it modesty ; but my 
 son-in-law, madam, must have very different qualifi- 
 cations. 
 
 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 I'll 
 have no trifling with your father. All fair and open ; 
 do you mind me ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, you have ever found 
 that I considered your commands as my pride ; for 
 your kindness is such, that my duty as yet has been 
 inclination. 
 
 lExewnt. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 309 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
 
 Hastings. You surprise me ; Sir Charles Marlow 
 expected here this night ! "Where have you had your 
 information ? 
 
 Miss Neville. You may depend upon it. I just 
 saw his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells him 
 he intends setting out in 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, ray designs, to the rest of the family. 
 
 Miss Neville. The 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 ; and 
 if I should not see him again, will write him further 
 directions. \^Exit. 
 
 Miss Neville. Well, success attend you ! In the 
 mean time, I'll go amuse my aunt with the old pre- 
 tence of a violent passion for my cousin. {Exit. 
 
 Enter Marlow^ followed hy a Servant. 
 
 Marlow. 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 deposited 
 the casket with the landlady, as I ordered you? Have 
 you put it into her own hands ? 
 
810 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEB. 
 
 Servant. Yes, your honor. 
 
 Marlow. She said she'd keep it safe, did she ? 
 
 Servant. Yes ; she said she'd keep it safe enough. 
 She asked me how I came by it ; and she said she had 
 a great mind to make me give an account of myself. 
 
 [^xit Servant. 
 
 Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! They're safe, however. 
 "What an unaccountable set of beings have we got 
 amongst ! This little bar-maid, though, runs in my 
 mind most strangely, and drives out the absurdities of 
 all the rest of the family. She's mine, she must be 
 mine, or I'm greatly mistaken. 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 
 Hastings. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell her that 
 I intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. 
 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 suc- 
 cess has your honor'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 ? 
 
 Marlow. She's mine, you rogue, you. Such fire, 
 such motion, such eyes, such lips — but, egad ! she would 
 not let me kiss them though. 
 
 Hastings. But are you so sure, so very sure of her ? 
 
 Marlow. Why, man, she talked of showing me her 
 work above stairs, and 1 am to approve the pattern. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 311 
 
 Hastings. But how can you, Charles, go about to 
 rob a woman of her honor ? 
 
 Marlow. Pshaw ! pshaw ! We all know the honor 
 of the bar-maid of an inn. I don't intend to rob her, 
 take my word for it ; there's nothing in this house I 
 shan't honestly pay for. 
 
 Hastings. I believe the girl has virtue. 
 
 Marlow. And if she has, I should be the last man 
 in the world that would attempt to corrupt it. 
 
 Hastings. You have taken care, I hope, of the cask- 
 et I send you to lock up ? It's in safety ? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, yes ; it's safe enough, I have taken 
 care of it. But how could you think the seat of a post- 
 coach at an inn-door a place of safety ? Ah ! numscuU ! 
 I have taken better precautions for you than you did 
 for yourself — I have — 
 
 Hastings. What ? 
 
 Marlow. I have sent it to the landlady to keep for 
 you. 
 
 Hastings. To the landlady ! 
 
 Marlov). The landlady. 
 
 Hastings. You did % 
 
 Marlow. I did. She's to be answerable for its forth- 
 coming, 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, 
 methinks. Sure nothing has happened? 
 
 Hastings. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits 
 in all my life. And so you left it with the landlady, 
 who, no doubt, very readily undertook the charge. 
 
312 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 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 suc- 
 cessful for yourself as you have been for me ! [Meit. 
 
 Marlow. Thank ye, George ; I ask no more. — Ha I 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Ha/rdcastle. I no longer know my own house. It's 
 turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got drunk 
 already. I'll bear it no longer ; and yet, from my re- 
 spect for his father, I'll be calm. {To him.) Mr. Mar- 
 low, your servant. I'm your very humble servant. 
 {Bowing low.) 
 
 Marlow. Sir, your humble servant. {Aside.) What 
 is to be the wonder now ? 
 
 Hardcastle. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, sir, 
 that no man alive ought to be more welcome than your 
 father's son, sir. I hope you think so ? 
 
 Marlow. I do from my soul, sir. I don't want much 
 entreaty. I generally make my father's son welcome 
 wherever he goes. 
 
 Hardcastle. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. 
 But though I say nothing to your own conduct, that of 
 your servants is insufferable. Their manner of drink- 
 ing is setting a very bad example in this house, I assure 
 you. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, 313 
 
 Harlow. 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, 
 I assure you. {To the side-scene.) Here, let one of my 
 servants come up. {To him.) My positive directions 
 were, that as 1 did not drink myself, they should make 
 up for my deficiencies below. 
 
 Hardcastle. Then they had your orders for what 
 they do ? I'm satisfied ! 
 
 Marlow. They had, I assure you. You shall hear 
 it from one of themselves. 
 
 Enter Servant, drunk. 
 
 Marlow. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, sirrah ! 
 "What were my orders ? Were you not told to drink 
 freely, and call for what you thought fit, for the good 
 of the house ? 
 
 Hardcastle. {Aside.) I begin to lose my patience. 
 
 Jeremy. Please your honor, liberty and Fleet-street 
 forever ! Though I'm but a servant, I'm as good as 
 another man. I'll drink for no man before supper, 
 sir, damme ! Good liquor will sit upon a good supper, 
 
 but a good supper will not sit upon hiccup 
 
 my conscience, sir. \_Exit. 
 
 Marlow. You see my old friend, the fellow is as 
 drunk as he can possibly be. I don't know what you'd 
 have more, unless you'd have the poor devil soused in 
 a beer barrel. 
 
 Hardcastle. Zounds, he'll drive me distracted, if I 
 contain myself any longer ! Mr. Marlow ; sir, I have 
 submitted to your insolence for more than four hours, 
 and I see no likelihood of its coming to an end. I'm 
 now resolved to be master here, sir, and 1 desire that 
 
314 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 you and your drunken pack may leave my house 
 directly. 
 
 Marlow. Leave your house ! — Sure, you jest, my 
 good friend ? What ! when I am doing what I can to 
 please you. 
 
 Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, you don't please ; so I 
 desire you will leave my house. 
 
 Marlow. Sure you cannot be serious ? at this time 
 of night, and such a night? You only mean to banter 
 me. 
 
 Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, I'm serious ! and now 
 that my passions are roused, I say this house is mine, 
 and I command you to leave it directly. 
 
 Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A puddle in a storm. I 
 shan't stir a step, I assure you. {In a serious tone.) 
 This your house, fellow ! It's my house. This io my 
 house. Mine while I choose to stay. "What right have 
 you to bid me leave this house, sir ? I never met with 
 such impudence, curse me; never in my whole life 
 before. 
 
 Hardcastle. Nor I, confound me if ever I did ! To 
 come to my house, to call for what he likes, to turn me 
 out of my own chair, to insult the family, to order his 
 servants to get drunk, and then to tell me, "This 
 house is mine, sir ! " By all that's impudent, it makes 
 me laugh. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Pray, sir, (bantering) as you 
 take the house, what think you of taking the rest of 
 the furniture? There's a pair of silver candlesticks, 
 and there's a fire-screen, and here's a pair of brazen- 
 nosed bellows ; perhaps you may take a fancy to them ? 
 
 Marlow. Bring me your bill, sir ; bring me your 
 bill, and let's make no more words about it. 
 
 Hardcastle. There are a set of prints, too. What 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEB. 315 
 
 think you of the Eake's Progress for your own apart- 
 ment ? 
 
 Marlow. Bring me your bill, I say, and I'll leave 
 you and your infernal house directly. 
 
 Ha/rdcastle. Then there's a mahogany table that you 
 may see 3^ our face in. 
 
 Marlow. My bill, I say. 
 
 Hardcastle. I had forgot the great chair for your 
 own particular slumbers, after a hearty meal. 
 
 Marlow. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, and let's 
 hear no more on't. 
 
 Hardcastle. Young man, j^oung man, from your 
 father's letter to me, I was taught to expect a w^ell- 
 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 ! Sure 1 have not mistaken 
 the house. Everything looks like an inn ; the servants 
 cry coming ; the attendance is awkward ; the bar-maid, 
 too, to attend us. But she's here, and will further in- 
 form 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 are you, and what may your business in this 
 house be ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. A relation of the family, sir. 
 
 Marlovj. What, a poor relation? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, a poor relation, appointed 
 to keep the keys, and to see that the guests want noth- 
 ing in my power to give them. 
 
 22— G & G— N 
 
316 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 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 ! ha ! ha ! old Mr. Hardcastle's 
 house an inn ! 
 
 Marlow. Mr. Hardcastle's house ? Is this Mr. Hard- 
 castle's house, child ! 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Ay, sure. "Whose else should 
 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 caricature in all the print-shops. The 
 Dullissimo-Maccaroni. To mistake this house of all 
 others for an inn, and my father's old friend for an inn- 
 keeper ! What a swaggering puppy must he take me 
 for ! What a silly puppy do I find myself ! There, 
 again, may I be hanged, my dear, but I mistook you 
 for tlie bar-maid. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Dear me ! dear me ! I'm sure 
 there's nothing in my behavior to put me upon a level 
 with one of that stamp. 
 
 Marlovj. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in 
 for a list of blunders, and could not help making you 
 a subscriber. My stupidity saw everything the wrong 
 way. I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and your 
 simplicity for allurement. But it's over — this house 
 I no more show my face in. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, I have done nothing 
 to disoblige you. I'm sure I should be sorry to affront 
 any gentleman who has been so polite, and said so many 
 civil things to me. I'm sure I should be sorry {pre- 
 tending to cry) if he left the family on my account. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 317 
 
 I'm sure I should be sorry people said anything amiss, 
 since 1 have no fortune but my character. 
 
 Marlow. {Aside.) By Heaven! she weeps. This 
 is the first mark of tenderness I ever had from a mod- 
 est woman, and it touches me. {To her.) Excuse me, 
 my lovely girl ; you are the only part of the family I 
 leave with reluctance. But, to be plain with you, the 
 difference of our birth, fortune, and education, make 
 an honorable connection impossible ; and I can never 
 harbor a thought of seducing simplicity that trusted in 
 my honor, of 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 Miss Hardcastle's ; and though 
 I'm poor, that's no great misfortune to a contented 
 mind ; and until this moment, I never thought that it 
 was bad to want fortune. 
 
 MaHow. And why now, my pretty simplicity ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Because it puts me at a distance 
 from one, that if I had a thousand pounds, I would 
 give it all to. 
 
 Marlow. {Aside.) This simplicity bewitches me 
 so, that if I stay, I'm undone. I must make one bold 
 effort and leave her. {To her.) Your partiality in my 
 favor, my dear, touches me most sensibly ; and were I 
 to live for myself alone, I could easily fix my choice. 
 But I owe too much to the opinion of the world, too 
 much to the authority of a father; so that — I can 
 speak it — it affects me. — Farewell. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I never knew half his merit till 
 now. Tie shall not go if I have power or art to detain 
 him. I'll still preserve the character in which I stooj?ed 
 
318 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 to conquer, but will undeceive my papa, who, perhaps, 
 may laugh him out of his resolution. [Exit. 
 
 Miter Tony and Miss Neville. 
 
 Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next 
 time. I have done my duty. She has got the jewels 
 again, that's a sure thing ; but she believes it was all a 
 mistake of the servants. 
 
 Mi^s Nemlle. But, ray dear cousin, sure you won't 
 forsake us in this distress ? If she in the least suspects 
 that I am going off, I shall certainly be locked up, or 
 sent to my aunt Pedigree's, which is ten times worse. 
 
 Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are damned 
 bad things. But what can I do ? I have got you a 
 pair of horses that will fly like Whistle Jacket ; and 
 I'm sure you can't say but I have courted you nicely 
 before ner face. Here she comes ; we must court a bit 
 or two more, for fear she should suspect us. 
 
 [They retire and seein to fondle. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to 
 be sure, but my son tells me it was all a mistake of 
 the servants. 1 shan't be easy, however, till they are 
 fairly married, and then let her keep her own fortune. 
 But what do I see ? fondling together, as I'm alive. I 
 never saw Tony so sprightly before. Ah ! have I 
 caught you, my pretty doves? What, billing, ex- 
 changing glances, and broken murmurs ? Ah ! 
 
 Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little 
 now and then, to be sure ; but there's no love lost be- 
 tween us. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon 
 the flame, only to make it burn brighter. 
 
 Miss Nemlle. Cousin Tony promises us to give us 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 319 
 
 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 becoming. 
 
 Miss Neville. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help 
 admiring that natural humor, that pleasant, broad, red, 
 thoughtless {patting his cheek), — ah ! it's a bold face ! 
 
 M7's. Hardcastle. Pretty innocence. 
 
 Tony. I'm sure I always loved cousin Con's hazel 
 eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she twists this 
 way and that over haspicholls, like a parcel of bobbins. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Ah! he would charm the bird 
 from the tree. I was never so happy before. My boy 
 takes after his father, poor Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. 
 The jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours incontinently. 
 You shall have them. 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 Diggory. 
 
 Diggory. Where's the Squire ? I have got a letter 
 for your worship. 
 
 Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my let- 
 ters first. 
 
 Diggory. I had orders to deliver it into your own 
 hands. 
 
 Tony. Who does it come from ? 
 
 Diggory. Your worship mun ask that o' the letter 
 itself. 
 
 Tony. I could wish to know though. {Turning the 
 letter, and gazing on it.) 
 
320 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Miss Neville. {Aside.) Undone! undone! A let- 
 ter to him from Hastings : I know the hand. If my 
 aunt sees it, we are ruined forever. I'll keep her em- 
 ployed a little, if I can. {To Mrs. Hardcastle.) But 
 I have not told you, madam, of my cousin's smart 
 answer just now to Mr. Mario w. 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 enough. But when I 
 come to open it, it's all — buzz. That's hard — verj 
 hard ; for the inside of the letter is always the cream 
 of the correspondence. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Ha! ha! ha! Yery well, very 
 well. And so my son was too hard for the philoso- 
 pher? 
 
 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. 
 
 Mr's. 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 
 Sir," — Ay, that's that. Then there's an M, and a T, 
 and an S, but whether the next be an izzard or an R, 
 confound me I cannot tell. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. What's that, my dear ; can I give 
 you any assistance \ 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 321 
 
 Miss JVeville. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody- 
 reads a cramp hand better than I. {Twitching the letter 
 from him.) Do you know who it is from ? 
 
 Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the 
 feeder. 
 
 Miss Neville. Ay, so it is ; {pretending to read) Dear 
 Squire, hoping that you're in health, as I am at this 
 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 fight- 
 ing ; 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. Ilardcastle the letter. 
 
 Mrs. Ilardcastle. How's this ? {Beads) " Dear 
 Squire, I'm now waiting for Miss Neville, with a post- 
 chaise 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 promised. Despatch is necessary, as the hag " — 
 ay, the hag — " your mother, will otherwise suspect us. 
 Yours, Hastings." Grant me patience. I shall run 
 distracted ! My rage chokes me ! 
 
 Miss Nemlle. I hope, madam, you'll suspend your 
 resentment for a few moments, and not impute to me 
 any impertinence, or sinister design, that belongs to 
 another. 
 
 Mrs. Ilardcastle. {Courtesy ing very low.) Fine 
 spoken madam,3^ou are most miraculously polite and en- 
 gaging, and quite the very pink of courtesy and circum- 
 
322 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 spection, madam. {Changing her tone.) And you, you 
 great ill-fashioned oaf, with scarce sense enough to 
 keep your mouth shut, — were you too joined against 
 me ? But I'll defeat all your plots in a moment. As 
 for you, madam, since you have got a pair of fresh 
 horses ready, it would be cruel to disappoint them. 
 So, if you please, instead of running away with your 
 spark, prepare this very moment to run off with me. 
 Your old aunt Pedigree will keep you secure. I'll 
 warrant me. You too, sir, may mount your horse, and 
 guard us upon the way. — Here, Thomas, Eoger, Dig- 
 gory ! — I'll show you that I wish you better than you 
 do yourselves. [JExit. 
 
 Miss Nemlle. So, now I'm completely ruined. 
 
 Tony. Ay, that's a sure thing. 
 
 Miss Neville. What better could be expected from 
 being connected with such a stupid fool, and after all 
 the nods and signs I made him. 
 
 Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own 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 shown my letter, and betrayed us. Was this well 
 done, young gentleman ? 
 
 Tony. Here's another. Ask miss, there, who be- 
 trayed you. Ecod ! it was her doing, not mine. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 Marlow. So, I have been finely used here among 
 you. Rendered contemptible, driven into ill-manners, 
 despised, insulted, laughed at. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 323 
 
 Tony. Here's another. We shall have all Bedlam 
 broke loose presently. 
 
 Miss Neville. And there, sir, is the gentleman to 
 whom we all owe every obligation. 
 
 Marlow. What can I say to him ? — a mere boy, — 
 an idiot, — whose ignorance and age are a protection. 
 
 Hastings. A poor, contemptible booby, that would 
 but disgrace correction. 
 
 Miss Neville. Yet with cunning and malice enough 
 to make himself merry with all our embarrassments. 
 
 Hastings. An insensible cub. 
 
 Marlow. Replete with tricks and mischief. 
 
 Tony. Baw ! damme, but I'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. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Miss Neville. Well, well, I'll come presently. 
 
 Marlow. {To Hastings.) Was it Aveil done, sir, to 
 assist in rendering me ridiculous 'i — To hang me out 
 
824 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 for the scorn of all my acquaintance ? Depend upon 
 it, sir, I shall expect an explanation. 
 
 Hastings. Was it well done, sir, if you're upon that 
 subject, to deliver what I entrusted to yourself, to the 
 care of another, sir ! 
 
 Miss JVevtUe, Mr. Hastings ! Mr. Marlow ! "Why 
 will you increase my distress by this groundless dis- 
 pute ? I implore — I entreat you 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is im- 
 patient. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Miss Neville. I come. Pray, be pacified. If I 
 leave you thus, I shall die with apprehension. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Tour fan, muff, and gloves, madam. The 
 horses are waiting. \Exit Servant. 
 
 Miss Neville. Oh, Mr. Marlow, if you knew what 
 a scene of constraint and ill-nature lies before me I am 
 sure it would convert your resentment into pity. 
 
 Marlow. I'm so distracted with a variety of 
 passions that I don't know what I do. Forgive me, 
 madam. George, forgive me. You know my hasty 
 temper, and should not exasperate it. 
 
 Eastings. 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 connection. If 
 
 Mrs. Ilardcastle. {Within.) Miss Neville I Con- 
 stance, why, Constance, I say. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEB. 325 
 
 Miss Seville. I'm coming ! Well, constancy, re- 
 member, constancy is the word. [Mffit. 
 
 Hastings. My heart ! how can I support this ? To 
 be so near happiness, and such happiness ! 
 
 Marlow. {To Tony.) You see now, young gentleman, 
 the effects of your folly. "What might be amusement 
 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 ! 
 
 {^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 Enter Hastings and Servant. 
 
 Hastings. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville 
 drive off, you say % 
 
 Servant. Yes, your honor. They went off in a post- 
 coach, and the young Squire went on horseback. 
 They're thirty miles off by this time. 
 
 Hastings. Then all my hopes are over ? 
 
 Servant. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He 
 and the old gentleman of the house have been laugh- 
 ing at Mr. Marlow's mistake this half hour. They 
 are coming this way. \_Exit. 
 
 Hastings. Then I must not be seen. So now to my 
 fruitless appointment at the bottom of the garden. 
 This is about the time. [Exit. 
 
326 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEB. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles Marlow 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. 
 
 Hardcastle. And yet he might have seen something 
 in me above a common innkeeper, too. 
 
 Sir Charles, Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an 
 uncommon innkeeper ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, I 'm in too good spirits to think of 
 anything but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union 
 of our families will make our personal friendships 
 hereditary, and though my daughter's fortune is but 
 small 
 
 Sir Charles. "Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune to 
 me ? My son is possessed of more than a competence 
 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, I warrant him. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon for 
 my strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on my 
 insolence without confusion. 
 
 Hardcastle. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too 
 gravely. An hour or two's laughing with my daughter, 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 327 
 
 will set all to rights again. She'll never like you the 
 worse for it. 
 
 Marlow. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approba- 
 tion. 
 
 Eardcastle. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. 
 Marlow ; if I am not deceived, you have something 
 more than approbation thereabouts. You take me ! 
 
 Marlow. Keally, sir, I have not that happiness. 
 
 Hardcastle. Come, boy, I'm an old fellow, and know 
 what's what as well as you that are younger. 1 know 
 what has past between you ; but mum. 
 
 Marlow. Sure, sir, nothmg 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. 
 
 Hardcastle. Impudence ! No, I don't say that — not 
 quite impudence — though girls like to be played with, 
 and rumpled a little, too, sometimes. But she has 
 told no tales, I assure you. 
 
 Marlow. I never gave her the slightest cause. 
 
 Hardcastle. "Well, well, I like modesty in its place 
 well enough ; but this is over-acting, young gentleman. 
 You may be open. Your father and I will like you the 
 better for it. 
 
 Marlow. May I die, sir, if I ever 
 
 Hardcastle. I tell you she don't dislike you ; and as 
 I am sure you like her 
 
 Marlow. Dear sir, I protest, sir- 
 
 Hardcastle. I see no reason why you should not be 
 joined as fast as the parson can tie you. 
 
 Marlow. But hear me, sir 
 
 Hardcastle. Your father approves the match, I 
 
328 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 admire it; every moment's delay will be doing 
 mischief, so 
 
 Marlow. But why don't you hear me? By all 
 that's just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle 
 the slightest mark of my attachment, or even the most 
 distant hint to susp'ect me of affection. We had but 
 one interview, and that was formal, modest, and unin- 
 teresting. 
 
 Hardcastle. {Aside.) This fellow's formal, modest 
 impudence is beyond bearing. 
 
 Sir Charles. And you never grasped her hand, or 
 made any protestations ? 
 
 Marlow. As Heaven is my witness, I came down 
 in obedience to your commands ; I saw the lady with- 
 out emotion, and parted without reluctance. I hope 
 you'll exact no further proofs of my duty, nor prevent 
 me from leaving a house in which I suffer so many 
 mortifications. \_Exit. 
 
 Sir Charles. I'm astonished at the air of sincerity 
 with which he parted. 
 
 Hardcastle. And I'm astonished at the deliberate 
 intrepidity of his assurance. 
 
 Sir Charles. I dare pledge my life and honor upon 
 his truth. 
 
 Hardcastle. Here comes my daughter, and I would 
 stake my happiness upon her veracity. 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us 
 sincerely, and without reserve : has Mr. Marlow made 
 you any professions of love and affection ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. The question is very abrupt, sir. 
 But since you require unreserved sincerity — I think 
 he has. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 329 
 
 Hardcastle. {To Sir Charles.) You see. 
 
 Sir Charles. And, pray, madam, have you and my 
 son had more than one intervew ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, several. 
 
 Hardcastle. {To Sir Charles^ You see. 
 
 Sdr Charles. But did he profess any attachment ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. A lasting one. 
 
 Sir Charles. Did he talk of love ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Much, sir. 
 
 Sir Charles. Amazing ! And all this formally ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Formally. 
 
 Hardcastle. Kow, my friend, I hope you are satis- 
 fied. 
 
 Sir Charles. And how did he behave, madam ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. As most professed admirers do ; 
 said some civil things of my face ; talked much of his 
 want of merit, and the greatness of mine ; mentioned 
 his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with 
 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- 
 vince you to your face of my sincerity ? If you and 
 my papa, in about half an hour, will place yourselves 
 behind that screen, you shall hear him declare his pas- 
 sion to me in person. 
 
 Sir Charles. Agreed. And if I find hira what you 
 describe, all my happiness in him must have an end. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And if you don't find him what 
 
330 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 I describe, I fear my happiness must never have a be- 
 ginning. 
 
 SCENE CHANGES TO THE BACK OF THE GARDEN. 
 
 Miter 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^ hooted and spattered. 
 
 Hastings. My honest Squire ! I now find you a 
 man of your word. This looks like friendship. 
 
 Tony. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend you 
 have in the world, if you knew but all. This riding 
 by night, by the by, is cursedly tiresome. It has 
 shook me worse than the basket of a stage-coach. 
 
 Hastings. But how ? where did you leave your fel- 
 low-travellers ? Are they in safety ? Are they housed ? 
 
 Tony. Five-and-twenty miles in two hours and a 
 half is no such bad driving. The poor beasts have 
 smoked for it : rabbit me ! but I'd rather ride forty 
 miles after a fox, than ten with such varmint. 
 
 Hastings. Well, but where have you left the ladies? 
 1 die with impatience. 
 
 Tony. Left them ! Why, where should I leave 
 them but where I found them ? 
 
 Hastings. This is a riddle. 
 
 Tony. Riddle me this, then. What's that goes 
 round the house, and round the house, and never 
 touches the house ? 
 
 Hastings. I'm still astray. 
 
 Tony. Why, that's it, mun. I have led them 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 331 
 
 astray. By jingo, there's not a pond nor a slough 
 within five miles of the place but they can tell the 
 taste of. 
 
 Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I understand : you took 
 them in a round while they supposed themselves going 
 forward, and so you have at last brought them home 
 again. 
 
 Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down 
 Feather-bed Lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. I 
 then rattled them crack over the stones of Up-and- 
 down Hill. I then introduced them to the gibbet on 
 Heavv-tree Heath : and from that, with a circura- 
 bendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at 
 the bottom of the garden. 
 
 Hastings. But no accident, I hope ? 
 
 Tony. No, no ; only mother is confoundedly fright- 
 ened. She thinks herself forty miles off. She's sick 
 of the journey ; and the cattle can scarce crawl. So, 
 if your own horses be ready, you may whip off with 
 cousin, and I'll be bound that no soul here can budge 
 a foot to follow you. 
 
 Hastings. My dear friend, how can I be grateful ? 
 
 Tony. Ay, now it's dear friend ! noble Squire ! 
 Just now, it was all idiot, cub, and run me through 
 the guts. Damn your way of fighting, I say. After 
 we take a knock in this part of the country, we kiss 
 and be friends. But if you had run me through the 
 guts, then I should be dead, and you might go kiss the 
 hangman. 
 
 Hastings. The rebuke is just. But 1 must hasten 
 to relieve Miss Neville : if you keep the old lady em- 
 ployed, I promise to take care of the young one. 
 
 lExii Hastings. 
 
832 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes ; vanish. 
 She's got from the pond, and draggled up to the waist 
 like a mermaid. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, Tony, I'm killed. Shook! 
 Battered to death! I shall never survive it. That 
 last jolt, that laid us against the quickset-hedge, has 
 done my business. 
 
 Tony. Alack, mamma ! it was all your own fault. 
 You would be for running away by night, without 
 knowing one inch of the way. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I wish we were at home again. 
 I never met so many accidents in so short a journey. 
 Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck fast 
 in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our 
 way ! Whereabouts do you think we are, Tony ? 
 
 Tony. By my guess, we should be upon CrackskuU 
 Common, about forty miles from home. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. O lud ! O lud ! The most noto- 
 rious spot in all the country. We only want a rob- 
 bery 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 anything 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. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 333 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man 
 coming towards us. Ah, I am sure on't. If he per- 
 ceives us, we are undone. 
 
 Tony. {Aside.) Father-in-law, by all that's unlucky 
 come to take one of his night walks. {To her.) Ah, it's 
 a highwayman, with pistols as long as my arm. A 
 damned ill-looking fellow ! 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Good Heaven, defend us! He 
 approaches. 
 
 Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and 
 leave me to manage him. If there be any danger, I'll 
 cough, and cry hem. When I cough, be sure to keep 
 close. \^Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind a tree in the hack 
 scene. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of peo- 
 ple in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you ? I did 
 not expect you so soon back. Are your mother and 
 her charge in safety ? 
 
 Tony. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's. Hem. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. {From behind.) Ah, death ! I 
 find there's danger. 
 
 Hardcastle. Forty miles in three hours ; sure that's 
 too much, my youngster. 
 
 Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make short 
 journeys, as they say. Hem. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. {From behind.) Sure, he'll do the 
 dear boy no harm. 
 
 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 tliat forty miles in four hours was very good 
 going. Hem. As to be sure it was. Hem. I have 
 
834 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 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 {liaising his voice) to find the other out. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. {From hehind.) 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. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. {Running forward from hehind^ 
 O lud ! he'll murder my poor boy, my darling ! Here, 
 good gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my 
 money, my life, but spare that young gentleman ; spare 
 my child if you have any mercy. 
 
 Hardcastle. My wife, as I'm a Christian. From 
 whence can she have come ? or what does she mean % 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. {Kneeling.) Take compassion on 
 us, good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, our 
 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 ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive ! 
 My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could have 
 expected to meet you here, in this frightful place, so 
 far from home ? What has brought you to follow us ? 
 
 Hardcastle. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your 
 wits ? So far from home, when you are within forty 
 yards of your own door ! {To him.) This is one of 
 
SEE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 335 
 
 your old tricks, your graceless rogue, you. (To he?'.) 
 Don't you know the gate and the mulberry tree ? and 
 don't you remember the horse-pond, my dear ? 
 
 Mrs. Uardcastle. Yes, I shall remember the horse- 
 pond as long as I live ; I have caught my death in it. 
 {To Tony.) And is it to you, you graceless varlet, I owe 
 all this ? I'll teach you to abuse your mother — I will. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have 
 spoiled me, and so you ma}'" take the fruits on't. 
 
 Mi's. Uardcastle. I'll spoil you, 1 will. 
 
 [^Follows him off the stage. 
 
 Hardcastle. There's morality, however, in his reply. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
 
 Hastings. My dear Constance, why will you delib- 
 erate thus ? If we delay a moment, all is lost forever. 
 Pluck up a little resolution, and we shall soon be out 
 of the reach of her malignity. 
 
 Miss Neville. I find it impossible. My spirits are 
 so sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that I am 
 unable to face any t].q\y danger. Two or three years' 
 patience will at last crown us with happiness. 
 
 Hastings. Such a tedious delay is worse than incon- 
 stancy. Let us fly, my charmer ! Let us date our 
 happiness from this very moment. Perish fortune, 
 Love and content will increase what we possess 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 dictates. 
 In the moment of passion, fortune may be despised, but 
 it ever produces a lasting repentance. I'm resolved to 
 ap]ily to Mr. Hardcastle's compassion and justice for 
 redress. 
 
336 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hastings. But though he had the will, he has not 
 the power, to relieve you. 
 
 Miss JVeville. But he has influence, and upon that I 
 am resolved to rely. 
 
 Hastings. I have no hopes. But, since you persist 
 I must reluctantly obey you. [Mceunt. 
 
 SCENE CHANGES. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles Marlow and Miss Hardcastle. 
 
 Sir Charles. "What a situation am I in ! If what 
 you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If 
 what he says be true, I shall then lose one that, of all 
 others, I most wished for a daughter. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I am proud of your approbation ; 
 and to show I merit it, if you place yourselves as I 
 directed, you shall hear his explicit declaration. But 
 he comes. 
 
 Sir Charles. I'll to your father, and keep him to 
 the appointment. \_Hxit Sir Charles. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. Though prepared for setting out, I come 
 once more to take leave : nor did I till this moment 
 know the pain I feel in the separation. 
 
 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, per- 
 haps, might lessen your uneasiness, by showing the 
 little value of what you now think proper to regret. 
 
 Marlow. {Aside.) This girl every moment improves 
 upon me. {To her.) It must not be, madam ; I have 
 already trifled too long with my heart. My very pride 
 begins to submit to my passion. The disparity 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 337 
 
 of education and fortune, the anger of a parent, and 
 the contempt of my equals, begin to lose their weight : 
 and nothing can restore me to myself but this painful 
 effort of resolution. 
 
 Miss 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. 
 
 Marloio. By heaven ! madam, fortune was ever 
 my smallest consideration. Your beauty at first caught 
 my eye ; for who could see that without emotion ? 
 But every moment that I converse with you, steals in 
 some new grace, heightens the picture, and gives it 
 stronger expression. What at first seemed rustic plain- 
 ness, now appears refined simplicity. What seemed 
 forward assurance, now strikes me as the results of 
 courageous innocence and conscious virtue. 
 
 Sir Charles. What can it mean ? He amazes me ? 
 
 Hardcastle. I told you how it would be. Hush ! 
 
 Marlow. I am now determined to stay, madam, and 
 I have too good an opinion of my father's discern- 
 ment, when he sees you, to doubt his approbation. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, can- 
 not detain you. Do you think I could suffer a connec* 
 
338 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 tion in which there is the smallest room for repent- 
 ance ? Do you think I would take the mean advantage 
 of a transient passion to load you with confusion ? 
 Do you think I could ever relish that happiness .vhich 
 was acquired by lessening yours ? 
 
 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, 1 
 will make my respectful assiduities atone 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 connection where I must appear mercenary, and 
 you imprudent ? Do you think I could ever catch at 
 the confident addresses of a secure admirer. 
 
 Marlow. {Kneeling.) Does this look like security ! 
 Does this look like confidence ? No, madam, every 
 moment that shows me your merit, only serves to in- 
 crease my diffidence and confusion. Here let me con- 
 tinue — 
 
 Sir Charles. 1 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 ? 
 
 Marlow. That I'm all amazement ! "What can it 
 mean ? 
 
 Ha/rdcastle. It means that you can say and unsay 
 things at pleasure : that you can address a lady in pri- 
 
SEE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 339 
 
 vate, and deny it in public ; that you have one story 
 for us, and another for my daughter. 
 
 Marlow. Daughter ! — This lady your daughter ? 
 
 Hardcastle. Yes, sir, my only daughter — my Kate ; 
 whose else should she be ? 
 
 Marlow. Oh, the devil ! 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, that very identical tall, 
 squinting lady you were pleased to take me for (courtesy- 
 mg) ; she that you addressed as the mild, modest, senti- 
 mental man of gravity, and the bold, forward, agree- 
 able Kattle of the ladies' club. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Marlow. Zounds, there's no bearing this ; it's worse 
 than death ! 
 
 Miss Hardcastle In which of your characters, sir, 
 will you give us leave to address you ? As the falter- 
 ing gentleman which looks on the ground, that speaks, 
 just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy ; or the loud, 
 confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, 
 and old Miss Biddv Buckskin, till three in the morn- 
 ing ! — Ila ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Marlow. Oh, curse on my noisy head ! I never 
 attempted to be impudent yet that 1 was not taken 
 down. I must be gone. 
 
 Hardcastle. By the hand of my body, but 3^ou shall 
 not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to 
 find it. You shall not stir, 1 tell you. 1 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 hack scene. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Tony. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. So, so, they're gone off. Let 
 them go, 1 care not. 
 
 22— a & G— o 
 
340 SEE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hardcastle. Who gone ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. My dutiful niece and her gentle, 
 man, 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. 
 
 Hardcastle. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm 
 proud of the connection, 
 
 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 1 first paid her my addresses, and our passions 
 were first founded in duty. 
 
 Miss Neville. Since his death, I have been obliged 
 to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an 
 hour of levity, I was ready even to give up my fortune 
 
SEE STOOPS TO CONQUER, 341 
 
 to secure my choice : But I am now recovered from 
 the delusion, and hope, from your tenderness, what is 
 denied me from a nearer connection. 
 
 Mrs. Eardcastle. Pshaw ! pshaw ; this is all but 
 the whining end of a modern novel. 
 
 Eardcastle. 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 1 now 
 offer you ? 
 
 Tony. What signifies my refusing ? You know I 
 can't refuse her till I'm of age, father. 
 
 Eardcastle. While I thought concealing your age, 
 boy, was likely to conduce to your improvement, I 
 concurred with your mother's desire to keep it secret. 
 But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I must 
 now declare you have been of age these three months. 
 
 Tony. Of age ! Am I of age, father ? 
 
 Eardcastle. Above three months. 
 
 Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make o^ 
 my liberty. {Taking Miss Neville's hand.) Witness 
 all men, by these presents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, 
 esquire, of blank place, refuse you, Constantia Neville, 
 spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful 
 wife. So Constance Neville may marry whom she 
 pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his owm man again. 
 
 Sir Charles. O brave Squire ! 
 
 Eastings. My worthy friend! 
 
 Mrs. Eardcastle. My undutiful offspring ! 
 
 Marlow. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sin- 
 cerely ! And, could I prevail upon my little tyrant 
 here to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest man 
 alive, if you would return me the favor. 
 
 Eastings. {To Miss Eardcastle.) Come, madam, you 
 
342 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 are now driven to the very last scene of all your con- 
 trivances. I know you like him, I'm sure he loves you, 
 and 3'ou 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. [^Exeunt Oranes. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOB 
 
 Introduction 77. 1 
 
 Life and Writings op Gray 17 
 
 Poems : — 
 
 I. Ode on the Spring 67 
 
 II. Ode on the Death of a Favorite Cat 70 
 
 III. Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College. . . 72 
 
 IV. Hymn to Adversity 77 
 
 V. The Progress of Poesy 80 
 
 VI. The Bard 89 
 
 VII. The Fatal Sisters 101 
 
 VIII. The Descent of Odin 106 
 
 IX. The Triumphs of Owen Ill 
 
 X. Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard... 113 
 
 XI. A Long Story 120 
 
 XII. Ode for Music at the Installation 128 
 
 Posthumous Poems :— 
 
 XIII. Agrippina 133 
 
 XIV. Sonnet on the Death of Richard West 145 
 
 XV. Hymn to Ignorance 146 
 
 XVI. The Alliance of Education and Government. 148 
 
 iii 
 
iv CONTENTS. 
 
 Poems— 
 
 PAaB 
 
 XVII. Stanzas to Mr. Bentley 156 
 
 XVIII. Ode on the Pleasure arising from Vicis- 
 situde 158 
 
 XIX. Epitaph on Mrs. Clarke 161 
 
 XX. Epitaph on a Child 162 
 
 XXI. Gray on Himself 163 
 
 XXII. Epitaph on Sir William Williams 163 
 
 XXIII. The Death of Hoel 164 
 
 XXIV. Caradoc 165 
 
 XXV. Conan 165 
 
 XXVI. The Candidate 166 
 
 XXVII. Verses from Shakespeare 168 
 
 XXVIII. Impromptu, suggested by Ruins at Kings- 
 gate 170 
 
 XXIX. Satire on the Heads of Houses 172 
 
 XXX. Amatory Lines 174 
 
 XXXI. Song 175 
 
 XXXII. Epitaph on Mrs. Mason 175 
 
 XXXIII. Tophet 176 
 
 XXXIV. Comic Lines 176 
 
 XXXV. Impromptus 177 
 
 Doubtful Poems : — 
 
 I. Ode ::Tr:~r.. iso 
 
 II. Poetical Rondeau 182 
 
 III. The Characters of the Christ-Cross Row. . 184 
 
 Translations :— 
 
 I. From Statius 188 
 
 II. From Tasso 192 
 
 III. Imitated from Propertius 196 
 
 IV. To Msecenas 200 
 
 V. Translation from Dante 205 
 
CONTENTS. V 
 
 Latin Poems and Verses :— 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. Play-Exercise at Eton 211 
 
 II. In D. 29am. Mail 215 
 
 III. In 5tam. Novembris 21G 
 
 IV. " Gratia magna tuae fraudi " 218 
 
 V. " Oh ! nimium felix ! " 221 
 
 VI. '* Vah, tenero quodcunque potest " 222 
 
 VII. Paraphrase of Psalm Ixxxiv 224 
 
 VIII. Hymeneal 226 
 
 IX. Luna Habitabilis 230 
 
 X. Ad C. Favonium Aristium 235 
 
 XI. Alcaic Fragment 238 
 
 XII. Sapphics 238 
 
 XIII. Elegiacs 239 
 
 XIV. Ad C. Favonium Zephyrinum 239 
 
 XV. Fragment on the Gaurus 241 
 
 XVI. A Farewell to Florence 244 
 
 XVII. Imitation of an Italian Sonnet 245 
 
 XVIII. Alcaic Ode 246 
 
 XIX. Sophonisba Ad Masinissam 247 
 
 XX. De Principiis Cogitandi 250 
 
 XXI. " Oh ubi coUes " 264 
 
 XXII. From Petrarch 264 
 
 XXIII. From the Anthologia Graeca 265 
 
 XXIV. Generic Characters of the Orders of Insects. 272 
 
 Notes 277 
 
 Explanation op the Prints in Bentley's " De- 
 signs" 420 
 
 Appendix ^^^ 
 
THOMAS GRAY 
 
 O English poet has a greater reputation on a 
 smaller body of verse than Gray; to the great 
 majority of readers he is the author of one 
 poem. That poem has had the rare good for- 
 tune to captivate the most fastidious, and to secure a lodg- 
 ment in what may be called "the popular memory." Few 
 poems have been studied more critically for its exquisite dic- 
 tion than the "Elegy Written in a Country Church-yard," 
 and few have contributed so many phrases to the world's 
 capital of apt and striking quotations. The rare good for- 
 tune of pleasing both the few and the many is explained by 
 the fact that Gray had genius and a fastidious taste in al- 
 most equal proportions; he united the freshness and force 
 of original ability with the delicate skill of the trained 
 artist. 
 
 Born in London, December 26, 1716, he inherited from 
 a father who had little practical ability a deep love of music. 
 He studied both at Eton College and at Cambridge Univer- 
 sity ; accompanied Horace Walpole on his travels in Europe; 
 returned to Cambridge and spent his life in study, medita- 
 tion and writing. The residence of his mother near the lit- 
 tle hamlet of Stoke-Pogis, a few miles from Windsor Cas- 
 
2 THOMAS GRAY 
 
 tie, took him to the Httle church-yard in which a part of the 
 "Elegy" is believed to have been written, and in which he 
 was buried July 24, 1771. 
 
 He was a slow and fastidious writer, and his work is 
 very small in bulk; it is, however, of high importance. 
 Matthew Arnold has well said that being of a sensitive and 
 poetic mind in a prosaic age. Gray "never spoke out." 
 
 He wrote little, but everything he wrote shows a vigor- 
 ous and sensitive hand, and bears the stamp of a deeply 
 meditative spirit. The "Elegy" is not only the most widely 
 read of his works, but is one of the most characteristic poems 
 in English literature by reason of its striking power of im- 
 parting to reflections on time-worn themes a high degree of 
 poetic suggestion. The "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton 
 College," "The Progress of Poesy" and "The Bard," while 
 not strikingly original in thought, show depth of emotion 
 and abound in passages which are at once so clear in out- 
 line and so striking in imagery that they take possession of 
 the memory. Such phrases as 
 
 " Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn," 
 " Youth at the prow, and Pleasure at the helm," 
 " The short and simple annals of the poor," 
 
 Stand in no need of interpretation ; their faculty of fastening 
 themselves in the memory explains itself. 
 
 A man of reticent manners, shy, studious and a semi-in- 
 valid, Gray was a scholar of large acquirements ; at home in 
 literature, philosophy, history, art, music and many kindred 
 studies. He declined the position of Poet Laureate, and al- 
 though at the end of his life he held an important professor- 
 ship at Cambridge, he was a student, not a teacher. Of a 
 
THOMAS GRAY 3 
 
 profoundly serious nature, with the habit of meditation, he 
 had the gift of humor and was even sportive at times. He 
 had also a rich fund of sentiment and a feeling for nature 
 which made him the forerunner of Burns and Wordsworth. 
 His style is best described by his own definition of his aims : 
 "extreme conciseness of expression, yet pure, perspicuous 
 and musical." 
 
 Hamilton W. Mabie. 
 
THE 
 LIFE AND WEITINGS OP GRAY. 
 
 1716-1771. 
 
 Thomas Gbay was the fifth child of Philip 
 Gray, a scrivener or broker in London. His 
 mother was a Miss Dorothy Antrobus, who, at 
 the time of her marriage, kept a milliner's shop 
 in partnership with her sister Mary, in Corn- 
 hill ; and here Thomas was born on the 26th 
 December, 1716. 
 
 He was one of twelve children, but all the 
 others died in their infancy or childhood. " I 
 have been told," says Mason, " that he narrow. 
 ly escaped suffocation (owing to too great a ful- 
 ness of blood, which destroyed the rest), and 
 would certainly have been cut off as earl}^ had 
 not his mother, with a courage remarkable for 
 one of her sex, and withal so very tender a 
 parent, ventured to open a vein with her own 
 hand, which instantly removed the paroxysm." 
 In addition to this instance of his mother's 
 
 love and courage, it was by her that he was 
 t 17 
 
18 THE LIFE 
 
 supported, both as a child and at school and 
 college, as his father, being unsuccessful and 
 indolent, lived at his wife's place of business 
 and on her earnings. 
 
 Further, the poetry of Gray and all we have 
 of hira we owe to his mother's side of the 
 house. She herself belonged to Buckingham, 
 shire ; her brothers, Robert and William Antro- 
 bus,* were assistant masters at Eton, therefore 
 Gray was sent to Eton and educated under the 
 direction of his uncle Robert. A sister of hers 
 was married to Jonathan Rogers, a lawyer resid- 
 ing at Burn ham, and subsequently at Stoke- 
 Poges, or Stoke, not far from Windsor, and 
 now famous the world over for the churchyard 
 of the " Elegy " ; and from his house at Burnham 
 Gray described the celebrated beeches, and at 
 it met Southern, the author of " Oroonoko, in 
 September 1737. 
 
 * The Christian names of Gray's uncles have hitherto 
 not been given at all or given incorrectly. His first biog- 
 rapher, Mason, merely states he was " educated at Eton, 
 under the care of Mr. Antrobus, his mother's brother, 
 who was at that time, one of the Assistant Masters, and 
 also a Fellow of St. Peter's College, Cambridge." Sub- 
 sequent biographers speak only of his " uncle Mr. Antro- 
 bus," some adding " Fellow of Pembroke College." The 
 mistakes and ambiguity originated in the fact that his 
 mother was, as Walpole puts it, " sister to two Antro- 
 bus's who were ushei's of Eton School." From the 
 Provost of Eton I learn that they were Robert, who en- 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. I9 
 
 At Eton, which Gray entered in 1727, he 
 
 formed a friendship with two schoolfellows, 
 
 Horace Walpole, son of the Prime Minister, 
 
 and Kichard West, son of the Lord Chancellor 
 
 of Ireland, and grandson of the famous Bishop 
 
 Burnet. Associated with the names of West 
 
 and Walpole are several of Gray's poetical 
 
 tered Eton College as a pupil in 1692, and William, 
 admitted Feb. 15, 1705. According to Oraduati Can- 
 tabrigienses Robert Antrobus graduated at Peterhouse 
 in 1701, and William Antrobus at King's in 1713. In 
 the Aliini7ii Etonenses the entry in 1709 opposite William 
 Antrobus is " A. B. 1713, A. M. 1717, was for many- 
 years an Assistant of Eton School, where he was 
 tutor to the Poet Gray, to whom he was uncle. He be- 
 came Rector of Everdonin Northamptonshire, and died 
 in 1742." In Baker's " Northamptonshire " I find that 
 he was " instituted as Rector of Ever don on 21 Dec. 
 1726," and that he " died May 23, 1742." Robert died 
 in January 1729, and a tablet was erected to his memory 
 in Burnham Church by his brother-in-law, Jonathan 
 Rogers. It was for his uncle Robert, therefore, that 
 Gray was in mourning when Biyant went to Eton, " at 
 the latter end of the year 1729," Mr. Gosse in his "Gray " 
 ("English Men of Letters") speaks of Robert and 
 Thomas Antrobus, and seems to have assumed that 
 ' Thomas ' was the Christian name, from the draft of an 
 unfinished letter to Gray from his tutor at Cambridge, 
 in which he says he would do any service for his " uncle 
 Antrobus " ; after this there is a word which looks like 
 Tlto^, but may be Tlio ' — the beginning of a new and un- 
 finislied sentence. Mr. Gosse's quotation from the let- 
 ter is otherwise incorrect, and even if the word were 
 Tho', it is merely a slip on the part of the tutor. 
 
20 THE LIFE 
 
 compositions and many of his most interesting 
 letters. Other school friends or contempo- 
 raries, with whom his subsequent career was 
 connected, were Thomas Ashton, George Mon- 
 tagu, Stonhewer, Clarke, William Cole, and 
 Jacob Bryant. 
 
 " He was educated," says Horace Walpole,* 
 " chiefly under the direction of one of his uncles, 
 who took prodigious pains with him, which an- 
 swered exceedingly. He particularly instruct- 
 ed him in the virtues of simples. He had a 
 great genius for music and poetry." Bryant, 
 who was in the fourth form with Gray and 
 Walpole, — " the former," he says, " being about 
 four or five boys below, and Walpole as many 
 above," — thus describes Gray : " He was in 
 mourning for his uncle, Mr. Antrobus, who 
 had been an Assistant Master at Eton, and 
 after his resignation lived and died there. I 
 remember he made an elegant little figure in 
 his sable dress, for he had a very good com- 
 plexion, and fine hair, and appeared to much 
 advantage among the boys who were near 
 him in the school, and who were more rough 
 and rude. Indeed, both Mr. Gray and his 
 friend were looked upon as too delicate, upon 
 which account they had few associates, and 
 
 * In a memorandum prefixed to Mitford's " Corre- 
 spondence of Gray and Mason." 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 21 
 
 never engaged in any exercise, nor partook of 
 any boyish amusement. Hence they seldom 
 were in the fields, at least they took only a 
 distant view of those who pursued their dif. 
 ferent diversions. Some, therefore, who were 
 severe, treated them as feminine characters, on 
 account of their too great delicacy, and some- 
 times a too fastidious behaviour. Mr. Walpole 
 long afterwards used to say that Gray ' was 
 never a boy.' This was allowed by many who 
 remembered him, but in an acceptance very 
 different from that which his noble friend in- 
 tended. Mr. Gray was so averse to rough ex- 
 ercise that I am confident he was never on 
 horseback." 
 
 Of West Bryant writes : " I also knew him 
 well, and looked upon him as an extraordinary 
 genius. He was superior to Gray in learning, 
 and to everybody near him. He was, like his 
 friend, quite faultless in respect to morals and 
 behaviour, and, like many great geniuses, often 
 very eccentric and absent." 
 
 In 1734 Gray entered Pembroke Hall, Cam- 
 bridge ; and on the 3rd of July of that year 
 was admitted to Peterhouse, the college of 
 which his uncle Eobert had been a Fellow. 
 Walpole entered King's College, Cambridge, 
 March, 1735 ; and about the same time West 
 matriculated in Christ Church, Oxford. The 
 
22 THE LIFE 
 
 intimacy of the four friends, Gray, "West, 
 Walpole, and Ashton, continued at the Univer- 
 sities, and they formed what they called the 
 " Quadruple Alliance." 
 
 At Cambridge Gray was studious and retir- 
 ing ; but his compositions that have come down 
 to us are few, — some Latin verse (the longest 
 pieces being a Hymeneal on the marriage of 
 the Prince of Wales in 1736, and " Luna Habi- 
 tabilis," a College exercise set in 1737, and 
 printed in " MusaB Etonenses "), and a transla- 
 tion in English verse of about one hundred 
 lines of the " Thebaid " of Statins, which he 
 sent to West in May, 1736, and another of a 
 passage of Tasso, in December, 1738. The 
 latter was first published in Mathias' edition 
 in 1814 ; the last lines are famous, but having 
 been incorrectly printed by Mathias they have 
 always been incorrectly quoted. They are : — 
 
 Here the soft emerald smiles of verdant hue, 
 And rubies fiame, with sapphires heavenly blue, 
 The diamond there attracts the wond'ring sight, 
 Proud of its thousand dies, and luxury of light. 
 
 Gray's life at Cambridge and the studies pre- 
 scribed by the university were most distaste- 
 ful to him ; mathematics were not his forte, 
 and his fellow-students were not congenial. 
 "Writing to "West in December, 1736, he tells 
 him that he had endured lectures daily and 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 23 
 
 hourly, supported by the hopes of being able 
 to give himself up to his friends and classical 
 companions. " It is very possible," he writes, 
 " that two and two make four, but I would not 
 give four farthings to demonstrate this ever so 
 clearly ; and if these be profits of life, give me 
 the amusements of it. The people I behold all 
 around me, it seems, know all this and more, 
 and yet I do not know one of them who in- 
 spires me with any ambition of being like him." 
 In his other letters while an ungraduate we 
 see the melancholy — the melancholy of " II 
 Penseroso" — so characteristic of his poetry ; the 
 humour, as when he writes to West " you need 
 not doubt of having a first row in the front 
 box of my little heart," which reappears in the 
 " Long Story," and some satirical pieces, and 
 is everywhere conspicuous in his correspond- 
 ence; and the love and admiration of Nature, 
 — his letter from Burnham being aptly de- 
 scribed as the " first expression of the modern 
 feeling of the picturesque," — so fully developed 
 in his after life, which led Sir James Mackin- 
 tosh to observe, " I am struck by the recollec- 
 tion of a sort of merit in Gray, which is not 
 generally observed, that he was the first dis- 
 coverer of the beauties of Nature in England, 
 and has marked out the course of every pictur- 
 esque journey that can be made in it." 
 
24 THE LIFE 
 
 In September, 1738, Gray left Cambridge 
 without taking his degree. Shortly after, 
 Horace "Walpole invited him to accompany him 
 on a tour on the Continent, Walpole bearing 
 the expenses of both. This being agreed to, 
 the two friends started from Dover on the 29th 
 of March, 1739. Gray remained abroad for over 
 two years, and visited the chief places of interest 
 in France and Italy ; his having made this con- 
 tinental tour forming one of many points of 
 resemblance between him and Milton, who, 
 just a hundred years previously, had seen many 
 of the spots and sights now visited by Gray. 
 
 Gray and Walpole spent two months at 
 Paris, the summer at Rheims, and thence pro- 
 ceeded to Dijon and Lyons, and, travelling 
 through Savoy, visited the Grande Chartreuse 
 on their way to Geneva. In November they 
 arrived at Turin, and after short halts at Genoa, 
 Parma, and Bologna, they reached Florence, 
 where they were the guests of Horace Mann, 
 and this was their headquarters for the next 
 fifteen months. The April and May of 1710 
 were spent at Rome ; June at Naples ; and the 
 winter of 1710-41 at Florence. In the end of 
 April, 1741, at Regio, the friends had a dif- 
 ference which ended in their parting company. 
 Gray went on to Venice, where he spent two 
 months, and returning home through the north 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 26 
 
 of Italy, arrived in London from Lyons on the 
 1st of September, 1741. 
 
 In a letter to Mason, in March, 1773, Horace 
 Walpole takes to himself the blame for his 
 quarrel with Gray : — " I am conscious," he 
 says, " that in the beginning of the differences 
 between Gray and me the fault was mine. I 
 was too young, too fond of my own diversions ; 
 nay, I do not doubt, too much intoxicated by 
 indulgence, vanity, and the insolence of my 
 situation as Prime Minister's son, not to have 
 been inattentive and insensible to the feelings 
 of one I thought below me. ... I often dis- 
 regarded his wishes of seeing places which I 
 would not quit other amusements to visit. . . . 
 You will not wonder that with the dignity of his 
 spirit and the obstinate carelessness of mine, the 
 breach must have grown wider till we became in- 
 compatible." In another letter he says : " We 
 had not got to Calais before Gray was dissatis- 
 fied, for I was a boy, and he, though infinitely 
 more a man, was not enough so to make allow- 
 ances." 
 
 During this tour on the Continent the only 
 poetry that Gray wrote was some Latin verse 
 — short pieces in letters to West, an unfinished 
 didactic poem, " De Principiis Cogitandi," and 
 an ode written in the visitors' album at the 
 Grande Chartreuse on his second visit in Au- 
 
26 THE LIFE 
 
 gust, 1741, remarkably not only for its Latinity, 
 but as containing similar expressions regarding 
 himself to those in the " Progress of Poesy.'* 
 As yet Gray had written nothing in English 
 poetry, but the Letters which he wrote to his 
 friends, describing the various places he visited, 
 deserve the encomium passed on him as a letter 
 writer by Cowper, himself one of our best letter 
 writers : — " I have been reading Gray's works, 
 and think him the only poet since Shakespeare 
 entitled to the character of sublime. ... I 
 once thought Swift's Letters the best that could 
 be written, but I like Gray's better. His 
 humour, or his wit, or whatever it may be 
 called, is never ill-natured or offensive, and 
 yet I think equally poignant with the Dean's." 
 Of the letters from the Continent that have 
 come down to us, thirteen are to his mother, 
 eleven to "West, and five to his father. 
 
 Two months after Gray's return to England 
 his father died, on the 6th November, 1741. 
 The winter he spent in London, and the sum- 
 mer of 1742 at Stoke ; to this place his mother 
 and aunt retired, joining their sister there on 
 the death of Mr. Eogers, in October 1742 ; and 
 there they resided till their death, Gray fre- 
 quently paying them long visits. 
 
 In December, 1741, Gray commenced his first 
 original composition in English poetry — " Agrip„ 
 
AND WRITINGS OP GRAY. 27 
 
 pin a," a tragedy in blank verse ; but of this 
 he wrote only a single scene, consisting of a long 
 speech by Agrippina ; this he sent to West for 
 his opinion in March, 1742, and partly because 
 he condemned the style as too antiquated, Gray 
 put it aside and never resumed it. 
 
 The year 1742 is an era in Gray's life as a 
 poet ; in the summer of that year he wrote 
 at Stoke-Poges his " Ode on the Spring," 
 " On a Distant Prospect of Eton College," 
 " Sonnet on the Death of "West," and the 
 "Hymn to Adversity," and in the autumn 
 he commenced the " Elegy." His " Ode on 
 the Spring " he sent early in June to West, but 
 it was returned, as he had died on the first 
 of that month. His death, immediately follow- 
 ing that of his uncle William Antrobus, greatly 
 affected Gray; he lamented West in a sonnet 
 — the first of any value that had been written 
 since those of Milton, and in the " Ode on Eton," 
 written in the same month, his recent losses 
 caused him to take too gloomy a view of the 
 ' fields ' of his boyhood, now considered to have 
 been ' beloved in vain,' and of the future of the 
 ' sprightly race ' in whom he sees only ' the little 
 victims of Misfortune and Sorrow.' But the 
 ' Quadruple Alliance ' was broken not by death 
 only, it had ceased to exist. Gray having fallen 
 out with Ashton as well as with Walpoie. 
 
28 THE LIFE 
 
 " The late unhappy disagreement and separa- 
 tion," says Bryant, " were at that time upper- 
 most in his mind, and when he contemplated 
 this scene of concord and boyish happiness 
 he could not help, in his melancholy mood, 
 forming a contrast. He was led to consider 
 the feuds and quarrels which were likely one 
 day to ensue, when all that harmony and hap- 
 piness was to cease and enmity and bitterness 
 were to succeed. It is a gloomy picture, but 
 finely executed, and whoever reads the descrip- 
 tion with this clue, will find that it was formed 
 from a scene before his eyes. The poet saw and 
 experimentally felt what he so masterly de- 
 scribes. I lived at that time almost upon the 
 very spot which gave birth to these noble ideas, 
 and in consequence of it saw the author very 
 often." Standing alone then, owing to the 
 death of one friend and his difference with the 
 others, he can only ' look homeward ' and see his 
 own case in the future of all — Despair, Un- 
 kindness, and Remorse. It is a distorted view 
 and a one-sided picture, with no bright side ; as 
 was well observed by the Earl of Carlisle,* 
 " how many germs of future excellence, how 
 much budding promise of yet undeveloped 
 genius and unexercised virtue he might have 
 
 * Lecture on the Writings of Gray, delivered at the 
 Sheffield Mechanics' Institute, Dec. 14, 1853. 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 29 
 
 discovered ; .... of the last six Prime Min- 
 isters four iiave been Eton men, and not very 
 long after the Poet had cast his desponding 
 glance upon that boyish group, among those 
 who disported on the ' margent green ' was 
 Arthur Wellesiey, Duke of Wellington." 
 
 None of these poems, however, was published 
 for several years ; the first that appeared in 
 print being the " Ode on Eton College," which 
 was published anonymously in pamphlet form 
 by itself in 1747. Next year, the " Ode on 
 Eton College," the " Ode on the Spring," and 
 " Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat" were 
 published in Dodsley's " Collection of Poems," 
 but without Gray's name. 
 
 In the winter of 1742 Gray returned to Cam- 
 bridgfe, and went into residence at Peterhouse. 
 He graduated as LL.B. in 1744,* and for the 
 rest of his life made Cambridge his home, with 
 occasional visits to Stoke, to London, and to 
 friends in the country. The next four or five 
 years he devoted to reading, his chief study 
 being the literature and history of ancient 
 Greece. In Dec. 1746, he writes, " We are in 
 the midst of Diog. Laertius and his philoso- 
 phers, as a prooeraium to the series of their 
 works, and those of all the poets and orators 
 
 * So in Oraduati Cantabrigienses. Mason and sub- 
 sequent editors say 1743. 
 
 22— G & Q— P 
 
30 THE LIFE 
 
 that lived before Philip of Macedon's death, 
 and we have made a great Chronological Table 
 with our own hands, the wonder and amaze- 
 ment of Mr. Brown ; not so much for public 
 events, but rather, in a literary way, to com- 
 pare the times of all great men, their writings 
 and transactions." In March 1747, he writes : 
 — " I have read Pausanias and Athenaeus all 
 through, and ^schylus again. I am now in 
 Pindar and Lysias, for I take verse and prose 
 tegether like bread and cheese. The Chronol- 
 ogy is growing daily." He also wrote notes 
 and long commentaries on Plato and Aris- 
 tophanes, a learned description of India and 
 Persia, in which he cites over ninety ancient 
 and modern authors whose works he had com- 
 pared in this study. This and the notes on 
 Plato and Aristophanes were first published 
 by Mathias, the former two from Gray's " Com- 
 mon Place Books " at Pembroke College, which 
 contain besides many learned and interesting 
 historical and literary notes still unpublished. 
 
 An event of importance to us as well as to 
 Gray was his reconciliation, in November, 1745, 
 with Horace Walpole, as the latter not only 
 induced Gray to let his poems appear in print, 
 but actually published the first collected edition 
 of them at his own press at Strawberry Hill. 
 Another interesting incident was an interview 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 31 
 
 between Gray and Pope, which took place 
 probably not long before the death of the lat- 
 ter (May 30, 1744). In 1747 he made the ac- 
 quaintance of one who for the rest of his life 
 was one of his most intimate friends, and des- 
 tined to be his executor and biographer — Wil- 
 liam Mason, then a young scholar of St. John's 
 College, and already a minor poet. Gray him- 
 self was still unknown as a poet or an author ; 
 it was without his name that his three Odes 
 were published in Dodsley's " Collection " in 
 1748, and at this time he was over thirty years 
 of age. 
 
 During the first half of his life at Cambridge 
 Gray's most intimate friends besides Mason 
 (appointed Rector of Aston in Yorkshire in 
 1754, and Precentor of York in 1761), were the 
 Rev. James Brown, Fellow and afterwards 
 Master of Pembroke, and Thomas Wharton, 
 M.D., an ex-Fellow, residing at Old Park near 
 Durham. His correspondence was mainly with 
 these three; the two former he appointed his 
 executors, and he frequently went on visits to 
 Mason at York, and to Wharton in Durham. 
 
 The death of his aunt Mary at Stoke in 
 November, 1749, seems to have led Gray to 
 take up again the unfinished " Elegy " which 
 he had commenc.ed just seven years previously ; 
 he kept touching it up for some mouths longer, 
 
32 THE LIFE 
 
 and when at last finished he sent a copy of it 
 to Horace Walpoie on the 12th June, 1750. 
 "Walpole having handed the verses about, it 
 got into the hands of the editors of the " Ma- 
 gazine of Magazines," who wrote to Gray in- 
 forming him of their intention to print it. To 
 anticipate them Gray requested Walpole to 
 have it published at once, and thus this famous 
 poem appeared, in a quarto pamphlet, on the 
 16th February, 1751, entitled " An Elegy Wrote 
 in a Country Church-Yard," price sixpence. 
 
 The poem became popular at once, and the 
 name of the author was soon known, he was 
 the ' celebrated Mr. Gray,' and it, in Dr. John- 
 son's words, ' the far-famed Elegy.'' It went 
 through four editions in two months, and soon 
 reached the eleventh ; and not only did it appear 
 in almost every magazine and in all Collections 
 of Poems, but it was translated into Greek, 
 Latin, and Hebrew, and into almost every lan- 
 guage of Modern Europe, and polyglot editions 
 of it published. To no other modern poem had 
 such homage been paid and so abundantly. 
 Nor should the story of the tribute paid to the 
 " Elegy " on an historical occasion a few years 
 later be omitted. On the 13th of September, 
 1759, the night before the battle on the Plains 
 of Abraham, General Wolfe was descending 
 the St. Lawrence with a part of his troops. 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. gg 
 
 "Swiftly but silently," writes Lord Mahon, 
 "did the boats fall down with the tide, unob- 
 served by the enemy's sentinels at their posts 
 along the shore. Of the soldiers on board, 
 how eagerly must every heart have throbbed 
 at the coming conflict ! how intently must 
 every eye have contemplated the dark outline, 
 as it lay pencilled upon the midnight sky, and 
 as every moment it grew closer and clearer, of 
 the hostile heights ! Not a word was spoken — 
 not a sound heard beyond the rippling of the 
 stream. Wolfe alone — thus tradition has told 
 us — repeated in a low tone to the other ofHcers 
 in his boat those beautiful stanzas with which 
 a country churchyard inspired the muse of 
 Gray. One noble line — ' The paths of glory 
 lead but to the grave,' must have seemed at 
 such a moment fraught with mournful meaning. 
 At the close of the recitation Wolfe added, 
 * Now, gentlemen, I would rather be the author 
 of that poem than take Quebec' " 
 
 To the lover of Gray, however, more pleas- 
 ing than such distinctions as these is the thought 
 that his mother — that careful tender mother 
 — lived to read the words that now every one 
 knows, and to hear of the fame of the son who 
 had so fully requited her love. 
 
 In the autumn of 1750 Gray wrote the hu- 
 morous verses entitled a " Long Story," — a 
 
34 THE LIFE 
 
 mock-heroic or burlesque account of his intro- 
 duction to Lady Cobham and Miss Speed at the 
 Manor House at Stoke-Poges. 
 
 The year 1753 is remarkable in Gray's lit- 
 erary life for the publication of a handsome edi- 
 tion of his poems with illustrations by Richard 
 Bentley. The work was in reality planned by 
 Horace Walpole, who persuaded Gray to allow 
 the poems to be printed, paid Bentley for his 
 drawings, and supervised the work generally. 
 In Walpole's brief sketch of Gray he thus de- 
 scribes the work : " In March, 1753, was pub- 
 lished a fine edition of his poems, with frontis- 
 pieces, head and tail pieces and initial letters, 
 engraved by Grignion and Miiller, after draw- 
 ings of Richard Bentley, Esq." So modest 
 was Gray as to his contribution to the work 
 that instead of its being called " Poems with 
 Designs," he caused it to be named " Designs 
 by Mr. R. Bentley for Six Poems by Mr. T. 
 Gray." The Six Poems were the " Ode on the 
 Spring," " Ode on the Death of a Favourite 
 Cat," " Ode on Eton College," " A Long Story," 
 " Hymn to Adversity," and the " Elegy." In, 
 March, 1753, Gray's mother died at Stoke, and 
 was buried in the same grave as that in which 
 her sister had been laid a few years previously. 
 The inscription on the tombstone is the compo- 
 sition of Gray, and is a witness at once to his 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 35 
 
 own faith and to his love for the mother to 
 whom he owed so much. It runs : " In the vault 
 beneath are deposited, in hope of a joyful resur- 
 rection, the remains of Mary Antrobus. She 
 died unmarried, Nov, 5, 1749, aged 6Q. In the 
 same pious confidence, beside her friend and sis- 
 ter, here sleep the remains of Dorothy Gray, 
 widow, the careful, tender Mother of many chil- 
 dren, one of whom alone had the misfortune to 
 survive her. She died March 11, 1753, aged 67.'' 
 
 In the July of 1753 Gray made a leisurely 
 journey from Cambridge to Durham, where he 
 spent two months with Dr. "Wharton. In the 
 autumn he was again at Stoke, tending on his 
 aunt, who " had a stroke of the palsy," refer- 
 ring to which he writes : " Stoke has revived 
 in me the memory of many a melancholy hour 
 that I have passed in it, and, though I have no 
 longer the same cause for anxiet}'', I do not find 
 myself at all the happier for thinking that I 
 have lost it, as my thoughts do not signify 
 anything to any one but myself. I shall wish 
 to change the scene as soon as ever I can." 
 
 In the autumn of 1754 he visited Stowe, 
 Woburn, Wroxton and Warwick, and wrote a 
 long description of the latter to Wharton. 
 About the same time he wrote his learned Essay 
 on Norman Architecture ; it is written from 
 a classical standpoint, but his accuracy of ob- 
 
36 THE LIFE 
 
 servation, considering the time at which he 
 wrote, is very remarkable. To 1754 also be- 
 longs his unfinished " Ode on the Pleasure aris- 
 ing from Vicissitude ; " had he completed this 
 it would have ranked with the greatest of his 
 poems. One verse will bear quoting again, the 
 thoughts as well as some of the words are those 
 of Wordsworth : — 
 
 " See the Wretch, that long has tost 
 
 On the thorny bed of pain, 
 At length repair his vigour lost, 
 
 And breathe and walk again ; 
 The meanest flowret of the vale, 
 The simplest note that swells the gale* 
 The common sun, the air, the skies, 
 To him are opening paradise." 
 
 In December, 1754, Gray completed and sent 
 to Dr. "Wharton an ' Ode in the Greek manner,' 
 requesting him " by no means to suffer it to be 
 copied, nor even to show it unless to very few." 
 This Ode was what was subsequently known as 
 " The Progress of Poesy " ; it and the compan- 
 ion Ode, " The Bard," are the most original of 
 his productions, and at the same time show his 
 art at its highest. 
 
 In July, 1755, Gray paid a visit to Mr. Chute 
 at the Vyne in Hampshire ; after which he 
 visited Portsmouth, where he saw the fleet, 
 and from Portsdown had a " magnificent and 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 37 
 
 varied prospect of Hampshire, Berkshire, and 
 the Isle of Wight." 
 
 "In the winter of 1755," says "Walpole, 
 "George Hprvey, Earl of Bristol, who was 
 soon afterwards sent Envoy to Turin, was de- 
 signed for Minister to Lisbon ; he offered to 
 carry Gray as his secretary, but he declined 
 it." 
 
 In March, 1756, Gray removed from Peter- 
 house to Pembroke, an event which he says 
 " may be looked upon as a sort of era in a life 
 so barren of events as mine." The cause of 
 this move was the annoyance he received from 
 some noisy students who occupied part of the 
 same building ; it is zJid that a practical joke 
 was played on him, but in writing to Wharton 
 he says: " I left my lodgings because the rooms 
 were noisy and the people dirty ; this is all I 
 would choose to have said about it." 
 
 " The Bard " was commenced early in 1755, 
 and laid aside, nothing apparently being done 
 at it in 1756 ; but in May, 1757, in a fit of en- 
 thusiasm roused by some concerts given at 
 Cambridge bv John Parrv, the famous blind 
 harper, Gray at length finished it. He thus 
 describes the incident in a letter to Mason : — 
 " Mr. Parry has been here and scratched out 
 such ravishing blind harmony, such tunes of 
 a thousand years old, with names enough to 
 
38 THE LIFE 
 
 choke you, as have set all this learned body 
 a-dancing, and inspired them with due rever- 
 ence for my old Bard, his countryman, when- 
 ever he shall appear. Parry, you must know, 
 put my Ode in motion again, and has brought 
 it at last to a conclusion." 
 
 In August, 1757, the two Pindaric Odes, with 
 the simple title of " Odes by Mr. Gray," were 
 printed at a private printing press that Horace 
 Walpole had set up at Strawberry Hill, " being," 
 as he tells us, " the first production of that 
 printing-house." The motto Gray adopted, 
 from Pindar, was (Pwvdvra aoveroiai — ' vocal to 
 the intelligent.' His reputation as a poet was 
 made at once, but it w^^i evident that he had 
 judged rightly in assuming that all his readers 
 and critics could not be included among the ' in- 
 telligent.' In a letter to Dr. Wharton a couple 
 of months after the publication of the Odes, 
 Gray wrote : — " Dr. "Warburton is come to 
 town, and I am told likes them extremely ; he 
 says the world never passed so just an opinion 
 upon anything as upon them ; for that in other 
 things they have affected to like or to dislike, 
 whereas here they own they do not understand, 
 which he looks on to be very true; but yet 
 thinks they understand them as well as Milton 
 or Shakespeare, whom they are obliged by 
 fashion to admire. Mr. Gar rick's compiimen- 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 39 
 
 tary verses to me you have seen ; I am told 
 they were printed * in the ' Chronicle ' of last 
 Saturday. The ' Critical Review ' is in rap- 
 tures, but mistakes the JEolian lyre for the 
 harp of ^olus, and on this pleasant error 
 founds both a compliment and a criticism. 
 Oliver Goldsmith reviewed the Odes in the 
 " London Monthly Review " for September, 
 and observes of them ; — " they will give as 
 much pleasure to those who relish this species 
 of composition as anything that has hitherto 
 appeared in our language, the odes of Dryden 
 himself not excepted." David Garrick's stanzas 
 were six in number, of which the following 
 two may be quoted as a specimen of the great 
 actor's verse and of his mode of treating the 
 subject: — 
 
 Repine not, Gray, that our weak dazzled eyes 
 Thy daring heights and brightness shun ; 
 
 How few can trace the eagle to the skies, 
 Or, like him, gaze upon the sun ! . . . 
 
 Yet droop not, Gray, nor quit thy heaven-born art ; 
 
 Again thy wondrous powers reveal : 
 Wake slumbering Virtue in the Briton's heart, 
 
 And rouse us to reflect and feel ! 
 
 Small as the amount of Gray's poetical work 
 
 * Appeared anonymously in the " London Chronicle," 
 October 1, 1757. 
 
40 THE LIFE 
 
 had been he was recognized as the greatest 
 living poet, and in December, 1767, on the 
 death of Colley Gibber, he was offered the post 
 of Poet-Laureate. Tiiis Gray declined, ob- 
 serving, in a letter to Mason, " I rather wish 
 somebody may accept it that will retrieve the 
 credit of the thing, if it be retrievable or ever 
 had any credit. . . . Dryden was as disgrace- 
 ful to the office from his character, as the 
 poorest scribbler could have been from his 
 verses. The office itself has always humbled 
 the possessor hitherto (even in an age when 
 kings were somebody), if he were a poor writer 
 by making him more conspicuous, and if he 
 were a good one by setting him at war with 
 the little fry of his own profession, for there 
 are poets little enough to envy even a poet- 
 laureate." 
 
 In 1759 Gray lived mostly in London, lodging 
 in Southampton Row to be near the British 
 Museum, which had been opened to the public 
 in the January of that year ; and here he read 
 for several hours almost daily, and copied MSS. 
 of Wyatt and Lydgate. He continued at this 
 and similar work in the winter of 1760-61, copy- 
 ing out Gawin Douglas' " Palace of Honour," 
 and composing his " Observations on English 
 Metre," and other notes for a History of Eng- 
 lish Poetry he was then planning, which he re- 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 41 
 
 fers to in the advertisement to his " Fatal Sis- 
 ters." 
 
 In 1Y60 Lady Cobham died and left Gray 
 twenty guineas. In his pocket-book for that 
 year opposite April 15, I have noted the follow- 
 ing, " Lady Cobham's legacy, £21," and on the 
 same day " borrowed of Dr. Clarke, £15," and 
 paid for a " pair of velvet breeches, £2 2s." In 
 September he paid " M. Antrobus for linen and 
 ruffles, six shirts and making, £5 95." ; and on 
 " 14 Nov. bought a lottery ticket, £5 8s. 6d. ; it 
 came out a blank on the 18th." 
 
 In the autumn of 1762 Gray made a tour 
 in Yorkshire and Derby, visiting Richmond, 
 Kipon, Sheffield, and Chatsworth, and other 
 places of interest. On his return to Cambridge 
 he found that the Professorship of Modern 
 History was vacant, and, being " spirited up by 
 some friends," Gray got his name suggested to 
 Lord Bute ; he also wrote to Mr. Chute * asking 
 him to find " an opportunity to mention it to 
 Mr. W.," observing, " I certainly might ask it 
 with as much or more propriety than anyone 
 in this place ; if anything more were done, it 
 should be as private as possible, for if the peo- 
 ple who have any sway here could prevent it, 
 1 think they would most zealously." Gray 
 soon got his answer from Bute — " great profes- 
 * Letter in " Gray and his Friends," p. 184. 
 
42 THE LIFE 
 
 sions of his desire to serve me on any future 
 occasion, and many more line words," — and 
 the place was given to Lawrence Brockett, 
 tutor to Sir James Lowther, Bute's son-in-law.* 
 This must have been very galling to the sensi- 
 tive nature of Gray ; he had never asked for 
 anything before ; and when in 1759 it was 
 thought that Dr. Turner, the Professor, was 
 going to die, in a letter to Dr. Brown Gray says 
 he had been sounded as to whether he would 
 take it, but he " would not ask for it, not 
 choosing to be refused." 
 
 In August, 1764, he made an excursion to 
 Scotland ; from Cumberland he visited Dum- 
 fries, the Falls of the Clyde, Glasgow (where 
 he met Foulis, the publisher), Loch Lomond, 
 Stirling, Hawthornden, Melrose, Edinburgh, 
 and places near it. In October he made a short 
 tour in the south of England, visiting Win- 
 chester, Southampton, Netley Abbey, Salisbury, 
 Wilton, and Stonehenge. His descriptions of 
 the places he visits are as usual most charming 
 reading, especially where he writes on the spot 
 " after the finest walk in the finest day that 
 ever shone to Netley Abbey." 
 
 In the autumn of 1765 Gray paid a second 
 visit to Scotland, stopping for a while at Edin- 
 
 * See an allusion to this in Macaulay's Essay on 
 Chatham. 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 43 
 
 burgh, where he " supped with Dr. Robertson * 
 and other hterati." From Glamis he wrote a 
 long letter to Dr. Wharton, describing the cas- 
 tle and the surrounding country. Thence he 
 passed westward, still as Lord Strathmore's 
 guest, to Dunkeld, and, by a road winding with 
 the Tav, to the falls of the Tummell and the 
 Pass of Killiecrankie, close by which " rises a 
 hill covered with oak, with grotesque masses of 
 rock staring from among their trunks, like the 
 sullen countenances of Fingal and all his family 
 frowning on the little morals of modern days." 
 He returned from the Highlands, ' charmed 
 with his expedition ;' " the mountains," he 
 says, " are ecstatic, and ought to be visited in 
 pilgrimage once a year ; none but those mon- 
 strous creatures of God know how to join so 
 much beauty with so much horror. . . . Italy 
 could hardly produce a nobler scene, and this 
 so sweetly contrasted with that perfection of 
 nastiness and total want of accommodation that 
 Scotland only can supply." 
 
 While he was stopping at Glamis Castle, 
 the Marischal College of Aberdeen offered to 
 confer on Gray the degree of Doctor of Laws ; 
 this proposal was made through Dr. James 
 Beattie, Professor of Moral Philosophy and 
 
 * Author of " History of Scotland," 1759 ; " History 
 of the Reign of Charles the Fifth," 1769, etc. 
 
4i THE LIFE 
 
 author of the " Minstrel." Gray declined the 
 honour, on the ground that he had not finished 
 his course for the doctor's degree at Cambridge, 
 and therefore, he says, " I certainly would 
 avoid giving any offence to a set of men, 
 among whom I have passed so many happy 
 hours of my life ; yet shall ever retain in my 
 memory the obligations you have laid me under, 
 and be proud of my connection with the Uni- 
 versity of Aberdeen." 
 
 In 1766 he passed the end of May and all 
 June in Kent, visiting " Margate (one would 
 think it was Bartholomew Fair that had flown 
 down from Smithfield in the London machine ), 
 Ramsgate, Sandwich, Deal, and Dover, and 
 Folkestone, and Hy the, all along the coast very 
 delightful." Here again his descriptions of 
 the scenery are poetry in prose, " showing an 
 eye for nature then without a precedent in 
 modern literature " : — " The country is all a 
 garden, gay, rich, and fruitful, and from the 
 rainy season had preserved, till I left it, all 
 that emerald verdure, which commonly one 
 only sees for the first fortnight of the spring. 
 In the west part of it from every eminence the 
 eye catches some long winding reach of the 
 Thames or Med way, with all their navigation ; 
 in the east the sea breaks in upon you, and 
 mixes its white transient sails of glittering 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 45 
 
 blue expanse with the deeper and brighter 
 greens of the woods and corn." 
 
 In 1768, Dodsley having asked Gray to allow 
 him to republish his poems, there appeared the 
 first complete edition of the poems he wished 
 to make public. These numbered only ten, — 
 five of the six that were published in the edi- 
 ton of 1753 (the " Long Story " being now 
 omitted), his two Pindaric Odes and three 
 Odes from the Norse. In this edition he sup- 
 plied explanatory footnotes, for which he 
 sarcastically apologizes, in a prefatory note to 
 the " Progress of Poesy " (see p. 189) ; but in 
 one of his letters with less reserve he states 
 that he added the notes " out of spite because 
 the public did not understand the two Odes 
 which I call Pindaric, though the first is not 
 very dark, and the second alluded to a few 
 common facts to be found in any sixpenny 
 history of England, by way of question and 
 answer for the use of children." At the same 
 time, on the suggestion of Beattie, another 
 edition of the same poems was published in 
 Glasgow by Foul is ; this was a large and hand- 
 some book. In the advertisement to it the 
 publishers state that " as an expression of their 
 high esteem and gratitude, they have endeav- 
 oured to print it in the best manner ; " and 
 that it is " the first work in the Roman charac- 
 
40 THE LIFE 
 
 ter which they have printed with so large a 
 type." 
 
 On the 24th of July, 1768, the Professorship 
 of Modern History again fell vacant, and it 
 was at once offered, unsolicited, to Gray by 
 the Duke of Grafton, then Prime Minister. In 
 the same week, Gray attended the King's 
 levee, and kissed hands on his appointment ; 
 in letters to his friends he says the King made 
 him several gracious speeches, and told him 
 that he owed his nomination to his " particular 
 knowledge " of him. This professorship, which 
 was worth £400 a year, had always been a 
 sinecure, as the professor was not required to 
 deliver any lectures. Gray, however, drew up 
 a plan for an inaugural lecture ; and in 1771 
 " Rules * concerning the Lectures in Modern 
 History " were issued, but the first lectures 
 were by Dr. Symonds, Gray's successor. 
 
 The Duke of Grafton having been appointed 
 Chancellor of the University, Gray undertook 
 to write the customary Installation Ode. Dr. 
 Burney was anxious to be the composer, but 
 it was set to music by the Professor of Music, 
 and performed at the Installation on the 1st 
 July, 1769. This Ode is on a well-conceived 
 plan, and contains several passages in Gray's 
 
 * A copy may be seen in the Webb collection, Uni- 
 versity Library. 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 47 
 
 best style, such as that beautiful stanza, in 
 which, as Hallam says, " he has made the 
 founders of Cambridge pass before our eyes 
 like shadows over a magic glass." 
 
 In October, 1769, Gray made a tour in the 
 Lake country, visiting UUes water, Borrowdale, 
 Lodore, Ambleside, Grasmere, Rydal,and other 
 places afterwards to be associated with the 
 Lake poets, and celebrated by Wordsworth and 
 Southey. He wrote a journal of this tour for 
 the amusement of his friend, Dr. Wharton, 
 which was published in Mason's " Memoirs " in 
 1775 among Gray's Letters to Wharton. This 
 graphic and picturesque narrative, with its 
 wonderful descriptions of the scenery of Ulles- 
 water and Borrowdale, and of the Lodore 
 waterfall, should be read in Mr. Gosse's edition, 
 vol. i. pp. 249-281, and with them Wordsworth's 
 " Daffodils," " Yew Trees," and the " Evening 
 Walk." The similarity of language in the two 
 poets in more than one passage is too striking 
 to be merely accidental. Writing of a Avalk to 
 Crow Park, Gray's note is : — " At distance 
 heard the murmur of manv waterfalls not 
 audible in the daytime." This re-appears in 
 the " White Doe " :— 
 
 " A soft and lulling sound is heard 
 Of streams inaudible by day." 
 
 In 1760 Gray took a fancy to an under- 
 
48 THE LIFE 
 
 graduate, Norton Nicholls, and continued to 
 keep up an interesting correspondence with him 
 after he had left college and had become a 
 country clergyman in Suffolk. 
 
 Through Nicholls Gray formed another 
 friendship, which seemed serviceable to him in 
 taking him out of himself ; this was with a 
 young Swiss gentleman named Bonstetten, 
 who had come over to England to finish his 
 education ; Nicholls persuaded him to go to 
 Cambridge, and gave him a letter of intro- 
 duction to Gray. For the first three months of 
 1770 Bonstetten spent almost every evening 
 with Gray, reading with him Shakespeare, 
 Milton, Dryden, Pope, and other English 
 authors. On his way back to Switzerland 
 Bonstetten stopped in London, and was shown 
 some of the sights by Gray, among others Dr. 
 Johnson himself, whom Gray knew by sight, 
 but disliked. Bonstetten told Sir Egerton 
 Brydges, among other anecdotes of Gray, that, 
 when he was walking one day with Gray in a 
 crowded street of the city, "a large uncouth 
 figure was rolling before them, upon seeing 
 which Gray exclaimed with some bitterness, 
 * Look, look, Bonstetten, the great bear ! 
 There goes Ursa Major. ' " In addition to 
 interesting us as the companions and corre- 
 spondents of Gray, Nicholls and Bonstetten 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 49 
 
 have each written a sketch of Gray's character 
 and mode of life. Nicholls' " Reminiscences of 
 Gray " was written in 1805 and published in 
 Mitford's edition in 1843, and in 1831 Bonstetten 
 wrote " Souvenirs " of his own life, in which is 
 a most interesting account of his intercourse 
 with and impressions of " le celebre poete 
 Gray," — quoted in Mitford's " Correspondence 
 of Gray and Mason," pp. 480-481. 
 
 An extract from a letter from the poet 
 Beattie to Sir W. Forbes, dated 4th May, 1770, 
 shows the opinion then held of Gray as a poet. 
 He writes : " Of all the English poets of this 
 age, Mr. Gray is most admired, and, I think, 
 with justice. Yet there are, comparatively 
 speaking, but a few who know anything of his 
 but his ' Churchyard Elegy," which is by no 
 means the best of his works." 
 
 In the summer of 1770 Gray made a tour in 
 company with NichoUs through Worcestershire, 
 Gloucestershire, Monmouthshire, Hereford- 
 shire, and Shroi-^hire, " five of the most beauti- 
 ful counties of the Kingdom " ; he descended 
 the Wye in a boat for forty miles, its banks he 
 thought "A succession of nameless wonders" ; 
 he also saw Tintern Abbey, Monmouth, and 
 Oxford. 
 
 This was the last of his tours ; he had looked 
 forward to accompanying Nicholls to Switzer- 
 
60 THE LIFE 
 
 land on a visit to his friend Bonstetten in the 
 summer of 1771, but as the time approached he 
 wrote to Nicholls that he " had neither health 
 nor spirits all the winter " ; and, soon after, 
 " I am but indifferently well ; and the sense of 
 my own duty (which I do not perform), my 
 own low spirits, and, added to these, a bodily 
 indisposition, make it necessary for me to deny 
 myself that pleasure." This was in the end of 
 May ; on the 28th June he writes : — " I foresee 
 a new complaint that may tie me down perhaps 
 to my bed, and expose me to the operations of 
 a surgeon. God knows what will be the end of 
 it." On the 24:th July, while at dinner in Pem- 
 broke College Hall he was taken suddenly ill ; 
 next day the gout had reached his stomach, 
 and he died before midnight on the 30th July, 
 1771. 
 
 In his will Gray desired that his body might 
 be " deposited in the vault, made by my late 
 dear mother in the churchyard of Stoke-Poges, 
 near Slough in Buckinghamshire, by her re- 
 mains." There he was buried on the 6th 
 August, the grave, with its altar-shaped tomb- 
 stone, being just outside the chancel window, 
 and almost under the shadow of the ivy-mantled 
 tower. The only inscription on the tombstone 
 is that which he had put to the memory of his 
 aunt and his mother ; but a stone was placed 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 5I 
 
 by Mr. Penu in the wall of the church, 
 with this inscription : " Opposite to this stone, 
 in the same tomb upon which he has so feelingly- 
 recorded his grief at the loss of a beloved 
 parent, are deposited the remains of Thomas 
 Gray, the author of the Elegy written in a 
 Country Churchyard, etc. He was buried 
 August 6th, 1771." 
 
 In 1778, on the same day (6th August, the 
 
 anniversary of his funeral), "monuments to 
 
 the memory of Spenser and Gray were opened 
 
 in Westminster Abbey." * Gray's monument 
 
 was erected by Mason ; it is in Poets' Corner, 
 
 just under the monument to Milton and next 
 
 to that of Spenser ; it consists of a medallion 
 
 of Gray, and below the following inscription 
 
 written by Mason : — 
 
 " No more the Grecian Muse unrivalled reigns, 
 To Britain let the nations homage pay ; 
 She felt a Homer's fire in Milton's strains, 
 A Pindar's rapture in the lyre of Gray. 
 
 He died July 30th, 1771. Aged 54." 
 
 One defect in these lines is that there is as 
 much about Milton as there is about Gray. 
 
 In 1799, Mr. John Penn, the owner of Stoke 
 Park, caused a large monumental cenotaph to 
 be erected to Gray's memory in a field adjoin- 
 ing the churchyard at Stoke. On the four 
 * " Gentleman's Magazine," 1778. 
 
52 THE LIFE 
 
 sides of the pedestal there are inscriptions ; on 
 the side facing the church there are the 27th 
 and 28th stanzas of the " Elegy," — the eight 
 lines beginning " Hard by yon wood " ; on the 
 next side * facing north are six lines from the 
 " Ode on Eton College " :— 
 
 " Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 
 That crown the watry glade. 
 ***** 
 
 Ah happy hills, ah pleasing shade, 
 
 Ah fields beloved in vain, 
 Where once my careless childhood strayed, 
 
 A stranger yet to pain ! " 
 
 On the side * that looks east are the 4th and 
 9th stanzas from the " Elegy," beginning — 
 
 " Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade," 
 and 
 
 " The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power." 
 
 On the fourth side there is the following in- 
 
 * It is a curious fact that in Howitt's "Homes and 
 Haunts of the British Poets " the quotations on these 
 two sides are incorrectly given — sixteen continuous 
 lines being given from the " Eton Ode," and the 4th 
 and 5th stanzas of the " Elegy" ; the inscription on 
 the fourth side is also inaccurately quoted ; and in 
 Mr. Rolfe's American edition of Gray's " Poems," 
 while he takes credit for correcting Howitt, he also, 
 in his revised edition, gives the wrong verse from the 
 "Elegy." 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 53 
 
 scription : — " This Monument, in honour of 
 Thomas Gray, was erected a. d. 1799, among 
 the scenes celebrated by that great Lyric 
 and Elegiac Poet. He died July 31,* 1771, and 
 lies unnoted, in the churchyard adjoining, 
 under the tombstone on which he piously and 
 pathetically recorded the interment of his Aunt 
 and lamented Mother." 
 
 In Eton College a bust of Gray, by Behnes, 
 presented by the seventh Earl of Carlisle, stands 
 among the busts of famous Etonians in the 
 upper school. And to further mark the poet's 
 connection with Eton, the present Head-Master, 
 Kev. E. Warre, D. D. (following the example 
 of his predecessors. Dr. Ealston and Dr. Horn- 
 by) presents a copy of Gray's Poems to each 
 boy in the fifth and sixth forms who leaves 
 Eton with a ' bene discessit,' and a handsomely- 
 bound large edition to such as may have spe- 
 cially distinguished themselves.f 
 
 It was not till just a century after his death 
 that at Cambridge due honour was done to the 
 memory of Gray. When the College Hall at 
 
 * This wrong date is also given in several biographies 
 of Gray, owing to Mason's wording in his " Memoirs '' 
 — " On the 30th the fit returned with increased vio- 
 lence, and on the next evening he expired." 
 
 t Dr. Goodford's " leaving book " was a "Terence," 
 Dr. Hawtrey's a " Juvenal " ; and in 1862 Dr. Balston 
 adopted " Gray " as the presentation book. 
 
 22— G & G— Q 
 
54 THE LIFE 
 
 Peterhouse was restored in 1870 a stained glass 
 window, drawn by Mr. F. Madox Brown, was 
 presented by Mr. Hunt; and at Pembroke 
 College a marble bust by Thornycroft was un- 
 veiled by Lord Houghton on the 26th May, 
 1885, and speeches were delivered in honour of 
 the poet by Sir Frederick Leighton and by Mr. 
 Russell Lowell, the American Minister and 
 himself a poet. 
 
 Gray's character is best painted by himself ; 
 writing to West from Florence, in April, 1741, 
 he says : " As I am recommending myself to 
 your love, methinks I ought to send you my 
 picture. You must add then, to your former 
 idea, two years of age, a reasonable quantity of 
 dulness, a great deal of silence, and something 
 that rather resembles, than is, thinking ; a 
 confused notion of many strange and fine 
 things that have swam before my eyes for 
 some time, a want of love for general society, 
 indeed an inability to it. On the good side 
 you may add a sensibility for what others feel, 
 and indulgence for their faults and weaknesses, 
 a love of truth and detestation of everything 
 else. Then you are to deduct a little imper- 
 tinence, a little laughter, a great deal of pride 
 and some spirits." 
 
 " To be employed is to be happy," was one of 
 Gray's favourite maxims. Study and travel 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 55 
 
 were the two kinds of employment in which he 
 found most happiness. In a letter to Wharton 
 (April, 1760) he writes " To find oneself busi- 
 ness, I am persuaded, is the great art of life ; 
 and I am never so angry as when I hear my 
 acquaintance wishing they had been bred to 
 some poking profession, or employed in some of- 
 fice of drudgery, as if it were pleasanter to be 
 at the command of others, than at one's own, 
 and as if they could not go unless they were 
 wound up. Yet I know and feel what they 
 mean by this complaint ; it proves that some 
 spirit, something of genius (more than common) 
 is required to teach a man how to employ 
 himself." 
 
 Probably the trait in Gray's character most 
 natural in the author of the " Elegy " is his 
 sympathy for the sufferings of others, his 
 " sensibility," as he calls it, to know and feel 
 another's woe. Whenever there was sorrow, 
 or sickness, or death, among his friends, his 
 tenderness was shown in language no less 
 touching than beautiful ; his letters of condo- 
 lence to Mason on the death of his wife, and 
 to Nicholls on the loss of his mother are well 
 known. To him sorrow had not come for no 
 purpose ; " methinks," he writes, " I can readily 
 pardon sickness, and age, and vexation for all 
 the depredations they make within and with- 
 
66 THE LIFE 
 
 out when I think they make us better friends 
 and better men, which I am persuaded is often 
 the case. I am very sure I have seen the best- 
 tempered, generous, tenderest, young creatures 
 in the world, that would have been very glad 
 to be sorry for people they liked when under 
 any pain, and could not, merely for the want 
 of knowing rightly what it was themselves." 
 
 Unjust and disparaging as is Dr. Johnson's 
 criticism of Gray's poetry, his estimate of his 
 character is, for a contemporary, wonderfully 
 true; "his mind," he says, " had a large 
 grasp ; his curiosity was unlimited, and his 
 judgment cultivated ; he was a man likely to 
 love much where he loved at all, but he was 
 fastidious and hard to please ; his contempt, 
 however, is often employed, where I hope it 
 will be approved, on scepticism and infidelity." 
 
 " It is scarcely a paradox to say," writes Mr. 
 Tovey, " that he has left much that is incom- 
 plete, but nothing that is unfinished. His 
 handwriting represents his mind ; I have seen 
 and transcribed many and many a page of it, 
 but I do not recollect a single carelessly written 
 word, or even letter. The mere sight of it sug- 
 gests refinement, order, and infinite pains. A 
 mind searching in so many directions, sensitive 
 to so many influences, yet seeking in the first 
 place its own satisfaction in a manner uniformly 
 
ATSTD WRITINGS OF GRAY. 57 
 
 careful and artistic, is almost foredoomed to 
 give very little to the world. But what he has 
 given is a little gold instead of much sil- 
 ver In all that he has left, there is in- 
 dependence, sincerity, thoroughness ; the high- 
 est exemplar of the critical spirit, a type of 
 how good work of any kind should be done. 
 
 He studied Greek when few studied it 
 
 His notes designed for his own use, have been 
 frequently quoted by the late Master of 
 
 Trinity To History he brought the 
 
 modern spirit of research. . . . His critical 
 opinions are safe, because they are not contro- 
 versial nor addressed to a public, but the out- 
 come of impressions gathered at leisure by a 
 mind at once comprehensive and exact. We 
 are no losers by the circumstance that they 
 were communicated only to his friends, for 
 next in sincerity to the good criticism which 
 may be found in some poetry is that which we 
 can extract from private letters." 
 
 Gray was skilled in architecture, in botany, 
 in zoology, and in music ; he made a valuable 
 collection of manuscript music while he was 
 in Italy, and was a judge of both painting and 
 sculpture. In relation to landscape Gray was 
 a prophet and a precursor of all that we love 
 and admire. Speaking as an artist Sir F. 
 Leighton well said : — " Nature knew him for 
 
58 THE LIFE 
 
 her lover and unsealed for him her inmost 
 secrets. Her beauty revealed to him new and 
 richer meanings, a fuller charm breathed for 
 him out of the meadow, and out of the mere, 
 and the mountains lost their antique gloom 
 and let in a new day, their gloom was turned 
 before his eyes to glory." 
 
 One of the first things that strikes one with 
 reference to the Poetry of Gray is the small 
 quantity of it ; as Dickens once said, no poet 
 ever gained a place among the immortals with 
 so small a volume under his arm. But Gray 
 wrote only for himself or his friends, and it 
 was merely when pressed by them or by the 
 booksellers that he published anything ; the 
 " Elegy " was being circulated in manuscript 
 for months, and it was only when it was about 
 to be printed in an unauthorized manner that 
 he caused it to be published, and even then 
 without his name. What he says of his verses 
 was true of himself — 
 
 " To censure cold and negligent of fame." 
 
 Nor did he w^rite for money ; " he could not 
 bear," we are told, " to be thought a professed 
 man of letters, but wished to be regarded as a 
 private gentleman who read for his amuse- 
 ment." 
 
 The chief characteristics of Gray's Poetry 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 59 
 
 are musical sweetness of the versification and 
 his felicity of expression, and besides these a 
 "philosophic pathos," to use Coleridge's phrase 
 in describing one of the excellences of the 
 poetry of Wordsworth. "Extreme concise- 
 ness of expression, yet pure, perspicuous, and 
 musical, is one of the grand beauties of lyric 
 poetry. This," says Gray, " I have always 
 aimed at and never could attain. The neces- 
 sity of rhyming is one great obstacle to it." 
 
 His chief merit as a poet, however, lies in his 
 art. " Gray," writes Matthew Arnold, " holds 
 his high rank as a poet, not merely by the 
 beauty and grace of passages in his poems; 
 not merely by a diction generally pure in an 
 age of impure diction ; he holds it, above all, 
 by the power and skill with which the evolu- 
 tion of his poems is conducted. Here is his 
 grand superiority to Collins, whose diction in 
 his best poem— the "Ode to Evening"— is 
 purer than Gray's ; but then the " Ode to Eve- 
 nino-" is like a river which loses itself in the 
 sand, whereas Gray's best poems have an evolu- 
 tion sure and satisfying." * 
 
 Dryden and Milton seem to be the poets from 
 whom Gray chiefly formed his style ; he cites 
 Milton as the " best example of an exquisite 
 ear that he can produce"; and he seems to me 
 
 * Evierson. " Macmillan's Magazine," May, 1884. 
 
60 THE LIFE 
 
 to have borrowed more of the language and 
 phraseology of Milton than that of any other 
 poet ; and of Dryden he writes that " if there 
 was any excellence in his own numbers he had 
 learned it wholly from that great poet." Nor- 
 ton Nicholls writes : " Spenser was among his 
 favourite poets, and he told me he never sat 
 down to compose poetry without reading Spen- 
 ser for a considerable time previously. He 
 admired Dryden and could not patiently hear 
 him criticized ; " Absalom and Achitophel " 
 and " Theodore and Honoria " stood in the 
 first rank of poems in his estimation. He 
 placed Shakespeare high above all poets of all 
 countries and all ages. ... 1 asked him why 
 he had not continued that beautiful fragment 
 beginning 
 
 " As sickly plants betray a niggard earth," * 
 
 he said ' because he could not ' ; when I ex- 
 pressed surprise at this, he explained himself 
 as follows, that he had been used to write only 
 lyric poetry, in which the poems being short, 
 he had accustomed himself, and was able to 
 polish every part ; that this having become 
 habit he could not write otherwise, and that 
 the labour of this method in a long poem would 
 
 * »4 
 
 Alliance of Education and Government." 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 61 
 
 be intolerable He thought Goldsmith a 
 
 genuine poet. I was with him at Malvern 
 when he received the "Deserted Village," 
 which he desired me to read to him ; and he 
 listened with fixed attention, and soon ex- 
 claimed, ' This man is a poet.' " 
 
 A point which I have nowhere seen noted in 
 connection with Gray's style is the frequency 
 with which he uses a word or phrase that 
 seems to please him, several instances of which 
 I have cited in the Notes. Another (to which 
 I have referred in the note on line 63 of the 
 " Elegy ") Is his reproducing in his printed 
 poems words and thoughts from the verses that 
 he set aside and never intended for publication. 
 I have cited several such from "Agrippina," 
 and there are others in his Translations, — that 
 remarkable expression "luxury of light," in the 
 " Stanzas to Bentley," he had already written 
 in his Translation from Tasso so long previously 
 as 1738 ; and his " Alliance of Education and 
 Government " contains several words used in a 
 connection almost peculiar to Gray, e.g.^ that 
 most unpoetical word "circumscribed" (famil- 
 iar from the " Elegy ") occurs in a passage 
 that may be quoted as a specimen of the poetry 
 which he did not think worth publishing — 
 
 " Unmanly thought ! what seasons can control, 
 What fancied zone can circumscribe the Soul, 
 
62 THE LIFE 
 
 Who, conscious of the source from whence she 
 
 springs, 
 By reason's light on resolution's wings, 
 Spite of her frail companion dauntless goes 
 O'er Libya's deserts and through Zerabla's snows ? 
 She bids each slumb'ring energy awake, 
 Another touch, another temper take, 
 Suspends th' inferior laws that rule our clay ; 
 The stubborn elements confess her sway. 
 Their little wants, their low desires refine, 
 And raise the mortal to a height divine." 
 
 Another peculiarity of Gray's is his use of 
 compounds, not merely such as " many-twink- 
 ling " and " ivy-mantled," but " desert-beach," 
 " vermeil-cheek," " iron-sleep," " iron-sleet," 
 "virgin-grace," " tyrant-povrer," "velvet-green," 
 and others in which the second part as well as 
 the whole word is a substantive. 
 
 The principal defects in Gray's poetry are 
 an excess of allegory and rhetoric, and a too 
 frequent recurrence of personification, some- 
 times so vague that, as Coleridge observes in 
 his remarks on the well-known passage in the 
 " Bard " — " Youth on the prow and Pleasure at 
 the helm " — " it depends wholly in the com- 
 positor's putting or not putting a capital, both 
 in this and many other passages, whether the 
 words should be personifications or mere 
 abstracts." 
 
 The charge of obscurity is less likely to be 
 made in the present day than it was when his 
 
AND WRITINGS OF GRAY. 63 
 
 Pindaric Odes appeared, when notes were 
 necessary " to tell the gentle reader," as Gray 
 says, " that Edward I. was not Oliver Crom- 
 well nor Queen Elizabeth the Witch of Endor " ; 
 but if such there be, his own motto to the 
 " Odes " is his reply, " Vocal to the intelligent, 
 for the many they need interpreters " ; or, as 
 Coleridge said to those who complained of his 
 poems being obscure, " If any man expect from 
 my poems the same easiness of style which he 
 admires in a drinking song, for him I have not 
 written. Intelligibilia, non intellectum adf ei'o." 
 
POEMS. 
 
The footnotes are by Gray ; those to the first ten 
 pieces being taken from his edition published by Dods- 
 ley in 1768. The line, etc., where a quotation is to be 
 found is here added, though seldom giveu by Gray. 
 
ODE ON THE SPRING. 
 
 Lo ! where the rosy -bosomed Hours, 
 
 Fair Venus' train, appear, 
 Disclose the long-expecting flowers, 
 
 And wake the purple year ! 
 The Attic warbler pours her throat, 
 Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 
 
 The untaught harmony of spring ; 
 While, whispering pleasure as they fly. 
 Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky 
 
 Their gathered fragrance fling. 10 
 
 Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 
 
 A broader browner shade. 
 Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech 
 
 O'er-canopies the glade, 
 
 14. " — a bank .... 
 
 O'ercanopied with luscious woodbine." 
 
 Midsummer Night's Dream, 11. 2. 
 
 67 
 
68 ODE ON THE SPRING. 
 
 Beside some water's rushy brink 
 Witti me the Muse shall sit, and think 
 
 (At ease reclined in rustic state) 
 How vain the ardour of the crowd, 
 How low, how little are the proud, 
 
 How indigent the great ! 20 
 
 Still is the toiling hand of Care ; 
 
 The panting herds repose ; 
 Yet hark, how through the peopled air 
 
 The busy murmur glows ! 
 The insect youth are on the wing, 
 Eager to taste the honied spring. 
 
 And float amid the liquid noon ; 
 Some lightly o'er the current skim, 
 Some show their gaily-gilded trim 
 
 Quick-glancing to the sun. 30 
 
 To Contemplation's sober eye 
 Such is the race of Man ; 
 
 27. " Nare per sestatem liquidam." 
 
 Virgil, Georgic, iv. 59. 
 
 30. " . . . . sporting with quick glance 
 Show to the sun their waved coats dropped 
 
 with gold."— Par. Lost, vii. 405. 
 
 31. "While insects from the threshold preach," etc. 
 M. Green, in the Grotto. Dodsley's Miscellanies, v. 161. 
 
ODE ON THE SPRING. 69 
 
 And they that creep, and they that fly, 
 
 Shall end where they began. 
 Alike the Busy and the Gay 
 But flutter through life's little day, 
 
 In fortune's varying colours drest ; 
 Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance, 
 Or chilled by age, their airy dance 
 
 They leave, in dust to rest. 40 
 
 Methinks I hear in accents low 
 
 The sportive kind reply : 
 Poor moralist ! and what art thou ? 
 
 A solitary fly ! 
 Thy joys no glittering female meets, 
 No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, 
 
 No painted plumage to display ; 
 On hasty wings thy youth is flown 
 Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone — 
 
 We frolic, while 'tis May. 50 
 
70 ODE ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 11. 
 
 ODE ON THE DEATH OF A FAYOUKITE 
 
 CAT, 
 
 DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES. 
 
 'TwAS on a lofty vase's side, 
 Where China's gayest art had dyed 
 
 The azure flowers, that blow ; 
 Demurest of the tabby kind. 
 The pensive Selima, reclined, 
 
 Gazed on the lake below. 6 
 
 Her conscious tail her joy declared ; 
 The fair round face, the snowy beard, 
 
 The velvet of her paws. 
 Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, 
 Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes. 
 
 She saw ; and purred applause. 12 
 
 Still had she gazed ; but 'midst the tide 
 Two angel forms were seen to glide, 
 
 The Genii of the stream ; 
 Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue 
 
A FAVOURITE CAT. 71 
 
 Through richest purple to the view 
 
 Betrayed a golden gleam. 18 
 
 The hapless nymph with wonder saw ; 
 A whisker first and then a claw, 
 
 With many an ardent wish, 
 She stretched in vain to reach the prize. 
 What female heart can gold despise ? 
 
 What Cat's averse to fish ? 24 
 
 Presumptuous maid ! with looks intent 
 Again she stretched, again she bent. 
 
 Nor knew the gulf between. 
 (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled) 
 The slippery verge her feet beguiled, 
 
 She tumbled headlong in. 30 
 
 Eight times emerging from the flood 
 She mewed to every wat'ry god, 
 
 Some speedy aid to send. 
 No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred ; 
 Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. 
 
 A fav'rite has no friend ! 36 
 
 From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived. 
 Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved, 
 And be with caution bold. 
 
72 ODE ON A DISTANT 
 
 Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes 
 And heedless hearts is lawful prize ; 
 JSTor all, that glisters, gold. 42 
 
 III. 
 
 ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF 
 ETON COLLEGE. 
 
 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 
 
 That crown the wat'ry glade, 
 "Where grateful Science still adores 
 
 Her Henry's holy Shade ; 
 And ye, that from the stately brow 
 Of Windsor's heights the expanse below 
 
 Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
 "Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
 "Wanders the hoary Thames along 
 
 His silver-winding way. 10 
 
 Ah happy hills, ah pleasing shade. 
 
 Ah fields beloved in vain, 
 "Where once my careless childhood strayed, 
 
 A stranger yet to pain ! 
 
 4. King Henry the Sixth, Founder of the College. 
 
PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. 73 
 
 I feel the gales, that from ye blow, 
 A momentary bliss bestow, 
 
 As waving fresh their gladsome wing 
 My weary soul they seem to soothe. 
 And, redolent of joy and youth. 
 
 To breathe a second spring. 20 
 
 Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 
 
 Full many a sprightly race 
 Disporting on thy margent green 
 
 The paths of pleasure trace, 
 Who foremost now delight to cleave 
 "With pliant arm thy glassy wave ? 
 
 The captive linnet which enthrall ? 
 What idle progeny succeed 
 To chase the rolling circle's speed, 
 
 Or urge the flying ball ? 30 
 
 While some on earnest business bent 
 
 Their murmuring labours ply 
 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint 
 
 To sweeten liberty ; 
 
 19. " And bees their honey redolent of spring." 
 Dryden's Fable on the Pythagorean System. 
 
74 ODE ON A DISTANT 
 
 Some bold adventurers disdain 
 The limits of their little reign, 
 
 And unknown regions dare descry ; 
 Still as they run they look behind, 
 They hear a voice in every wind, 
 
 And snatch a fearful joy. 40 
 
 Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, 
 
 Less pleasing when possest ; 
 The tear forgot as soon as shed, 
 
 The sunshine of the breast ; 
 Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, 
 "Wild wit, invention ever-new, 
 
 And lively cheer of vigour born ; 
 The thoughtless day, the easy night. 
 The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 
 
 That fly th' approach of morn. 60 
 
 Alas, regardless of their doom. 
 
 The little victims play ! 
 No sense have they of ills to come, 
 
 Nor care beyond to-da}^ ; 
 Yet see how all around 'em wait 
 The Ministers of human fate. 
 
 And black Misfortune's baleful train ! 
 Ah, show them where in ambush stand. 
 
PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. 75 
 
 To seize their prey, the murtherous band ! 
 Ah, tell them, they are men ! 60 
 
 These shall the fury Passions tear, 
 
 The vultures of the mind, 
 Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 
 
 And Shame that skulks behind ; 
 Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 
 Or Jealousy with rankling tooth. 
 
 That inly gnaws the secret heart, 
 And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
 Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, 
 
 And Sorrow's piercing dart. 70 
 
 Ambition this shall tempt to rise. 
 
 Then whirl the wretch from high, 
 To bitter Scorn a sacrifice. 
 
 And grinning Infamy. 
 The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 
 And hard Unkindness' altered eye, 
 
 That mocks the tear it forced to flow ; 
 And keen Remorse with blood defiled, 
 And moody Madness laughing wild 
 
 Amid severest woe. 80 
 
 79. "Madness laughing in his ireful mood." 
 Dryden's Fable of Palamon and Arcite, ii. 43 
 
76 ODE ON ETON COLLEGa 
 
 Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 
 
 A grisly troop are seen, 
 The painful family of Death, 
 
 More hideous than their queen. 
 This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 
 That every labouring sinew strains, 
 
 Those in the deeper vitals rage ; 
 Lo, Poverty, to fill the band. 
 That numbs the soul with icy hand. 
 
 And slow-consuming Age. 90 
 
 To each his sufferings ; all are men, 
 
 Condemned alike to groan, 
 The tender for another's pain. 
 
 The unfeeling for his own. 
 Yet ah ! why should they know their fate ? 
 Since sorrow never comes too late. 
 
 And happiness too swiftly flies. 
 Thought would destroy their paradise. 
 Ko more ; where ignorance is bliss, 
 
 'Tis folly to be wise. lOd 
 
HYMN TO ADVERSITY. 77 
 
 TV. 
 HYMN TO ADVEKSITY. 
 
 Daughter of Jove, relentless Power, 
 Thou Tamer of the human breast, 
 Whose iron scourge and torturing hour 
 
 The bad affright, afflict the best ! 
 Bound in thy adamantine chain 
 The proud are taught to taste of pain. 
 And purple tyrants vainly groan 
 With pangs unfelt before, un pitied and alone. 8 
 
 When first thy Sire to send on earth 
 Virtue, his darling child, designed, 
 To thee he gave the heavenly birth, 
 And bad to form her infant mind. 
 Stern rugged Nurse ! thy rigid lore 
 With patience many a year she bore ; 
 What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, 
 And from her own she learned to melt at 
 others' woe. 16 
 
 22— G & G — B 
 
78 HYMN TO ADVERSITY. 
 
 Scared at thy frown terrific, fly 
 
 Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, 
 "Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, 
 
 And leave us leisure to be good. 
 Light they disperse, and with them go 
 The summer friend, the flattering foe ; 
 By vain Prosperity received. 
 To her they vow their truth, and are again 
 believed. 24 
 
 "Wisdom in sable garb arrayed, 
 
 Immersed in rapturous thought profound, 
 And Melancholy, silent maid 
 
 "With leaden eye, that loves the ground. 
 Still on thy solemn steps attend ; 
 "Warm Charity, the general friend, 
 With Justice to herself severe, 31 
 
 And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing 
 tear. 
 
 Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, 
 Dread Goddess, lay thy chastening hand ! 
 
 Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, 
 Nor circled with the vengeful band 
 
HYMN TO ADVERSITY. 79 
 
 (As by the impious thou art seen) 
 "With thundering voice, and threatening 
 mien, 39 
 
 With screaming Horror's funeral cry, 
 Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Pov- 
 erty, 
 
 Thy form benign, oh Goddess, wear, 
 
 Thy milder influence impart, 
 Thy philosophic train be there 
 
 To soften, not to wound my heart, 
 The generous spark extinct revive. 
 Teach me to love and to forgive, ^ 
 Exact my own defects to scan, 47 
 
 What others are, to feel, and know myself a 
 Man. 
 
80 THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 
 
 A PINDARIC ODE. 
 I. 1. 
 
 Awake, JEolian lyre, awake, 
 And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. 
 From Helicon's harmonious springs 
 
 A thousand rills their mazy progress take ; 
 The laughing flowers, that round them blow, 
 Drink life and fragrance as they flow. 
 
 1. "Awake, my glory ; awake, lute and harp." 
 
 David's Psalms. 
 
 Pindar styles his own poetry, with its musical accom- 
 paniments, -iEolian song, ^olian strings, the breath of 
 the ^olian fiute. 
 
 The subject and simile, as usual with Pindar, are 
 united. The various sources of poetry, which gives life 
 and lustre to all it touches, are here described ; its 
 quiet majestic progress enriching every subject (other- 
 wise dry and barren) with a pomp of diction and luxuri- 
 ant harmony of numbers ; and its more rapid and irre- 
 sistible course, when swollen and hurried away by the 
 conflict of tumultuous passions. 
 
THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 81 
 
 Now the rich stream of music winds along, 
 
 Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong. 
 
 Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden 
 
 reign ; 
 Now rolling down the steep amain, 10 
 
 Headlong, impetuous, see it pour ; 
 The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the 
 
 roar. 
 
 I. 2. 
 
 Oh ! Sovereign of the willing soul, 
 Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs. 
 Enchanting shell ! the sullen Cares 
 
 And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. 
 On Thracia's hills the Lord of War 
 Has curbed the fury of his car, 
 And dropped his thirsty lance at thy command. 
 Perching on the sceptred hand 20 
 
 Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king 
 With ruffled plumes and flagging wing ; 
 
 13 — 24. Power of harmony to calm the turbulent sal- 
 lies of the soul. The thoughts are borrowed from the 
 first Pythian of Pindar. 
 
 20. This is a weak imitation of some incomparable 
 lines in the same Ode. 
 
82 THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 
 
 Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie 
 The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his 
 eye. 
 
 I. 3. 
 
 Thee the voice, the dance, obey, 
 
 Tempered to thy warbled lay. 
 
 O'er Idalia's velvet-green 
 
 The rosy-crowned Loves are seen 
 
 On Cytherea's day 
 
 "With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures, 30 
 
 Frisking light in frolic measures ; 
 
 Now pursuing, now retreating, 
 
 Now in circling troops they meet ; 
 To brisk notes in cadence beating 
 
 Glance their many-twinkling feet. 
 Slow melting strains their Queen's approach 
 declare; 
 
 "Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay. 
 "With arms sublime, that float upon the air, 
 
 In gliding state she wins her easy way ; 
 
 O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move 
 
 The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of 
 
 Love. 41 
 
 25—41. Power of harmony to produce all the graces 
 of motion in the body. 
 
THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 83 
 
 II. 1. 
 
 Man's feeble race what ills await ! 
 Labour, and Penury, the racks of pain, 
 Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, 
 
 And Death, sad refuge from the storms of 
 Fate! 
 The fond complaint, my Song, disprove. 
 And justify the laws of Jove. 
 Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse ? 
 Night, and all her sickly dews, 
 Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, 50 
 He gives to range the dreary sky ; 
 Till down the eastern cliffs afar 
 Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering 
 shafts of war. 
 
 II. 2. 
 
 In climes beyond the solar road, 
 
 Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains 
 
 roam, 
 
 42 — 53, To compensate the real and imaginary ills 
 of life, the Muse was given to mankind by the same 
 Providence that sends the day, by its cheerful presence, 
 to dispel the gloom and terrors of the night. 
 52. " Or seen the Morning's well-appointed Star 
 Come marching up the eastern hills afar." 
 
 Cowley. 
 
84 THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 
 
 The Muse has broke the twilight gloom 
 
 To cheer the shivering Native's dull abode. 
 And oft, beneath the odorous shade 
 Of Chili's boundless forests laid, 
 She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, 60 
 In loose numbers wildly sweet, 
 Their feather-cinctured Chiefs, and dusky 
 
 Loves. 
 Her track, where'er the Goddess roves, 
 Glory pursue, and generous Shame, 
 The unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy 
 
 flame. 
 
 11. 2. 
 
 "Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, 
 Isles, that crown theJEgean deep, 
 
 54 — 65. Extensive influence of poetic genius over 
 the remotest and most uncivilized nations : its connec- 
 tion with liberty, and the virtues that naturally attend 
 on it. (See the Erse, Norwegian, and Welsh frag- 
 ments, the Lapland and American songs.) 
 54. " Extra anni solisque vias." 
 
 Virgil, u^neid, vi. 795. 
 " Tutta lontana dal camin del sole." 
 
 Petrarch, Canzon, 2. 
 66—82. Progress of Poetry from Greece to Italy, and 
 from Italy to England. Chaucer was not imacquainted 
 
THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 85 
 
 Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, 
 
 Or where Maeander's amber waves 
 In lingering labyrinths creep, 70 
 
 How do your tuneful echoes languish, 
 
 Mute, but to the voice of Anguish ? 
 "Where each old poetic mountain 
 
 Inspiration breathed around ; 
 Every shade and hallowed fountain 
 
 Murmured deep a solemn sound ; 
 Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour 
 
 Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. 
 Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant-Power, 
 
 And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. 
 When Latium had her lofty spirit lost. 
 They sought, oh Albion ! next thy sea-encircled 
 coast. 82 
 
 III. 1. 
 
 Far from the sun and summer-gale. 
 In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid, 
 
 with the writings of Dante or of Petrarch. The Earl 
 of Surrey and Sir Thomas Wyatt had travelled in Italy, 
 and formed their tastes there. Spenser imitated the 
 Italian writers ; Milton improved on them ; but this 
 school expired soon after the Restoration, and a new 
 one arose ou the French model, which has subsisted 
 ever since. 84. Shakespeare. 
 
86 THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 
 
 What time, where lucid Avon strayed, 
 
 To him the mighty Mother did unveil 
 Her awful face. The dauntless Child 
 Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled. 
 This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear 
 Kichly paint the vernal year ; 
 Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy I 
 This can unlock the gates of Joy, 
 Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, 
 Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears. 
 
 III. 2. 
 
 J*^or second He, that rode sublime 95 
 
 Upon the seraph- wings of Ecstasy, 
 The secrets of th' Abyss to spy, 
 
 He passed the flaming bounds of Place and 
 Time; 
 The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze, 
 When Angels tremble, while they gaze, 
 
 95. Milton. 
 
 98. " Flammantia moenia mundi." 
 
 Lucretius, i. 74. 
 
 99. " For the spirit of the living creature was in the 
 wheels . . . And above the firmament, that was over 
 the heads, was the likeness of a throne, as the appear- 
 ance of the glory of the Lord."— Ezekiel, 1. 20, 26, 28. 
 
THE PROGRESS OF POESY, g? 
 
 He saw ; but blasted with excess of light, 
 
 Closed his eyes in endless night. 
 
 Behold where Diyden's less presumptuous car 
 
 Wide o'er the fields of Glorv bear 
 
 Two Coursers of ethereal race, 
 
 With necks in thunder clothed, and long 
 resounding pace. 106 
 
 III. 
 
 Hark, his hands the lyre explore ! 
 Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er 
 Scatters from her pictured urn 
 Thoughts, that breathe, and words, that burn. 
 
 But ah ! 'tis heard no more 
 
 106 Meant to express the stately march and sounding 
 energy of Dryden's rhymes. 
 
 " Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder ? 
 
 Job xxxix. 19. 
 
 110. " Words, that weep, and tears, that speak." 
 
 Cowley. 
 
 111. We have had in our language no other odes of 
 the sublime kind, than that of Dryden on St. Cecilia's 
 Day ; for Cowley (who had his merit) yet wanted judg- 
 ment, style, and harmony, for such a task. That of 
 Poke is not worthy of so great a man. Mr. Mason 
 indeed of late days had touched the true chords, and 
 
88 THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 
 
 Oh ! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit 
 
 Wakes thee now ? tho' he inherit 
 Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, 
 
 That the Theban Eagle bear 
 Sailing with supreme dominion 
 
 Thro' the azure deep of air ; 
 Yet oft before his infant eyes would run 
 
 Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray 
 With orient hue, unborrowed of the sun ; 
 
 Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way 
 Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, 
 Beneath the Good how far — but far above the 
 Great. 
 
 with a masterly hand, in some of his Choruses, — ^above 
 all in the last of Caractacus : 
 
 Hark 1 heard ye not you footstep dread ? etc. 
 
 115. Pindar compares himself to that bird, and his 
 enemies to ravens that croak and clamour in vain be- 
 low, while it pursues its flight, regardless of their noise. 
 
THE BARD. 89 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE BAKD. 
 
 A PINDARIC ODE. 
 
 The following Ode is founded on a tradition current 
 in Wales, that Edward the First, when he completed 
 the conquest of that country, ordered all the bards that 
 fell into his hands to be put to death. 
 
 ' Rum seize thee, ruthless King ! 
 ' Confusion on thy banners wait, 
 * Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing 
 They mock the air with idle state. 
 Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, 
 Nor even thy virtues. Tyrant, shall avail 
 ' To save thy secret soul from nightly fears> 
 ' From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's 
 tears ! ' 
 
 Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested 
 pride 9 
 
 4. *' Mocking the air with colours idly spread." 
 
 Shakespeare's King John, v. I. 
 
 5. The hauberk was a texture of steel ringlets, or 
 rings interwoven, forming a coat of mail, that sat close 
 to the body, and adapted itself to every motion. 
 
 9. "The crested adder's pride." 
 
 Dryden. Indian Queen. 
 
 
90 
 
 THE BARD. 
 
 Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, 
 As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 
 He wound with toilsome march his long 
 array. 
 Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance ; 
 ' To arms ! ' cried Mortimer, and couched his 
 quivering lance. 
 
 I. 2. 
 
 On a rock, whose haughty brow, 
 Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 
 
 Robed in the sable garb of woe, 
 With haggard eyes the Poet stood ; 
 
 11. Snowdon was a name given by the Saxons to that 
 mountainous tract which the Welsh themselves call 
 Craigian-eryri ; it included all the highlands of Caernar- 
 vonshire and Merionethshire, as far east as the river 
 Conway. R. Hygden, speaking of the castle of Conway 
 built by King Edward the First, says, " Ad ortum amnis 
 Conway ad clivum montis Erery ; " and Matthew of 
 "Westminster (ad ann. 1283), " Apud Aberconway ad 
 pedes montis Snowdoniae fecit erigi castrum forte." 
 
 13. Gilbert de Clare, surnamed the Red, Earl of 
 Gloucester and Hertford, son-in-law to King Edward. 
 
 14. Edmond de Mortimer, Lord of Wigmore. They 
 both were Lords-Marchers, whose lands lay on the 
 borders of Wales, and probably accompanied the king 
 in this expedition. 
 
A PINDARIC ODE. 91 
 
 (Loose his beard, and hoary hair 
 Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled 
 
 air) 20 
 
 And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire, 
 Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 
 
 ' Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cavej 
 ' Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! 
 ' O'er thee, oh King ! their hundred arms they 
 wave, 
 'Kevenge on thee in hoarser murmurs 
 breathe ; 
 ' Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 
 * To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's 
 lay. 
 
 1.3. 
 
 * Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, - 
 * That hushed the stormy main ; 30 
 
 19. The image was taken from a well-known picture 
 of Raphael, representing the Supreme Being in the 
 vision of Ezekiel. There are two of these paintings 
 (both believed original), one at Florence, the other at 
 Paris. 
 
 20. " Shone, like a meteor, streaming to the wind. 
 
 Milton'B Paradise Lost, i. 637. 
 
92 THE BARD. 
 
 * Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed ; 
 
 * Mountains, ye mourn in vain 
 
 * Modred, whose magic song 
 
 * Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-toppod 
 
 head. 
 
 * On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 
 
 * Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale ; 
 
 * Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail ; 
 
 ' The famished Eagle screams, and passes by. 
 
 * Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, 39 
 
 ' Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes, 
 
 * Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my 
 
 heart, 
 
 * Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — 
 
 35. The shores of Caernarvonshire opposite to the Isle 
 of Anglesey. 
 
 38. Cambden and others observe, that eagles used 
 annually to build their aerie among the rocks of Snow- 
 don, which from thence (as some think) were named 
 by the Welsh Craigian eryri, or the crags of the eagles. 
 At this day (I am told) the liighest point of Snowdon 
 is called the eagle's nest. That bird is certainly no 
 stranger to this island, as the Scots, and the people of 
 Cumberland, Westmoreland, etc., can testify ; it even 
 has built its nest in the Peak of Derbyshire. (See Wil- 
 loughby's Ornithol., published by Ray.) 
 
 40. "As dear to me as are the ruddy drops 
 
 That visit my sad heart." — Julius Ccesar, ii. 1, 
 
A PINDARIC ODE. 93 
 
 * No more I weep. They do not sleep. 
 
 ' On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, 
 
 * I see them sit, they linger yet, 
 
 ' Avengers of their native land ; 
 
 * With me in dreadful harmony they join, 
 *And wave with bloody hands the tissue of 
 
 thy line.' 
 
 II. 1. 
 
 " "Weave the warp, and weave the woof, 
 " The winding-sheet of Edward's race. 60 
 
 " Give ample room, and verge enough 
 " The characters of hell to trace. 
 " Mark the year, and mark the night, 
 " When Severn shall re-echo with affright 
 "The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs 
 
 that ring, 
 " Shrieks of an agonizing King ! 
 
 " She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting 
 fangs, 
 
 48. See the Norwegian Ode that follows. 
 
 54. Edward the Second, cruelly butchered in Berk- 
 ley-Castle. 
 
 57. Isabel of France, Edward the Second's adulterous 
 Queen. 
 
94 
 
 THE BARD. 
 
 "That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled 
 
 Mate, 
 " From thee be born, who o'er thy country 
 
 hangs 
 " The scourge of Heaven. What Terrors round 
 
 him wait ! 60 
 
 " Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, 
 " And sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind. 
 
 II. 2. 
 
 " Mighty Victor, mighty Lord ! 
 " Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 
 
 " Ko pitying heart, no eye, afford 
 " A tear to grace his obsequies. 
 
 " Is the sable Warrior fled ? 
 " Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead. 
 " The Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were 
 
 born? 
 " Gone to salute the rising Morn. 70 
 
 59. Triumphs of Edward the Third in France. 
 
 64. Death of that King, abandoned by his Children, 
 and even robbed in his last moments by his Courtiers 
 and his Mistress. 
 
 67. Edward, the Black Prince, dead some time before 
 bis Father. 
 
A PINDARIC ODE. 95 
 
 " Fair laughs the Morn and soft the Zephyr 
 blows, 
 " "While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
 " In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes ; 
 " Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the 
 helm ; 
 " Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, 
 "That, hushed in grim repose, expects his 
 evening-prey. 
 
 II. 3. 
 
 " Fill high the sparkling bowl, 
 " The rich repast prepare, 
 
 " Reft of a crown, he yet may share the 
 feast ; 
 " Close by the regal chair 80 
 
 " Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 
 
 " A baleful smile upon their baffled Guest. 
 " Heard ye the din of battle bray, 
 
 71. Magnificence of Richard the Second's reign. 
 See Froissard and other contemporary writers. 
 
 77. Richard the Second (as we are told by Archbishop 
 Scroop, and the confederate Lords in their manifesto, 
 by Thomas of Walsingham, and all the older wi-itors) 
 was starved to death. The story of his assassination by 
 Sir Piers of Exon, is of much later date. 
 
 83. Ruinous civil wars of York and Lancaster. 
 
96 
 
 THE BARD. 
 
 " Lance to lance, and horse to horse ? 
 " Long Years of havoc urge their destined 
 course, 
 *' And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their 
 way. 
 " Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting 
 shame, 
 " "With many a foul and midnight murther fed, 
 " Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's * 
 frame, 
 " And spare the meek Usurper's holy head. 90 
 " Above, below, the rose of snow, 
 
 " Twined with her blushing foe, we spread ; 
 *' The bristled Boar in infant-gore 
 
 87. Henry the Sixth, George Duke of Clarence, 
 Edward the Fifth, Richard Duke of York, etc., believed 
 to be murthered secretly in the Tower of London. The 
 oldest part of that structure is vulgarly attributed to 
 Julius Caesar. 
 
 89. Margaret of Anjou, a woman of heroic spirit, who 
 struggled hard to save her Husband and her Crown. 
 
 * Henry the Fifth. 
 
 90. Henry the Sixth very near being canonized. The 
 line of Lancaster had no right of inheritance to the 
 Crown. 
 
 9L The white and red roses, devices of York and 
 Lancaster. 
 
 93. The silver Boar was the badge of Richard the 
 Third ; whence he was iisually known in his own time 
 by the name of the Boar. 
 
A PINDARIC ODE, 97 
 
 " Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
 " Now, Brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom 
 " Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his 
 doom. 
 
 III. 1. 
 " Edward, lo ! to sudden fate 
 " (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) 
 
 " Half of thy heart we consecrate. 
 " (The web is wove. The work is done.)" 100 
 
 * Stay, oh stay ! nor thus forlorn 
 
 * Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn ; 
 
 * In yon bright track, that fires the western 
 
 skies, 
 
 * They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
 
 ' But oh ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's 
 height 
 ' Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts un- 
 roll? 
 
 * Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, 
 
 * Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on ray soul ! 
 
 99. Eleanor of Castile died few years after the conquest 
 of Wales. Tiie heroic proof she gave of her affection 
 for her Lord is well known. The monuments of his 
 regret and sorrow for the loss of her, are still to be seen 
 at Northampton, Geddington, Waltham, and other 
 places. 
 
98 THE BARD. 
 
 * No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. 
 
 * All hail, ye genuine Kings, Britannia's Issue, 
 
 hail I 
 
 III. 2. 
 
 * Girt with many a Baron bold 
 
 * Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; 
 
 ' And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old 
 
 * In bearded majesty, appear. 
 
 * In the midst a Form divine ! 
 
 ' Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line ; 
 
 * Her lion-port, her awe commanding face, 
 
 * Attempered sweet to virgin-grace. 
 
 ' What strings symphonious tremble in the air, 
 
 109. It was the common belief of the Welsh nation, 
 that King Arthur was still alive in Fairy-Land, and 
 should return again to reign over Britain 
 
 110. Accession of the Line of Tudor. — Chray, Ed. 1757. 
 Both Merlin and Taliessin had prophesied, that the 
 Welsh should regain their sovereignty over this island ; 
 which seemed to be accomplished in the House of 
 Tudor. 
 
 117. Speed, relating an audience given by Queen 
 Elizabeth to Paul Dzialinski, ambassador of Poland, 
 says : " And thus she, lion-like rising, daunted the 
 malapert Orator no less with her stately port and 
 majestical deporture, than with the tartness of her 
 princely cheeks." 
 
A PINDARIC ODE. 99 
 
 * What strains of vocal transport round her 
 
 play ! 120 
 
 ' Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ; 
 ' They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
 
 * Bright Kapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, 
 
 * Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-coloured 
 
 wings. 
 
 III. 3. 
 
 * The verse adorn again 
 
 * Fierce War, and faithful Love, 
 
 * And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. 
 
 * In buskined measures move 
 
 Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, 129 
 
 * With Horror, Tyrant of the throbbing breast. 
 
 * A Yoice as of the Cherub-Choir, 
 ' Gales from blooming Eden bear ; 
 
 ' And distant warblings lessen on my ear, 
 ' That lost in long futurity expire. 
 
 121. Taliessin, Chief of the Bards, flourished in the 
 Vlth century. His works are still preserved, and 
 his memory held in high veneration among his coun- 
 trymen. 
 
 126. " Fierce wars and faithful loves shall moralize 
 my song."— Spenser, Proline to the Fairy Queen. 
 
 128. Shakespeare. 131. Milton. 
 
 183. The succession of Poets after Milton's time. 
 
100 THE BARD. 
 
 * Fond impious Man, think'st thou, yon sanguine 
 
 cloud, 
 
 * Raised by thy breath, has quenched the Orb 
 
 of day ? 
 
 * To-raorrow he repairs the golden flood, 
 
 * And warms the nations with, redoubled ray. 
 
 * Enough for me. With joy I see 
 
 ' The different doom our Fates assign. 140 
 
 * Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care, 
 
 ' To triumph, and to die, are mine.* 
 
 He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's 
 
 height 
 Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless 
 
 night 
 
THE FATAL SISTERS. 101 
 
 YII. 
 THE FATAL SISTEKS. 
 
 AN ODE, 
 
 (from the nokse tongue,) 
 
 In the Orcades of Thormodus Torfseus ; Hafniae, 
 1697, folio ; and also in Bartholinus. 
 
 Advertisement. — The Author once had thoughts (in 
 concert with a Friend) of giving the History of English 
 Poetry. In the Introduction to it he meant to havd 
 produced some specimens of the Style that reigned in 
 ancient times among the neighbouring nations, or those 
 who had subdued the greater part of this Island, and 
 were our Progenitors ; the following three Imitations 
 made a part of them. He has long since dropped his 
 design, especially after he heard, that it was already 
 in the hands of a Person well qualified to do it justice, 
 both by his taste, and his researches into antiquity. — 
 Gray, 1768. 
 
 Preface. — In the Eleventh Century, Sigurd, Earl 
 of the Orkney-Islands, went with a fleet of ships and a 
 considerable body of troops into Ireland, to the assist- 
 ance of Sietryg xoith the silken heard, who was then 
 making war on his father-in-law Brian, king of Dublin ; 
 the Earl and all his forces were cut to pieces, and Sietryg 
 was in danger of a total defeat ; but the enemy had a 
 greater loss by the death of Brian their king, wlio fell 
 in the action. On Christmas Day (the day of the battle) , 
 a Native of Caithness in Scotland saw at a distance a 
 number of persons on horseback riding full speed to- 
 wards a hill, and seeming to enter into it. Curiosity 
 
 22— G & G— S 
 
102 THE FATAL SISTERS. 
 
 led him to follow them, till looking through an opening 
 in the rocks, he saw twelve gigantic figures resem- 
 bling women ; they were all employed about a loom ; 
 and as they wove, they sung the following dreadful 
 Song ; which, when they had finished, they tore the 
 web into twelve pieces, and (each taking her portion) 
 galloped six to the North, and as many to the South. — 
 Gray, 1768. 
 
 Now the storm begins to lower 
 (Haste, the loom of Hell prepare,) 
 
 Iron-sleet of arrowy shower 
 Hurtles in the darkened air. 
 
 Glitt'ring lances are the loom, 
 Where the dusky warp we strain, 
 
 "Weaving many a soldier's doom, 
 
 Orkney'' s woe, and Bandver''s bane. 8 
 
 1. The ValJcyriur were female Divinities, servants of 
 Odin (or Woden), in the Gothic mythology. Their 
 name signifies Chusers of the slain. They were mounted 
 on swift horses, with drawn swords in their hands ; and 
 in the throng of battle selected such as were destined 
 to slaughter, and conducted them to Valhalla, the hall 
 of Odin, or paradise of the Brave ; where they attended 
 the banquet, and served the departed Heroes with horns 
 of mead and ale. 
 
 3. " How quick they wheeled, and, flying, behind 
 
 them shot 
 Sharp sleet of arrowy showers," 
 
 Milton's Par. Regained, iii. 323, 324. 
 
 4. " The noise of battle hurtled in the air." 
 
 Shakespeare, Julius Ccesar, ii. S. 
 
AN ODE. 103 
 
 See the grisly texture grow, 
 
 ('Tis of human entrails made) 
 And the weights, that play below, 
 
 Each a gasping warrior's head. 
 
 Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore, 
 Shoot the trembling cords along. 
 
 Sword, that once a monarch bore, 
 
 Keep the tissue close and strong. 16 
 
 Mista black, terrific maid, 
 
 Sangrida, and Hilda, see. 
 Join the wayward work to aid ; 
 
 'Tis the woof of victory. 
 
 Ere the ruddy sun be set. 
 
 Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, 
 
 Blade with clattering buckler meet, 
 Hauberk crash, and helmet ring. 
 
 ("Weave the crimson web of war) 
 
 Let us go, and let us fly, 
 "Where our friends the conflict share, 
 
 Where they triumph, where they die. 
 
 As the paths of fate we tread. 
 
 Wading though th' ensanguined field ; 
 
104: THE FATAL SISTERS. 
 
 Gondula and Geira, spread 
 O'er the youthful King your shield. 32 
 
 We the reins to slaughter give, 
 
 Ours to kill and ours to spare ; 
 Spite of danger he shall live. 
 
 (Weave the crimson web of war.) 
 
 They, whom once the desert beach 
 
 Pent within its bleak domain. 
 Soon their ample sway shall stretcti 
 
 O'er the plenty of the plain. 40 
 
 Low the dauntless Earl is laid, 
 
 Gored with many a gaping wound ; 
 
 Fate demands a nobler head ; 
 
 Soon a King shall bite the ground. 
 
 Long his loss shall Eirin weep, 
 
 Ne'er again his likeness see ; 
 Long her strains in sorrow steep, 
 
 Strains of immortality ! 48 
 
 Horror covers all the heath, 
 Clouds of carnage blot the sun. 
 
 Sisters, weave the web of death ; 
 Sisters, cease, the work is done. 
 
AN ODE. 105 
 
 Hail the task, and hail the hands ! 
 
 Songs of joy and triumph sing 
 Joy to the victorious bands ; 
 
 Triumph to the younger King 56 
 
 Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, 
 
 Learn the tenor of our song. 
 Scotland, thro' each winding vale 
 
 Far and wide the notes prolong 
 
 Sisters, hence with spurs of speed ; 
 
 Each her thundering faulchion wield 
 Each bestride her sable steed. 
 
 Hurry, hurry to the field. 64 
 
106 THE DESCENT OF ODIN. 
 
 YIII. 
 THE DESCENT OF ODIN. 
 
 AN ODE 
 FROM THE NOKSE TONGUE, 
 
 In Bartholinus, de causis oontemnendae mortis 
 Hafniae, 1689. 
 
 Uprose the King of Men with speed, 
 
 And saddled strait his coal-black steed ; 
 
 Down the yawning steep he rode, 
 
 That leads to Hela's drear abode. 
 
 Hira the Dog of Darkness spied, 
 
 His shaggy throat he opened wide. 
 
 While from his jaws, with carnage filled, 
 
 Foam and human gore distilled ; 
 
 Hoarse he bays with hideous din. 
 
 Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin ; 
 
 And long pursues, with fruitless yell, 10 
 
 The father of the powerful spell. 
 
 4. Niflheimr, the hell of the Gothic nations, consisted 
 of nine worlds, to which were devoted all such as died 
 of sickness, old-age, or by any other means than in bat- 
 tle. Over it presided Hela, the Goddess of Death. 
 
AN ODE. 107 
 
 Onward still his way he takes, 
 
 ( The groaning earth beneath him shakes,) 
 
 Till full before his fearless eyes 
 
 The portals nine of hell arise. 
 
 Right against the eastern gate, 
 By the moss-grown pile he sate ; 
 Where long of yore to sleep was laid 
 The dust of the prophetic Maid. 20 
 
 Facing to the northern clime. 
 Thrice he traced the runic rhyme; 
 Thrice pronounced, in accents dread. 
 The thrilling verse that wakes the dead ; 
 Till from out the hollow ground 
 Slowly breathed a sullen sound. 
 
 Prophetess. What call unknown, what 
 charms presume 
 To break the quiet of the tomb ? 
 Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite, 
 And drags me from the realms of night ? 30 
 Long on these mould'ring bones have beat 
 The winter's snow, the summer's heat. 
 The drenching dews, and driving rain! 
 Let me, let me sleep again. 
 
108 THE DESCENT OF ODIN. 
 
 "Who is he, with voice un blest, 
 That calls me from the bed of rest ? 
 
 Odin. A Traveller, to thee unknown, 
 Is he that calls, a Warrior's son. 
 Thou the deeds of light shalt know ; 
 Tell me what is done below, 40 
 
 For whom yon glitt'ring board is spread, 
 Drest for whom yon golden bed, 
 
 Pr. Mantling in the goblet see 
 The pure beverage of the bee, 
 O'er it hangs the shield of gold ; 
 'Tis the drink of Balder bold ; 
 Balder' s head to death is given. 
 Pain can reach the sons of Heaven I 
 Unwilling I my lips unclose ; 
 Leave me, leave me to repose. 60 
 
 O. Once again my call obey. 
 Prophetess, arise, and say. 
 What dangers OdirCs child await, 
 Who the Author of his fate. 
 
 Pr. In Hoder''s hand the Hero's doom ; 
 His brother sends him to the tomb. 
 
AN ODE. 109 
 
 Now my weary lips I close ; 
 Leave me, leave me to repose, 
 
 0. Prophetess, my spell obey, 
 Once again arise, and saj^-, 60 
 
 Who th' Avenger of his guilt. 
 By whom shall Iloder^s blood be spilt. 
 
 Pr. In the caverns of the west, 
 By Odin^s fierce embrace comprest, 
 A wond'rous Boy shall Rinda bear, 
 Who ne' er shall comb his raven-hair, 
 Nor wash his visage in the stream. 
 Nor see the sun's departing beam, 
 Till he on Iloderh corse shall smile 
 Flaming on the fun'ral pile. 
 Now my weary lips I close ; 
 Leave me, leave me to repose. 
 
 O. Yet a while my call obey. 
 Prophetess, awake, and say. 
 What Virgins these, in speechless woe, 
 That bend to earth their solemn brow, 
 That their flaxen tresses tear. 
 And snowy veils, that float in air. 
 
110 THE DESCENT OF ODIN. 
 
 Tell me whence their sorrows rose ; 
 
 Then I leave thee to repose. 80 
 
 Pr. Ha ! no Traveller art thou, 
 King of Men, I know thee now 
 Mightiest of a mighty line 
 
 0. No boding Maid of skill divine 
 Art thou, nor Prophetess of good ; 
 But Mother of the giant-brood ! 
 
 Pr. Hie thee hence, and boast at home. 
 That never shall enquirer come 
 To break my iron-sleep again ; 
 Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain. 90 
 
 Never, till substantial Night 
 Has reassumed her ancient right ; 
 Till wrapped in flames, in ruin hurled, 
 Sinks the fabric of the world. 
 
 90. Lidk is the evil Being, who continues in chains till 
 the Twilight of the Oods approaches, when he shall 
 break his bonds ; the human race, the stars, and sun, 
 shall disappear ; the earth sink in the seas, and fire 
 consume the skies ; even Odin himself and his kindred- 
 deities shall perish. For a further explanation of this 
 mythology, see Mallet's Introduction to the History of 
 Denmark, 1755, quarto, 
 
THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN. HI 
 
 IX. 
 THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 From Mr. Evans' Specimens of the Welsh Poetry; 
 London, 1764. 
 
 Advertisement.— Owen succeeded his Father Grif- 
 fin in the Principality of North Wales, a. d. 1120. 
 This battle was fought near forty years afterwards. 
 
 Owen's praise demands my song, 
 Owen swift, and Owen strong ; 
 Fairest flower of Eoderic's stem, 
 Gwyneth's shield, and Britain's gem. 
 He nor lieaps his brooded stores, 
 Nor on all profusely pours ; 
 Lord of every regal art. 
 Liberal hand, and open heart. 
 
 Big with hosts of mighty name. 
 Squadrons three against him came ; 10 
 This the force of Eirin hiding, 
 Side by side as proudly riding. 
 On her shadow long and gay 
 Lochlin ploughs the watry way ; 
 4. North Wales. 14. Denmark. 
 
112 THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN. 
 
 There the Norman sails afar 
 Catch the winds, and join the war ; 
 Black and huge along they sweep, 
 Burthens of the angry deep. 
 
 Dauntless on his native sands 
 
 The Dragon-son of Mona stands ; 20 
 
 In glitt'ring arms and glory drest, 
 
 High he rears his ruby crest. 
 
 There the thund'ring strokes begin, 
 
 There the press, and there the din j 
 
 Talymalfra's rocky shore 
 
 Echoing to the battle's roar. 
 
 Where his glowing eye-balls turn, 
 
 Thousand banners round him burn. 
 
 Where he points his purple spear, 
 
 Hasty, hasty Rout is there, 30 
 
 Marking with indignant eye 
 
 Fear to stop and shame to fly. 
 
 There Confusion, Terror's child, 
 
 Conflict fierce, and Ruin wild. 
 
 Agony, that pants for breath. 
 
 Despair and honourable Death. 
 * * * * 
 
 20. The red Dragon is the device of Cadwallader, 
 which all his descendants bore on their banners. 
 
A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. J 13 
 
 X 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 WRITTEN IN A 
 
 COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
 The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, 
 
 The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the 
 
 sight, 
 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 
 
 And drowsy tinklingS lull the distant 
 
 folds ; 8 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain 
 
 Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower, 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 1. "... squilla di lontano 
 
 Che paia '1 giorno piauger, che si muore." 
 
 Dante, Piirgat, I. 8. 
 
114: ELEGY WRITTEN IN 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's 
 shade, 
 "Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring 
 heap. 
 Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
 
 The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 16 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 
 The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built 
 shed, 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly 
 bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall 
 burn, 
 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
 Ko children run to lisp their sire's return. 
 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 24 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has 
 broke ; 
 How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
 How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy 
 stroke ! 
 
A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 115 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil-, 
 There homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
 
 Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 32 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er 
 gave, 
 
 Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault. 
 
 If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
 
 Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted 
 
 vault 
 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of 
 
 praise. 40 
 
 Can storied urn or animated bust 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
 Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 
 
 Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of 
 Death ? 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 
 
116 ELEGY WRITTEN IN 
 
 Hands, that the rod of empire might have 
 swayed, 
 Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 48 
 
 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
 Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; 
 
 Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 Full many a gem, of purest ray serene. 
 The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 66 
 
 Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless 
 breast 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
 Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 
 Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's 
 blood 
 
 Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise. 
 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 
 And read their history in a nation's eyes, 64 
 
A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 117 
 
 Their lot forbad ; nor circumscribed alone 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes 
 confined ; 
 
 Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
 
 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 72 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
 Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 
 
 Along the cool sequestered vale of life 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
 
 With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture 
 decked. 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered 
 Muse, 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
 And many a holy text around she strews, 
 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
118 ELEGY WRITTEN IN 
 
 For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 
 This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, 
 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 Nor oast one longing ling'ring look be- 
 hind ? 88 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 
 
 Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
 Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 
 For thee, who mindful of th' unhonoured Dead 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate 
 
 If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 
 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 96 
 
 Haply some hoary -headed swain may say, 
 
 * Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
 
 * Brushing with hasty steps the dews away 
 
 ' To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 
 
 * There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
 
 * That wreathes its old fantastic roots so 
 
 high, 
 
 93 "Ch'i veggio nel pensier, dolce mio fuoco, 
 Fredda una lingua, e due begli occhi chiusi 
 Rimaner doppo noi pien di faville." 
 
 Petrarch, Son. 169. 
 
A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. II9 
 
 <^His listless length at noontide would he 
 stretch, 
 
 *And pore upon the brook that babbles 
 
 by. 104 
 
 * Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
 
 * Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would 
 
 rove, 
 Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, 
 ' Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless 
 love. 
 
 *One morn I missed him on the customed 
 hill, 
 
 * Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree ; 
 
 * Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 
 
 'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 112 
 
 < The next with dirges due in sad array 
 
 * Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him 
 
 borne. 
 
 < Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the 
 
 lay, 
 
 * Graved on the stone beneath yon aged 
 
 thorn.' 
 
220 ^ LONG STORY. 
 
 THE EPITAPH. 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
 A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. 
 
 Fair Science frowned not on his humhle hirth^ 
 And Melancholy marked him for her own. 120 
 
 Large was his hounty^ and his soul sincere^ 
 Heav'n did a recommence as largely send / 
 
 He gave to Misery all he had^ a tear, 
 
 He gained from Heav'n i^twas all he wished) 
 a friend. 
 
 No farther seek his merits to disclose. 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode^ 
 
 {There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
 The hosom of his Father and his God. 128 
 
 XI. 
 A LONG STORY. 
 
 In Britain's Isle, no matter where, 
 An ancient pile of building stands; 
 
 The Huntingdons and Hattons there 
 Employed the power of Fairy hands 
 
 127 .... paventosa speme. — Petrarch, Son, 114. 
 
A LONG STORY. 121 
 
 To raise the ceiling's fretted height, 
 Each panel in achievements clothing, 
 
 Rich windows that exclude the light, 
 And passages, that lead to nothing. 
 
 Full oft within the spacious walls, 
 When he had fifty winters o'er him. 
 
 My grave Lord-keeper led the brawls ; 
 The seal, and maces, danced before him. 
 
 His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green, 
 His high-crowned hat, and satin-doublet. 
 
 Moved the stout heart of England's Queen, 15 
 Tho' Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it. 
 
 What, in the very first beginning ! 
 
 Shame of the versifying tribe ! 
 Your Hist'ry whither are you spinning? 
 
 Can you do nothing but describe ? 
 
 A house there is, (and that's enough 
 From whence one fatal morning issues 
 
 A brace of warriors, not in buff, 
 
 But rustling in their silks and tissues. 24 
 
 1 1 . Hattou , preferred by Queen Elizabeth for his grace- 
 ful person and fine dancing. 
 
122 A LONG STORY. 
 
 The first came cap-a-pie from France, 
 Her conqu'ring destiny fulfilling, 
 
 Whom meaner beauties eye askance, 
 And vainly ape her art of killing. 
 
 The other Amazon kind Heaven 
 
 Had armed with spirit, wit, and satire ; 
 
 But CoBHAM had the polish given 
 
 And tipped her arrows with good-nature. 32 
 
 To celebrate her eyes, her air 
 
 Coarse panegyrics would but tease her. 
 
 Melissa is her nom de guerre. 
 Alas, who would not wish to please her ! 
 
 With bonnet blue and capucine, 
 
 And aprons long they hid their armour, 
 
 And veiled their weapons bright and keen 
 In pity to the country farmer. 40 
 
 Fame, in the shape of Mr. Purt, 
 (By this time all the parish know it) 
 
 Had told that thereabouts there lurked 
 A wicked imp they call a Poet, 
 
 Who prowled the country far and near, 
 Bewitched the children of the peasants, 
 
A LONG STORY. 123 
 
 Dried up the cows, and lamed the deer, 47 
 And sucked the eggs, and killed the pheas- 
 ants. 
 
 My Lady heard their joint petition, 
 Swore by her coronet and ermine, 
 
 She'd issue out her high commission 
 To rid the manor of such vermin. 
 
 The Heroines undertook the task, 
 
 Thro' lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventured, 
 Rapped at the door, nor stayed to ask, 
 
 But bounce into the parlour entered. 56 
 
 The trembling family they daunt, 
 
 They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle. 
 Rummage his Mother, pinch his Aunt, 
 
 And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle. 
 
 Each hole and cupboard they explore. 
 Each creek and cranny of his chamber, 
 
 Run hurry-skurry round the floor. 
 And o'er the bed and tester clamber ; 64 
 
 Into the drawers and china pry. 
 
 Papers and books, a huge imbroglio ! 
 
 Under a tea-cup he might lie. 
 
 Or creased, like dogs-ears, in a folio. 
 
124 A LONG STORY. 
 
 On the first marching of the troops, 
 The Muses, hopeless of his pardon, 
 
 Conveyed him underneath their hoops 
 
 To a small closet in the garden. 72 
 
 So Rumor says. ("Who "will, believe,) 
 
 But that they left the door a-jar, 
 Where, safe and laughing in his sleeve, 
 
 He heard the distant din of war. 
 
 Short was his joy. He little knew 
 The power of Magic was no fable ; 
 
 Out of the window, whisk, they flew, 
 But left a spell upon the table. 80 
 
 The words too eager to unriddle, 
 The Poet felt a strange disorder ; 
 
 Transparent birdlime formed the middle, 
 And chains invisible the border. 
 
 So cunning was the apparatus, 
 
 The powerful pot-hooks did so move him, 
 That, will he, nill he, to the great-house 
 He went, as if the Devil drove him. 88 
 
 Yet on his way (no sign of grace, 
 For folks in fear are apt to pray) 
 
A LONG STORY. 125 
 
 To Phoebus he preferred his case, 
 And begged his aid that dreadful day. 
 
 The godhead would have backed his quarrel, 
 But, with a blush on recollection, 
 
 Owned that his quiver and his laurel 
 
 'Gainst four such eyes were no protection. 96 
 
 The Court was sate, the Culprit there. 
 
 Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping 
 
 The lady Janes and Joans repair. 
 And from the gallery stand peeping. 
 
 Such as in silence of the night 
 
 Come (sweep) along some winding entry, 
 {Styack has often seen the sight) 
 
 Or at the chapel-door stand sentry ; 104 
 
 In peaked hoods and mantles tarnished, 
 Sour visages, enough to scare ye. 
 
 High Dames of honour once, that garnished 
 The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary I 
 
 The Peeress comes. The audience stare, 
 And doff their hats with due submission ; 
 
 103. The House-keeper. 
 
 22— Q & G— T 
 
126 A LONG STORY. 
 
 She curtsies, as she takes her chair, 
 To all the people of condition. 112 
 
 The Bard, with many an artful fib, 
 
 Had in imagination fenced him, 
 Disproved the arguments of Squib, 
 
 And all that Groorn could urge against him. 
 
 But soon his rhetoric forsook him, 
 When he the solemn hall had seen ; 
 
 A sudden fit of ague phook him, 
 He stood as mute as poor Macleane, 120 
 
 Yet something he was heard to mutter, 
 " How in the park beneath an old tree, 
 
 ("Without design to hurt the butter. 
 Or any malice to the poultry,) 
 
 " He once or twice had penned a sonnet ; 
 
 Yet hoped, that he might save his bacon ; 
 Numbers would give their oaths upon it. 
 
 He ne'er was for a conjuror taken." 128 
 
 The ghostly Prudes with hagged face 
 Already had condemned the sinner. 
 
 115. Groom of the Chambers. 
 
 116. The Steward. 
 
 130. A famous highwayman hanged the week beforej 
 
A LONG STORY. 127 
 
 My Lady rose, and with a grace 
 
 She smiled, and bid him come to dinner. 
 
 " Jesu-Maria ! Madame Bridget, 
 "Why, what can the Viscountess mean ? " 
 
 (Cried the square hoods in woful fidget) 
 
 " The times are altered quite and clean ! 136 
 
 " Decorum's turned to mere civility ; 
 
 Her air and all her manners show it. 
 Commend me to her affability ! 
 
 Speak to a Commoner and Poet ! " 
 
 [Here 500 Stanzas are lost.] 
 
 And so God save our noble King, 
 
 And guard us from long-winded lubbers, 
 
 That to eternity would sing, 
 And keep my Lady from her rubbers. 
 
128 ODE FOR MUSIC 
 
 XII. 
 
 ODE FOR MUSIC 
 
 performed at the installation of the chan- 
 cellor of the university of cambridge, 1769. 
 
 Air. 
 
 " Hence, avaunt, ('tis holy ground) 
 
 Comus, and his midnight crew. 
 And Ignorance with looks profound, 
 
 And dreaming Sloth of pallid hue, 
 Mad Sedition's cry profane, 
 Servitude that hugs her chain, 
 Nor in these consecrated bowers 
 Let painted Flatt'ry hide her serpent train in 
 flowers. 
 
 Chorus. 
 " Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain, 
 Dare the Muse's walk to stain, 10 
 
 While bright-eyed Science watches round ; 
 Hence, away, 'tis holy ground ! " 
 
 Recitative. 
 From yonder realms of empyrean day 
 Bursts on my ear th' indignant lay ; 
 
AT THE INSTALLATION. 129 
 
 There sit the sainted Sage, the Bard divine, 
 
 The few, whom Genius gave to shine 
 Thro' every unborn age, and undiscovered 
 clime. 
 
 Accompanied. 
 
 Rapt in celestial transport they, 
 Yet hither oft a glance from high 
 They send of tender sympathy 20 
 
 To bless the place, where on their opening soul 
 
 First the genuine ardour stole. 
 'Twas Milton struck the deep-toned shell, 
 And, as the choral warblings round him swell, 
 Meek Newton's self bends from his state sub- 
 lime, 
 And nods his hoary head, and listens to the 
 rhyme. 
 
 Air. 
 
 " Ye brown o'er-arching groves, 
 
 That Contemplation loves, 
 Where willowy Camus lingers with delight! 
 
 Oft at the blush of dawn 30 
 
 I trod your level lawn, 
 Oft wooed the gleam of Cynthia silver-bright 
 
130 ODE FOR MUSIC 
 
 In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly, 
 "With Freedom by my side, and soft-eyed Mel- 
 ancholy." 
 
 Recitative. 
 
 But hark ! the portals sound, and pacing forth, 
 
 With solemn steps and slow. 
 High potentates, and dames of royal birth, 
 And mitred fathers in long order go ; 
 Great Edward, with the lilies on his brow 
 
 From haughty Gallia torn, 40 
 
 And sad Chatillon, on her bridal morn 
 That wept her bleeding Love, and princely 
 
 Clare, 
 And Anjou's Heroine, and the paler Rose, 
 The rival of her crown and of her woes, 
 
 And either Henry there, 
 The murthered saint, and the majestic lord 
 
 That broke the bonds of Rome. 
 
 Accompanied. 
 
 (Their tears, their little triumphs o'er. 
 Their human passions now no more. 
 Save Charity, that glows beyond the tomb.) 50 
 All that on Granta's fruitful plain 
 Rich streams of regal bounty poured, 
 
AT THE INSTALLATION. 131 
 
 And bad these awful fanes and turrets rise, 
 To hail their Fitzroy's festal morning come ; 
 And thus they speak in soft accord 
 The liquid language of the skies : — 
 
 QUARTETTO. 
 
 " "What is grandeur, what is power ? 
 Heavier toil, superior pain. 
 "What the bright reward we gain ? 
 The grateful memory of the good. 60 
 
 Sweet is the breath of vernal shower, 
 The bee's collected treasures sweet, 
 Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet 
 The still small voice of gratitude." 
 
 Recitative. 
 
 Foremost and leaning from her golden cloud 
 
 The venerable Margaret see ! 
 " Welcome, my noble son, (she cries aloud) 
 
 To this, thy kindred train, and me ; 
 Pleased in thy lineaments we trace 
 A Tudor's fire, a Beaufort's grace." ^0 
 
 Air. 
 
 " Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye, 
 The flower unheeded shall descry, 
 
132 ODE FOR MUSIC. 
 
 And bid it round heaven's altars shed 
 The fragrance of its blushing head ; 
 Shall raise from earth the latent gem 
 To glitter on the diadem." 
 
 Kecitative. 
 
 " Lo ! Granta waits to lead her blooming band, 
 
 Not obvious, not obtrusive, she 
 No vulgar praise, no venal incense flings ; 
 
 Nor dares with courtly tongue refined 80 
 Profane thy inborn royalty of mind ; 
 
 She reveres herself and thee. 
 With modest pride to grace thy youthful brow, 
 The laureate wreath, that Cecil wore, she brings, 
 
 And to thy just, thy gentle hand 
 
 Submits the fasces of her sway. 
 While spirits blest above and men below 
 Join with glad voice the loud symphonious lay." 
 
 Grand Choeus. 
 " Thro' the wild waves as they roar, 
 
 With watchful eye and dauntless mien, 90 
 Thy steady course of honour keep, 
 Nor fear the rocks, nor seek the shore ; 
 The Star of Brunswick smiles serene, 
 And gilds the horrors of the deep." 
 
AGRIPPINA. 133 
 
 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 AGRIPPINA. 
 
 a fragment of tragedy. 
 
 Dramatis Persons. 
 
 AQRIPPINA the Empress-mother. 
 
 Nero, the emperor. 
 
 POPP^A, believed to be in love with Otho. 
 
 Otho, a young man of quality, in love with 
 
 POPP^A. 
 
 Seneca, the Emperor's Preceptor. 
 Anicetus, Captain of the Guards. 
 Demetrius, the Cynic, friend to Seneca, 
 ACERONiA, Confidant to Aorippina. 
 
 Scene. — The Emperor's villa at Baice, 
 
 The Argument. 
 
 The drama opens with the indignation of Agrippina 
 at receiving her son's orders from Anicetus to remov9 
 from Baiae, and to have her guard taken from her. At 
 this time Otho having conveyed Poppaea from the house 
 of her husband Rufus Crispinus, brings her to Baiae, 
 where he means to conceal her among the crowd ; or, 
 if his fraud is discovered, to have recourse to the 
 Emperor's authority ; but, knowing the lawless temper 
 of Nero he determines not to have recourse to that 
 
134 AGRIPPINA. 
 
 expedient but on the utmost necessity. In the mean- 
 time he commits her to the care of Anicetus, whom he 
 takes to be his friend, and in whose age he thinks he 
 may safely confide. Nero is not yet come yet to Baiae ; 
 but Seneca, whom he sends before him, informs Agrip- 
 pina of the accusation concerning Rubellius Plancus, 
 and desires her to clear herself, which she does briefly, 
 but demands to see her son, who, on his arrival, acquits 
 her of all suspicion, and restores her to her honours. 
 
 In the mean while, Anicetus, to whose care Poppeea 
 had been intrusted by Otho, contrives the following 
 plot to ruin Agrippina ; he betrays his trust to Otho, 
 and brings Nero, as it were by chance, to the sight of 
 the beautiful Poppaea. The Emperor is immediately 
 struck with her charms, and she, by a feigned resist- 
 ance, increases his passion ; though, in reality, she is 
 from the first dazzled with the prospect of empire 
 and forgets Otho. She therefore joins with Anicetus in 
 his design of ruining Agrippina, soon perceiving that 
 it will be for her interest. Otho hearing that the 
 Emperor had seen Poppaea, is much enraged ; but 
 not knowing that this interview was obtained through 
 the treachery of Anicetus, is readily persuaded by him 
 to see Agrippina in secret, and acquaint her with his 
 fears that her son Nero would marry Poppaea. Agrip- 
 pina, to support her own power, and to wean the 
 Emperor from the love of Poppaea, gives Otho en- 
 couragement, and promises to support him. Anicetus 
 secretly introduces Nero to hear their discourse ; who 
 resolves immediately on his mother's death, and, by 
 Anicetus's means, to destroy her by drowning. A 
 solemn feast, in honour of their reconciliation, is to be 
 made ; after which she being to go by sea to Bauli, the 
 the ship is so contrived as to sink or crush her ; she 
 escapes by accident, and returns to Baiae. 
 
 In this interval Otho has an interview vdth Poppaea ; 
 
AGRIPPINA. 135 
 
 and being duped a second time by Anicetus and her, 
 determines to fly with her into Greece, by means of a 
 vessel which is to be furnished by Anicetus ; but he, 
 pretending to remove Poppaea on board in the night, 
 conveys her to Nero's apartment ; she there encourages 
 and determines Nero to banish Otho, and finish the 
 horrid deed he had attempted on his mother. Ani- 
 cetus undertakes to execute his resolves ; and, under 
 pretence of a plot upon the Emperor's life, is sent with 
 a guard to murder Agrippina, who is still at Baiae in 
 imminent fear, and irresolute how to conduct herself. 
 The account of her death, and the Emperor's horror 
 and fruitless remorse, finishes the drama. 
 
 ACT I. Scene I. 
 
 Agrippina. Aceronia. 
 
 Agrip. 'Tis well, begone ! your errand is per- 
 formed, [^Sjyeaks as to Anicetus entering. 
 
 The message needs no comment. Tell your 
 master. 
 
 His mother shall obey him. Say you saw 
 her 
 
 Yielding due reverence to his high command ; 
 
 Alone, unguarded and without a lictor. 
 
 As fits the daughter of Germanicus. 
 
 Say, she retired to Antium ; there to tend 
 
 Her household cares, a woman's best employ- 
 ment. 
 
136 AGRIPPINA. 
 
 What if you add, how she turned pale and 
 
 trembled ; 
 You think, you spied a tear stand in her eye, 10 
 And would have dropped, but that her pride 
 
 restrained it ? 
 ( Go ! you can paint it well ) 'twill profit you, 
 And please the stripling. Yet 'twould dash 
 
 his joy. 
 To hear the spirit of Britannicus 
 Yet walks on earth ; at least there are who know 
 Without a spell to raise, and bid it fire 
 A thousand haughty hearts, unused to shake 
 When a boy frowns, nor to be lured with smiles 
 To taste of hollow kindness, or partake 
 His hospitable board ; they are aware 20 
 
 Of the unpledged bowl, they love not aconite. 
 Acer. He's gone ; and much I hope these 
 
 walls alone 
 And the mute air are privy to your passion. 
 Forgive your servant's fears, who sees the 
 
 danger 
 Which fierce resentment cannot fail to raise 
 In haughty youth, and irritated power. 
 Agrip. And dost thou talk to me, to me, of 
 
 danger. 
 
AGRIPPINA. 137 
 
 Of haughty youth and irritated power, 
 To her that gave it being, her that armed 
 This painted Jove, and taught his novice hand 30 
 To aim the forked bolt ; while he stood trem- 
 bling, 
 Scared at the sound, and dazzled with its bright- 
 ness ? 
 'Tis like, thou hast forgot, when yet a stranger 
 To adoration, to the grateful stream 
 Of flattery's incense, and obsequious vows 
 From voluntary realms, a puny boy, 
 Decked with no other lustre than the blood 
 Of Agrippina's race, he lived unknown 
 To fame, or fortune ; haply eyed at distance 
 Some edileship, ambitious of the power 40 
 
 To judge of weights and measures ; scarcely 
 
 dared 
 On Expectation's strongest wing to soar 
 High as the consulate, that empty shade 
 Of long-forgotten liberty ; when I 
 Oped his young eye to bear the blaze of great- 
 ness; 
 Showed him where empire towered, and bade 
 
 him strike 
 The noble quarry. Gods ! then was the time 
 
138 AGRIPPINA. 
 
 To shrink from danger ; fear might then have 
 
 worn 
 The mask of prudence ; but a heart like mine, 
 A heart that glows with the pure Julian fire, 50 
 If bright Ambition from her craggy seat 
 Display the radiant prize, will mount undaunted. 
 Gain the rough heights, and grasp the dangerous 
 
 honour. 
 Acer. Through various life I have pursued 
 
 your steps. 
 Have seen your soul, and wondered at its 
 
 daring ; 
 Hence rise my fears. Nor am I yet to learn 
 How vast the debt of gratitude which Nero 
 To such a mother owes ; the world, you gave 
 
 him. 
 Suffices not to pay the obligation. 
 
 I well remember too (for I was present) 60 
 When in a secret and dead hour of night, 
 Due sacrifice performed with barb'rous rites 
 Of muttered charms, and solemn invocation. 
 You bade the Magi call the dreadful powers, 
 That read futurity, to know the fate 
 Impending o'er your son ; their answer was, 
 If the son reign, the mother perishes. 
 
AGRIPPINA. 139 
 
 Perish (you cried) the mother ! reign the son ! 
 He reigns, the rest is heaven's ; who oft has 
 
 bad, 
 Even when its will seemed wrote in lines of 
 
 blood, 70 
 
 Th' unthought event disclose a whiter meaning. 
 Think too how oft in weak and sickly minds 
 The sweets of kindness lavishly indulged 
 Rankle to gall ; and benefits too great 
 To be repaid, sit heavy on the soul, 
 As unrequited wrongs. The willing homage 
 Of prostrate Rome, the senate's joint applause, 
 The riches of the earth, the train of pleasures 
 That wait on youth, and arbitrary sway ; 
 These were your gift, and with them you 
 
 bestowed 80 
 
 The very power he has to be ungrateful. 
 Agrip. Thus ever grave and undisturbed 
 
 reflection 
 Pours its cool dictates in the madding ear 
 Of rage, and thinks to quench the fire it feels 
 
 not. 
 Say'st thou I must be cautious, must be silent, 
 And tremble at the phantom I have raised ? 
 Carry to him thy timid counsels. He 
 
140 AGRIPPINA. 
 
 Perchance may heed 'em. Tell him, too, that 
 
 one. 
 
 Who had such liberal power to give, may still, 
 With equal po\Yer resume that gift, and raise 90 
 A tempest that shall shake her own creation 
 To its original atoms — tell me, say ! — 
 This mighty emperor, this dreaded hero. 
 Has he beheld the glittering front of war ? 
 Knows his soft ear the trumpet's thrilling voice, 
 And outcry of the battle ? Have his limbs 
 Sweat under iron harness ? Is he not 
 The silken son of dalliance, nursed in ease 
 And pleasure's flowery lap ? — Rubellius lives, 
 And Sylla has his friends, though schooled by 
 fear 100 
 
 To bow the supple knee, and court the times 
 With shows of fair obeisance ; and a call, 
 Like mine, might serve belike to wake preten- 
 sions 
 Drowsier than theirs, who boast the genuine 
 
 blood 
 Of our imperial house. 
 Acer* Did I not wish to check this dan- 
 gerous passion, 
 * From line 82 to the end was one continued speech ; 
 
AGRIPPINA. 141 
 
 I might remind my mistress that her nod 
 Can rouse eight hardy legions, wont to stem 
 With stubborn nerves the tide, and face the 
 
 rigour 
 Of bleak Germania's snows. Four, not less 
 brave, 110 
 
 That in Armenia quell the Parthian force 
 Under the warlike Corbula, by you 
 Marked for their leader; these, by ties con- 
 firmed, 
 Of old respect and gratitude, are yours. 
 Surely the Masians too, and those of Egypt, 
 Have not forgot your sire ; the eye of Rome 
 And the Praetorian camp have long revered. 
 With customed awe, the daughter, sister, wife, 
 And mother of their Caesars. 
 
 Agrip. Ha ! by Juno, 
 
 It bears a noble semblance. On this base 120 
 My great revenge shall rise ; or say we sound 
 The trump of Liberty ; there will not want, 
 Even in the servile senate, ears to own 
 
 as Gray thought it too long, Mason broke it in three 
 places, here by altering this passage and putting it into 
 the mouth of Aceronia, and by inserting two lines to be 
 epoken by her, after line 158, and at line 162 ; but I 
 have removed these interpolations. — J, B. 
 
142 
 
 AGRIPPINA. 
 
 Her spirit-stirring voice ; Soranus there, 
 And Cassius, Vetus too, and Thrasea, 
 Minds of the antique cast, rough, stubborn souls, 
 That struggle with the yoke. How shall the 
 
 spark 
 Unquenchable, that glows within their breasts, 
 Blaze into freedom, when the idle herd 
 (Slaves from the womb, created but to stare, 130 
 And bellow in the Circus) yet will start, 
 And shake 'em at the name of Liberty, 
 Stung by a senseless word, a vain tradition, 
 As there were magic in it ! Wrinkled beldams 
 Teach it their grandchildren, as somewhat rare 
 That anciently appeared, but when, extends 
 Beyond their chronicle — oh ! 'tis a cause 
 To arm the hand of childhood, and rebrace 
 The slackened sinews of time-Avearied age. 
 
 Yes, we may meet, ingrateful boy, we may j 
 Again the buried Genius of old Rome 141 
 
 Shall from the dust uprear his reverend head. 
 Roused by the shouts of millions ; there before 
 His high tribunal thou and I appear. 
 Let majesty sit on thy awful brow. 
 And lighten from thy eye ; around the call 
 The gilded swarm that wantons in the sunshine 
 
AGRIPPINA. 143 
 
 Of thy full favour ; Seneca be there 
 In gorgeous phrase of laboured eloquence 149 
 To dress thy plea, and Burrhus strengthen it. 
 With his plain soldier's oath, and honest 
 
 seeming. 
 Against thee, Liberty and Agrippina ; 
 The world, the prize ; and fair befall the victors. 
 But soft ! why do I waste the fruitless hours, 
 In threats unexecuted ? Haste thee, fly 
 These hated waDs that seem to mock my shame 
 And cast me forth in duty to their lord. 
 
 My thought aches at him ; not the basilisk 
 More deadly to the sight, than is to me 
 The cool injurious eye of frozen kindness. 160 
 I will not meet its poison. Let him feel 
 Before he sees me. Yes, I will be gone. 
 But not to Antium — all shall be confessed, 
 Whate'er the frivolous tongue of giddy fame 
 Has spread among the crowd ; things, that but 
 
 whispered 
 Have arched the hearer's brow, and riveted 
 His eyes in fearful ecstasy ; no matter 
 What ; so't be strange, and dreadful. — Sor- 
 ceries, 
 Assassinations, poisonings — the deeper 
 
144 AGRIPPINA. 
 
 My guilt, the blacker his ingratitude. 170 
 
 And you, ye manes of Ambition's victims, 
 Enshrined Claudius, with the pitied ghosts 
 Of the Syllani, doomed to early death, 
 (Ye unavailing horrors, fruitless crimes !) 
 If from the realms of night my voice ye hear, 
 In lieu of penitence, and vain remorse. 
 Accept my vengeance. Though by me ye bled. 
 He was the cause. My love, my fears for him, 
 Dried the soft springs of pit}" in my heart. 
 And froze them up with deadly cruelty. 180 
 Yet if your injured shades demand my fate. 
 If murder cries for murder, blood for blood. 
 Let me not fall alone ; but crush his pride, 
 And sink the traitor in his mother's ruin. 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
 Scene II. Otho, Popp^ea. 
 
 Otho. Thus far we're safe. Thanks to the 
 rosy queen 
 Of amorous thefts ; and had her wanton son 
 Lent us his wings, we could not have beguiled 
 With more elusive speed the dazzled sight 
 Of wakeful jealousy. Be gay securely ; 189 
 Dispel, my fair, with smiles, the tim'rous cloud 
 
SONNET. 145 
 
 That hangs on thy clear brow. So Helen 
 
 looked, 
 So her white neck reclined, so was she borne 
 By the young Trojan to his gilded bark 
 With fond reluctance, yielding modesty, 
 And oft reverted eye, as if she knew not 
 "Whether she feared, or wished to be pursued. 
 
 * * * 
 
 XIV. 
 SONNET 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF KIOHAED WEST. 
 
 In vain to me the smiling Mornings shine, 
 
 And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire ; 
 The birds in vain their amorous descant join ; 
 
 Or cheerful fields resume their green attire ; 
 These ears, alas ! for other notes repine, 
 
 A different object do these eyes require ; 
 My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine ; 
 
 And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. 
 Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer, 
 And new-born pleasure brings to happier 
 men ; 10 
 
146 HYMN TO IGNORANCE. 
 
 The fields to all their wonted tribute bear ; 
 
 To warm their little loves the birds complain ; 
 I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, 
 
 And weep the more because I weep in vain. 
 
 At /Stoke, Aug., 1742. 
 
 XY. 
 HYMN TO IGNORANCE. 
 
 A FKAGMENT. 
 
 Hail, horrors, hail ! ye ever gloomy bowers, 
 
 Ye gothic fanes, and antiquated towers. 
 
 Where rushy Camus' slowly-winding flood 
 
 Perpetual draws his humid train of mud ; 
 
 Glad I revisit thy neglected reign. 
 
 Oh take me to thy peaceful shade again. 
 
 But chiefly thee, whose influence breathed from 
 
 high 
 Augments the native darkness of the sky ; 
 Ah, Ignorance! soft salutary power! 
 Prostrate with filial reverence I adore. 10 
 
 Thrice hath Hyperion rolled his annual 
 
 race, 
 
HYMN TO IGNORANCE. 147 
 
 Since weeping I forsook thy fond embrace. 
 
 Oh say, successful dost thou still oppose 
 
 Thy leaden segis 'gainst our ancient foes ? 
 
 Still stretch, tenacious of thy right divine, 
 
 The massy sceptre o'er thy slumb'ring line? 
 
 And dews Lethean through the land dis- 
 pense 
 
 Too steep in slumbers each benighted sense ? 
 
 If any spark of wit's delusive ray 
 
 Break out and flash a momentary day, 20 
 
 "With damp, cold touch forbid it to aspire, 
 
 And huddle up in fogs the dang'rous fire. 
 Oh sav — she hears me not, but, careless 
 grown. 
 
 Lethargic nods upon her ebon throne. 
 
 Goddess ! awake, arise ! alas, my fears ! 
 
 Can powers immortal feel the force of years? 
 
 Not thus of old, with ensigns wide unfurled. 
 
 She rode triumphant o'er the vanquished 
 world ; 
 
 Fierce nations owned her unresisted might. 
 
 And all was Ignorance, and all was Night, 30 
 Oh ! sacred Age ! Oh ! Times for ever lost I 
 
 (The Schoolman's glory, and the Churchman's 
 boast.) 
 
148 THE ALLIANCE OF 
 
 For ever gone — yet still to Fancy new, 
 
 Her rapid wings the transient scene pursue, 
 
 And bring the buried ages back to view. 
 
 High on her car, behold the grandam ride 
 
 Like old Sesostris with barbaric pride ; 
 
 ... a team of harnessed monarchs bend 
 * * * * * 
 
 XYI. 
 
 THE ALLIANCE OF 
 
 EDUCATION AND GOYEKNMENT. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 COMMENTARY. * 
 
 The author's subject being Tfie necessary Alliance 
 between a good Form of Government and a good Mode of 
 Education, in order to produce the Happiness of Man- 
 kind, the Poem opens with two similes ; an uncommon 
 kind of exordium ; but which I suppose the poet inten- 
 tionally chose, to intimate the analogical method he 
 meant to pursue in his subsequent reasonings. 
 
 Ist, He asserts that men without education are like 
 sickly plants in a cold or barren soil (1. 1 to 5, and 8 to 
 12) ; and 2dly, he compares them, when unblest with 
 
 * Formed by Mason, " on carefully reviewing the 
 scattered papers in prose which he writ, as hints for his 
 own use in the prosecution of this work." — Mason, vol. 
 iii. p. 98. 
 
EDUCATION AND GOVERNMENT. 149 
 
 a just and well-regulated government, to plants that 
 will not blossom or bear fruit in an unkindly and in- 
 clement air (1. 5 to 9, and 1. 13 to 22). Having thus laid 
 down the two positions he means to prove, he begins by 
 examining into the characteristics which (taking a 
 general view of mankind) all men have in common one 
 with another (1. 22 to 39) ; they covet pleasure and 
 avoid pain 1. 31) ; they feel gratitude for benefits 
 (1. 34) ; they desire to avenge wrongs, which they effect 
 either by force or cunning (1. 35) ; they are linked to 
 each other by their common feelings, and participate 
 in sorrow and in joy (1. 36, 37). 
 
 If then all the human species agree in so many moral 
 particulars, whence arises the diversity of national char- 
 acters ? This question the poet puts at 1. 38, and dilates 
 upon to 1. 64. Why, says he, have some nations shown 
 a propensity to commerce and industry ; others to war 
 and rapine ; others to ease and pleasure ? (1. 42 to 46). 
 "Why have the northern people overspread, in all ages, 
 and prevailed over the southern? (1. 46 to 58). Why 
 has Asia been, time out of mind, the seat of despotism, 
 and Europe that of freedom? (1. 59 to 64). Are we 
 from these instances to imagine men necessarily en- 
 slaved to the inconveniences of the climate where they 
 were born ? (1. 64 to 72). Or are we not rather to sup- 
 pose there is a natural strength in tlie human mind, that 
 is able to vanquish and break through them? (1. 72 
 to 84). 
 
 It is confessed, however, that men receive an early 
 tincture from the situation they are placed in, and the 
 climate which produces them (1. 84 to 88). Thus the 
 inhabitants of the mountains, inured to labour and pa- 
 tience, are naturally trained to war (1. 88 to 96) ; while 
 those of the plain are more open to any attack, and 
 softened by ease and plenty (1. 96 to 99). Again, the 
 Egyptians, from the nature of their situation, might 
 
 22— G & O— U 
 
150 THE ALLIANCE OF 
 
 be the inventors of home navigation, from a necessity 
 of keeping up an intercourse between their tovs^ns dur- 
 ing the inundation of the Nile (1. 99, etc.). 
 
 Those persons would naturally have the first turn to 
 commerce who inhabited a barren coast like the 
 Tyrians, and were persecuted by some neighbouring 
 tyrant ; or were drove to take refuge on some shoals, 
 like the Venetian and Hollander ; their discovery of 
 some rich island, in the infancy of the world, described. 
 The Tartar, hardened to war by his rigorous climate and 
 pastoral life, and by his disputes for water and herbage 
 in a country without landmarks, as also by skirmishes 
 between his rival clans, was consequently fitted to con- 
 quer his rich southern neighbours, whom ease and lux- 
 ury had enervated. Yet this is no proof that liberty 
 and valour may not exist in southern climes, since the 
 Syrians and Carthaginians gave noble instances of both ; 
 and the Arabians carried their conquests as far as the 
 Tartars. Rome also (for many centuries) repulsed those 
 very nations which, when she grew weak, at length de- 
 molished her extensive empire. 
 
 Essay I. 
 
 As sickly plants betray a niggard earth, 
 Whose barren bosom starves her generous birth, 
 Nor genial warmth, nor genial juice retains 
 Their roots to feed, and fill their verdant veins ; 
 And as in climes, where Winter holds his 
 
 reign. 
 The soil, though fertile, will not teem in vain, 
 Forbids her gems to swell, her shades to rise. 
 
EDUCATION AND GOVERNMENT. 151 
 
 Nor trusts her blossoms to the churlish skies, 
 So draw mankind in vain the vital airs, 
 Unformed, unfriended, by those kindly cares, 10 
 That health and vigour to the soul impart, 
 Spread the young thought, and warm the 
 opening heart. 
 
 So fond Instruction on the growing powers 
 Of Nature idly lavishes her stores. 
 If equal Justice with unclouded face 
 Smile not indulgent on the rising race. 
 And scatter with a free though frugal hand 
 Light golden showers of plenty o'er the land. 
 But Tyranny has fixed her empire there, 
 To check their tender hopes with chilling 
 fear, 20 
 
 And blast the blooming promise of the year. . 
 
 This spacious animated scene survey 
 From where the rolling orb, that gives the day, 
 His sable sons with nearer course surrounds, 
 To either pole, and life's remotest bounds. 
 How rude so e'er th' exterior form we find, 
 Howe'er Opinion tinge the varied mind. 
 Alike to all the kind impartial Heaven 
 The sparks of truth and happiness has given ; 
 With sense to feel, with memory to retain, 30 
 
152 THE ALLIANCE OF 
 
 They follow pleasure, and they fly from pain ; 
 
 Their judgment mends the plan their fancy 
 draws, 
 
 Th' event presages, and explores the cause. 
 
 The soft returns of gratitude they know, 
 
 B}'- fraud elude, by force repel the foe. 
 
 While mutual wishes, mutual woes endear 
 
 The social smile, and sympathetic tear. 
 Say then, thro' ages by what fate confined 
 
 To different climes seem different souls as- 
 signed ? 
 
 Here measured laws and philosophic ease 40 
 
 Fix and improve the polished arts of peace ; 
 
 There Industry and Gain their vigils keep. 
 
 Command the winds, and tame th' unwilling 
 deep. 
 
 Here Force and hardy deeds of blood prevail. 
 
 There languid Pleasure sighs in every gale. 
 
 Oft o'er the trembling nations from afar 
 
 Has Scythia breathed the living cloud of war ; 
 
 And, where the deluge burst, with sweepy 
 sway 
 
 Their arms, their kings, their gods were rolled 
 away. 
 
 As oft have issued, host impelling host, 50 
 
EDUCATION AND GOVERNMENT. 153 
 
 The blue-eyed myriads from the Baltic coast. 
 The prostrate South to the destroyer yields 
 Her boasted titles and her golden fields. 
 With grim delight the brood of Winter view 
 A brighter day, and heavens of azure hue ; 
 Scent the new fragrance of the breathing 
 
 rose, 
 And quaif the pendent vintage as it grows. 
 Proud of the yoke, and pliant to the rod, 
 Why yet does Asia dread a monarch's nod, 
 While European freedom still withstands 60 
 Th' encroaching tide, that drowns her lessening 
 
 lands, 
 And sees far off with an indignant groan, 
 Her native plains, and empires once her own. 
 Can opener skies, and suns of fiercer flame 
 O'erpower the fire that animates our frame ; 
 As lamps, that shed at eve a cheerful ray, 
 Fade and expire beneath the eye of day ? 
 Need we the influence of the northern star 
 To string our nerves and steel our hearts to 
 
 war ? 
 And, where the face of nature laughs around, 70 
 Must sick'ning virtue fly the tainted ground ? 
 Unmanly thought ! what seasons can control, 
 
154 THE ALLIANCE OF 
 
 What fancied zone can circumscribe the Soul, 
 Who, conscious of the source from, whence she 
 
 springs, 
 By Reason's light, on Resolution's wings. 
 Spite of her frail companion, dauntless goes 
 O'er Lib^'^a's deserts and through Zembla's 
 
 snows ? 
 She bids each slumb'ring energy awake, 
 Another touch, another temper take, 
 Suspends th' inferior laws that rule our clay ; 80 
 The stubborn elements confess her sway. 
 Their little wants, their low desires, refine, 
 And raise the mortal to a height divine. 
 
 Not but the human fabric from the birth 
 Imbibes a flavour of its parent earth, 
 As various tracts enforce a various toil, 
 The manners speak the idiom of their soil. 
 An iron-race the mountain-cliffs maintain, 
 Foes to the gentler genius of the plain ; 
 For where unwearied sinews must be found 90 
 With side-long plough to quell the flinty 
 
 ground, 
 To turn the torrent's swift-descending flood, 
 To brave the savage rushing from the wood, 
 What wonder, if to patient valour trained 
 
EDUCATION AND GOVERNMENT. 155 
 
 They guard with spirit what by strength they 
 
 gained ? 
 And while their rocky ramparts round they 
 
 see, 
 The rough abode of want and liberty, 
 (As lawless force from confidence will grow) 
 Insult the plenty of the vales below ? 99 
 
 "What wonder in the sultry climes, that spread 
 Where Nile redundant o'er his summer-bed 
 From his broad bosom life and verdure flings 
 And broods o'er Egypt with his wat'ry wings, 
 If with adventurous oar and ready sail. 
 The dusky people drive before the gale ; 
 Or on frail floats to distant cities ride, 
 That rise and glitter o'er the ambient tide ? 
 
 * 
 
 " I found also among these papers a single couplet, 
 much too beautiful to be lost, though the place wliere 
 he meant to introduce it cannot be ascertained." — 
 Mason. 
 
 When love could teach a monarch to be wise, 
 And gospel-light first dawned from Bullen's 
 eyes. 
 
156 STANZAS TO MR BENTLEY. 
 
 XYII. 
 
 STANZAS TO ME. BENTLEY. 
 
 In silent gaze the tuneful choir among, 
 Half pleased, half blushing, let the Muse 
 admire, 
 
 While Bentley leads her sister-art along. 
 And bids the pencil answer to the lyre. 
 
 See, in their course, each transitory thought 
 Fixed by his touch a lasting essence take ; 
 
 Each dream, in fancy's airy colouring wrought, 
 To local symmetry and life awake ! 8 
 
 The tardy rhymes that used to linger on. 
 To censure cold, and negligent of fame, 
 
 In swifter measures animated run. 
 
 And catch a lustre from his genuine flame. 
 
 Ah ! could they catch his strength, his easy 
 grace, 
 
 His quick creation, his unerring line ; 
 The energy of Pope they might efface, 
 
 And Dryden's harmony submit to mine. 16 
 
STANZAS TO MR. BENTLEY. 157 
 
 But not to one in this benighted age 
 
 Is that diviner inspiration given, 
 That burns in Shakespeare's or in Milton's 
 page, 
 
 The pomp and prodigality of heaven. 
 
 As, when conspiring in the diamond's blaze, 
 The meaner gems, that singly charm the 
 sight, 
 
 Together dart their intermingled rays, 
 
 And dazzle with a luxury of light. 24 
 
 Enough for me, if to some feeling breast 
 
 My lines a secret sympathy . . 
 And as their pleasing influence . o o 
 
 A sigh of soft reflection . . o o^ 
 
158 ODE ON VICISSITUDE. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 ODE 
 
 ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM 
 
 VICISSITUDE. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Now the golden Morn aloft 
 
 Waves her dew- bespangled wing. 
 
 With vermeil cheek and whisper soft 
 
 She woos the tardy spring ; 
 Till April starts, and calls around 
 The sleeping fragrance from the ground 5 
 And lightly o'er the living scene 
 Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. 
 
 New-born flocks, in rustic dance, 
 
 Frisking ply their feeble feet ; 10 
 
 Forgetful of their wintry trance, 
 
 The birds his presence greet ; 
 But chief, the sky -lark warbles high 
 His trembling thrilling ecstasy 
 And, lessening from the dazzled sight, 
 Melts into air and liquid light. 
 
ODE ON VICISSITUDE. 159 
 
 Rise, my soul ! on wings of fire, 
 
 Rise the rapturous choir among ; 
 Hark ! 'tis Nature strikes the lyre, 
 
 And leads the general song. 20 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Yesterday the sullen year 
 
 Saw the snowy whirlwind fly ; 
 Mute was the music of the air, 
 
 The Herd stood drooping by ; 
 Their raptures now that wildly flow, 
 No yesterday, nor morrow know ; 
 'Tis man alone that joy descries 
 With forward and reverted eyes. 
 
 Smiles on past Misfortune's brow 
 
 Soft Reflection's hand can trace ; 30 
 
 And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw 
 
 A melancholy grace ; 
 While Hope prolongs our happier hour, 
 Or deepest shades, that dimly lower 
 And blacken round our weary way, 
 Gilds with a gleam of distant day. 
 
 Still, where rosy Pleasure leads. 
 See a kindred Grief pursue ; 
 
160 ODE ON VICISSITUDE. 
 
 Behind the steps that Misery treads, ■ 
 
 Approaching Comfort view ; 40 
 
 The hues of Bliss more brightly glow, 
 Chastised by sabler tints of woe ; 
 And blended form, with artful strife, 
 The strength and harmony of Life. 
 
 See the Wretch, that long has tost 
 
 On the thorny bed of Pain, 
 At length repair his vigour lost. 
 
 And breathe and walk again ; 
 The meanest flowret of the vale. 
 The simplest note that swells the gale, 50 
 
 The common Sun, the air, the skies, 
 To him are opening Paradise. 
 
 Humble Quiet builds her cell. 
 
 Near the source whence Pleasure flows ; 
 
 She eyes the clear chrystalline well, 
 
 And tastes it as it goes. 
 
 ***** 
 
EPITAPH ON MRS. CLARKE. 161 
 
 XIX. 
 
 EPITAPH ON MES. CLAEKE. 
 
 Lo 1 where this silent marble weeps, 
 
 A Friend, a Wife, a Mother sleeps ; 
 
 A heart, within whose sacred cell 
 
 The peaceful virtues loved to dwell. 
 
 Affection warm, and faith sincere, 
 
 And soft humanity were there. 
 
 In agony, in death, resigned, 
 
 She felt the wound she left behind, 
 
 Her infant image here below 
 
 Sits smiling on a father's woe ; 10 
 
 Whom what awaits, while yet he strays 
 
 Along the lonely vale of days? 
 
 A pang, to secret sorrow dear, 
 
 A sigh, an unavailing tear ; 
 
 Till time shall every grief remove 
 
 With life, with memory, and with love. 
 
162 GRAY ON HIMSELF. 
 
 XX. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A CHILD. 
 
 Heee freed from pain, secure from misery, 
 
 lies 
 A Child, the darling of his parents' eyes ; 
 A gentler lamb ne'er sported on the plain, 
 A fairer flower will never bloom ao^ain ! 
 Few were the days allotted to his breath ; 
 Here let him sleep in peace his night of death. 
 
 XXI. 
 GKAY ON HIMSELF. 
 
 WRITTEN IN 1761, AND FOUND IN ONE OF HIS 
 POCKET-BOOKS. 
 
 Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to im- 
 portune ; 
 
 He had not the method of making a fortune ; 
 
 Could love and could hate, so was thought 
 somewhat odd ; 
 
EPITAPH ON SIR WILLIAM WILLIAMS. 163 
 
 No very great wit, he believed in a God. 
 A place or a pension he did not desire, 
 But left church and state to Charles Townshend 
 and Squire. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 EPITAPH ON SIE WILLIAM WILLIAMS. 
 
 Here, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame, 
 Young Williams fought for England's fair 
 renown ; 
 His mind each Muse, each Grace adorned his 
 frame, 
 Nor envy dared to view him with a frown. 
 
 At Aix, his voluntary sword he drew, 
 
 There first in blood his infant honour sealed 
 
 From fortune, pleasure, science, love he flew. 
 And scorned repose when Britain took the 
 field. 
 
 With eyes of flame, and cool undaunted breast 
 Victor he stood on Belleisle's rocky steeps — 
 
 Ah, gallant youth ; this marble tells the rest. 
 Where melancholy friendship bends, and 
 weeps. 
 
164 THE DEATH OF HOEL. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 THE DEATH OF HOEL. 
 
 ANODE. SELECTED FROM THE GODODIN. 
 
 Had I but the torrent's might, 
 
 With headlong rage and wild affright 
 
 Upon De'ira's squadrons hurled, 
 
 To rush, and sweep them from the world I 
 
 Too, too secure in youthful pride, 
 By them my friend, my Hoel, died, 
 Great Clan's son ; of Madoc old 
 He asked no heaps of hoarded gold ; 
 Alone in nature's wealth arrayed, 
 He asked and had the lovely maid. 10 
 
 To Cattraeth's vale in glitt'ring row 
 Thrice two hundred warriors go ; 
 Every warrior's manly neck 
 Chains of regal honour deck, 
 Wreathed in many a golden link ; 
 From the golden cup they drink 
 Nectar that the bees produce, 
 
 I 
 
CONAN. 165 
 
 Or the grape's ecstatic juice. 
 
 Flushed with mirth and hope they burn ; 
 
 But none from Cattraeth's vale return, 20 
 
 Save Aeron brave, and Conan strong, 
 
 (Bursting through the bloody throng) 
 
 And I, the meanest of them all. 
 
 That live to weep and sing their fall. 
 
 xxiy. 
 
 CARADOC. 
 
 Have ye seen the tusky boar, 
 Or the bull, with sullen roar, 
 On surrounding foes advance ? 
 So Caradoc bore his lance. 
 
 XXY. 
 CONAK. 
 
 Conan's name, my lay, rehearse, 
 Build to him the lofty verse, 
 Sacred tribute of the bard. 
 Verse, the hero's sole reward. 
 
166 THE CANDIDATE. 
 
 As the flame's devouring force ; 
 As the whirlwind in its course; 
 As the thunder's fiery stroke, 
 Glancing on the shivered oak ; 
 Did the sword of Conan mow 
 The crimson harvest of the foe. 10 
 
 XXYI. 
 THE CANDIDATE, 
 
 OR THE CAMBRIDGE COURTSHIP. 
 
 When sly Jemmy Twitcher had smugged up 
 his face. 
 
 With a lick of court white-wash, and pious 
 grimace, 
 
 A wooing he went, where three sisters of old 
 
 In harmless society guttle and scold. 
 
 " Lord ! sister," says Physic to Law, " I de- 
 clare, 
 
 Such a sheep-biting look, such a pick-pocket 
 air! 
 
 Not I for the Indies! — You know I'm no 
 prude, — 
 
THE CANDIDATE. 167 
 
 But his nose is a shame, — and his eyes are so 
 
 lewd! 
 Then he shambles and straddles so oddly-rl 
 
 fear — 9 
 
 No — at our time of life 'twould be silly, my 
 
 dear." 
 " I don't know," says Law, " but methinks 
 
 for his look, 
 'Tis just like the picture in Kochester's book ; 
 Then his character, Phyzzy, — his morals — his 
 
 life— 
 When she died, I can't tell, — but he once had 
 
 a wife. 
 They say he's no Christian, loves drinking and 
 
 whoring. 
 And all the town rings of his swearing and 
 
 roaring ! 
 And filching and lying, and Newgate-bird 
 
 tricks ; — 
 Not I — for a coronet, chariot and six." 
 
 Divinity heard, between waking and dozing, 
 Her sisters denying, and Jemmy proposing ; ?.0 
 From table she rose, and with bumper in hand, 
 She stroked up her belly, and stroked down her 
 
 band — 
 
168 VERSES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 " What a pother is here about ■wenching and 
 roaring ! 
 
 Why, David loved catches, and Solomon whor- 
 ing ; 
 
 Did not Israel filch from the Egyptians of old 
 
 Their jewels of silver and jewels of gold ? 
 
 The prophet of Bethel, we read, told a lie ; 
 
 He drinks — so did Noah ; — he swears — so do I ; 
 
 To reject him for such peccadillos, were odd ; 29 
 
 Besides, he repents — for he talks about God — 
 To Jemmy : — 
 
 Never hang down your head, you poor penitent 
 elf, 
 
 Come buss me — I'll be Mrs. Twitcher myself." 
 
 * * 
 
 XXYII. 
 
 YERSES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 To Mrs. Anne, Regular Servant to the Rev. 
 Mr. Precentor of York. 
 
 A moment's patience, gentle Mistress Anne ; 
 (But stint your clack for sweet St. Charitie) 
 
VERSES FROM SHAKESPEARE. 169 
 
 'Tis Willy begs, once a right proper man, 
 Though now a book, and interleaved you see. 
 
 Much have I borne from cankered critic's 
 spite, 
 
 From fumbling baronets and poets small. 
 Pert barristers, and parsons nothing bright. 
 
 But what awaits me now is worst of all. 8 
 
 'Tis true, our master's temper natural 
 Was fashioned fair in meek and dove-like 
 guise ; 
 
 But may not honey's self be turned to gall 
 By residence, by marriage, and sore eyes ? 
 
 If then he wreak on me his wicked will ; 
 
 Steal to his closet at the hour of prayer ; 
 And (when thou hear'st the organ piping 
 shrill) 
 Grease his best pen, and all he scribbles, 
 tear. 
 
 Better to bottom tarts and cheesecakes nice, 17 
 Better the roast meat from the fire to save, 
 
 Better be twisted into caps for spice. 
 Than thus be patched and cobbled in one's 
 grave. 
 
170 IMPROMPTU. 
 
 So York shall taste what Clouet never knew, 
 So from our work sublimer fumes shall rise ; 
 
 "While Nancy earns the praise to Shakespeare 
 due, 
 For glorious puddings and immortal pies. 24 
 
 XXYIII. 
 IMPROMPTU. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A VIEW, IN 1766, OF THE SEAT AND 
 KUINS OF A DECEASED NOBLEMAN, AT KINGS- 
 GATE, KENT. 
 
 Old, and abandoned by each venal friend. 
 Here Holland formed the pious resolution 
 
 To smuggle a few years, and strive to mend 
 A broken character and constitution. 
 
 On this congenial spot he fixed his choice ; 
 Earl Goodwin trembled for his neighbour- 
 ing sand ; 
 Here sea-gulls scream, and cormorants rejoice, 
 And mariners, though shipwrecked, dread to 
 land. 
 
IMPROMPTU. 171 
 
 Here reign the blustering North and blighting 
 East, 
 
 No tree is heard to whisper, bird to sing ; 
 Yet Nature could not furnish out the feast, 
 
 Art he invokes new horrors still to bring. 
 
 Here mouldering fanes and battlements arise, 
 Turrets and arches nodding to their fall 
 
 Unpeopled monast'ries delude our eyes, 
 
 And mimic desolation covers all. 16 
 
 " Ah ! " said the sighing peer, " had Bute 
 been true, 
 NorMungo's, Rigby's, Bradshaw's friendship 
 vain, 
 Far better scenes than these had blest our 
 view, 
 And realised the beauties which we feign ; 
 
 " Purged by the sword, and purified by fire, 
 Then had we seen proud London's hated 
 walls ; 
 
 Owls would have hooted in St. Peter's choir,23 
 And foxes stunk and littered in St. Paul's.'* 
 
172 SATIRE ON THE HEADS OF HOUSES. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 SATIRE ON THE HEADS OF HOUSES ; 
 
 OR, NEVER A BARREL THE BETTER HERRING. 
 
 O Cambridge, attend 
 To the Satire I've penned 
 On the Heads of thy Houses, 
 Thou Seat of the Muses ! 
 
 Know the Master of Jesus 
 Does hugely displease us ; 
 The Master of Maudlin 
 In the same dirt is dawdling ; 
 The Master of Sidney 
 Is of the same kidney ; 
 The Master of Trinity 
 To him beare affinity ; 
 As the Master of Keys 
 Is as like as two pease, 
 So the Master of Queen's 
 Is as like as two beans ; 
 The Master of Kings 
 Copies them in all things ; 
 
 10 
 
SATIRE ON THE HEADS OF HOUSES. 173 
 
 The Master of Catherine 
 
 Takes them all for his pattern ; 20 
 
 The Master of Clare 
 
 Hits them all to a hair ; 
 
 The Master of Christ 
 
 By the rest is enticed ; 
 
 But the Master of Emmanuel 
 
 Follows them like a spaniel ; 
 
 The Master of Benet 
 
 Is of the like tenet ; 
 
 The Master of Pembroke 
 
 Has from them his system took ; 30 
 
 The Master of Peter's 
 
 Has all the same features ; 
 
 The Master of St. John's 
 
 Like the rest of the Dons. 
 
 As to Trinity Hall 
 We say nothing at alL 
 
 B2— G & 0—^ 
 
174 
 
 AMATORY LINES. 
 
 XXX. 
 AMATOKY LINES. 
 
 With beauty, with pleasure surrounded, to lan- 
 guish — 
 
 To weep without knowing the cause of my an- 
 guish ; 
 
 To start from short slumbers, and wish for the 
 morning — 
 
 To close my dull eyes when I see it returning ; 
 
 Sighs sudden and frequent, looks ever de- 
 jected — 
 
 Words that steal from ray tongue, by no mean- 
 ing connected ! 
 
 Ah! say, fellow-swains, how these symptoms 
 befell me ? 
 
 They smile, but reply not — Sure Delia will tell 
 me I 
 
EPITAPH ON MRS. MASON. 175 
 
 XXXI. 
 SONG. 
 
 Thyesis, when we parted, swore 
 Ere the spring he would return — 
 
 Ah ! what means yon violet flower! 
 And the buds that deck the thorn I 
 
 'Twas the lark that upward sprung I 
 
 'Twas the nightingale that sung 1 
 
 Idle notes ! untimely green ! 
 
 Why this unavailing haste ? 
 Western gales and skies serene 
 
 Speak not always winter past. 
 Cease, my doubts, my fears to move, 
 Spare the honour of my love. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 EPITAPH ON MRS. MASON. 
 
 Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die, 
 *Twas e'en to thee, yet, the dread path once 
 
 trod. 
 Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high. 
 And bids the pure in heart behold their God. 
 
176 COMIC LINES. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 TOPHET. 
 
 Thus Tophet looked ; so grinned the brawling 
 fiend, 
 
 While frighted prelates bowed and called him 
 friend ; 
 
 I saw them bow, and while they wished him 
 dead. 
 
 With servile simper nod the mitred head. 
 
 Our mother-church, with half-averted sight, 
 
 Blushed as she blessed her grisly proselyte ; 
 
 Hosannas rung through hell's tremendous bor- 
 ders, 
 
 And Satan's self had thoughts of taking orders. 
 
 XXXIY. 
 COMIC LINES. 
 
 Weddell attends your call, and Palgrave proud, 
 Stonehewer the lewd, and Delaval the loud. 
 For thee does Powell squeeze, and Marriot 
 sputter, 
 
IMPROMPTUS. 177 
 
 And Glynn cut phizzes, and Tom Neville 
 
 stutter. 
 Brown sees thee sitting on his nose's tip, 
 The Widow feels thee in her aching hip ; 
 For thee fat Nanny sighs, and handy Nelly, 
 And Balguy with a bishop in his belly. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 IMPROMPTUS. 
 
 These scraps of verse and extempore rhymes were 
 preserved by "Wharton, and were first printed by Mit- 
 ford (vol. V. pp. 185, 186), who describes them as 
 "sportive effusions by Gray in a post-chaise, when 
 travelling with his friend Dr. Wharton." 
 
 Impromptu by Gray on going out of Raby Castle, 
 after dining with Harry Vane. 
 
 Here lives Harry Yane, 
 Yery good claret and fine champaign. 
 
 Epigrams on Dr. Keene, Bishop of Chester. 
 
 The Bishop of Chester, 
 Though wiser than Nestor 
 
178 IMPROMPTUS. 
 
 And fairer than Esther, 
 
 If you scratch him will fester. 
 
 One day the Bishop having offered to give a gentle- 
 man a goose, Gray composed his Epitaph, thus : — 
 
 Here lies Edmund Keene Lord Bishop of Ches- 
 ter, 
 He eat a fat goose, and could not digest her. 
 
 And this upon his Lady : — 
 
 Here lies Mrs. Keene the she Bishop of Chester, 
 She had a bad face which did sadly molest her. 
 
 Parody on an Epitaph. 
 
 This parody was made on a tour with Dr. Wharton 
 in Cumberland and Westmoreland in September, 1767. 
 Wharton made a copy of the lines and added the fol- 
 lowing note: — "Extempore Epitaph on Ann Countess 
 of Dorset, Pembroke and Montgomery, made by Mr. 
 Gray on reading the Epitaph on her mother's tomb in 
 the Church at Appleby, composed by the Countess in 
 the same manner." 
 
 Now clean, now hideous, mellow now, now 
 
 gruff. 
 She swept, she hissed, she ripened and grew 
 
 rough, 
 
IMPROMPTUS. 179 
 
 At Brougham, Pendragon, Appleby and 
 Brough. 
 
 A Couplet on Dining. 
 
 "When you rise from your dinner as light as 
 
 before, 
 Tis a sign you have eat just enough and no 
 
 more. 
 
 Couplet about Birds. 
 
 Norton Nicholls in his Reminiscences of Gray gives 
 the following as " two verses made by Mr. Gray as 
 we were walking in the spring in the neighbourhood of 
 Cambridge." This couplet was first printed in Mathias' 
 edition of Gray's Works (1814), vol. ii, p. 596. 
 
 There pipes the woodlark, and the song-thrush 
 
 there 
 Scatters his loose notes in the waste of air. 
 
180 
 
 DOUBTFUL POEMS. 
 
 DOUBTFUL POEMS. 
 I. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 Seeds of poetry and rhime 
 Nature in my soul implanted ; 
 
 But the genial hand of time 
 Still to ripen 'em is wanted ; 
 
 Or, soon as they begin to blow, 
 
 My cold soil nips the buds with snow. 
 
 6 
 
 If a plenteous crop arise, 
 
 Copious numbers, swelling grain ; 
 
 Judgment from the harvest flies 
 
 And careless spares to weed the plain ; 
 
 Tares of similes choke the roots. 
 
 Or poppy -thoughts blast all the shoots. 12 
 
 Youth, his torrid beams that plays, 
 
 Bids the poetic Spirit flourish ; 
 But, tho' flowers his ardour raise. 
 
 Maggots too 'twill form and nourish ; 
 And variegated Fancy's seen 
 Vainly enamelling the green. 18 
 
DOUBTFUL POEMS. 181 
 
 First when Pastorals 1 read, 
 Purling streams and cooling breezes 
 
 I only wrote of ; and my head 
 Khimed on, reclined beneath the tree-zes ; 
 
 In pretty Dialogue I told 
 
 Of Phoebus' heat and Daphne's cold. 24 
 
 Battles, sieges, men, and arms,' 
 
 (If heroic verse I'm reading) 
 I burn to write ; with Myra's charms 
 
 In episode, to show my breeding ; 
 But if my Myra cruel be 
 I tell her so in Elegy. 30 
 
 Tragic numbers, buskined trains, 
 
 If Melpomene inspire, 
 I sing ; but fickle throw my trains 
 
 And half an act into the fire ; 
 Perhaps Thalia prompts a Sonnet 
 On Chloe's fan, or Caelia's bonnet. 36 
 
 For one silk- worm thought that thrives 
 
 Twenty more in embryo die ; 
 Some spin away their little lives 
 
 In ductile lines of foolery ; 
 
182 POETICAL RONDEAU. 
 
 Then for one raoiety of the year 
 
 Pent in a chrysalis appear. 42 
 
 Till again the rolling sun 
 
 Bursts the inactive shell, and thoughts 
 Like butterflies their prison shun, 
 
 Buzzing with all their parent faults ; 
 And, springing from the sluggish mould, 
 Expand their wings of flimsy gold. 48 
 
 But, my Dear, these flies, they say, 
 Can boast of one good quality ; 
 
 To Phoebus gratefully they pay 
 Their little songs, and melody ; 
 
 So I to you this trifle give. 
 
 Whose influence first bid it live. 54 
 
 December, 1736. Celadon. 
 
 II. 
 
 POETICAL EONDEAIJ. 
 
 J 
 
 First to love, — and then to part,— > 
 
 Long to seek a mutual heart, — 
 Late to find it ; — and, again. 
 Leave and lose it, — oh the pain I 
 
POETICAL RONDEAU. 183 
 
 Some have loved, and loved (they say) 
 'Till they loved their love away ; 
 Then have left, to love anew ; 
 But, I wot, they loved not true ! 8 
 
 True to love, — and then to part, — 
 Long to seek a mutual heart, — 
 Late to find it, — and, again, 
 Leave, and lose it, — oh the pain ! 
 
 Some have loved, to pass the time. 
 And have loved their love in rhyme ; 
 Loathed the love ; and loathed the song ; 
 But their love could not be strong. 16 
 
 Strong to love, — and then to part, — 
 Long to seek a mutual heart, — 
 Late to find it, — and, again, 
 Leave, and lose it, — oh the pain ! 
 
 Some have just but felt the flame 
 Lightly lambent o'er their frame, — 
 Light to them the parting knell ; 
 For, too sure, they love not well. 24 
 
 Well to love, — and then to part, — 
 Long to seek a mutual heart, — 
 
184 THE ALPHABET. 
 
 Late to find it, and, again, 
 Leave and lose it, — oh the pain! 
 
 But when once the potent dart 
 Cent'ring, rivets heart to heart, 
 'Tis to tear the closing wound, 
 Then to sever what is hound. 32 
 
 Bound to love, — and then to part, 
 Long to seek a mutual heart, — 
 Late to find it, — and, again, 
 Leave and lose it, — oh ! the pain. 
 
 IIL 
 
 THE CHARACTERS OF THE CHRIST- 
 
 CROSS ROW. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Great D draws near — the Duchess sure is 
 
 come. 
 Open the doors of the withdrawing-room ; 
 Her daughters decked most daintily I see, 
 The Dowager grows a perfect double D. 
 E enters next, and with her Eve appears, 
 
THE ALPHABET. 185 
 
 Not like yon Dowager deprest with years ; 
 What Ease and Elegance her person grace, 
 Bright beaming, as the Evening-star, her face; 
 Queen Esther next — how fair e'en after death. 
 Then one faint glimpse of Queen Elizabeth ; 10 
 No more, our Esthers now are nought but 
 
 Hetties, 
 Elizabeths all dwindled into Betties ; 
 In vain you think to find them under E, 
 They're all diverted into H and B. 
 F follows fast the fair — and in his rear, 
 See Folly, Fashion, Foppery, straight appear, 
 All with fantastic clews, fantastic clothes, 
 With Fans and Flounces, Fringe and Fur- 
 belows. 
 Here Grub-street Geese presume to joke and 
 
 jeer, 
 All, all, but Grannara Osborne's Gazetteer. 20 
 High heaves his hugeness H, methinks we see, 
 Henry the Eighth's most monstrous majesty, 
 But why on such Tnock grandeur should we 
 
 dwell, 
 H mounts to Heaven, and H descends to Hell, 
 As H the Hebrew found, so I the Jew, 
 See Isaac, Joseph, Jacob, pass in view; 
 
186 THE ALPHABET. 
 
 The walls of old Jerusalem appear, 
 
 See Israel, and all Judah thronging there. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 P pokes his head out, yet has not a pain ; 29 
 Like Punch, he peeps, but soon pops in again ; 
 Pleased with his Pranks, the Pisgys call him 
 
 Puck, 
 Mortals he loves to prick, and pinch and pluck ; 
 Now a pert Prig, he perks upon your face, 
 Now peers, pores, ponders, with profound 
 
 grimace. 
 Now a proud Prince, in pompous Purple drest, 
 And now a Player, a Peer, a Pimp, or Priest ; 
 A Pea, a Pin, in a perpetual round. 
 Now seems a Penny, and now shows a Pound ; 
 Like Perch or Pike, in Pond you see him come, 
 He in plantations hangs like Pear or Plum, 40 
 Pippin or Peach ; then perches on the spray, 
 In form of Parrot, Pye, or Popinjay. 
 P, Proteus-like all tricks, all shapes can show, 
 The Pleasantest Person in the Christ-Cross row. 
 As K a King, Q represents a Queen, 
 And seems small difference the sounds between ; 
 K, as a man, with hoarser accents speaks, 
 
THE ALPHABET. 187 
 
 In shriller notes Q like a female squeaks ; 
 Behold K struts, as might a King become, 
 Q draws her train along the Drawing-room, 50 
 Slow follow all the quality of State, 
 Queer Queensbury only does refuse to wait. 
 Thus great R reigns in town, while different far, 
 Bests in Retirement, little Rural R ; 
 Remote from cities lives in lone Retreat, 
 With Rooks and Rabbit-burrows round his 
 
 seat — 
 S sails the Swan slow down the Silver stream. 
 * * * * 
 
 So big with Weddings, waddles W, 
 And brings all Womankind before your view ; 
 A Wench, a Wife, a Widow, and a Whore, 60 
 With Woe behind, and Wantonness before. 
 
188 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 I. 
 
 FROM STATIUS. 
 
 Then thus the King * : — 
 
 Whoe'er the quoit can wield, 
 And furthest send its weight athwart the field, 
 Let him stand forth his brawny arm to boast. 
 Swift at the word, from out the gazing host, 
 Young Pterelas with strength unequal drew. 
 Laboring, the disc, and to small distance 
 
 threw. 
 The band around admire the mighty mass, 
 A slipp'ry weight, and formed of polished brass. 
 The love of honour bade two youths advance, 10 
 Achaians born, to try the glorious chance ; 
 A third arose of Acarnania he, 
 Of Pisa one, and one from Ephyre ; 
 Nor more, for now Nesimachus's son, f — 
 By acclamations roused, came tow 'ring on. 
 Another orb upheaved his strong right hand, 
 *Adra8tus. t Hippomedon. 
 
FROM STATIUS. 189 
 
 Then thus : " Ye Argive flower, ye warlike 
 
 band, 
 Who trust your arms shall raise the Tyrian 
 
 towers, 
 And batter Cadmus' walls with stony showers, 
 Keeeive a worthier load ; yon puny ball 20 
 
 Let youngsters toss : " 
 
 He said, and scornful flung th' unheeded weight 
 Aloof ; the champions, trembling at the sight, 
 Prevent disgrace, the palm despaired resign ; "» 
 All buu two youths th' enormous orb decline, 
 These conscious shame withheld, and pride of 
 
 noble line. 
 
 As bright and huge the spacious circle lay, 
 "With double light it beamed against the day ; 
 So glittering shows the Thracian Godhead's 
 
 shield, 
 "With such a gleam affrights Pangaea's field, 30 
 When blazing 'gainst the sun it shines from 
 
 far. 
 And, clashed, rebellows with the din of war. 
 Phlegyas the long-expected play began. 
 Summoned his strength, and called forth all 
 
 the man. 
 All eyes were bent on his experienced hand, 
 
y 
 
 190 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 For oft in Pisa's sports, his native land 
 Admired that arm, oft on Alpheus' shore 
 The pond'rous brass in exercise he bore ; 
 Where flowed the widest stream he took his ' 
 
 stand ; 
 Sure flew the disc from his unerring hand, 40 
 Nor stopped till it had cut the further strand. . 
 And now in dust the polished ball he rolled, 
 Then grasped its weight, elusive of his hold ; 
 Now fitting to his gripe and nervous arm. 
 Suspends the crowd with expectation warm ; 
 Nor tempts he yet the plain, but hurled upright, 
 Emits the mass, a prelude of his might ; 
 Firmly he plants each knee, and o'er his head, 
 Collecting all his force, the circle sped ; 
 It towers to cut the clouds ; now through the 
 
 skies 50 
 
 Sings in its rapid way, and strengthens as it 
 
 flies; 
 Anon, with slackened rage comes quiv'ring 
 
 down. 
 Heavy and huge, and cleaves the solid ground. 
 So from th' astonished stars, her nightly 
 
 train. 
 The sun's pale sister, drawn by magic strain, 
 
FROM STATIUS. 191 
 
 Deserts precipitant her darkened sphere ; 
 In vain the nations with officious fear 
 Their cymbals toss, and sounding brass explore ; 
 Th' JEmonian hag enjoys her dreadful hour, 59 
 And smiles malignant on the labouring power. 
 
 Thehdidos vi. 646-688. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Third in the labours of the disc came on, 
 With sturdy step and slow, Hippomedon ; 
 Artful and strong he poised the w^ell-known 
 
 weight, 
 By Phlegyas warned, and fired by Mnestheus' 
 
 fate, 
 That to avoid, and this to emulate. 
 His vigorous arm he tried before he flung, 
 Braced all his nerves, and every sinew strung; 
 Then, with a tempest's whirl, and wary eye. 
 Pursued his cast, and hurled the orb on high ; 
 The orb on high tenacious of its course, 10 
 True to the mighty arm that gave it force, 
 Far overleaps all bound, and joys to see 
 Its ancient lord secure of victory. 
 The theatre's green height and woody wall 
 Tremble ere it precipitates its fall ; 
 
192 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 The ponderous mass sinks in the cleaving 
 
 ground, 
 While vales and woods and echoing hills re- 
 bound. 
 As when, from Etna's smoking summit broke, 
 The eyeless Cyclops heaved the craggy rock ; 
 Where Ocean frets beneath the dashing oar, 20 
 And parting surges round the vessel roar ; 
 'Twas there he aimed the meditated harm, 
 And scarce Ulysses scaped his giant arm. 
 A tiger's pride the victor bore away. 
 With native spots and artful labour gay, 
 A shining border round the margin rolled, 
 And calmed the terrors of his claws in gold. 
 
 Thehdidos vi. 704-724. 
 Cambridge, May g, 1736. 
 
 II. 
 
 FROM TASSO. 
 
 ♦' Preser commiato : e si '1 desir gli sprona," etc. 
 
 Dismissed at length, they break through all 
 
 delay 
 To tempt the dangers of the doubtful way ; 
 
FROM TASSO. 193 
 
 And first to Ascalon their steps they bend, 
 Whose walls along the neighbouring sea ex- 
 tend, • 
 Nor yet in prospect rose the distant shore ; 
 Scarce the hoarse waves from far were heard 
 
 to roar. 
 When thwart the road a river rolled its flood 
 Tempestuous, and all further course withstood ; 
 The torrent stream his ancient bounds disdains, 
 Swoll'n with new force, and late-descending 
 rains. 10 
 
 Irresolute they stand ; when lo ! appears 
 The wondrous Sage ; vigorous he seemed in 
 
 years. 
 Awful his mien, low as his feet there flows 
 A vestment unadorned, though white as new- 
 
 fall'n snows ; 
 Against the stream the waves secure he trod, 
 His head a chaplet bore, his hand a rod. 
 
 As on the Rhine, when Boreas' fury reigns. 
 And winter binds the floods in icy chains. 
 Swift shoots the village-maid in rustic play, 19 
 Smooth, without step, adown the shining way, 
 Fearless in long excursion loves to glide. 
 And sports and wantons o'er the frozen tide. . 
 
194 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 So moved the Seer, but on no hardened plain ; 
 The river boiled beneath, and rushed towards 
 
 the main. 
 Where fixed in wonder stood the warlike pair, 
 His course he turned, and thus relieved their 
 care : 
 
 " Vast, oh my friends, and difficult the toil 
 To seek your Hero in a distant soil ! 
 No common helps, no common guide ye need, 
 Art it requires, and more than winged speed. 30 
 What length of sea remains, what various lands. 
 Oceans unknown, inhospitable sands ! 
 For adverse fate the captive chief has hurled 
 Beyond the confines of our narrow world. 
 Great things and full of wonder in your ears 
 I shall unfold ; but first dismiss your fears ; 
 Nor doubt with me to tread the downward road 
 That to the grotto leads, my dark abode." 
 
 Scarce had he said, before the warrior's eyes 
 When mountain-high the waves disparted rise ; 
 The flood on either hand its billows rears. 
 And in the midst a spacious arch appears. 
 Their hands he seized, and down the steep he 
 
 led 
 Beneath the obedient river's inmost bed; 
 
FROM TASSO. 195 
 
 The wat'ry glimmerings of a fainter day 
 Discovered half, and half concealed their way ; 
 As when athwart the dusky woods by night 
 The uncertain crescent gleams a sickly light. 
 Through subterraneous passages they went, 49 
 Earth's inmost cells, and caves of deep descent. 
 Of many a flood they viewed the secret source, 
 The birth of rivers rising to their course, 
 Whate'er with copious train its channel fills, 
 Floats into lakes, and bubbles into rills ; 
 The Po was there to see, Danubius' bed, 
 Euphrates' fount, and Nile's mysterious head. 
 Further they pass, where ripening minerals flow. 
 And embryon metals undigested glow, 
 Sulphureous veins and living silver shine, 59 
 Which soon the parent sun's warm powers 
 
 refine. 
 In one rich mass unite the precious store. 
 The parts combine and harden into ore ; 
 Here gems break through the night with glit- 
 tering beam, 
 And paint the margin of the costly stream ; 
 All stones of lustre shoot their vivid ray. 
 And mix attempered in a various daj'^ ; 
 Here the soft emerald smiles of verdant hue, 
 
196 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 And rubies flame, with sapphires heavenly blue, 
 
 The diamond there attracts the wond'ring 
 
 sight,* 
 
 Proud of its thousand dies, and luxury of light.f 
 
 Gerus. Lib. xiv. 32. 
 1738. 
 
 III. 
 
 IMITATED FROM PROPERTIUS4 
 
 LiBEK III. Elegia 5. 
 
 "Pacis amor Deus est," etc. 
 
 Love, gentle Power ! to Peace was e'er a 
 
 friend ; 
 Before the Goddess' shrine we too, Love's vo- 
 
 t'ries, bend. 
 Still may his Bard in softer fights engage ; 
 Wars hand to hand with Cynthia let me wage. 
 * * * * 
 
 * Lines 68 and 69 have been incorrectly printed in all 
 previous editions. 
 
 f See Stanzas to Bentley, 24. 
 
 X In the Pembroke MSS. this translation from Pro- 
 pertius is as here and not in the form ia winch Mr. 
 Gosse prints it. 
 
FROM PROPERTIUS. 197 
 
 Long as of youth the joyous hours remain, 
 
 Me may Castalia's sweet recess detain, 
 
 Fast by th' umbrageous vale lulled to repose, 
 
 Where Aganippe warbles as it flows ; 
 
 Or roused by sprightly sounds from out the 
 
 trance, 
 I'd in the ring knit hands, and join the Muses' 
 
 dance. 
 Gi'v'e me to send the laughing bowl around. 
 My soul in Bacchus' pleasing fetters bound ; 
 Let on this head unfading flowers reside, 
 There bloom the vernal rose's earliest pride ; 10 
 And when, our flames commissioned to destroy, 
 Age step 'twixt Love and me, and intercept the 
 
 joy; 
 
 When my changed head these locks no more 
 
 shall know, 
 And all its jetty honours turn to snow ; 
 Then let me rightly spell of Nature's ways ; 
 To Providence, to Hira my thoughts I'd raise, 
 Who taught this vast machine its steadfast 
 
 laws. 
 That first, eternal, universal Cause ; 
 Search to what regions yonder star retires, 
 That monthly waning hides her paly fires, 20 
 
 22— Q & G— W 
 
198 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 And whence, anew revived, with silver light 
 Relumes her crescent orb to cheer the dreary 
 
 night ; 
 How rising winds the face of ocean sweep, 
 "Where lie th' eternal fountains of the deep, 
 And whence the cloudy magazines maintain 
 Their wintry war, or pour the autumnal rain 
 How flames perhaps, with dire confusion hurled, 
 Shall sink this beauteous fabric of the world ; 
 What colours paint the vivid arch of Jove ; 29 
 What wondrous force the solid earth can move, 
 When Pindus' self approaching ruin dreads, 
 Shakes all his pines, and bows his hundred 
 
 heads ; 
 Why does yon orb, so exquisitely bright. 
 Obscure his radiance in a short-lived night ; 
 Whence the Seven Sisters' congregated fires, 
 And what Bootes' lazy waggon tires 
 How the rude surge its sandy bounds control ; 
 Who measured out the year, and bad the 
 
 seasons roll ; 
 If realms beneath those fabled torments know, 
 Pangs without respite, fires that ever glow, 40 
 Earth's monster-brood stretched on their iron 
 
 bed, 
 
FROM PROPERTIUS. 199 
 
 The hissing terrors round Alecto's head, 
 Scarce to nine acres Tityus' bulk confined, 
 The triple dog that scares the shadowy kind, 
 All angry heaven inflicts, or hell can feel. 
 The pendent rock, Ixion's whirling wheel. 
 Famine at feasts, and thirst amid the stream ; 
 Or are our fears th' enthusiast's empty dream, 
 And all the scenes, that hurt the grave's repose. 
 But picture horror and poetic woes. 50 
 
 These soft inglorious joys my hours engage ; 
 Be love my youth's pursuit, and science crown 
 
 my Age. 
 You whose young bosoms feel a nobler flame 
 Eedeem what Crassus lost, and vindicate his 
 
 name. 
 * December, 1738. 
 
200 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 TO M^CENAS.* 
 
 FROM PROPERTIUS. LIB. II. ELEG. 5. 
 
 You ask, why thus my Loves I still rehearse, 
 Whence the soft strain and ever-melting 
 
 verse ? 
 From Cynthia all that in my numbers shines ; 
 She is my Genius, she inspires the lines ; 
 No Phoebus else, no other Muse I know. 
 She tunes my easy rhime, and gives the lay to 
 
 flow. 
 If the loose curls around her forehead play, 
 Or lawless, o'er their ivory margin stray ; 
 If the thin Coan web her shape reveal, 9 
 
 And half disclose the limbs it should conceal ; 
 Of those loose curls, that ivory front I write ; 
 Of the dear web whole volumes I indite ; 
 Or if to music she the lyre awake, 
 
 *The whole of this is in Gray's handwriting in the 
 Pembroke MS., which is here followed. The first 
 thirty lines are in the Mitford MSS., the remainder 
 first nppeared in Mathias' edition. 
 
TO M^CENAS. 201 
 
 That the soft subject of my song I make, 
 And sing with what a careless grace she flings 
 Her artful hand across the sounding strings. 
 If sinking into sleep she seem to close 
 Her languid lids, I favour her repose 
 With lulling notes, and thousand beauties see 
 That slumber brings to aid my Poetry. 20 
 
 When, less averse, and yielding to desires. 
 She half accepts, and half rejects, my fires, 
 While to retain the envious lawn she tries. 
 And struggles to elude my longing eyes. 
 The fruitful Muse from that auspicious night 
 Dates the long Iliad of the amorous fight. 
 In brief whate'er she do, or say, or look, 
 'Tis ample matter for a lover's book ; 
 And many a copious narrative you'll see 
 Big with the important Nothing's History. 30 
 Yet would the tyrant Love permit me raise 
 My feeble voice, to sound the victor's praise, 
 To paint the hero's toil, the ranks of war. 
 The laurelled triumph and the sculptured car ; 
 No giant race, no tumult of the skies, 
 No mountain-structures in my verse should 
 
 rise. 
 Nor tale of Thebes, nor Ilium there should be, 
 
202 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Nor how the Persian trod the indignant sea ; 
 Not Marius' Cimbrian wreaths would I relate, 
 Nor lofty Carthage struggling with her fate. 40 
 Here should Augustus great in Arms, appear, 
 And thou Maecenas, be my second care ; 
 Here Mutina from flames and famine free. 
 And there the ensanguined wave of Sicily, 
 And sceptred Alexandria's captive shore, 
 And sad Philippi, red with Roman gore ; * 
 Then, while the vaulted skies loud los rend, 
 In golden chains should loaded monarchs bend, 
 And hoary Nile with pensive aspect seem 
 To mourn the glories of his sevenfold 
 
 stream, 50 
 
 While prows, that late in fierce encounter met, 
 Move through the Sacred Way and vainly 
 
 threat. 
 Thee too the Muse should consecrate to fame, 
 And with his garlands weave thy ever-faithful 
 
 name. 
 But nor Callimachus' enervate strain 
 May tell of Jove, and Phlegra's blasted plain 
 Nor I with unaccustomed vigour trace 
 
 * These two lines are in the margin in the Pembroke 
 MS. 
 
TO Mu^CENAS. 203 
 
 Back to its source divine the Julian race. 
 
 Sailors to tell of winds and seas delight, 
 
 The shepherd of his flocks, the soldier of the 
 
 fight, 60 
 
 A milder warfare I in verse display ; 
 Each in his proper art should waste the day ; 
 Nor thou my gentle calling disapprove, 
 To die is glorious in the bed of Love. 
 Happy the youth, and not unknown to Fame, 
 Whose heart has never felt a second flame. 
 Oh, might that envied happiness be mine ! 
 To Cynthia all my wishes I confine ; 
 Or if, alas ! it be my fate to try 
 Another Love, the quicker let me die. 70 
 
 But she, the Mistress of my faithful breast, 
 Has oft the charms of constancy confest, 
 Condemns her fickle sex's fond mistake. 
 And hates the Tale of Troy for Helen's sake. 
 Me from myself the soft enchantress stole ; 
 Ah ! let her ever my desires control, 
 Or if I fall the victim of her scorn. 
 From her loved door may my pale corse be 
 
 borne. 
 The power of herbs can other harms remove. 
 And find a cure for every ill, but love. 80 
 
20t TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 The Melian's * hurt Machaon could repair, 
 Heal the slow chief, and send again to war ; 
 To Chiron Phoenix owed his long-lost sight, 
 And Phoebus' son recalled Androgeon to the 
 
 light. 
 Here arts are vain, e'en magic here must fail, 
 The powerful mixture and the midnight spell ; 
 The hand that can my captive heart release, 
 And to this bosom give its wonted peace, 
 May the long thirst of Tantalus allay, 
 Or drive the infernal vulture from his prey. 90 
 For ills unseen what remedy is found, 
 Or who can probe the undiscovered wound ? 
 The bed avails not, or the leech's care, 
 Nor changing skies can hurt, nor sultry air. 
 'Tis hard th' elusive symptoms to explore ; 
 To-day the lover walks, to-morrow is no 
 
 more ; 
 A train of mourning friends attend his pall, 
 And wonder at the sudden funeral. 
 
 When then my Fates that breath they gave 
 
 shall claim, 
 
 * Gray first wrote ' Lemnian's,' but corrected it in 
 the margin (Pembroke MS.). Mathias printed ' Lem- 
 nian's,' and was followed by Mitford and Moultrie. 
 
FROM DANTE. 205 
 
 "When the short marble but preserve a name, 100 
 A little verse my all that shall remain ; 
 Thy passing courser's slackened speed restrain ; 
 (Thou envied honour of thy poet's days, 
 Of all our youth the ambition and the praise !) 
 Then to my quiet urn awhile draw near, 
 And say, while o'er the place you drop a tear, 
 Love and the Fair were of his life the pride ; 
 He lived, while he was kind ; and when she 
 frowned, he died. 
 
 April, 1743. 
 
 V. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM DANTE. 
 
 This translation was first printed by Mr. Gosse (Ed. 
 1884), from a MS. in the handwriting of Mitford, in the 
 possession of Lord Houghton. Mr. Gosse states that 
 "the holograph of Gray, which cannot now be traced, 
 is said to have been sold for £18 in 1845." 
 
 I have followed the copy made by Mitford (Mitford 
 MSS.) fron Stonehewer. Mitford's note is :— 
 
 " It is uncertain when Gray translated the following 
 from Dante, but most probably very early, and when 
 he was making himself master of the Italian lan- 
 guage." 
 
 From his dire food the grisly Felon raised 
 His gore-dyed lips, which on the clottered locks 
 
206 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Of th' half devoured head he wiped, and thus 
 Began. Wouldst thou revive the deep despair, 
 The anguish, that unuttered nathless wrings 
 My inmost heart ? yet if the telling may 
 Beget the traitor's infamy, whom thus 
 I ceaseless gnaw insatiate ; thou shalt see me 
 At once give loose to utterance, and to tears. 
 I know not, who thou art ; nor on what 
 errand 10 
 
 Sent hither ; but a Florentine my ear, 
 "Won by thy tongue, declares thee. Know, thou 
 
 seest 
 In me Count Ugolino, and Euggieri, 
 Pisa's perfidious Prelate this ; now hear 
 My wrongs, and from them judge of my re- 
 venge. 
 That I did trust him, that I was betrayed 
 By trusting, and by treachery slain, it recks 
 
 not 
 That I advise thee. That which yet remains 
 To thee and all unknown (a horrid tale) 
 The bitterness of death, I shall unfold. 20 
 
 Attend, and say if he have injured me. 
 Thro' a small crevice opening, what scant 
 light 
 
FROM DANTE. 207 
 
 That grim and antique tower admitted (since 
 Of me the Tower of Famine hight, and known 
 To many a wretch) already gan the dawn 
 To send ; the whilst I slumb'ring lay, a Sleep 
 Prophetic of my woes with direful hand 
 Oped the dark veil of Fate. I saw methought 
 Toward Pisa's Mount, that intercepts the view 
 Of Lucca, chased by hell-hounds gaunt and 
 
 bloody 30 
 
 A wolf full-grown ; with fleet and equal speed 
 His young ones ran beside him. Lanfranc 
 
 there 
 And Sigismundo, and Gualandi rode 
 Amain, my deadly foes! headed by this 
 The deadliest. He their chief, the foremost he 
 Flashed to pursue, and cheer the eager cry ; 
 Nor long endured the chase ; the panting sire, 
 Of strength bereft, his helpless offspring soon 
 O'erta'en beheld, and in their trembling flanks 
 The hungry pack their sharp-set fangs em- 
 
 brued, 40 
 
 The morn had scarce commenced, when I 
 
 awoke ; 
 My children (they were with me) sleep as yet 
 Gave not to know their sum of misery, 
 
208 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 But yet in low and uncompleted sounds 
 
 I heard 'em wail for bread. Oh ! thou art 
 
 cruel, 
 Or thou dost mourn to think, what my poor 
 
 heart 
 Foresaw, foreknew ; oh ! if thou weep not now, 
 Where are thy tears ? too soon they had aroused 
 
 'em 48 
 
 Sad with the fears of sleep, and now the hour 
 Of timely food approached ; when at the gate 
 Below I heard the dreadful clank of bars. 
 And fast'ning bolts ; then on my children's 
 
 eyes 
 
 Speechless my sight I. fixed, nor wept, for all 
 Within was stone ; they wept, unhappy boys ! 
 They wept, and first my little dear Anselmo 
 Cried, 'Father, why, why do you gaze so 
 
 sternly ? 
 W^iat would you have ? ' yet wept I not, or 
 
 answered 
 All that whole day, or the succeeding night 
 Till anew sun arose with weakly gleam, 59 
 And wan, such as mought entrance find within 
 
 51. Mr. Gosse has ' clash ' instead of ' clank' ; 'e'er' 
 for ' ere,' 74 ; ' hunger ' for ' famine,' 81. 
 
FROM DANTE. £09 
 
 That House of Woe. But oh ! when I beheld 
 My sons, and in four faces saw my own 
 Despair reflected, either hand I gnawed 
 For anguish, which they construed hunger; 
 
 straight 
 Arising all they cried, ' Far less shall be 
 Our suffering. Sir, if you resume your gift ; 
 These miserable limbs with flesh you clothed ; 
 Take back, what once was yours.' I swallowed 
 
 down 
 My struggling sorrow, not to heighten theirs ; 
 That day, and yet another, mute we sate, 70 
 And motionless. Oh Earth ! could'st thou not 
 
 gape 
 Quick to devour me ? yet a fourth day came 
 When Gaddo, at my feet out-stretched, implor- 
 ing 
 In vain my help, expired ; ere the sixth morn 
 Had dawned, my other three before my eyes 
 Died one by one ; I saw 'em fall ; I heard 
 Their doleful cries ; for three days more I 
 
 groped 
 About among their cold remains (for then 
 Hunger had reft my eye-sight), often call- 
 ing 
 
210 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 On their dear names, that heard me now no 
 
 more ; 80 
 
 The fourth, what sorrow could not, famine did. 
 
 He finished. Then with unrelenting eye 
 Askance he turned him, hasty to renew 
 The hellish feast, and rent his trembling prey. 
 
 DeW Inferno^ Canto 32. 
 
211 
 
 LATIN POEMS AND VERSES. 
 
 I. 
 PLAY-EXERCISE AT ETON. 
 
 First printed in Mr. Gosse's edition, 1884, ' from 
 Gray's autograph in the Stonehewer collection, ' i. e., 
 Gray's Commonplace Books (Pembroke MSS.). It 
 is here given correctly therefrom.' In the Index it is 
 entitled ' Knowledge of Himself, Latin Verses at Eton.' 
 
 " Quern te Deus esse 
 Jussit, Sc humana qvia parte locatus es in re 
 Disce . . ." 
 
 Pendet Homo incertus geraini ad confinia 
 
 mundi 
 Cui parti accedat dubius ; consurgere stellis 
 An socius velit, an terris ingloria moles 
 Reptare, ac rauto se cum grege credere cam pis ; 
 Inseruisse choro divum hie se jactat, & audet 
 Telluremque vocare suam, fluctusque polum- 
 
 que, 
 Et quodcunque videt, proprios assumit in usus. 
 ' Me propter jam vere expergefacta virescit 
 ' Natura in flores, herbisque illudit, amatque 
 * Pingere telluris gremium, miiii vinea foetu 10 
 
212 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 ' Purpureo turget, dulcique rubescit honore ; 
 
 ' Me rosa, me propter liquidos exhalat odores ; 
 
 ' Luna mihi pallet, mihi Olympum Pbcebus 
 inaurat, 
 
 ' Sidera mi lucent, volvunturque jequora ponti.' 
 Sic secum insistit, tantumque bsec astra de- 
 cores 
 
 ^stiraat esse suae sedis, convexaque coeli 
 
 Ingentes scenas, vestique aulaea theatri. 
 
 At tibi per deserta fremit, tibi tigris acer- 
 bum 
 
 Succenset, nemorum fulmen, Gangeticus hor- 
 ror ? 19 
 
 Te propter mare se tollit, surgitque tumultu ? 
 Hie ubi rimari, atque impallescere libris 
 
 Perstitit, anne valet qua vi connexa per aevum 
 
 Conspirent elementa sibi, serventque tenorem ; 
 
 Sufficiant scatebrse unde mari, fontesque pe- 
 rennes 
 
 Jugis aquae fluviis, unde aether sidera pascat, 
 
 Pandere? nequaquam ; secreta per avia mundi 
 
 Debile carpit iter, vix, et sub luce maligna 
 
 Pergit, et incertam tendit trepidare per um- 
 brara. 
 
 Fata obstant ; metam Parcae posuere sciendi, 
 
PLAY-EXERCISE AT ETON. 213 
 
 Et dixere, veni hue, Doctrina, hie terminus 
 
 esto. 30 
 
 Non super aethereas errare licentius auras 
 Humanum est, at scire hominem ; breve iimite 
 
 votum 
 Exiguo claudat, nee se quaesiverit extra. 
 Errat, qui eupit oppositos transcendere fines, 
 Extenditque manus ripse ulterioris amore : 
 Illic? gurges liiat late, illie saeva vorago 
 Et caligantes longis ambagibus umbraa. 
 
 Oceani fontes, et regna sonantia fluctu, 
 Machina stellantis coeli, terraeque cavernae 
 NuUis laxantur mortalibus, isque aperiret 40 
 Haec qui areana poli, magnumque recluderet 
 
 aequor, 
 Frangeret aeternos nexus, mundique eaten am. 
 Pluriraus (hie error, demensque libido lacessit) 
 In saperos ecelumque ruit, sedesque relinquit, 
 Quas natura dedit proprias, jussitque tueri. 
 Humani sortem generis pars altera luget, 
 Invidet armento, et eampi sibi vindicat herbam. 
 ' O quis me in pecoris felieia transferet arva, 
 'In loea pastorura deserta, atque otia dia? 
 ' Cur mihi non Lyncisve oeuli, vel odora eanum 
 
 vis 50 
 
214 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 ' Additur, aut gressus cursu glomerare potestasi 
 
 * Aspice, ubi, teneros dum texit aranea casses, 
 ' Funditur in telam, et late per stamina vivit I 
 
 * Quid mihi non tactus eadem exquisita facultas, 
 ' Taurorumve tori solidi, pennae volucrum. 
 
 PertaBsos sortis doceant responsa silere. 
 Si tanto valeas contendere acumine vists, 
 Et graciles penetrare atomos ; non sethera possis 
 Suspicere, aut lati spatium comprendere ponti. 
 Yis si adsit major naris : quara vane, doleres, 60 
 Extinctus fragranti aura, dulcique veneno ! 
 Si tactus, tremat hoc corpus, solidoque dolore 
 Ardeat in membris, nervoque laboret in omni ; 
 Sive auris, f ragor exaniraet, cum rumpitur igne 
 Fulmineo coelum, totusque admurmurat sether ; 
 Quam demum humanas, priscasque requirere 
 
 dotes 
 Attonitus nimium cuperes, nimiumque reverti 
 In solitam speciem, veterique senescere forma. 
 
 Nubila seu tentes, vetitumque per aera sur- 
 gas, 
 Sive rudes posoas sylvas, et lustra ferarum ; 70 
 Falleris ; in medio solium Sapientia fixit. 
 Desine sectari majora, minorave sorte, 
 Quam Deus, et rerum attribuit natura creatrix. 
 
LATIN POEMS. 215 
 
 II. 
 
 m D : 29AM MAIL. 
 
 First printed in Mr. Gosse's edition, ' from a MS. in 
 the handwriting of the poet, signed Oray, lately found 
 at Pembroke College,' with which I have compared it. 
 
 Bella per Angliacos plusquam civilia campos 
 Prasteritae videre dies ; desaevit Enyo, 
 Terapestasque jacet ; circum vestigia flammae 
 Delentur, pacisque iterum consurgit imago ; 
 Littore, quo nuper Martis fremuere procellae, 
 Alcyone tutum struit imperterrita nidum. 
 Reddita spes solii regno, regemque vagantem 
 Patria chara tenet, dictisque aflFatur amicis. 
 Quas ego te terras, quot per discrimina vec- 
 
 tum 
 Accipio, quantis jactatum, Nate, periclis ? 10 
 Quam metui, nequid tibi Gallica regna noce- 
 
 rent, 
 Belgaruraque plages, perjuraque Scotia patri ! 
 Quam tremui, cum laeva tuas Vigornia turmas 
 Fudit praecipites, hostemque reraisit ovantem ! 
 Tuque, Arbor, nostras felix tutela coronae, 
 
'J,U 
 
 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Gloriac amporum, et luci regina vocare ; 
 Tota tibi sylva assurget, quae fronde dedisti 
 Securas latebras, nemorosa palatia regi I 
 Sacra Jovi Latio quondam, nunc sacra Bri- 
 
 tanno. 
 Olim factus honos, illi velasse capillos, 20 
 
 Qui leto civera abripuit, salvuraque reduxitj 
 Jam potes ipsa tribus populis praestare salutem. 
 
 Gray. 
 
 III. 
 IN 5TAM NOVEMBRIS. 
 
 First printed in Gosse's edition, ' from a MS. in the 
 handwriting of the poet, signed Qray, lately found at 
 Pembroke College,' with which I have compared it. 
 
 Lis anceps, multosque diu protracta per annos, 
 
 Judice nee facili dissoluenda fuit ; 
 Cui tribuenda modo sceleratae preraia palmae ? 
 
 Quern merito tantus nobilitaret honos? 
 Multa sibi Romge ssevi ascivere tyranni, 
 
 Multa sibi primus, posteriorque Nero ; 
 Qui retulit praedam nostra de litore Conchas 
 
 Quern dedit ex pura Flavia stirpe domus: 
 
LATIN POEMS. 217 
 
 Multa sibi Phalaris petiit, Trinacria pestis ; 
 
 Diraque causa tui, magna Diana, rogi : 10 
 QuaBque referre mora est, portenta replentia 
 famae 
 
 Invitee annates, crimine nota suo. 
 At demum innumeris belli Anglia clara 
 triumphis 
 
 Militis ostentat parta tropaea manu ; 
 Nee satis est, geraina palma insignita nitere 
 
 Artibus et bellis, orbis et esse decus ; 
 Accedat nactae sceleris nisi gloria famae, 
 
 Et laudis numeros impleat ilia suae ; 
 Ex natus surgit mens aspernata priores, 
 
 Et tentare novas ingeniosa vias, 20 
 
 Quae caecis novit Martem sepelire latebris, 
 
 Tectosque a visu Solis habere dolos ; 
 Scilicet, ut fallat, non ire in viscera terrae, 
 
 Non dubitat simili clade vel ipse mori. 
 Jamque incepit opus ; careat successibus, opto ; 
 
 Et vetet inceptum Sors, precor, istud opus ; 
 Nee frustra ; effulget subito lux aurea caeli, 
 
 (Aspice) rimanti dum domus atra patet; 
 Reclusamque vides fraudem, letique labores, 
 
 Antraque miraris sulphure foeta suo ; 30 
 
 Quod si venturi haec armamentaria fati 
 
218 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Panderat baud sacri gratia dia poll ; 
 Jure scelus se jactaret, procerumque ruina 
 Tantum una gentem perdomuisse manu. 
 
 Oray. 
 
 lY. 
 
 This and the next three were first printed by Mr. 
 Tovey from the Mitford MSS. The following has no 
 designation, but seems, from the place in which it is 
 found, to be Gray's. Compare the English Poem of 
 West on p. 109 of Gray and his Friends. The Latin, 
 which may be West's, is obviously in the rough. 
 
 Gratia magna tuae fraud! quod Pectore, Nice, 
 
 Non gerit hoc ultra regna superba Yenus : 
 Respirare licet tandem misero mihi, tandem 
 
 Appensa in sacro pariete vincla vides 
 
 Numquam uror ; liber sum : crede 
 
 doloso 
 
 Suppositus Cineri non latet ullus amor. 
 Praesto non ira est, cujus se celet amictu ; 
 
 Sera, sed et rediit vix mibi nota quies. 
 Nee nomen si forte tunm prevenit ad aures 
 
 Pallor et alternus surgit in ore rubor, 10 
 Corda nee incerto trepidant salientia pulsu 
 
 Irrigat aut furtim lacryma f usa genas. 
 
LATIN POEMS. 219 
 
 Non tua per somnos crebra obversatur imago 
 
 Non anirao ante omnes tu mihi mane redis. 
 Te loquor; at tener ille silet sub pectoresensus 
 
 Nee quod ades l£etor ; nee quod abes doleo. 
 Kivalem tacitus patior ; securus eburnea 
 
 Quin ego colla simul laudo, manusque tuas. 
 Longa nee indignans refero perjuria : prodis 
 
 Obvia, mens certa sede colorque manet. 20 
 Quin faciles risus, vultusque assume superbos ; 
 
 Spernentem sperno, nee cupio facilem. 
 Nescit ocellorum, ut quondam penetrabile 
 fulgur 
 
 Ah ! nimium molles pectoris ire vias ; 
 Nee tarn dulce rubent illi, mea cura, labelli * 
 
 juris ut iramemores imperiique sui. 
 Lsetari possum, possum et maerere ; sed a te 
 
 gaudia nee veniunt, nee veniunt lacrymae. 
 Tecum etiam nimii Soles, et frigora laedunt ; 
 
 Vere suo sine te prata nemusque placent. 30 
 Pulchra quidem f acies, sed non tua sola videtur 
 
 (forsitan offendam rusticitate mea) 
 Sed quiddara invenies culpandura, qua mihi 
 nuper 
 
 parte est praecipue visus inesse lepos. 
 
220 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Cum primftm evulsi fatale ex vulnere telum 
 
 Credebam, ut f atear, viscera et ipsa trahi ; 
 Luctanti rupere (pudor) suspiria pectus, 
 
 tinxit et invitas pluriraa gutta genas. 
 Aspera diflBcilem vicit Medicina furorem ; 
 
 ille dolor saevus, sed magis asper Amor 40 
 Aucupis insidiis, et arundine capta tenaci 
 
 sic multo nisu vincula rupit avis ; 
 Plumarum laceros reparat breve tempus ho- 
 nores, 
 
 nee cadit in similes cautior inde doles. 
 Tu taraen usque illam tibi fingis vivere flam- 
 mam, 
 Et male me veteres dissimulare faces. 
 Quod libertatem ostento, fractamque Catenam, 
 
 tantus et insolitae pacis in ore sonus, 
 Praeteritos meminisse jubet natura dolores ; 
 
 quse quisque est passus, dulce pericla loqui. 50 
 Enumerat miles sua vulnera ; navita ventos 
 
 Narrat et incautse saxa inimica rati. 
 Sic ego servitium durum, et tua regna, laborant 
 
 Nice, nullam a te quaerere dicta fidem ; 
 Nil nimium base mandata student tibi velle 
 placere. 
 
 Nee rogito quali perlegis ore notas. 
 
LATIK POEMS. 221 
 
 V. 
 
 After some Alcaics signed ' Antrobiis ' comes this 
 translation of part of Philips ' Splendid Shilling, to 
 which Mitford does not assign the authorship. 
 
 Oh ! nimium felix ! cura et discordibus armis 
 Cui procul exigua non deficiente Crumena 
 Splendet adhuc Solidus. Non ilium torquet 
 
 egentem 
 Ostriferi Cantus, non allae * dlra Cupido. 
 lUe inter Socios gelido sub vespere notum 
 Tendit iter, genialis ubi se Curia pandit 
 Juniperive Lares f ; liic Nympham, si qua pro- 
 
 tervo 
 Lumine pertentat Sensus, uritque videndo 
 (Sive Chloe, seu Phillis araanti gratior audit) 
 Alternis recolit cyathis, tibi, virgo, salutem 10 
 Lsetitiaraque optans, et amoris mutua vincla 
 Nee minus interea fumique jocique benignus 
 Non lateri parcit, si quando argutior alter 
 
 * Explained by reference to the original — 
 
 . . . "he nor hears with pain 
 New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale." 
 
 t "To Juniper's Magpie or Town-hall repairs." Two 
 ale-houses at Oxford. 
 
 22— G & G— X 
 
222 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Fabellam orditur lepidam, vel Scommata spar- 
 git 
 Ambiguosve Sales, festiva Crepundia vocum. 
 * * * * 
 
 VI. 
 
 " The following poem is written with ink by Mason 
 over Gray's pencil, which was very faint, in order appar- 
 ently to preserve it. N, B. — Gray's writing perceptible 
 below the ink letters." — Mitford. 
 
 Vah, tenero quodcunque potest obsistere amori 
 
 Exulet ex animo et Delia caro meo 
 Ne timor infelix, mala ne fastidia sancti 
 
 Gaudia distiueant, Delia cara, tori. 
 Quid si nulla olim regalia munera nostras 
 
 Ornarunt titulis divitiisque domos ? 
 At nobis proprioque et honesto lumine claris 
 
 Ex naeritis ortum nobile nomen erit. 
 Dum tanto colimus virtutem ardore volabit 
 
 Gloria dulce sonans nostra per ora virum. 10 
 Interea nostram mirata Superbia famam 
 
 Talis splendoris tantum habuisse gemet 
 Quid si Diva potens nummorum divitis auri 
 
 Haud largo nostras proluit imbre Lares? 
 
LATIN POEMS. 223 
 
 At nobis erit ex humili bona copia sensu 
 
 Vitaque non luxu splendid a, laeta tauien 
 Sic boras per quisque suas revolubilis annus 
 
 Nostra quod explerit vota precesque dabit 
 Nam duce natura peragemus, Delia, vitam 
 
 Yita ea vitalis dicier una potest. 20 
 
 Et juvenes et amore senes florebimus aequo 
 
 Et vitae una alacres conficiemus iter, 
 Nostros interea ornabit pax alma Penates 
 
 Jucundum Pueri pignora cara torum. 
 Oh quanta aspicerem lepidam dulcedine gentem 
 
 Luderet ad patrium dum pia turba genu, 
 Maternos vultu ridenti effingere vultus 
 
 Balbo maternos ore referre sonos. 
 Jamque senescentes cum nos insederit aetas 
 
 Nostraque se credat surripuisse bona, 30 
 In vestris tu rursus amabere pulchra puellis 
 
 Kursus ego in pueris Delia amabo meis. 
 
 The above is a free translation of the song, " Away, 
 let nought to Love displeasing," which first appeared 
 in 1726. 
 
 We may conjecture that it is an early effort. Noth- 
 ing but immaturity can account for some peculiari- 
 ties in it ; ' vestris,' for example, in the last line but 
 one.— Tovey. 
 
224 
 
 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 YII. 
 
 PAEAPHRASE OF PSALM LXXXIY. 
 
 O Tecta, Mentis dulcis amor meae ! 
 Oh ! summa Sancti Religio loci 
 Quae me laborantem perurit 
 Sacra fames, et amicus ardor ? 
 
 Praeceps volentem quo rapit impetus ! 
 Ad limen altum tendo avidas manus 
 Dum lingua frustratur precantem 
 Cor taciturn mihi clamat intus. 
 
 lUic loquacem composuit doraum 
 Laresque parvos Nurainis in fidem 10 
 
 Praesentioris credit ales 
 Veris amans, vetus Hospes arae : 
 
 Beatus ales ! sed raagis incola 
 Quem vidit aedes ante focos [Dei*] 
 Cultu ministrantem perenni 
 Quique sacra requievit umbra. 
 
 In the Mitford MS. ' focos ' is partly struck out, ancj 
 the line ends incomplete. 
 
LATIN POEMS. 225 
 
 Bis terque felix qui melius Deo 
 Templum sub imo Pectore consecrat 
 Huic vivida affulget voluptas 
 
 Et liquidi sine nube Soles. 20 
 
 Integriori fonte fluentia 
 Mentem piorum gaudia recreant, 
 Quod si datur lugere, quiddam 
 Dulce ferens ?enit ipse luctus. 
 
 Virtute virtus firmior evenit 
 Nascente semper, semper amabili 
 Sterna crescit, seque in horas 
 Subjiciet per aperta caeli 
 
 Me, dedicatum qui Genus, et tuae 
 Judaeae habenas tempero, Regio 30 
 
 Madens olivo, dexter audi 
 Nee libeat repulisse Regem. 
 
 Lux una Sanctis quse foribus dedit 
 Hserere, amatae limine Januae, 
 Lux inter extremas Columnas 
 Candidius mihi ridet una, 
 
 Quam Seculorum Secula Barbaros 
 Inter Penates sub trabe geramea 
 Fastus tyrannorum brevesque 
 
 Delicias et amoena Regni ; 40 
 
226 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Feliciori flumine Copiam 
 Pronaque dextra Caelicolum Pater 
 Elargietur, porrigetque 
 Divitias diuturniores. 
 
 The above ode is written in Gray's hand ; but evi- 
 dently when young, the hand being unformed and like 
 a schoolboy's, though very plain and careful. The leaf 
 on which it is written, apparently torn from a copy- 
 book. . . . Some of the expressions resemble those in 
 the Grande Chartreuse Ode.— Mitford, 
 
 YIII. 
 HYMENEAL 
 
 ON THE MAERIAGE OF H.R.H. THE PRINCE OF 
 WALES, 1736. 
 
 Printed in the Oratulatio Academice Cantdbrigien- 
 sis Auspicatissimas Frederiei Wallice Principis et Au' 
 gustce Principissce Saxo-Gothce Nuptias celedrantis. — 
 Cantab : Typis Acad. fol. 1736. 
 
 First published among Gray's Poems, in S. Jones' 
 edition, 1799. 
 
 Ignar^ nostrum mentes, et inertia corda, 
 Dum curas regum, et Sortem miseramur ini- 
 
 quam, 
 Quae Solio a.ffixit, vetuitque calescere flamma 
 
 I 
 
HYMENEAL. 227 
 
 Dulci, quae dono Divum, gratissima serpit 
 Viscera per, mollesque animis lene implicat 
 
 aestus ; 
 Nee teneros sensus, Veneris nee praemia norunt, 
 Eloquiumve oculi, aut facunda silentia linguae : 
 Scilicet ignorant lacryraas, ssevosque dolores, 
 Dura rudimenta, et violentae exordia Hammae ; 
 Scilicet ignorant, quae flumine tinxit amaro 10 
 Tela Vemis, caecique armamentaria Divi, 
 Irasque, insidiasque, et tacitum sub pectore 
 
 vulnus ; 
 Namque sub ingressu, primoque in limine 
 
 Amoris 
 Luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia Curae ; 
 Intus habent dulces Risus, et Gratia sedem, 
 Et roseis resupina toris, roseo ore Voluptas : 
 Regibus hue f aciles aditus ; comraunia spernunt 
 Ostia, jamque expers duris custodibus istis 
 Panditur accessus, penetralisque intima Templi. 
 
 Tuque Oh ! Angliacis. Princeps, spes optima 
 regnis, 20 
 
 Ne tantum, ne finge metum : quid imagine 
 captus 
 
 Haeres, et mentum pictura pascis inani ? 
 
228 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Umbram miraris : nee longum tempus, et Ipsa 
 Ibit in amplexiis, thalamosque ornabit ovantes. 
 lUe tamen tabulis inhians longum haurit 
 
 amorem, 
 Affatu fruitur tacito, auseultatque taeentem 
 Immemor artificis calami, risumque, rubo- 
 
 remque 
 Aspicit in fucis, pietaeque in virginis ore : 
 Tanta Venus potuit ; tantus tenet error aman- 
 
 tes. 
 
 Kascere., magna Dies, qua sese Augusta Bri- 
 
 tanno 
 Committat Pelago, patriamque relinquat amoe- 
 
 nam ; 
 Cujus in adventum jam nunc tria regna se- 
 
 cundos 
 AttoUi in plausus, dulcique accensa furore 
 Incipiunt agitare modos, et carmina dicunt : 
 Ipse anirao sedenim juvenis comitatur euntem 
 Explorat ventos, atque auribus aera captat, 
 Atque auras, atque astra vocat crudelia ; pectus 
 Intentum exultat, surgitque arrecta cupido ; 
 Incusat spes aegra fretum, solitoque videtur 
 Latior elTundi pontus, fluctusque morantes. 40 
 
HYMENEAL. 229 
 
 Nascere, Lux major, qua sese Augusta Bri- 
 
 tanno 
 Committat juveni totam, propriamque dicabit ; 
 At citius (precor) Oh ! cedas melioribus astris ; 
 ]^ox finem pompse, finemque imponere curis 
 Possit, et in thalamos f urtim deducere nuptam ; 
 Sufficiat requiemque viris, et amantibus um 
 
 bras : 
 Adsit Hymen, et subridens cum matre Cupido 
 Accedant, sternantque toros, ignemque mini% 
 
 strent ; 
 Ilicet baud pictae incandescit imagine formse 
 Ulterius juvenis, verumque agnoscit amorem. 50 
 
 Sculptile sicut ebur, faciemque arsisse venus- 
 
 tam, 
 Pygmaliona canunt : ante banc suspiria ducit, 
 Alloqiiiturque amens, flammamque et vulnera 
 
 narrat ; 
 Implorata Ve7ius jussit cum vivere signura, 
 Foemineam inspirans animam ; quae gaudia 
 
 surgunt, 
 Audiit ut priraaB nascentia murmura linguaB, 
 Luctari in vitam, et'paulatim volvere ocellos 
 beduius, aspexitquenovasplendescere flamma; 
 
230 
 
 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Corripit amplexu vivam, jamque oscula jungit 
 Acria confestim, recipitque rapitque ; prioris 60 
 Immemor ardoris, Nymphseque oblitus eburneae. 
 
 IX. 
 
 LUNA HABITABILIS. 
 
 First published, without Gray's name, in Musce 
 Etonenses, ii. 107. In a letter to West, dated March, 
 1737, he says : '* My College has set me a versifying on 
 a public occasion (viz., those verses which are called 
 tripos) on the theme of ' Luna esthabitabiUs." 
 
 Dtjm Nox rorantes, non incomitata per auras 
 TJrget equos, tacitoque inducit sidera lapsu ; 
 Ultima, sed nuUi soror inficianda sororum, 
 Hue mihi, Musa ; tibi patet alti janua coeli, 
 Astra vides, nee te numeri, nee nomina fallunt. 
 Hue mihi, Diva veni; dulee est per aperta 
 
 serena 
 Yere frui liquido, campoque errare silenti ; 
 Yere frui dulee est ; modo tu dignata petentem 
 Sis comes, et meeum gelida spatiere sub umbra. 
 Scilicet hos orbes, coeli haee decora alta putan. 
 
 dum est, 
 Noetis opes, nobis tantum lueere ; virumque 
 
LUNA HABITABILIS. 231 
 
 Ostentari oculis, nostrse laquearia terrae, 
 Ingentas scenas, vastique aulaea theatri ? 
 Oh ! quis me pennis gethrse super ardua sistet 
 Mirantem, propiusque dabit convexa tueri ; 
 Teque adeo, unde fluens reficit lux mollior arva 
 Pallidiorque dies, tristes solata tenebras ? 
 
 Sic ego, subridens Dea sic ingressa vicissim : 
 Non pennis opus hie, supera ut simul ilia 
 
 petamus : 
 Disce, Puer, potius ccelo deducere Lunam ; 20 
 Neu crede ad magicas te invitum accingier artes, 
 Thessalicosve modos ; ipsara descendere Phoe- 
 
 ben 
 Conspicies novus Endymion ; seque ofiPeret ultro 
 Yisa tibi ante oculos, et nota major imago. 
 Quin tete admoveas (tumuli super aggere 
 
 spectas), 
 Compositum tubulo ; simul imum invade cana- 
 
 lem 
 Sic intenta acie, coeli simul alta patescent 
 Atria ; jamque, ausus Lunaria visere regna, 
 Ingrediere solo, et caput inter nubila condes. 
 
 Ecce autem ! vitri se in vertice sistere Phoeben 
 Cernis, et Oceanum, et crebis Freta consita 
 
 terris 
 
232 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Panditur ille atram faciem caligine condens 
 Sublustri ; refugitque oculos, fallitque tuentem ; 
 Integram Solis lucem quippe haurit aperto 
 Flucfcu avidus radiorum, et longos imbibit 
 
 ignes : 
 Verum his, quae, maculis variata nitentibus, 
 
 auro 
 Coerula discernunt, celso sese insula dorso 
 Plurima protrudit, praetentaque littora saxis ; 
 Liberior datur his quoniani natura, minusque 
 Lumen depascunt liquidum ; sed tela diei 40 
 Detorquent, retroque decent se vertere flam- 
 mas. 
 Hinc longos videas tractus, terrasque jacentes 
 Ordine candenti, et claros se attollere montes ; 
 Montes quels Rhodope assurgat, quibus Ossa 
 
 nivali 
 Vertice : turn scopulis infra pendentibus antra 
 Nigrescunt clivorum umbra, nemorumque te- 
 
 nebris. 
 Non rores illi, aut desunt sua nubila mundo ; 
 Non frigus gelidum, atque her bis gratissimus 
 
 imber ; 
 His quoque nota ardet picto Thaumantias arcu, 
 Os roseum Aurorae, propriique crepuscula coeli. 
 
LUNA HABITABILIS. 233 
 
 Et dubitas tantum certis cultoribus orbem 61 
 Destitui ? exercent agros, sua moenia condunt 
 Hi quoque, vel Martem invadunt, curantque 
 
 triumphos 
 Yictores: sunt hie etiam sua prgemia laudi; 
 His metus, atque amor, et aientem inortalia 
 
 tangunt 
 Quin, uti nos oculis jam nunc juvat ire perarva, 
 Lucentesque plagas Lunae, pontumque profun- 
 
 dum ; 
 Idem illos etiam ardor agit, cum se aureus effert 
 Sub sudum globus, et terrarum ingentior orbis ; 
 Scilicet omne sequor turn lustrant, scilicet 
 
 omnem 60 
 
 Tellurem, gentesque polo sub utroque Ja- 
 
 centes ; 
 Et quidam aestivi indefessus ad jetheris ignes 
 Pervigilat, noctem exercens, ccelumque fatigat ; 
 Jam Galli apparent, jam se Germania late 
 ToUit, et albescens pater Apenninus ad auras ; 
 Jam tandem in Borean, en ! parvulus Anglia 
 
 naevus 
 (Quanquara aliis longe fulgentior) extulit oras ; 
 Formosum extempld lumen, maculamque ni- 
 
 tentem 
 
234: LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Invisunt crebri Proceres, serum que tuendo ; 
 Haerent, certatimque suo cognomine signant : 70 
 Forsitan et Lunae longinquus in orbe Tyrannus 
 Se dominum vocat, et nostra se jactat in aula. 
 Terras possim alias propiori sole calentes 
 Narrare, atque alias, jubaris queis parcior usus, 
 Lunarum chorus, et tenuis penuria Phoebi ; 
 Ni, meditans eadam hgec audaci evolvere cantu, 
 Jam pulset citharam soror, er praeludia tentet. 
 Non tamen has proprias laudes, nee facta 
 silebo 
 Jampridem in fatis, patriaeque oracula famse. 
 Tempus erit, sursum totos contendere castus 80 
 Quo cernes longo excursu, primosque colonos 
 Migrare in lunam, et notos rautare Penates : 
 Dum stupet obtutu tacito vetus incola, lon- 
 
 geque 
 Insolitas explorat aves, classemque volantem. 
 Ut quondam ignotum marmor, camposque 
 natantes 
 Tranavit Zephyros visens, nova regna, Co- 
 lumbus ; 
 Litora mirantur circum, mirantur et undaD 
 Inclusas acies ferro, turmasque biformes, 88 
 Monstraque foeta armis, et non imitabile f ulmen. 
 
SAPPHIC ODE. 235 
 
 Foedera mox iota, et gemini commercia mundi, 
 Agminaque assueto glomerata sub aethere cerno. 
 Anglia, quge pelagi jamdudum torquet habenas, 
 Exercetque frequens ventos, atque imprat 
 undae ; 
 Aeris attollet fasces, veteresque triumphos 
 Hue etiam feret, et victis dominabitur auris. 
 
 X. 
 
 AD C. FAYONIUM ARISTIUM * 
 
 SAPPHIC ODE. 
 
 Barbaras aedes aditure mecum, 
 Quas Eris semper fovet inquieta, 
 Lis ubi late sonat, et togatuni 
 
 ^stuat agmen ! 
 
 Dulcius quanto, patulis sub ulmi 
 Hospitae ramis temere jacentem 
 Sic libris horas, tenuique inertes 
 
 Eallero Musa ! 
 
 * This is Gray's heading in his Commonplace Book. 
 The Ode forms part of a letter to West in June, 1738. 
 
236 LATIN POEWS. 
 
 Saepe enim curis vagor expedita 
 
 Mente ; dura, blandam meditans Camgenam, 
 
 Vix malo rori, meminive serae 
 
 Cedere nocti ; 
 Et, pedes quo me rapiunt, in omni 
 CoUe Parnassum videor videre 
 Fertilem sylvae, geldamque in omni 
 
 Fonte Aganippen. 
 
 Risit et Ver me, facilesque Nymphae 
 Nare captantem, nee ineleganti, 
 Mane quicquid de violis eundo 
 
 Surripit aura : 20 
 
 Me reclinatum teneram per herbam ; 
 Qua leves cursus aqua cunque ducit, 
 Et moras dulci strepitu lapillo 
 
 Nectit in omni. 
 Hae novo nostrum fere pectus anno 
 Simplices curaB tenuere, coelura 
 Qamdi sudum explicuit Favoni 
 
 Purior hora : 
 Otia et campos nee adhuc relinquo, 
 Nee magis Phoebo Clytia fidelis ; 30 
 
 (Ingruant venti licet, et senescat 
 
 Mollior £estas.) 
 
SAPPHIC ODE. 237 
 
 Namque, seu, laetos hominura labores 
 Prataque et montes recreante curru, 
 
 Purpura tractus oriens Eoos 
 
 Vestit, et auro ; 
 
 Sedulus servo, veneratus orbem 
 Prodigum splendoris : amoeniori 
 Sive dilectam meditatur igne 
 
 Pingere Calpen ; 
 
 Usque dum, fulgore magis magis jam 
 Languido circura, variata nubes 
 Labitur furtim, viridisque in umbras 
 
 Scena recessit. 
 
 O ego felix, vice si (nee unquam 
 Surgerem rursus) siraili cadentem 
 Parca me lenis sineret quieto 
 
 Fallere letho ! 
 
 Multa flagranti radiisque cincto 
 Integris ah ! quam nihil inviderera, 
 Cum Dei ardentes medius quadrigas 
 
 Sentit Olympus? 
 
 Cambridge, June, 1738. 
 
 50 
 
238 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 XI. 
 
 ALCAIC FRAGMENT. 
 
 Ten lines of Latin prose followed the above ode, 
 and then this stanza. West returned him ' a thou- 
 sand thanks for his elegant ode and little Alcaic 
 fragment.' 
 
 O LACRYMAKDM Fons, tenero sacros 
 Ducentium ortus ex animo ; quater 
 Felix ! in irao qui scatentem 
 Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit ! 
 
 XII. 
 SAPPHICS. 
 
 To Richard West from Genoa, 31st November, 1739. 
 
 HoRRiDos tractus, Boregeque linquens 
 Regna Taurini fera, molliorem 
 Advehor brumam, Genuseque amantes 
 
 Litora soles. 
 
LATIN POEMS. 239 
 
 XIII. 
 ELEGIACS. 
 
 On a visit to the site of the Battle of Trebia, in a 
 letter to West from Florence, on the 15th of January, 
 1740. 
 
 Qua Treble glaucas salices intersecat unda, 
 Arvaque Romanis nobilitate mails, 
 
 Ylsus adhuc amnls veterl de clade rubere, 
 Et susplrantes ducere raoestus aquas, 
 
 Maurorumque ala, et nigrae increbescere turmae, 
 Et pulsa Ausonldum rlpa sonare fuga. 
 
 XIV. 
 AD C. FAVONIUM ZEPHYRINUM. 
 
 Sent to Richard West from Rome, in May, 1740. 
 
 In the copy in Gray's handwriting in the Pembroke 
 MBS. , he has appended this note :— " Wrote at Rome, 
 the latter end the of spring 1740, after a journey to 
 Frascatiand the cascades of Tivoli." 
 
 Matter rosarum, cul tenerae vigent 
 Auraa Favonl, cul Venus It comes 
 Lasciva, Nympharura choreis 
 Et volucrum celebrata cantu I 
 
240 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Die, non inertem fallere qua diem 
 Amat sub umbra, seu sinit aureum 
 Dormire plectrum, seu retentat 
 Pierio Zephyrinus antro 
 Furore dulci plenus, et immemor 
 Keptantis inter frigora Tusculi 10 
 
 TJmbrosa, vel colles amici 
 Palladise superantis Albse. 
 Dilecta Fauno, et capripedum choris 
 Pineta, testor vos, Anio minax 
 Quaecunque per clivos volutus 
 Prsecipiti tremefecit amne, 
 Illius altum Tibur, et ^sulaa 
 Audisse sylvas nomen amabiles, 
 Illius et gratas Latinis 
 Naiasin ingeminasse rupes ; 20 
 
 Nam me Latinae Naiades uvida 
 Videre ripa, qua niveas levi 
 Tam saepe lavit rore plumas 
 Dulce canens Venusinus ales ; 
 Mirum ! canenti conticuit nemus, 
 Sacrique fontes, et retinet adhuc 
 (Sic Musa jussit) saxa moUes 
 Docta modos, veteresque lauri. 
 Mirare nee tu me citharae rudem 
 
LATIN POEMS. 241 
 
 Claudis laborantem numeris : loca 30 
 
 Amoena, jucundumque ver in- 
 
 compositum docuere carmen ; 
 Haerent sub omni nam folio nigri 
 Phoebea luci (credite) somnia, 
 
 Argutiusque et lympha et auraa 
 Nescio quid solito loquuntur. 
 
 XV. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF A LATIN POEM ON THE 
 
 GAURUS. 
 
 Sent to Richard West from Florence, in a letter dated 
 September 25, 1740, 
 
 In the copy in Gray's handwriting in the Pembroke 
 MSS., he has appended this note : — " Rome, July 1740 ; 
 just returned from Naples." 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Nec procul infelix se toUit in sethera Gaurus 
 Prospiciens vitreum lugenti vertice pontum : 
 Tristior ille diu, et veteri desuetus oliva 
 Gaurus, pampineaeque eheu jam nescius um- 
 brae ; 
 Ilorrendi tarn saeva premit vicinia mentis, 
 Attonitumque urget latus, exuritque ferentem. 
 
242 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Nam fama est olim, media dum rura silebant 
 Nocte, Deo victa, et raoUi perfusa quiete, 
 Infremuisse aequor ponti, auditamque per omnes 
 Late tellurem surdum immugire cavernas : 10 
 Quo sonitu nemora alta tremunt : tremit excita 
 
 tuto 
 Parthenopaea sinu, flammanti que ora Yesevi. 
 At subito se aperire solum, vastosque recessus 
 Pandere sub pedibus, nigraque voragine fauces ; 
 Tum piceas cinerum glomerare sub aethere nubes 
 Vorticibus rapidis, ardentique imbre procellam. 
 Praecipites fugere ferae, perque avia longe 
 Sil varum fugit pastor, juga per deserta, 
 Ah, miser! increpitans saepe alta voce per 
 
 umbram 19 
 
 Nequicquam natos, creditque audire sequentes. 
 Atque ille excelso rupis de vertice solus 
 Respectans notasque domos, et dulcia regna, 
 Nil usquam videt infelix praeter mare tristi 
 Lumine percussum, et pallentes sulphure cam- 
 
 pos 
 Fumumque, flammasque, rotataque turbine 
 
 saxa> 
 Quin ubi detonuit fragor, et lux reddita caelo ; 
 Maestos confluere agricolas, passuque videres 
 
LATIN POEMS. 243 
 
 (Tandem iterura timido deserta requirere tecta : 
 Sperantes, si forte oculis, si forte darentur 
 Uxorum cineres, miserorumve ossa parentum 30 
 (Tenuia, sed tanti saltern solatia luctus) 
 Una colligere et justa componere in urna. 
 Uxorum nusquam cineres, nusquam ossa paren- 
 tum 
 (Spem raiseram ! ) assuetosve Lares, aut rura 
 
 videbunt. 
 Quippe ubi planities campi diffusa jacebat ; 
 Mons novus : ille supercilium, frontemque fa villa 
 Incanum ostentans, ambustis cautibus, sequor 
 Subjectum, stragemque suam, maesta arva, 
 
 minaci 
 Despicit imperio, soloque in littore regnat. 
 Hinc in fame loci nomen, multosque per an- 
 nos 40 
 
 Immemor antiquae laudis, nescire labores 
 Yomeris, et nullo tellus revirescere cultu. 
 Non avium colles, non carmine matutino 
 Pastorum resonare ; adeo undique dirus habebat 
 Informes late horror agros saltusque vacantes. 
 Sa^pius et longe detorquens navita proram 
 Monstrabat digito littus, saevaeque revolvens 
 Funera uarrabat noctis, veteremque ruinam. 
 
244 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Montis adhuc facies manet hirta atque as- 
 
 pera saxis : 
 Sed furor extinctus jamdudum, et flamma 
 
 quievit, 50 
 
 Quae nascenti aderat ; seu fortd bituminis atri 
 Defluxere olim rivi, atque effoeta lacuna 
 Pabula sufficere ardori, viresque recusat ; 
 Sive in visceribus meditans incendia jam nunc 
 (Horrendum) arcanis glomerat genti esse 
 
 futurae 
 Exitio, sparsos tacitusque recolligit ignes. 
 Raro per clivos baud secius ordine vidi 
 Canescentem oleam : longum post tempus amicti 
 Vite virent tumuli^; patriamque revisere gau- 
 
 dens 59 
 
 Bacchus in assuetis tenerura caput exerit arvis 
 Vix tandem, infidoque audet se credere coelo. 
 
 XVI. 
 A FAREWELL TO FLORENCE. 
 
 In a letter to West, from Florence, April 21, 1741. 
 
 . . Oh FaeulaB amoena 
 Frigoribus juga, nee nimium spirantibus auris I 
 
LATIN POEMS. 245 
 
 Alma quibus Tusci Pallas decus Apennini 
 Esse dedit, glaucaque sua canescere sylva ! 
 Non ego vos posthac Arni de valle videbo 
 Porticibus circum, et candenti cincta corona 
 Yillarum longe nitido consurgere dorso, 
 Antiquamve ^dem, et veteres praeferre Cu- 
 
 pressus 
 Mirabor, tectisque super pendentia tecta. 
 
 XVII. 
 IMITATION OF AN ITALIAN SONNET * 
 
 OF SIGNIOK ABBATE BUONDELMONTE. 
 In the same letter as the foregoing. 
 
 LusiT amicltiae interdum velatus amictu, 
 Et bene composita veste fefellit Amor. 
 Mox irsB assumpsit cultus, faciemque mman» 
 tern, 
 
 * Spesso Amor sotto la forma 
 D'amista ride, e s'asconde : 
 Poi si mischia, e si confonde 
 Con lo sdegno, e col rancor. 
 In Pietade ei si trasforma ; 
 Par trastullo, e par dispetto; 
 Ma nel suo diverso aspotto 
 Sempr' egli, 4 V istesso Amor. 
 
 22— G & d—Y 
 
246 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Inque odium versus, versus et in lacrymas : 
 Ludentem fuge, nee lacrymanti, aut credo 
 furenti ; 
 Idem est dissimili semper in ore Deus. 
 
 XYIII. 
 ALCAIC ODE. 
 
 Written in the album of the Grande Chartreuse, in 
 Dauphiny, August, 1741, The original, which was 
 much valued by the monks, was destroyed during the 
 French Revolution by a mob from Grenoble. 
 
 The heading to this in the Pembroke MSS. is :— 
 " In the Book at the Grande Chartreuse among the 
 Mountains of Daui^hine." 
 
 Oh Tu, severi Religio loci, 
 Quocunque gaudes nomine (non leve 
 Nativa nam certe fluenta 
 
 Numen habet, veteresque sylvas ; 
 Praesentiorem et conspicimus Deum 
 Per invias rupes, fera per juga, 
 Clivosque prgeruptos, sonantes 
 Inter aquas, nemorumque noctem ; 
 Quam si repostus sub trabe citrea 
 Fulgeret auro, et Phidiaca manu) 10 
 
 Salve vocanti rite, fesso et 
 Da placidam juveni quietem. 
 
SOPHONISBA AD MASINISSAM. 247 
 
 Quod si invidendis sedibus, et frui 
 Fortima sacra lege silentii 
 
 Yetat volentem, me resorbens 
 In medios violenta fluctus : 
 Saltern remoto des, Pater, angulo 
 Horas senectse ducere liberas ; 
 
 Tutumque vulgari tumultii 
 
 Surripias, hominumque curis. 20 
 
 August, 1741. 
 
 XIX. 
 SOPHONISBA AD MASINISSAM. 
 
 Egeegium accipio promissi Munus amoris, 
 
 Inque manu mortem, jam fruitura, fero : 
 Atque utinam citius mandasses, luce vel una; 
 
 Transieram Stygios non inhonesta lacus. 
 Victoris nee passa toros, nova nupta, mariti, 
 
 Nee fueram fastus, Roma Superba, tuos. 
 Scilicet h£ec partem tibi, Masinissa, triumph! 
 
 Detractara, liaec pompae jura minora suae 
 Imputat, atque uxor quod non tua pressa- 
 catenis, 
 
 Objecta et s£evae plausibus orbis eo : 10 
 
248 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Quin tu pro tantis cepisti praemia factis, 
 
 Magnum Roraanae pignus amicitiaD ! 
 Scipiadae excuses, oro, si, tardius utar 
 
 Munere. Non nimiura vivere, crede, velira. 
 Parva mora est, breve sed tempus mea fama 
 requirit : 
 
 Detinet haec animam cura supreraa meam. 
 Quae patriae prodesse meae Regina ferebar, 
 
 Inter Elisasas gloria prima nurus, 
 Ne videar flammae nimis indulsisse secundae, 
 
 Vel nimis hostiles extimuisse manus. 20 
 
 Fortunam atque annos liceat revocare priores, 
 
 Gaudiaque lieu ! quantis nostra repensa 
 malis. 
 Primitiasne tuas meministi atque arma Syphacis 
 
 Fusa, et per Tyrias ducta trophaea vias ? 
 (Laudis at antiquse forsan meminisse pigebit, 
 
 Quodque decus quondam causa ruboris erit.) 
 Tempus ego certe memini, felicia Poenis 
 
 Quo te non puduit solvere vota deis ; 
 Maeniaque intrantem vidi : longo agmine duxit 
 
 Turba salutantum, purpureique patres. 30 
 Foeminea ante omnes longe adrairatur euntem 
 
 Ilaeret et aspectu tota caterva tuo. 
 Jam flexi, regale decus, per col la capiJli, 
 
SOPHONISBA AD MASINISSAM. 249 
 
 Jam decet ardenti fuscus in ore color ! 
 Commendat frontis generosa modesti a f ormam, 
 
 Seque cupit laudi surripuisse suae. 
 Prima genas tenui signat vix flore juventas, 
 
 Et dextrae soli credimus esse virum. 
 Dum faciles gradiens oculos per singula jactas, 
 
 (Seu rexit casus lumina, sive Yenus) 40 
 
 In me (vel certe visum est) conversa morari 
 
 Sensi ; virgineus perculit ora pudor. 
 !Nescio quid vultum molle spirare tuendo, 
 
 Credideramque tuos lentius ire pedes. 
 Quaerebam, juxta aequalis si dignior esset, 
 
 Quaa poterat visus detinuisse tuos : 
 Nulla fuit circum aequalis quae dignior esset, 
 
 Asseruitque decus conscia forma suum. 
 Pompae finis erat. Tota vix nocte quievi, 
 
 Sin premat invitae lumina victa sopor, 50 
 Somnus habet pompas, eademque recursat 
 
 imago ; 
 
 Atque iterum hesterno numere victor ades. 
 * * * * * * * 
 
250 LATIN POEMa 
 
 XX. 
 
 DE PRINCIPIIS COGITANDI. 
 
 LIBER PRIMUS. AD FAVONIUM. 
 
 The first couple of hundred lines of this were written 
 at Florence in the summer of 1740, and the rest was 
 added at Stoke in the autumn of 1742, after West's 
 death. Gray's marginal notes are given by Mason and 
 Mathias as footnotes. Mr. Gosse wrongly claims that 
 they were "never before given," and gives some of 
 them incorrectly. 
 
 Plan of the Unde Animus scire incipiat ; quibus 
 
 Poem. . I , 
 
 inchoet orsa 
 Principiis seriera rerum, tenuemque catenam 
 Mnemosyne : Ratio unde rudi sub pectore tar- 
 
 dum 
 Augeat imperium ; et primura mortalibus aegris 
 Ira, Dolor, Metus, et CuraB nascantur inanes, 
 Invocation to ^inc canere aggredior. Nee dedig- 
 
 Mr. Locke.* „ , 
 
 nare canentem. 
 Oh decus ! Angliacae certe O lux altera 
 
 gentis ! 
 Si qua primus iter monstras, vestigia conor 
 Signare incerta, tremulaque insistere planta. 
 
 * John Locke (1638-1704) , author of the Essay on thQ 
 Human Understanding. 
 
DE PRINCIPIIS COGITANDI. 251 
 
 Quin potius due ipse (potes namque omnia) 
 
 sanctum 10 
 
 Ad limen (si rite adeo, si pectore puro,) 
 Obscurae reserans Naturae ingentia claustra. 
 Tu caecas rerum causas, fontemque severum 
 Pande, Pater ; tibi, enim, tibi, veri magna Sa- 
 
 cerdos, 
 Corda patent hominum, atque altas penetralia 
 
 Mentis. 
 Tuque aures adhibe vacuas, facilesque, Fa- 
 
 voni, 
 (Quod tibi crescit opus) simplex nee despice 
 
 carmen, 
 Nee vatem : non ilia leves primordia 
 
 Use and Ex- 
 motus, tentof the 
 
 ' Subject. 
 
 Quanquam parva, dabunt. Laetum 
 
 vel amabile quicquid 
 Usquam oritur, trahit hinc ortum ; nee surgit 
 
 ad auras, 20 
 
 Quin ea conspirent simul, eventusquesecundent. 
 Hine variae vitai" artes, ae moUior usus, 
 Dulee et amicitiae vinclum : Sapientia dia 
 Hine roseum accendit lumen, vultuque sereno 
 Humanas aperit mentes, nova gaudia mon- 
 
 strans 
 
252 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Deformesque fugat curas, vanosque timores : 
 Scilicet et rerum crescit pulcherrima Virtus. 
 Ilia etiam, quae te (mirum) noctesque diesque 
 Assidue fovet inspirans, linguamque sequeatem 
 Temperat in numeros, atque horas mulcet in- 
 ertes ; 30 
 
 Aurea non alia se jactat origine Musa. 
 Union of the Principio, ut masrnum fcedus Katura 
 
 Soul and ^ ' ° 
 
 ^°^y- creatrix 
 
 Firmavit, tardis jussitque inolescere membris 
 
 Sublimes animas ; tenebroso in carcere partem 
 
 Noluit setheream longo torpere veterno : 
 
 Nee per se proprium passa exercere vigorem 
 
 est, 
 Ke sociae molis conjunctos sperneret artus, 
 Ponderis oblita, et coelestis conscia flammge. 
 Idcirco innumero ductu treraere undique fibras 
 Office of the Nervorum instituit: turn toto cor- 
 
 Nervous 
 
 System. TpoYe miscens 
 
 Implicuit late ramos, et sensile textum, 41 
 Implevitque humore suo (seu lympha vocanda, 
 Sive aura est) tenuis certe, atque levissima 
 
 quaedam 
 Yis versatur agens, parvosque infusa canales 
 Perfluit ; assidue externis quae concita plagis, 
 
DE PRINCIPIIS COGITANDI. 253 
 
 Mobilis, incussique fidelis nuntia motus, 
 Hinc inde accensa contage relabitur usque 
 Ad superas hominis sedes, arcemque cerebri. 
 Namque illic posuit solium, et sua templa 
 
 sacravit 
 Mens animi : banc circum coeunt, sensation, 
 
 the Origin of 
 
 densoque feruntur 50 our ideas. 
 
 Agmine notitiae, simulacraque tenuia rerum : 
 Ecce autem naturge ingens aperitur imago 
 Immensae, variique patent commercia mundi. 
 Ac uti longinquis descendunt montibus 
 
 amnes. 
 Yelivolus Tamisis, flaventisque Indus arenas, 
 Euphratesque, Tagusque, et opimo flumine 
 
 Ganges, 
 Undas quisque suas volvens, cursuque sonoro 
 In mare prorumpunt : hos magno acclinis in 
 
 antro 
 Excipit Oceanus, natorumque ordine longo 59 
 Dona recognoscit venientum, ultroque serenat 
 Caeruleam faciem, et diffuso marmore ridet. 
 Haud aliter species properant se inf erre novellaB 
 Certatim menti, atque aditus quino agmine 
 
 complent. 
 Primas tactus agit partes, primusque rainutae 
 
254 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Laxat iter cascum turbae, recipitque ruentem. 
 Non idem huic modus est, qui fratribus : am- 
 
 plius ille 
 The Touch, Imperium affectat senior, penitusque 
 
 our first and .,^„^,,n;„ 
 
 most exten- medulllS, 
 
 Bive Sense. i i . 
 
 Vlsceribusque habitat totis, pellis- 
 
 que recentem 
 Funditur in telam, et late per stamina vivit. 
 Necdum etiam matris puer eluctatus ab alvo 70 
 Multiplices solvit tunicas, et vincula rupit 
 Sopitus molli somno, tepidoque liquore 
 Circumfusus adhuc : tactus tamen aura lacessit 
 Jamdudum levior sensus, animamque reclusit. 
 Idque magis simul, ac solitum blandumque 
 
 calorem 
 Frigore rautavit coeli, quod verberat acri 
 Impete inassuetos artus : tum ssevior adstat 
 Humanasque comes vitae Dolor excipit ; ille 
 Cunctantem frustra et tremulo multa ore 
 
 querentem T9 
 
 Sight, our Corripit invadens, ferreisque am- 
 
 second . . 
 
 Sense. plectitur ulnis. 
 
 Turn species primiim patefacta est Candida 
 Lucis 
 (Usque vices adeo Natura bonique, malique. 
 
 J 
 
DE PRINCIPIIS COGITANDI. 255 
 
 Exaequat, justaque manu sua damna rependit 
 Tum primum, ignotosque bibunt nova lumina 
 
 soles. 
 Carmine quo, Dea, te dicam, gra- Digression 
 
 tissima coeli ^'^ ^'^*^'- 
 
 Progenies, ortumque tuum ; gemmantia rore 
 Ut per prata levi lustras, et floribus halans 
 Purpureum Veris greraium, scenamque viren- 
 
 tem 
 Pingis, et umbriferos colles, et caerula regna? 
 Gratia te, Yenerisque Lepos, et mille Colo- 
 rum, 
 Formarumque chorus sequitur, motusque de- 
 
 centes. 91 
 
 At caput invisum Stygiis Nox atra tenebris 
 Abdidit, horrendaeque simul Formidinis ora, 
 Pervigilesque aestus Curarum, atque anxius 
 
 Angor : 
 Undique laetitia florent mortalia corda, 
 Purus et arridet largis fulgoribus ^Ether. 
 Omnia nee tu ideo invalidae se pandere 
 
 Menti 
 (Quippe nimis teneros posset vis tanta diei 
 Perturbare, et inexpertos confundere visus) 99 
 Nee capere infantes animos, neu cernere credas 
 
256 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Tara variam molem, et mirae spectacula lucis : 
 Sight, imper. ^^sclo qua tamen base oculos dulce- 
 
 feet at first, ^;^„ »,„„„„_ 
 
 gradually ttme parvos 
 
 improves. o i i • i 
 
 bplendida percussit novitas, traxit- 
 
 que sequentes ; 
 Nonne videmus enim, latis inserta fenestris 
 Sicubi se Phoebi dispergant aurea tela, 
 Sive lucernarum rutilus colluxerit ardor, 
 Extemplo hue obverti aciem, quae fixa re- 
 
 pertos 
 Haurit inexpletum radios, fruiturque tuendo. 
 
 Altior huic vero sensu, majorque videtur 
 Addita, Judicioque arete connexa potestas, 110 
 Quod simul atque aetas volventibus auxerit 
 
 annis, 
 Ideas of ^sec simul, assiduo depaseens omnia 
 
 Beauty, Pro- _• „ 
 
 portion, and viou, 
 
 Perspieiet, vis quanta loci, quid pol- 
 leat ordo, 
 Juncturae quis bonos, ut res accendere rebus 
 Lumina eonjurant inter se, et mutua fulgent. 
 
 Hearing, also ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^ geminis viget auri- 
 byreludV bus insita virtus, 
 
 meut. -»T • 
 
 JNec tantum m curvis qua3 pervigil 
 excubet antris 
 
DE PRINCIPIIS COGITANDI. 257 
 
 Hinc atque hinc (ubi Yox tremefecerit ostia 
 
 pulsu 
 Aeriis invecta rotis) longeque recurset : 119 
 Scilicet Eloquio haec sonitus, haec f ulminis alas, 
 Et mulcere dedit dictis et toUere corda, 
 Yerbaque metiri numeris, versuque ligare 
 Kepperit, et quicquid discant Libethrides undse, 
 Calliope quoties, quoties Pater ipse canendi 
 Evolvat liquidum carmen, calamove loquenti 
 Inspiret dulces animas, digitisque figuret. 
 At medias fauces, et linguae humen- Taste. 
 
 tia templa 
 Gustus habet, qua se insinuet jucunda saporum 
 Luxuries, dona Autumni, Bacchique voluptas. 
 Naribus interea consedit odora gmeii. 
 hominum vis, 
 Docta leves captare auras, Panchai'a quales 131 
 Vera novo exhalat, Floraeve quod oscula fra- 
 grant, 
 Roscida, cum Zephyri furtim sub vesperis hora 
 Respondet votis, mollemque aspirat amorera. 
 Tot portas altae capitis circumde- Reflection 
 
 j-i. p.- the other 
 
 UlU tllL-l source of 
 
 . , T-> . our Ideas. 
 
 Alma Parens, sensusque vias per 
 
 membra reclusit ; 
 17 
 
258 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Haud solas : namque intiis agit vivata f acultas, 
 
 Qua sese explorat, contemplatusque repente 
 
 Ipse suas animus vires, momentaquc cernit. 139 
 
 Quid velit, aut possit, cupiat, fugiatve, vicissim 
 
 Percipit imperio gaudens ; neque corpora fallunt 
 
 Morigera ad celeres actus, ac numina mentis. 
 
 Qualis Hamadryadum quondam si forte so- 
 rorum 
 
 Una, novos peragrans saltus, et devia rura ; 
 
 (Atque illam in viridi suadet procumbere ripa 
 
 Fontis pura quies, et opaci frigoris umbra) 
 
 Dura prona in latices speculi de margine pendet, 
 
 Mirata est subitam venienti occurrere Nym- 
 
 pham: 
 Mox eosdem, quos ipsa, artus, eadera ora geren- 
 
 tem 
 Una inferre gradus, una succedere sylvae 150 
 Aspicit alludens ; seseque agnoscit in undis. 
 Sic sensu interno rerum simulacra suarum 
 Mens ciet, et proprios observat conscia 
 
 Ideas ap- Trnlfna 
 
 proachthe VUltUS. 
 
 Soul, some . ... 
 
 bysiuKie jvjec ver6 simplex ratio, aut ius om- 
 
 avenues, ^ " 
 
 X^V",'' nibus unum 
 
 every ense. QQjjg^.^|. imaginibus. Sunt quse bina 
 
 ostia norunt j 
 
DE PRINCIPIIS COGITANDI. 259 
 
 Hae privos servant aditus ; sine legibus illaB 
 Passim, qua data porta, ruunt, animoque pro- 
 
 pinquant. 
 Kespice, cui a cunis tristes extinxit lustration, 
 
 OCelloS, ¥ia^^eot 
 
 -, . • , J the first. 
 
 Saeva et in eternas mersit natura 
 
 tenebras : 
 lUi ignota dies lucet, vernusque colorum 160 
 Offusus nitor est, et vivae gratia forraae. 
 Corporis at filura, et motus, spatium- ^.^ ^^^ ^^ 
 
 que locique ^S'luhf 
 
 Intervalla datur certo dignoscere ^^^^'^ ' 
 
 tactu : 
 Quandoquidem his iter ambiguum est, et janua 
 
 duplex, 
 Exclusaeque oculis species irrumpere tendunt 
 Per digitos. Atqui solis concessa potestas 
 Luminibus blandae est radios imraittere lucis. 
 Undique proporro sociis, quacun- pleasure, 
 
 ^ ' ^ ^ Pain of the 
 
 que patescit third. 
 
 Notitiae campus, mistae lasciva feruntur 169 
 Turba voluptatis comites, form^eque dolor- 
 
 um 
 Terribiles visu, et porta giomerantur in 
 
 ouini. 
 
260 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Also Power ^^^ vario minus intro'itu magnum 
 
 UnifyXl'' inguit Illud, 
 
 cession, Du- . <• • 
 
 ration. Quo lacere et fungi, quo res exis- 
 
 tere circum 
 Quamque sibi proprio cum corpore scimus, et 
 
 ire 
 Ordine, perpetuoque per aDvum flumine labi. 
 
 Nunc age quo valeat pacto, qua sensilis arte 
 Primary Affcctarc viam, atque animi tentare 
 
 Qualities of 
 
 ^o^i^s. late bras 
 
 Materies (dictis aures adverte faventes) 
 
 Exsequar. Imprimis spatii quam multa per 
 
 asquor 
 Millia multigenis pandant se corpora seclis, 180 
 Expende. Haud unum invenies, quod mente 
 
 licebit 
 Amplecti, nedum proprius deprendere sensu, 
 „ .^ , Mo] is egens certae, aut solido sine 
 
 Magnitude, o ' 
 
 gj^r robore, cujus 
 
 Denique mobilitas linquit, texturave 
 partes, 
 Ulla nee orarum circumcaesura coercet. 
 Haec conjuncta ade5 tota compage fatetur 
 Mundus, et extremo clamant in limine rerum, 
 (Si rebus datur extremnm) primordia. Firmat 
 
DE PRINCIPIIS COGITANDI. 261 
 
 Ilsec eadem tactus (tactura quis dicere falsum 
 Audeat ?) hsec oculi nee lucidus arguit orbis. 190 
 
 Inde potestatum enasci deusissima proles ; 
 Kam quodcunque ferit visum, tangive laborat, 
 Quicquid nare bibis, vel concava concipit auris, 
 Quicquid lingua sapit, credas hoc omne, necesse 
 
 est 
 Ponderibus, textu, discursu, mole, figura 
 Particulas praestare leves, et semina rerum. 
 Nunc oculos igitur pascunt, et luce ministra 
 Fulgere cuncta vides, spargique coloribus or- 
 
 bem, 
 
 Dum de sole trahunt alias, aliasque superne 199 
 
 Detorquent,retr6que docent se vertere flammas. 
 
 Nunc trepido inter se fervent corpuscula pulsu, 
 
 Ut tremor aethera per magnum, lateque natantes 
 
 Aurarum fluctus avidi vibrantia claustra 
 
 Auditus queat allabi, sonitumque propaget. 
 
 Cominus interdum non uUo interprete per se 
 
 Nervorum invadunt teneras quatientia fibras, 
 
 Sensiferumque urgent ultro per viscera motum. 
 ***** 
 
262 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 LiBEK SeCUNDUS.* 
 
 Begun at Stoke, June, 1743. f 
 
 Hactenus baud segnis Naturae arcana retexi 
 Musarum interpres, primusque Britanna per 
 
 arva 
 Romano liquidum deduxi flumine rivum. 
 Cum Tu opere in medio, spes tanti et causa 
 
 laboris, 
 Linquis, et asternam fati te condis in umbram ! 
 Vidi egomet duro graviter concussa dolore 
 Pectora, in alterius non unquam lenta dolorem ; 
 Et languere oculos vidi, et pallescere amantem 
 Yultum, quo nunquam Pietas nisi rara, Fides- 
 
 que, 9 
 
 Altus amor Veri, et purum spirabat Honestum. 
 Visa tamen tardi demum inclementia morbi 
 Cessare est, reducemque iterum roseo ore Sa- 
 
 lutem 
 Speravi, atque una tecum, dilecte Favoni ! 
 Credulus beu longos, ut quondam, fallere Soles : 
 
 * In the Pembroke MS, it is ' Secundus,' but in all 
 printed copies it is ' Quartus.' 
 t Entry in Pembroke MS. 
 
LATIN POEMS. 263 
 
 Heu spes nequicquam dulces, atque irrita 
 
 vota ! 
 Heu msestos Soles, sine te quos ducere flendo 
 Per desideria, et questus jam cogor inanes ! 
 At Tu, sancta anima, et nostri non indiga 
 
 lustus, 
 Stellanti templo, sincerique aetheris igne, 
 Uude orta es, fruere ; atque oh si secura, nee 
 
 ultra 20 
 
 Mortalis, notos olim miserata labores 
 Respectes, tenuesque * vacet cognoscere curas ; 
 
 Humanara si forte alta de sede procellam 
 
 Contemplere, metus, stimulosque cupidinis 
 
 acres, 
 Gaudiaque et gemitus, parvoque in corde tu- 
 
 multum 
 Irarum ingentem, et saevos sub pectore fluetus ; 
 Respice et has lacrymas, memori quas ictus 
 
 amore 
 
 Fundo ; quod possum, juxta lugere sepulchrum 
 
 Dum juvat, et mutae vana haec jactare faviliae. 
 ***** 
 
 * In the Pembroke MS. it is ' parvas,' and in the 
 margin ' tenues.' 
 
264 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Not dated, but evidently written after his return 
 from the Continent in 1741. It is an echo of the stanza 
 from Genoa, — " Horridos tractus, etc." 
 
 It is in the Commonplace Book, and was first printed 
 by Mr. Tovey. 
 
 Oh ubi coUes, ubi Fsesularum 
 Palladis curae, plaga, Formiaeque 
 Prodigse florum, Genuaeque amantes 
 
 Littora soles ! 
 Abstulit campos oculis amoenos 
 Montium quantus, nemorumque tractus! 
 Quot natant eheu ! medii prof undo 
 
 Marmore fluctus ? 
 
 XXII. 
 FROM PETRARCH.* 
 
 Uror, io ; veros at nemo credidit ignes : 
 Quin credunt omnes ; dura sed ilia negat, 
 
 Ilia negat, soli voluraus cui posse probare ; 
 Quin videt, et visos improba dissimulat. 
 
 * First published by Mathias, in 1814, 
 
FROM THE ANTHOLOGIA GR^CA. 265 
 
 Ah, durissiraa mi, sed et, ah, pulcherrima 
 rerum ! 
 
 Nonne aDimam in misera, Cynthia, fronte 
 vides ? 
 Omnibus ilia pia est ; et, si non fata vetassent, 
 
 Tam longas mentem flecteret ad lacrymas. 
 Sed tamen has lacrymas, hunc tu, quem spre- 
 veris, ignem, 
 
 Carminaque auctori non bene culta suo, 10 
 Turba futurorum non ignorabit amantum : 
 
 Nos duo, cumque erimus parvus uterque cinis, 
 Jamque faces, eheu ! oculorum, et frigida lingua, 
 
 Hae sine luce jacent, immemor ilia loqui ; 
 Infelix musa oeternos spirabit amores, 
 
 Ardebitque urna multa fa villa mea. 
 
 XXIII. 
 FROM THE ANTHOLOGIA GR^CA.* 
 
 Fektur Aristophanis fatorum arcana rogatum 
 tempore sementis, rusticus isse domum ; 
 
 Sideris an felix tempestas, messis an esset 
 magna, vel agricolam falleret ustus ager) 
 
 * Mr. Gray paid very particular attention to the An- 
 thologia Groeca, and he enriched an interleaved edi- 
 
366 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Ille supercilio adducto multa anxius arte 
 
 disposuit sortes, consuluitque Deos : 
 Turn responsa dedit : vernus suifecerit imber 
 
 Si modo, nee fruges IjBserit herba nocens ; 
 Si mala robigo, si grando pepercerit arvis, 
 
 attulerit subitum pigra nee aura gelu ; 10 
 Caprea si nulla, aut culmos attriverit baedus ; 
 
 nee fuerit eaelum, nee tibi terra gravis : 
 Largas pollieeor segetes, atque horrea plena. 
 
 tu tamen, ut veniat seta loeusta, cave.* 
 
 FROM THE GREEK OF ANTIPHILUS BYZANTIUS. 
 
 In Medece Imaginem^ Nohile Timornachi Opus. 
 
 En ubi Medeae varius dolor gestuat ore, 
 Jamque animum nati, jamque maritus, 
 habent ! 
 
 Sueeenset; miseret; medio exardeseit amore 
 Dum furor, inque oeulo guttarainante tremit. 
 
 tion of it (by Henry Stephens in 1566) with copious 
 notes, with parallel passages from various authors, and 
 with some conjectural emendations of the text. — 
 Mathias. 
 
 Mathias published only eleven of the imitations ; 
 all are here given from the Pembroke Commonplace 
 Books, for the first time together and in Gray's order. 
 
 * First printed by Mr. Tovey, in Gray and his Friends, 
 1890, from the Commonplace Books. 
 
FROM THE ANTHOLOGIA GR.ECA. 267 
 
 Cernis adhuc dubiam ; quid enim ? licet impia 
 matris 
 Colchidos, at non sit dextera Timomachi. 
 
 IMITATION OF THE GREEK OF PAUL 8ILENTIAKIUS. 
 
 In BacchcB Furentis Statuam. 
 
 Credite, non viva est Maenas; non spirat 
 imago : 
 Artificis rabiem miscuit aere manus. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK OF P0SIDIPPU8. 
 
 In Alexandrum, ^re Effictum. 
 
 Quantum audet, Lysippe, manus tua ! surgit in 
 aere 
 Spiritus, atque oculis bellicus ignis adest : 
 Spectate hos vultus, miserisque ignoscite Per- 
 sis : 
 Quid mirum, imbelles si leo sparsit oves ? 
 
 from the GREEK. 
 
 In Niobes Statuam. 
 
 Feoerat e viva lapidera me Jupiter ; at me 
 Praxiteles vivam reddidit e lapide. 
 
268 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK OF LUCIAN. 
 
 Offering a Statue of herself to Venus.* 
 
 Te tibi, sancta, fero nudam ; f formosius ipsg 
 Cum tibi, quod ferrem, te, Dea, nil habui. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK OF STATYLLIUS FLACCUS. 
 
 In Amor em Dormientem.% 
 
 DooTE puer vigiles mortalibus addere curas, 
 
 Anne potest in te somnus habere locum ? 
 Laxi juxta arcus, et fax suspensa quiescit, 
 
 Dormit et in pharetra clausa sagitta sua ; 
 Long6 mater abest, longe Cythereia turba : 
 
 Verum ausint alii te prope ferre pedera, 
 Non ego ; nam metui valde, mihi, perfide, 
 quiddam 
 
 Forsan et in somnis ne meditere mali. 
 
 *Mathias by some slip inserted "A Nymph" 
 before " offering," making nonsense of the title ; and 
 in this he has been followed by all subsequent editors, 
 
 f ' En tibi te, Cytherea, fero,' in margin of Pem- 
 broke MS. 
 
 X Auth. iv. 218 — " Catullianam illam spirat mol- 
 litiem."— 6rra2/. 
 
FROM THE ANTHOLOGIA GR^CA. 269 
 
 From a Fragment * of Flato.f 
 
 Itur in Idalios tractus, felicia regna, 
 
 Fundit ubi densam m3'rtea sylva comam, 
 Intus Amor teneram visus spirare quietem, 
 
 Dum roseo roseos imprirait ore toros ; 
 Sublimem procul a ramis pendere pharetram, 
 
 Et de languidula spicula lapsa manu, 
 Vidimus, et risu molii diducta labella 
 
 Murmure quae assiduo pervolitabat apis. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK OF MARIANUS. 
 
 In Foniem aqucB Calidoe. 
 
 Sub platanis puer Idalius prope fluminis undam 
 
 Dormiit, in ripa deposuitque facem. 
 Tempus adest, sociae! Nympharum audentior 
 una, 
 Tempus adest : ultra quid dubitamus ? ait. 
 Uicet incurrit, pestem ut divumque hominum- 
 que 
 Lampada collectis exanimarct aquis. 
 
 *Antb. iv. 210— " ElegaBtissi mum hercle frag- 
 mentum, quod sic Latine nostro modo adumbravi- 
 mus." — Oray. 
 
 ] The second of the name. 
 
 22— Q & G— Z 
 
270 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Demens! nam nequiit seevam restinguere 
 flammam 
 Nympha, sed ipsa ignes traxit, et inde calet. 
 
 FROM LUCILLIUS. 
 
 Ikrepsisse suas murem videt Argus in aedes, 
 Atque ait, heus, a me numquid, amice, velis ? 
 
 Ille autem ridens, metuas nihil, inquit, apud te, 
 O bone, non epulas, hospitium petimus. 
 
 IMITATED FROM THE GREEK OF POSIDIPPUTS. 
 
 Ad Amor em. 
 
 Patjlisper vigiles, oro, compesce dolores, 
 
 Respue nee Musae supplicis aure preces ; 
 
 Oro brevem lacrymis veniam, requiemque 
 f urori : 
 
 Ah, ego non possum vulnera tanta pati ! 
 Intima flamma, vides, miseros depascitur artus, 
 
 Surgit et extremis spiritus in labiis : 
 Quod si tarn tenuem cordi est exsoivere vitara, 
 
 Stabit in opprobrium sculpta querela tuum. 
 Juro perque faces istas, arcumque sonantem, 
 
 Spiculaque hoc unum figere docta jecur ; 
 Hea fuge crudelem puerum, saevasque sagittas ! 
 
 Huic fuit exitii causa, viator, Amor. 
 
FROM THE ANTHOLOGIA GR^CA. 271 
 
 [imitated from the greek] of bassus.* 
 
 !NoN ego, cum malus urit amor, lovis induor 
 arma; 
 nil mihi cum plumis, nil mihi cum corio. 
 Non ego per tegulas mittor liquefactus in 
 aurum : 
 promo duos obolos ; sponte venit Danae. 
 
 [imitated from the greek] of rufinus. 
 
 Hang tibi Kufinus mittit, Khodoclea, coronam, 
 Has tibi decerpens texerat ipse rosas ; 
 
 Est viola, est anemone, est suave-rubens hya- 
 cinthus, 
 Mistaque Narcisso lutea caltha suo : 
 
 Sume ; sed aspiciens, ah, fidere desine formae ; 
 
 Qui pingit, brevis est, sertaque teque, color. 
 
 * First printed in Qray and his Friends, 
 
272 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 XXIY. 
 
 GENERIC CHARACTERS 
 
 OF THE ORDERS OF INSECTS, 
 
 and of the Genera of the^first six Orders, named Coleop- 
 tera, Hemiptera, Lepidoptera, Neuroptera, Hymenop- 
 tera, and Diptera ; expressed in Technical Verses. 
 First published in Mathias' edition of Gray's Works. 
 
 I. COLEOPTERA. 
 
 Alas lorica tectas Coleoptera jactant. 
 
 Antennis Clavatis. 
 Serra pedum prodit Scarabasum et fissile cornu. 
 Dermesti antennae circum ambit lamina caulem, 
 Qui caput incurvum timidus sub corpore celat. 
 In pectus retrahens caput abdit claviger Hister. 
 Occiput Attelabi in posticum vergit acumen. 
 Curculio ingenti protendit cornua rostro. 
 Silpha leves peltae atque elytrorum exporrigit 
 
 oras. 
 Truncus apex clavse, atque antennula Coccio- 
 
 nellae. 
 
 Anteimis Filiformihus. 
 Cassida sub clypei totam se margine condit. 
 Chrysomela inflexa loricae stringitur ora. 
 
OF THE ORDERS OP INSECTS. 273 
 
 Gibba caput Meloe incurvat, thorace rotundo. 
 Oblongus frontem et tenues clypei exerit oras 
 Tenebrio. Abdomen Mordellae lamina vestit. 
 Curta elytra ostentat Staphylis, caudamque re- 
 curvam. 
 
 Antennis Setaceis. 
 
 Tubere cervicis valet, antennisque Cerambyx. 
 Pectore Leptura est tereti, corpusque coarctat. 
 Flexile Cantharidis tegmen, lateruraque papillae. 
 Ast Elater resilit sterni mucrone supinus. 
 Maxilla exerta est oculoque Cicindela grandi. 
 Bupresti antennae graciles, cervice retracta. 
 Nee Dytiscus iners setosa remige planta. 
 EflBgiem cordis Carabus dat pectore trunco. 
 Necydalis curto ex elytro nudam explicat alam. 
 Curtum, at Forficulse tegit banc, cum forcipe 
 
 caudae. 
 Depressum BlattaB corpus, venterque bicornis. 
 Dente vorax Gryllus deflexis saltitat alls. 
 
 II. Hemiptera. 
 
 Dimidiam rostrata gerunt Hemiptera crustam. 
 
 Fcemina serpit humi interdum : volat aethere 
 
 conjux- 
 iS 
 
274 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Rostro Nepa rapax pollet, chelisque : Cicada 
 Remigio alarum et rostrato pectore saltat. 
 Tela Cimex inflexa gerit, cruce complicat alas 
 Notonecta crucem quoque fert, remosque pe- 
 
 dales ; 
 Cornua Aphis caudle et rostrum ; saepe erigit 
 
 alas ; 
 Deprimit has Chermes, dum saltat, pectore 
 
 gibbo. 
 Coccus iners caudae setas, volitante marito ; 
 Thrips alas angusta gerit, caudamque recur vam. 
 
 III. Lepidopteea. 
 
 Squamam alas, linguae spiram Lepidoptera 
 
 jactant. 
 Papilio clavam et squamosas subrigit alas. 
 Prismaticas Sphinx antennas, medioque tu- 
 
 mentes ; 
 At conicas gravis extendit sub nocte Phalaena. 
 
 lY. Neuroptera. 
 
 Rete alae nudum, atque hamos Nenroptera 
 
 caudae. 
 Dente alisque potens, secat aethera longa Libella. 
 Cauda setigera, erectis stat Ephemera pennis. 
 
OF THE ORDERS OF INSECTS. 275 
 
 Phryganea elinguis rugosas deprimit alas, 
 Hemerinusque bidens ; planas tamen explicat 
 
 ille; 
 Et rostro longo et cauda Panorpa minatur. 
 Raphidia extento coUo setam trahit unam. 
 
 V. Hymenoptera. 
 
 At vitreas alas, jaculumque Hymenoptera caudae 
 Fceraineo data tela gregi, maribusque negata. 
 
 Telum abdit spirale Cynips, morsuque minatur. 
 Maxillas Tenthredo movet, serramque bivalvem. 
 Ichneumon gracili triplex abdomine telum. 
 Haurit Apis lingua incurva quod vindicat ense. 
 Sphex alam expandit laevem, gladiumque re- 
 
 condit. 
 Alee ruga notat Vespam caudaeque venenum, 
 Squamula Formicam tergi telumque pedestrem. 
 
 Dum minor alata volitat cum conjuge conjux. 
 Mutilla iinpennis, sed cauda spicula vibrat. 
 
 VI. DiPTERA. 
 
 Diptera sub geminis alis se pondere librant. 
 Os Oestro nullum est, caudaque timetur inermi. 
 
276 
 
 LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Longa caput Tipula est, labiisque et prasdita 
 
 palpis. 
 Palpis Musca caret, retrahitque proboscida 
 
 labris ; 
 Qua Tabanus gaudet pariter, palpis sub acutis. 
 Os Culicis molli e pharetra sua spicula vibrat, 
 Rostrum Empis durum et longum sub pectore 
 
 curvat ; 
 Porrigit articuli de cardine noxia Conops, 
 Porrigit (at rectum et couicum) sitibundus 
 
 Asilus, 
 Lougura et Bombylius, qui sugit mella volando. 
 Unguibus Hippobosca valet ; vibrat breve 
 
 telum. 
 
 VII. Aptera. 
 Aptera se pedibus pennarum nescia jactant. 
 
 h 
 
NOTES. 
 I.— ODE ON THE SPRING. 
 
 This Ode was written at Stoke in June, 1742, 
 and sent by Gray to his school friend, West, at 
 Hatfield in Hertfordshire, but was returned as 
 West had died on the first of the month. 
 
 The copy in Gray's handwriting in his 
 Commonplace Books (otherwise known as the 
 Stonehewer MSS. at Pembroke College), is en- 
 titled " Noon-Tide, an Ode." At the foot, Gray 
 has written: — "The beginning of June 1742, 
 sent to Fav. : not knowing he was then dead." 
 Favonius was Gray's name for West. 
 
 It was first published in 1748 in the seeond 
 volume of Dodsley's " Collection of Poems by 
 Several Hands," under the title of " Ode," and 
 without the author's name ; it next appeared 
 as the first poem in the " Designs by Mr. Bent- 
 ley for Six Poems by Mr. T. Gray," published 
 in 1753, still called merely " Ode." The notes 
 were first added by Gray in the edition of 1768. 
 
 Mitford says this Ode is formed on Horace's 
 Ode, " Ad Sestium," i. 4 ; but Gray seems to 
 
 have been fresh from Milton and Green, — the 
 
 277 
 
278 NOTES. 
 
 moral he says is from the latter, and observe 
 how many words and expressions are from 
 Milton. 
 
 5. The Attic warbler^ the nightingale. The 
 neighbourhood of Athens abounded with night- 
 ingales, reference to which is made by Sopho- 
 cles, and connected with this fact is the fable 
 that Philomela, the daughter of Pandion, king 
 of Attica, was turned into a nightingale. Gray 
 had in mind the well-known description of 
 Athens in " Paradise Regained " : — 
 
 " Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird 
 Trills her tlnck-ivarbled notes the summer long." 
 
 — iv. 245. 
 
 potirs her throat. Throat is used by metonymy 
 for " song from her throat." It was the throat 
 of birds that poets generally speak of when 
 they refer to their singing. Cf. " full-gorged 
 lark," and 
 
 " When the linnet-like confided, I 
 With shriller throat shall sing." 
 
 —Lovelace, ToAlthea. 
 
 Keats in his " Ode to a Nightingale " speaks of 
 it as singing " in full-throated ease," "pouring 
 forth her soul " ; and Shelley : — 
 
 " Hail to thee, blithe Spirit, 
 That from heaven or near it 
 Pourest thy full heart."— To a Skylark, 
 
ODE ON THE SPRING. 279 
 
 Gray's expression is taken from Pope's " Essay 
 on Man " : — 
 
 " Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat ? " 
 
 — iii. 33, 
 
 24. The husy murinur. In the same passage 
 referred to in note on line 5, Milton has : — 
 
 "the sound 
 Of bees' industrious murmur." 
 
 — Par. Regained, iv, 247. 
 
 31-40. In a letter to Horace Walpole, written 
 in 1748,* Gray refers to his having taken these 
 ideas from Green. The passage is as follows : — 
 
 " I send you a bit of a thing for two reasons ; 
 first, because it is of one of vour favourites, Mr. 
 M. Green ; and next, because I would do justice. 
 The thought on which my second Ode f turns 
 is manifestly stole from hence ; not that I knew 
 it at the time, but having seen this many years 
 before, to be sure it imprinted itself on my 
 memory, and, forgetting the author, I took it 
 for my own. The subject was the " Queen's 
 Hermitage." 
 
 42. Writing to Gray, January 8, 1761, Mason 
 says : — " ' Celibate life,' says Jeremy Taylor, 
 
 * Wrongly placed by Mitford and Gosse. 
 \ The " Ode on the Spring " was the second of Gray's 
 Odes in Dodsley'a " Collection." 
 
280 NOTES 
 
 * like the fly in the heart of an apple, dwells in 
 a perpetual sweetness, but sits alone, and is 
 confined, and dies in singularity. But mar- 
 riage, like the useful bee, builds a house, gath- 
 ers sweetness from every flower, labours and 
 unites into societies and republics, etc' If I 
 survive you, and come to publish your works, I 
 shall quote this passage, from whence you so 
 evidently (without ever seeing it) took that 
 thought, 'Poor moralist, and what art thou,' 
 etc. But the plagiarism had been too glaring, 
 had you taken the heart of the apple, in which, 
 however, the great beauty of the thought con- 
 sists. After all, why will you not read Jeremy 
 Taylor ? Take my word and more for it, he is 
 the Shakespeare of divines." 
 
 49. Thy sun is set. The sunshine is the 
 period in which the insects flourish, but that 
 part of his life is over. 
 
 Compare the following lines from Black- 
 stone's " Farewell to his Muse," also published 
 in Dodsley's " Collection " in 1Y48 :— 
 
 " Thus though my noon of life be past, 
 Yet let my setting sun, at last, 
 Find out the still the rural cell." 
 
ODE ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT. 281 
 
 II.— ODE ON THE DEATH OF A 
 FAYOUKITE CAT 
 
 This Ode was sent in a letter to Horace Wal- 
 pole, dated March 1, 1747, on the occasion of 
 the death of one of his cats ; at the same time, 
 Gray sent a copy of it to Thomas Wharton, 
 describing it, in mock-heroic style, as the " most 
 noble of my performances latterly." There is 
 a third copy in his handwriting in the Pem- 
 broke MSS. The letter to Walpole is as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " Cambridge, March 1, 1747. 
 
 " As one ought to be particularly careful to 
 avoid blunders in a compliment of condolence, 
 it would be a sensible satisfaction to me (before 
 I testify my sorrow, and the sincere part I take 
 in your misfortune) to know, for certain, who 
 it is I lament. I knew Zara and Selima (Selima, 
 was it % or Fatima ?) or rather I knew them 
 both together ; for I cannot justly say which 
 was which. Then as to your handsome Cat, 
 the name you distinguish her by, I am no less 
 at a loss, as well knowing one's handsome cat 
 is always the cat one likes best ; or, if one 
 be alive and the other dead, it is usually the 
 latter that is the handsomest. Besides, if the 
 point were never so clear, I hope you do not 
 
282 NOTES. 
 
 think me so ill-bred or so imprudent as to for- 
 feit all my interest in the survivor ; oh no ! I 
 would rather seem to mistake, and imagine to 
 be sure it must be the tabby one that had met 
 with this sad accident. Till this affair is a 
 little better determined, you will excuse me if 
 I do not begin to cry : — 
 
 'Tempus inane peto, requiem, spatiumque doloris.' 
 
 Which interval is the more convenient, as it 
 gives time to rejoice with you on your new 
 honours.* This is only a beginning ; I reckon 
 next week we shall hear you are a free-mason, 
 or a Gormogonf at least. — Heigh ho ! I feel 
 (as you to be sure have done long since) that I 
 have very little to say, at least in prose. Some- 
 body will be the better for it ; I do not mean 
 you but your Cat, feue Mademoiselle Selime, 
 whom 1 am about to immortalize for one week 
 or fortnight, as follows : — 
 
 [Here followed the Ode.] ' 
 
 There's a poem for you, it is rather too long 
 for an Epitaph." 
 
 * Walpole had been elected a Fellow of the Royal 
 Society. 
 
 t There is a print of Hogarth's with the title, "The 
 Mysteryof Masonry brought to light by the Gormogons." 
 See Nicholl's" Life of Hogarth," and Pope's "Dunciad," 
 iv. 576. 
 
ODE ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT. 283 
 
 The Ode was first printed in 1748 in Vol. II. 
 of Dodsley's " Collection of Poems," and forms 
 the second piece in the 1753 edition of Gray's 
 " Six Poems " and in the subsequent editions. 
 
 The drowning of the cat took place in Arling- 
 ton Street ; and, after the death of Gray, Wal- 
 pole placed the vase on a pedestal at Strawberry 
 Hill, with a label containing the first stanza of 
 the poem. I am indebted to the kindness of 
 Lord Derby for the information that the vase 
 and pedestal were bought at the sale at Straw- 
 berry Hill, in 1842, for £42, by the grandfather 
 of the present Earl, and the vase is now in the 
 picture gallery at Lord Derby's seat at Knows- 
 
 ley. 
 
 1-6. The exordium of this mock-heroic is in 
 imitation of the opening lines of Dryden's 
 " Alexander's Feast " : — 
 
 " 'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won 
 By Philip's warlike son ; 
 Aloft in awful state 
 The godlike hero sat 
 On his imperial throne." 
 
 WTiere China's, etc. " On which China vase 
 the full-blown flowers had been painted in blue." 
 Azure is derived from the Persian lajaward^ 
 through the Arabic azr-aq, in which the I is 
 dropped, the lapis lazuli. Cf. Lady M. W. 
 Montagu's " Town Eclogues " :— 
 
284 NOTES. 
 
 " Where the tall jar erects its stately pride, 
 With antic shapes in China's azure dyed." 
 
 flowers^ that hlow. Exception was taken by 
 Dr. Johnson to the redundancy of " that blow," 
 but not only is redundancy of the kind poetical, 
 but here tlie expression requires no such de- 
 fence — " tliat blow"=" that are blowing on 
 it," so that we, as it were, see the flowers in 
 full blow. The same expression occurs in the 
 " Progress of Poesy," line 5, where also it is 
 not redundant. 
 
 When first published, the last three lines of 
 this stanza stood : 
 
 " The pensive Selima reclined, 
 Demurest of the tabby kind, 
 Gazed on the lake below." 
 
 The punctuation was then correct, but in the 
 next edition Gray transposed lines four and 
 five as tkey now stand, and retained the comma 
 after reclined, thus separating the subject 
 {Selima) from its verb by one comma. Stephen 
 Jones was the first (1799) to correct the 
 punctuation by putting a comma after Selima 
 also. 
 
 Tabby. Walpole had two cats, and seems 
 to have written to Gray that " his handsome 
 cat was dead." Gray wrote the Ode, not 
 knowing which cat it was, but (as he says 
 
ODE ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT. 285 
 
 in the letter in -whicli he sent the Ode) he did 
 not wish to appear not to know which cat was 
 dead, so he would imagine " it must be the 
 tabby one." A tabby cat is one whose coat is 
 brindled, black and grey, like the waves of 
 watered silk. Tahhy is from Fr. talis, watered 
 silk, from Arabic attabi, a part of Bagdad, 
 where it was made. 
 
 From line 10 Mr. Gosse argues " she cannot 
 have been a tabby," but a tortoise-shell cat ; 
 and is followed by other annotators. Mr. 
 Storr, in his note on line 4, says, " Prove that 
 she was not a tabby." But, since Gray plainly 
 states he intends the Ode to refer to the tabby 
 one, why should we suppose that just after 
 speaking of her as " the tabby kind," he forgot 
 that, and now describes her as a tortoise-shell cat 
 because he says her coat vied with the tortoise ? 
 Walpole's other cat may have been a tortoise- 
 shell, and therefore Gray would describe this — 
 the handsome one — as vying with her in beauty, 
 and purring with pleasure at the sight of it. 
 Or it may be he wrote so as to be right which- 
 ever cat it was ; if we take " tabby kind " as 
 equivalent to "cat-kind," the Ode will be 
 applicable to a tortoise-shell cat. 
 
 31-36. See the Explanation of the Designs 
 in the edition ot 1753, quoted after the Notes, 
 infra. 
 
286 NOTES. 
 
 37-42. Nor all, that glisters, gold. Like 
 many another phrase or saying adopted by 
 Gray, this has been given greater currency from 
 being in his oft-read poems. It occurs in several 
 old poets before Gray : 
 
 ** But all which shineth as the gold 
 Ne is no gold, as I have been it told." 
 
 — Chaucer, Yeman's Tale, 
 
 Mitford quotes it from the " Paradise of 
 Dainty Devices," " England's Helicon," the 
 " Faerie Queene," etc. It also occurs in Shake- 
 speare and Dryden : — 
 
 " All that glisters is not gold." 
 
 — Tlie Merchant of Venice, ii. 7. 
 
 " All, as they say, that glitters is not gold." 
 
 — Hind and Panther. 
 
 Various Readings. 
 
 14. In the Pembroke and Walpole MSS. and 
 in the 1748 " Collection," Two beauteous forms. 
 
 24. In the " Collection " of 1748, A foe to fish. 
 
 25. Looks — in the Wharton MS., eyes ; in the 
 Pembroke, eye. 
 
 35. In the Walpole and Wharton MSS. and 
 in the " Collection " of 1748, nor Harry heard. 
 
 36. In the Walpole MS. and in the " Collec- 
 tion" of 1748, What favourite has a friend ! 
 
 40. Tempts. Pembroke and Wharton MSS., 
 strikes. 
 
ODE ON ETON COLLEGE. 287 
 
 III.— ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT 
 OF ETON COLLEGE. 
 
 In Gray's MS. at Pembroke College, the 
 title is, " Ode on a Distant Prospect of Windsor, 
 and the adjacent Country." * At the foot Gray 
 has written :— " At Stoke, Aug., 1742." 
 
 Though written in 1742,Gray didnot publish 
 this Ode till 1747, and it was the first of his 
 English productions which appeared in print. 
 It was published anonymously, in a folio pam- 
 phlet of eight pages, as " An Ode on a Distant 
 Prospect of Eton College. London. Printed 
 for R. Dodsley at Tully's Head in Pall Mall ; 
 and sold by M. Cooper at the Globe in Pater- 
 noster Row, 1747. (Price Sixpence.) " 
 
 It appeared, still without his name, in Yol. 
 II. of Dodsley's " Collection of Poems " in 1748 ; 
 and comes third in the " Six Poems " of 1753. 
 
 The motto from Menander and the notes 
 were first printed in 1768. In the Pembroke 
 MS. the motto is written in Gray's hand along 
 the margin commencing opposite the middle of 
 the sixth stanza ; and is as it were in ex- 
 planation of the line — 
 
 " Ah, tell them, they are men ! " 
 
 The passage in Menander from which the mot- 
 
 * The title is incorrectly given by Mr. Gosse. 
 
288 NOTES. 
 
 to is taken being in reply to the query, " Why 
 are you miserable ? " several reasons are given 
 ending with '"Avdpwno'i etc., "Because I am a 
 man^ — a sufficient excuse for being miserable." 
 
 1-10. Antique. Ancient; " antique " is now 
 applied to old-fashioned things, and would not 
 be used of a building. Milton spells it antic^ 
 and probably Gray took the epithet from the 
 line in "II Penseroso " :-" With antic pillars 
 massy proof." 
 
 12-20. Beloved in vain. Because they do 
 not still afford him the sensations he had as a 
 " careless " boy ; there is also a reference to the 
 recent death of his school friend, "West. 
 
 21-30. With the apostrophe to Father Thames 
 and what follows compare the following lines 
 from Green's " Grotto," the poem Gray said he 
 had in mind when writing the " Ode on the 
 Spring" : — 
 
 ''Say, Father Thames, whose gentle pace 
 Gives leave to view what beauties grace 
 Your flowery banks, if you have seen 
 The much-sung grotto of the Queen." 
 
 29. In the Pembroke MS. this line runs : — 
 
 " To chase the hoop's elusive speed." 
 
 This curious expression occurs in the frag- 
 ment of a tragedy, " Agrippina," which Gray 
 had written a few months previously in 1742:- 
 
ODE ON ETON COLLEGE. 289 
 
 " we could not have beguiled 
 With more elusive speed the dazzled sight 
 Of wakeful jealousy." 
 
 55-59. all. Completely; an adverb, ^em. 
 This abbreviation of them,^ or perhaps a sur- 
 vival of the O.E. eom, is now a vulgarism or 
 only used colloquiall}', but Gray printed it thus 
 to avoid the unmusical sound of the d and th ; 
 and he has it in " Agrippina " : — " He perchance 
 may heed 'em." 
 
 MurtKrous. Murder was formerly also 
 spelt murther^ d and th being in many words 
 interchangeable, e. g. burden, burthen, thrill, 
 drill. Murtherous is a very expressive form, 
 and suits the rhythm of the line better ; he 
 uses it again in the " Ode for Music," 46. 
 
 In the Pembroke MS. it is " griesly," and 
 " murtherous " is entered in the margin. 
 
 92. alike goes with condemned, " all equally 
 condemned." Lines 96 and 97 should be taken 
 with 95 : — " Since sorrow never comes too 
 late, and happiness too swiftly dies, why should 
 they know their fate ? " The punctuation here 
 is correct, as would also be a comma after /a^e 
 and a query 'dliQv flies ; but some editors have 
 a comma after flies. 
 
 Sir H. Wotton, Provost of Eton, the sum- 
 mer before his death visited Winchester Col- 
 
290 NOTES. 
 
 lege where he had been educated, and when he 
 was returning to Eton, he made the following 
 reflections, as given in his Life by Isaac Wal- 
 ton : — " How useful was the advice of a holy 
 monk, who persuaded his friend to perform his 
 customary devotions in a constant place, be- 
 cause in that place we usually meet with those 
 very thoughts which possessed us at our last 
 being there ; and I find it thus far experiment- 
 ally true, that at now being in that school, and 
 seeing that very place, where I sat when I was 
 a bo}^, occasioned me to remember those very 
 thoughts of my youth which then possessed 
 me ; sweet thoughts indeed, that promised my 
 growing years numerous pleasures without 
 mixture of cares, and those to be enjoyed when 
 time (which I thereof thought slow-paced) 
 had changed my youth into manhood. But 
 age and experience have taught me that these 
 were but empty hopes ; for I now always found 
 it true, as my Saviour did foretell, ' SuflScient 
 unto the day is the evil thereof.' Neverthe- 
 less, I saw there a succession of boys using the 
 same recreations, and questionless possessed 
 with the same thoughts that then possessed 
 me. Thus one generation succeeds another 
 in their lives, recreations, hopes, fears, and 
 death." 
 A correspondent of the " Gentleman's Mag- 
 
HYMN TO ADVERSITY. 291 
 
 azine," June, 1798, considers that this passage 
 may have " occasioned " Gray's writing the 
 « Ode on Eton." 
 
 lY.— HYMN TO ADVERSITY. 
 
 In the MS. of this poem at Pembroke Col- 
 lege the heading is — " Ode. To Adversity," 
 and at the foot Gray has written " At Stoke, 
 Aug. 1742." 
 
 It was first printed in the edition of 1753 
 as the fifth of the " Six Poems," and next ap- 
 peared in 1755 in Vol. IV. of Dodsley's " Collec- 
 tion of Poems by Several Hands." In both 
 places, and in Gray's edition of 1768, it is called 
 " Hymn to Adversity," " which title " Mason 
 " dropped for the sake of uniformity in the 
 page ; " as he numbers the first eleven pieces 
 in his edition of 1775 Ode L, II., etc. ; and 
 several editors have followed him in calling it 
 " Ode to Adversity." Mason and others after 
 him are also wrong in stating that the poem first 
 appeared in Dodsley's " Collection " ; — only 
 three volumes were published at first (1748), and 
 in 1755 a second edition of these was issued, with 
 a fourth volume, which opened with the 
 " Elegy," and the " Hymn to Adversity," " by 
 the Same," was the next in the " Collection ;" 
 
292 NOTES. 
 
 in 1758 the four volumes were reprinted, with 
 a fifth and sixth, Gray's " Pindaric Odes " being 
 the last two pieces in Vol. VL* 
 
 The motto from ^schylus first appeared in 
 the edition of 1768. In the Pembroke MS. 
 Gray adds a second (printed only in Lacking- 
 ton's edition, 1788) :— 
 
 Sv/i(j)ipet 
 
 lu^povelv vnb arevei (sic) — Id. Eumenid. 523. 
 
 (It profits to learn discretion through suf- 
 fering.) 
 
 1-8. In three places in this stanza Gray bor- 
 rows from " Paradise Lost " — 
 
 "The vassals of his anger, when the scourge 
 Inexorably, and the torturing hour, 
 Calls us to penance." — ii. 90-92. 
 
 " In adamantine chains and penal fire." — i. 48. 
 
 ** Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before." 
 
 — ii. 703. 
 
 Adamantine chains occurs in ^schylus, 
 Horace, and several English poets. 
 
 8. In the Pembroke MS. he first wrote " and 
 Misery not their own ; " a line is drawn through 
 
 * From Mitf ord's reference to the pages of the edition 
 of 1755, and other allusions in his notes, it would seem 
 that he was not aware that the first three volumes were 
 published in 1748, and he misplaces Gray's letter criticis- 
 ing some of the poems when the " Collection " first 
 appeared. 
 
THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 293 
 
 these words and " unpitied and alone " written 
 above. 
 
 27. Almost all editors have a comma after 
 maid, but there is none in any of the editions 
 of this Ode printed in Gray's lifetime. 
 
 32. In the margin of the Pembroke MS. 
 Gray has written opposite this line, « y>.oxu- 
 Saxph^." " I imagine " (writes Mr. Tovey to me) 
 " he has transferred this epithet to pity from 
 Meleager's xripvaaio rdv 'EpcjTa, where the line 
 descriptive of Love runs — 
 
 36. Mitford, Palgrave, Gosse, "Ward, Rolfe 
 and others wrongly read " Not " for " Nor," 
 and have a full stop at end of line 44. 
 
 43. philosoj^hic train. Your followers who 
 are of a " philosophic mind," and have learned 
 that " sweet are the uses of adversity." See 
 the train named in "II Penseroso," 45-55. 
 
 45-47. There is probably an allusion here to 
 "Walpole's disagreement Avith Gray, on their 
 travels a year previously, and Gray's regret for 
 it. 
 
 Y.— THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 
 
 This Ode was written at Cambridge in 1754, 
 and in a letter dated 26th December, Gray 
 
 22— a & G— AA 
 
294 NOTES. 
 
 sent as an " Ode in the Greek manner " to Dr. 
 Wharton, observing " If this be as tedious to 
 you as it is grown to me, I shall be sorry that 
 I sent it to you." 
 
 In 1757 it was printed along with the " Bard," 
 but neither with their present title, but merely 
 Ode I. and Ode II. The little quarto volume 
 of twenty -one pages was published on the 8th 
 of August — the first issue of Horace Walpole's 
 printing press — with an engraving of Straw- 
 berry Hill, and the following title : — " Odes by 
 Mr. Gray. <PmvavTa awsro'Kn. — Pindar, Olymp. 
 II. Printed at Strawberry Hill, for R. and J. 
 Dodsley in Pali Mall, mdcclvii. (Price One 
 Shilling.)" 
 
 There were no notes in the edition of 1757, 
 but they were supplied by Gray in the edition 
 of 1768, who apologized for so doing thus : — 
 " Advertisement. — When the Author first pub- 
 lished this and the following Ode, he was 
 advised, even by his Friends, to subjoin some ex- 
 planatory Notes, but had too much respect for 
 the understanding of his Readers to take that 
 liberty." 
 
 Before reading the Poem it would be well 
 for the student to read the commentary Gray 
 gives in his notes, which is virtually an analysis 
 of the Ode, 
 
THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 295 
 
 1. Gray quotes (incorrectly) from the Prayer 
 Book version of Psalm Ivii. 9. jEolian lyre. 
 This is equiva'lent to " lyre of Pindar." ^olia 
 extended along the coast of Asia Minor from 
 the Troad to the Hermus. Alcaeus and Sappho 
 belonged to Lesbos, an island of the ^.olians, 
 and hence one of the chief Greek rhythms was 
 called ^olian. Cf. the following lines from 
 Milton, " Paradise Kegained," iv. 254 : — 
 
 " There thou shalt hear and learn the secret power 
 Of harmony, in tones and numbers hit 
 By voice or hand, and various-measvired verse, 
 ^olian charms and Dorian lyric odes." 
 
 In a letter to Wharton, dated October 7, 
 1757, Gray says :— " The ' Critical Review ' . . . 
 is in raptures, but mistakes the ^olian lyre 
 for the harp of ^olus, and on this pleasant 
 error founds both a compliment and a criticism." 
 In spite of this and Gray's footnote a recent an- 
 notator has repeated the wrong interpretation, 
 
 13. theioilling soul. Cf. Milton's " Vacation 
 Exercise," 50-52 :— 
 
 " While sad Ulysses' soul and all the rest 
 Are held with his melodious harmony 
 In loilling chains and sweet captivity." 
 
 14. solemn-lreatUng. This compound is 
 taken from Milton ; the whole passage in which 
 the following lines occur should be read :— 
 
296 NOTES. 
 
 " At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound 
 Rose like a stream of rich distilled perfumes." 
 
 — Comus, 555. 
 
 20-21. ihefeathered king, the eagle, the " bird 
 of Jove," " Par. Lost," xi. 185. This expression 
 occurs in verses attributed to Shakespeare : — 
 
 " Every fowl of tyrant wing, 
 Save the eagle, /eaf/jered king.''' 
 
 22. flagging wing. Horace Walpole, in de- 
 scribing the famous Boccapadugli eagle, of 
 Greek sculpture, says " Mr. Gray has drawn the 
 flagging loing.'''' 
 
 27. Idalia. Idalium, in Cyprus, where there 
 was a temple sacred to the worship of Yenus. 
 She was also called Cytherea, from Cythera, an 
 island off the coast of Laconia, where she was 
 said to have landed when she rose from the 
 foam of the sea. velvet green. The green grass- 
 plot as soft as velvet, green, is a noun, and velvet, 
 an adj. Gray prints velvet-green, and has sev- 
 eral similar compounds, e. g., " desert-beach," 
 " Fatal Sisters," 37. Dr. Johnson objected to 
 the use of velvet, on the ground that Nature 
 should not borrow from Art ; but Gray follows 
 Shakespeare and other poets : — 
 
 "Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds." 
 
 Henry V. i 2. 
 
 81. frolic is here an adjective, as also in the 
 
THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 297 
 
 two places it occurs in Milton, " Comus," 59, 
 and " I'Allegro," 18 :— 
 
 " The frolic wind that breathes the spring." 
 
 And Tennyson has " with a frolic welcome " 
 in " Ulysses." 
 
 36. many-twinJclmg. An incorrectly formed 
 compound ; but it occurs in Thomson's " Spring " 
 (1728) :— 
 
 " Or rustling turn the viany-tvnnkling leaves 
 
 Of aspen tall." 
 
 39. wins her way. The phrase is in " Para- 
 dise Lost," ii. 1016 : — 
 
 "... on all sides round 
 Environed, vpins his vs^ay." 
 
 51. He gives. He permits ; a Latinism. See 
 « Ode for Music," 16. 
 
 Mitford noted that " the couplet from Cowley 
 was wrongly quoted by Gray, and so continued 
 by his different editors ; " but be himself did 
 not give the lines correctly. They are : — 
 
 «' One would have thought 't had heard the Morning 
 crow, 
 Or seen her well-appointed Star 
 Come marching up the'Eastern Hill afar." 
 
 — Brutus, an Ode. 
 
 Gray was fond of reproducing a word or phrase 
 that pleased him ; in his Journal of his tour in 
 the Lake District he writes under Oct. 4, 
 
298 NOTES. 
 
 1769 : — ' While I was here a little shower fell, 
 red clouds came marching up the hills from the 
 east, a part of a bright rainbow seemed to rise 
 along the side of Castle-hill." 
 
 53. S2)y. See, espy ; without the idea of se- 
 crecy now always attaching to it ; see " Paradise 
 Lost," iv. 1005. of war. Equivalent to " of 
 armed men in battle array ; " the rays of the sun 
 being compared to the spears and other shining 
 weapons of an army. Mr. Rolfe quotes from 
 Lowell : — 
 
 " 'Tis frona these heights alone your eyes 
 The advancing spears of daj^ can see, 
 
 Which o'er the eastern hill-tops rise, 
 To break your long captivity." 
 
 — Above and Below. 
 
 In " Agrippina " Gray has " the glittering front 
 of war." Twice elsewhere he rhymes /"«/• with 
 war : — 
 
 " Oft o'er the trembling nations from afar, 
 Has Scythia breathed the living cloud of war." 
 — Education and Oovernment. 
 
 " When blazing 'gainst the sun it shines from far, 
 And, clashed, rebellovrs with the din of war." 
 
 — Translation from Statins. 
 
 69. M(2ander. The Maeander, proverbial, 
 for its wandering course, flowed through Phry- 
 gia, into the Icarian Sea. Miletus, on the Mae- 
 ander, was the birthplace of Thales and other 
 
THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 299 
 
 Greek philosophers ; but the reference is prob- 
 ably suggested by Milton's lines : — 
 
 "Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that livest unseen, 
 
 Within thy airy shell ; 
 By slow Maeander's margent green," — Comus, 230. 
 
 "With lines 66-72, compare Bryon's : — 
 
 "The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece, 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace. 
 
 Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung I 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
 But all, except their Sun, is set." — Don Juan. 
 
 73, Each oldpoetiG Mountain. In the " Chris- 
 tian Year " (third Sunday in Lent) Keble refers 
 to these words in a note to his lines : — 
 
 " Fly from the ' old poetic ' fields. 
 Ye Paynim shadows dark I 
 Immortal Greece, dear land of glorious lays," 
 
 Those who are familiar with Gray's letters 
 will remember the one to West, where he 
 says : — " In our little journey up to the Grande 
 Chartreuse, I do not remember to have gone ten 
 paces without an exclamation that there was 
 no restraining ; not a precipice, not a torrent, 
 not a cliff, but is pregnant with religion and 
 ^oeivy''— November 16, 1739. 
 
 83. Far from the sun, etc. In the more north- 
 ern clime of England — far from sunny Italy. 
 
300 NOTES. 
 
 84. Natures Darling. Mitford quotes from 
 Clevelaad : — 
 
 " Here lies, within this stony shade, 
 Nature's darling, whom she made 
 Her fairest model, her brief story, 
 In him heaping all her glory. " 
 
 Nature's Darling. Knowledge of Greek and 
 Latin being the recognized learning in the seven- 
 teenth and eighteenth centuries, and Shake- 
 speare having little of it, he is often spoken of 
 as deriving his knowledge from J^ature ; see in 
 particular Ben Jonson's lines " To the Memory 
 of Shakespeare : " — 
 
 " He was not of an age but for all time I . . . 
 Nature herself was proud of his designs. . . . 
 The merry Greek . , . now not please, . . . 
 As they were not of Nature's family, 
 Yet must I not give Nature all ; thy Art," etc. 
 
 And in Milton (" I'Allegro, 132-134) :— 
 
 " If Jonson's learned sock be on. 
 
 Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child. 
 
 Warble his native wood notes wild." 
 
 89. pencil. Paint-brush ; an old use of the 
 word, from Lat. pensillum, a brush ; he has it 
 again in the " Stanzas to Mr. Bentley," 4. 
 
 87, 88. The Child stretched forth, etc. Mit- 
 ford quotes from Sandys' Ovid, " Metam." iv. 
 515:— 
 
THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 301 
 
 " the child 
 
 Stretched forth its little arms, and on him smiled.'' 
 91. golden keys. Cf. Milton : — 
 
 " Yet some there be, that by due steps aspire 
 
 To lay their just hands on that golden key 
 
 That opes the palace of eternity."— Cojwms, 12-14. 
 
 105. Coursers, horses; literally, runners. 
 There is an allusion to the fabulous winged 
 horse Pegasus, associated with poetic inspira- 
 tion, ethereal, belonging to the upper air, of 
 pure ether. Wakefield quotes from the 
 " ^neid," vii. 280 :— 
 
 " Currum, geminosque jugales 
 Semine ab aethereo, spirantes nairbus ignem." 
 
 106. Cf. Pope, "Epistles," I. ii. 267:— 
 
 " Waller was smooth ; but Dry den taught to join 
 The varying verse, the full resounding line, 
 The long majestic march, and energy divine." 
 
 109. pictured ur7i, with pictures on it. Cf. 
 " storied urn," " Elegy," 41, and Milton's " Pen- 
 seroso," " storied windows richly dight." The 
 idea is probably borrowed from a picture of a 
 female figure scattering gifts from a jar. 
 
 121, 122. Yet shall he mount. In the last three 
 lines, Gray expresses his own feelings and char- 
 acter, his pride, and, at the same time, his re- 
 tiring disposition, vulgar, ordinary, common. 
 Cf. the last stanza of the Ode Gray wrote 
 
302 NOTES. 
 
 in the album at the Grande Chartreuse, 
 p. 156. 
 
 123. " Still show how much the good outshone 
 the greaV — Katharine Philips. 
 
 Manuscript Readings. 
 
 1. Awake, my lyre ; my glory, wake. 
 
 2. Rapture. Transport. 
 
 11. With torrent rapture, see it pour. 
 23. Dark, Black. 30, Sports. Sport. 
 34. In cadence. The cadence. 
 52, 53. Till fierce Hyperion from afar 
 
 Pours on their scatter'd rear his glittering 
 
 shafts of war. 
 Hurls at their flying rear his glitt'ring shafts 
 
 of war. 
 Hurls o'er their scatter'd rear his glitt'ring 
 
 shafts of war. 
 Hurls o'er their shadowy rear his glitt'ring 
 
 shafts of war. 
 Till o'er their shadowy rear from afar 
 Hyperion hurls around his glitt'ring shafts 
 
 of war. 
 57. Shivering. Buried — in the margin of 
 the MS. Dull in the margin of the Pembroke 
 MS. ; and chill in the text. 
 
 76, Murmured a celestial soend. 
 93. Ho7'ror. Terror in the margin of the 
 Pembroke MS. 
 
THE BARD. 303 
 
 108. Bright-eyed. Full-plumed. 
 
 118. Yet when they first were opened on 
 
 the day 
 Before his visionary eyes would run. 
 
 119. Forms. Shapes. 
 
 122. Yet never can he fear a vulgar fate. 
 
 VI.— THE BARD. 
 
 In a letter, dated August 6, 1755, Gray sent 
 Dr. Wharton the first part of " The Bard/' and 
 on the 21st August a bit more of the " Proph- 
 ecy " (from line 57 to the end, but unfinished 
 in places). In May, 1757, in a letter to Mason, 
 he states that Parry, the Welsh harper, had 
 been at Cambridge, and his " ravishing blind 
 harmony " and " tunes of a thousand years 
 old " had put the " Odikle " in motion again, 
 and that he had then completed it, and he con- 
 cluded his letter with the last two stanzas. It 
 was printed, as we have seen, with " The Prog- 
 ress of Poesy" at Horace Wal pole's press, 
 and published on the 8th August, 1757, and 
 bore the title of " Ode II." 
 
 In his Commonplace Book, Gray wrote the 
 following as what he originally intended to be 
 the argument of the " Bard " ; but he did not 
 finish it in accordance with his original plan :— 
 
304 NOTES. 
 
 " The army of Edward I., as they march 
 through a deep valley, and approach Mount 
 Snowdon, are suddenly stopped by the appear- 
 ance of a venerable figure seated on the sum- 
 mit of an inaccessible rock, who, with a voice 
 more than human, reproaches the king with all 
 the desolation and misery which he had brought 
 on his country; foretells the misfortunes of 
 the Norman race, and with prophetic spirit 
 declares that all his cruelty shall never ex- 
 tinguish the noble ardour of poetic genius in 
 this island ; and that men shall never be want- 
 ing to celebrate true virtue and valour in im- 
 mortal strains, to expose vice and infamous 
 pleasure, and boldly censure tyranny and op- 
 pression. His song ended, he precipitates him- 
 self from the mountain, and is swallowed up 
 by the river that rolls at its foot." 
 
 11. shaggy. Rough and uneven-looking 
 owing to being covered with trees. Milton 
 applies the epithet to hills : — 
 
 Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high." 
 
 — Lycidas, 54. 
 
 *' They plucked the seated hills with all their load — 
 Rocks, waters, woods, and by the shaggy tops." 
 
 — Par. Lost, vi. 645. 
 
 16. Old Conway's. In Mitford's " Aldine " 
 Edition it is misprinted " cold Conway's," and 
 this is followed in Ward's " English Poets." 
 
THE BARD. 306 
 
 28. Hoel is called high horn^ being the son of 
 Owen Gwynedd, prince of North Wales. He 
 was one of his father's generals in his wars 
 against the English, Flemings, and Normans, 
 in South Wales ; and was a famous bard, as his 
 poems that are extant testify. 
 
 Llewellyn was a French Prince who was killed 
 in the wars with Edward I, He was also a 
 poet. In contemporary poets he is described as 
 the " tender-hearted " and " mild " Llewelh' n ; 
 so soft should be taken with Llewellyn and not 
 with lay. 
 
 29. Cadwallo and JJrien are Welsh bards, but 
 none of their poems are now extant. See 
 Southey's " Madoc in Wales." 
 
 30. " Uttering such dulcet and harmonious 
 
 breath, 
 That the rude sea grew civil at her song." 
 — Midsummer Nighfs Dremn, ii. 2. 150. 
 Modred may be Myrddin, a disciple of Taliessin, 
 or a name invented by Gray. 
 
 34. Plinlimmon, a mountain on the borders 
 of Cardigan and Glamorgan, cloud-topped. 
 Cf. " cloud-capt towers," in the " Tempest," 
 iv. 1. 172. The lines mean that even the lofty 
 mountain bent to listen to his song. 
 
 35. Arvon. Caernarvon, Caer in Arvon, the 
 camp in Arvon. they^ the bards who had been 
 put to death. 
 
306 NOTES. 
 
 49. From this line down to the end of line 
 100, the " lost companions " of the bard " join 
 in harmony " with him, and then disappear, 
 and he continues the prophecy alone. This is 
 clearly indicated in all the editions published in 
 Gray's lifetime ; in these each line spoken by 
 the bard alone — 1 to 8 and 23 to 48 — begins 
 with a single inverted comma, and there is one 
 at the end of line 48. Then from line 49 to 100 
 there are two inverted commas at the beginning 
 of each line, and two at the end of line 100 ; 
 and, again, one inverted comma at each line 
 from 101 to 142, which also ends with one. In 
 Wakefield's edition (1786), and Lackington's 
 (1788), the marks are correct. Mason (1775) 
 is also correct, and all reprints I have seen of his 
 editions, except that the two inverted commas 
 at the end of line 100 are placed within the 
 bracket. But in Mitford's edition (1814), the 
 commas at the end of line 100 are omitted, and 
 in other respects the portion of the poem from 
 line 23 to 142 is printed as if an uninterrupted 
 speech by the bard alone. The omission of the 
 inverted commas at the end of line 100 obscures 
 the intention of the poet, and in this Mitford 
 has been followed by almost every subsequent 
 editor of Gray's " Poems " — Moultrie (the Eton 
 edition) ; Candy (Longmans) 1868 ; Rolfe 
 (New York), 1876; Gosse, 1884 ; the Clarendon 
 
THE BARD. 307 
 
 Press ; Hales' ' Longer English Poems," " the 
 Golden Treasury of Songs and Lyrics," and 
 Ward's " English Poets." 
 
 Berkeley Castle is on the south-east side of 
 the town of Berkeley. Mitford incorrectly 
 reads " Berkeley's roofP Mitford quotes Dray- 
 ton, " Barons' Wars " : — 
 
 " Berkley, whose fair seat hath been famous long. 
 Let thy sad echoes shriek a deadly sound 
 
 To the vast air ; complain his grievous wrong, 
 And keep the blood that issued from his wound." 
 
 56. For the events of Edward the Second's 
 reign, the faithlessness of his wife, Isabella of 
 France, the treason of Mortimer, and the 
 cruel death of the king, read the " Student's 
 Hume," chap, ix., or Green's " Short History." 
 
 agonizing King. The expression seems to 
 have been taken from Hume's description : 
 " The screams with which the agonizing king 
 filled the castle." The first volume of Hume's 
 " History " was published in 1754, and it is 
 therefore probable that Gray had just been 
 reading it. agonizing. Suffering agony ; more 
 commonly used as a transitive verb : 
 
 " The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel. 
 
 — Goldsmith's Traveller, 435. 
 
 69. There is a note of interrogation at this 
 line, and the question may be supplied thus; 
 
308 NOTES. 
 
 " The Swarm that were born in thy noon-tide 
 beam, where are they ? " or " are they fled ? " 
 The next line answers " They are gone," etc. 
 The swarm, etc. He has the same metaphors 
 in " Agrippina " : — 
 
 " The gilded swarm that wantons in the sunshine 
 Of thy full favour." 
 
 71. Fair laughs the Morn, etc. These lines 
 may be paraphrased thus : — The morning {i. e., 
 the early years of Richard's reign) is magnifi- 
 cent, and softly the west wind (flattery of 
 courtiers) blows, as the vessel (with the gay 
 king and his friends), decked in all its grand- 
 eur, rides proudly on the sea of life, with 
 youth to point the w^ay and pleasure to steer 
 the course. No thought is there of the whirl- 
 wind that lies silently in wait to sweep away 
 the prey which at sunset must be his. 
 
 In his " Biographia Literaria " (p. 9) Cole- 
 ridge states his preference for the simile in 
 Shakespeare : — 
 
 " How like a younger, or a prodigal, 
 The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, 
 Hugged and embraced by the strumpet wind I 
 How like a prodigal doth she return, 
 With over-weathered ribs, and ragged sails. 
 Lean, rent, and beggared by the strumpet wind I " 
 
 — Merchant of Venice, ii. 6. 14. 
 
 " I preferred," he says, " the original, on the 
 
THE BARD. 309 
 
 ground that, in the imitation, it depended 
 wholly on the compositor's putting or not put- 
 ting a small capital both in this and many other 
 passages of the same poet, whether the words 
 should be personifications or mere abstracts. 
 I mention this because in referring various lines 
 in Gray to their original in Shakespeare and 
 Milton — and in the clear perception how com- 
 pletely all the propriety w^as lost in the transfer 
 ^I was, at that early period, led to a conjecture 
 which, many years afterwards, was recalled to 
 me from the same thought having been started 
 in conversation, but far more ably and devel- 
 oped more fully, by Mr. "Wordsworth, namely, 
 that this style of poetry, which I have charac- 
 terized above as translations of prose thoughts 
 into poetic language, had been kept up, if it 
 did not wholly arise from, the custom of 
 writing Latin verses, and the great impor- 
 tance attached to these exercises in our public 
 schools." He also observes that the words 
 " realm " and " sway " are rhymes dearly 
 purchased. 
 
 75. Cf. in his "Education and Govern- 
 ment " : — 
 
 " And where the deluge burst with sweepy sway." — 48. 
 
 The expression is from Dryden's translation 
 of Virgil : — 
 
310 NOTES. 
 
 " And rolling onwards with a sweepy sioay." 
 
 — Oeorgics, i. 483. 
 
 91-94. Above and below in the loom we in- 
 tertwine the roses, to be united by the marriage 
 of Henry VII. of Lancaster and Elizabeth of 
 York ; under the shade of which (union of rose 
 trees) Richard wallows in the blood of the slain 
 princess. He is represented as guilty of their 
 murder, and is under the shade of the united 
 roses, having been slain at the battle of Bos- 
 worth. 
 
 99. Half of thy heart. Cf. Horace's " animae 
 dimidium meae," " Ode " I. 3. Tennyson 
 alludes to the story of Eleanor's devotion to 
 her husband in his " Dream of Fair Women " :— 
 
 " Or her who knew that love can vanquish death, 
 Who kneeling with one arm about her king 
 
 Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, 
 Sweet as in new buds in spring." 
 
 105, 106. " Scenes unroll their skirts " is a 
 peculiar poetic imagery, A skirt is the edge 
 or lower part of a garment ; cf. " outskirts." 
 Gray had in mind Milton's use of skirt ; he 
 applies it to the outer edging of mists and 
 exhalations — 
 
 " Till the sun rise to deck your fleecy skirts 
 with gold."— Par. Lost, v. 187. 
 
 to the edge of the horizon — 
 
THE BARD. 31I 
 
 " From skirt to skirt a fiery region." — vi. 80. 
 
 to the distant appearance of God's glory — 
 
 " Dark with excessive bright thy skirts appear. 
 
 — iii. 380. 
 
 "Gladly behold though but his upmost skirts 
 Of glory,"— xi. 332. 
 
 107. Visions of glory . Webster, the Ameri- 
 can orator, introduced this passage thus, " Un- 
 born ages and visions of glory crowd upon my 
 soul ! " with fine effect in an eloquent passage 
 in an historical address on the anniversary of 
 Washington's birth, 23rd February, 1852. 
 
 108. unborn age occurs in the " Ode at the 
 Installation." 
 
 109-110. No more. . . All hail, ye genuine 
 Kings. None of the annotators have noted the 
 point in this couplet and in the remainder of 
 the bard's song, though Gray hints at it in his 
 note on line 110. Hitherto the bard has been 
 denouncing the woes that were to befall the 
 Plantagenet line, but on the extinction of the 
 House of York he foresees visions of glory for 
 his native land — not only was England to be- 
 come a Welsh dependency, ruled by Welsh 
 monarchs, but the race of the bards, that had 
 been cut off by the ruthless Edward, is restored 
 in Spencer and Shakespeare — a new era of 
 bards under a sovereign of Welsh descent ! 
 
312 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 110, 116. Britannia's issue di\idi of the Briton- 
 Line, are equivalent to " Welsh " the Kelts, 
 original Britons, having been driven into 
 Wales genuine. Native ; lit. " born," proceed- 
 ing from the original stock. He has it in the 
 same sense in " Agrippina " : — 
 
 "... who boast the genuine blood 
 Of our imperial house." 
 
 115-118. Elizabeth. Of the Briton- Line, i.e., 
 of the Welsh line, her grandfather Henry VII. 
 being the grandson of Ov^en Tudor, himself a 
 Welsh chief, and a descendant of the ancient 
 princes of that country. 
 
 123. soaring as she sings. Mitford refers to 
 Congreve's " Ode to Lord Godolphin " : — 
 
 " And soars with rapture while she sings." 
 
 Shelley in his " Ode to a Skylark " has given 
 a new turn to the words : — 
 
 " And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest." 
 
 133. warhlings. Warhle is a favourite word 
 of Gray's for song or verse — whether of birds 
 or poets. Of. " Ode on Spring," 5, " Progress 
 of Poesy," 26. He seems to have taken it like 
 many another word or phrase from Milton ; in 
 " 1' Allegro " Shakespeare is said to 
 
 " Warole his native wood-notes wild." 
 
THE BARD 313 
 
 Warble or warbling occurs fourteen times in 
 Milton, applied to birds, rivers, and the human 
 voice. 
 
 137. repairs, etc. This seems borrowed from 
 Milton : — 
 
 "So sinks the daystar in the ocean-bed, 
 And yet anon repairs his drooping head." 
 
 Lycidas, 168. 
 
 the golden flood. The bright beams of light. 
 
 With joy . . . our Fates, etc. The Bard is 
 still addressing Edward, and says he rejoices at 
 the different doom that awaits the king and 
 himself — the evil that is to fall on the house of 
 the monarch and his descendants and the 
 triumph of his own poetical descendants in the 
 persons of the Elizabethan poets. 
 
 Manuscript Readings.* 
 
 63. Victor. Conqueror. 
 
 64. His. The. 
 
 65. iV^o . . . . no. What .... what. 
 
 69. Hovered in the noontide ray. 
 
 70. Morn. Day. 
 
 71 — 76. Mirrors of Saxon truth and loyalty 
 Your helpless, old, expiring master 
 view ! 
 
 * These "readings" are what Gray wrote originally, but 
 struck out, writing above them, or in the margin, what he 
 finally approved of. 
 
314 NOTES. 
 
 Thej hear not ; scarce religion dares 
 supply 
 
 Her muttered requiems, and her holy- 
 dew, 
 ■ Yet thou, proud boy, from Pomfret's 
 walls shall send 
 
 A sigh, and envy oft thy happy grand- 
 sire's end. 
 
 82. A hateful smile. A smile of horror. 
 
 87. Ye. Grim. 
 
 90. Holy. Hallowed. 
 
 101. Thus. Here. 
 
 102. Me unhlessedy tmpitied, here. Your de- 
 spairing Caradoc. 103. Track. Clouds. 
 
 104. Melt. Sink. 
 
 105. Solemn scenes. Scenes of heaven. 
 
 106. Glittering. Golden. 
 
 109. No more our long lost, etc- 
 
 From Cambria's thousand hills a thousand strains 
 Triumphant tell aloud, another Arthur reigns. 
 
 Ill, 112. Youthful knights, and barons bold 
 With dazzling helm, and horrent spearo 
 
 117. Her . . . her. A . . . . an. 
 
THE FATAL SISTERS. 315 
 
 VII.— THE FATAL SISTERS. 
 
 This Ode was written in 1761, and first pub- 
 lished as the seventh in the Poems of 1768. In 
 a letter to Beattie, 1st February, 1768, Gray 
 states that his " sole reason " for publishing this 
 and the following odes is " to make up for the 
 omission of the Long Story," which he did not 
 include in his poems in 1768. 
 
 The Ode is a translation or paraphrase from 
 the Norwegian, the original being an Icelandic 
 court poem written about 1029, entitled 
 " Darradar Liod, or the Lay of Darts." It 
 refers to the battle of Clontarf, fought on Good 
 Friday, 1014, and represents the Weird Sisters 
 as appearing before the battle and weaving the 
 web of the fate of the King. There is also a 
 Latin version referred to by Gray. 
 
 The friend referred to in tlie advertisement 
 was Mason, and the " design was dropped " on 
 his hearing that Thomas Warton was engaged 
 on a History of English Poetry. Warton 
 (1728-1790) was Professor of Poetry at Oxford, 
 and succeeded Whitehead as Poet-Laureate ; 
 his " History of English Poetry " was not pub- 
 lished till 1774-78-81. 
 
 The title in the Pembroke MS. is " The Song 
 of the Valkyries." 
 
316 NOTES. 
 
 2 the loom, etc. "With the weaving here and 
 in the " Bard " compare the paraphrase of the 
 gipsy's song in *' Guy Mannering" : — 
 
 " Twist ye, twine ye I even so 
 Mingle shades of joy and woe, 
 Hope and fear, and peace and strife 
 In the thread of iiuman life. 
 
 • • ■ • • 
 
 Now they wax and now they dwindle, 
 Whirling with the whirling spindle," etc. 
 
 17, 18. The names of the sisters in the orig- 
 inal are Hilda, Hiorthrimula, Sangrida, and 
 Swipula. see. Lo ! used inter jectionally. 
 
 37-40. desert heach. Gray prints and spells 
 thus — desart-beach. 
 
 The meaning of this verse is that the tribe 
 which has hitherto been confined to the sea- 
 coast shall rule over rich provinces in the 
 interior of Ireland. 
 
 59, 60. These lines are not in the original. 
 The reference to Scotland is explained in the 
 Preface. 
 
 Yarious Headings. 
 
 15. Sioord. Blade. — Wharton MS. 
 
 17. Mista black. Sangrida. — Wharton MS. 
 
 18. Sangrida. Mista black. — Wharton MS. 
 23. Blade. Sword.— Wharton MS. 
 
 28. Triumpk is struck out and ' conquer ' in 
 the margin, Pembroke MS. 
 
THE DESCENT OF ODIN. 317 
 
 31. Gondula, and Geira. Gunna and Gon- 
 dula. — Pembroke and Wharton MSS. 
 33. Slaughter, havoc. — Pembroke MS. 
 
 44. Shall. Must.— Wharton MS. 
 
 45. His. Her.— Pembroke MS. 
 50. Blot. Veil.— Wharton MS. 
 
 59. Winding. Echoing. — Wharton MS. 
 64-66.-Sisters, hence, 'tis time to ride ; 
 
 Now your thundering f aulchion wield ; 
 Now your sable steed bestride. 
 Hurry, hurry to the field. 
 
 — Pembroke MS. 
 
 YIIL— THE DESCENT. OF ODIN. 
 
 This Ode, as well as the preceding and the 
 following one, was first published in the edi- 
 tion of 1768. Mitford follows the original title 
 in the Wharton MS. and calls it "The Yeg- 
 tara's Kivitha." 
 
 The original is to be found in Ssemund's 
 Edda. The first five stanzas of this Ode are 
 omitted ; in which Balder, one of the sons of 
 Odin, was informed that he should soon die. 
 Upon his communication of his dream, the 
 other gods, finding it true, by consulting the 
 oracles, agreed to ward off the approaching 
 danger, and sent Frigga to exact an oath from 
 everything not to injure Balder. She, how- 
 
 22— G & 0— BB 
 
318 NOTES. 
 
 ever, overlooked the mistletoe, with a branch 
 of which he was afterwards slain by Hoder, at 
 the instigation of Lok. After the execution of 
 this commission, Odin, still alarmed for the 
 life of his son, called another council ; and 
 hearing nothing but divided opinions among 
 the gods, to consult the Prophetess " he up-rose 
 with speed." Yali, or Ali, the son of Rinda, 
 afterwards avenged the death of Balder, by 
 slaying Hoder, and is called a " wondrous boy, 
 because he killed his enemy, before he was a 
 day old ; before he had washed his face, 
 combed his hair, or seen one setting-sun." See 
 Herbert's " Icelandic Translations." — Mitford. 
 The first five stanzas are given in S. Jones' 
 edition of Gray. 
 
 4. Hela, in the Edda, is described with a 
 dreadful countenance, and her body half flesh- 
 colour, and half blue.* 
 
 5. The Edda gives this dog the name of 
 Managarmar. He fed upon the lives of those 
 that were to die. — Mason. 
 
 22. In a little poem called the " Magic of 
 Odin " (Bartholinus, p. 641), Odin says, " If I 
 see a man dead, and hanging aloft on a tree, I 
 engrave Runic characters so wonderful, that 
 the man immediately descends and converses 
 with me. When I see mao;icians travellins: 
 through the air, 1 disconcert them with a single 
 
THE DESCENT OF ODIN. 319 
 
 look, and force them to abandon their enter- 
 prise. " — Mitford. 
 
 24. verse that wakes the dead. The original 
 word is Valgalldr\ from Valr, mortuus, and 
 Oalldr^ incantatio.* 
 
 40. Odin we find both from this Ode and the 
 Edda was solicitous about the fate of his son, 
 Balder, who had dreamed he was soon to die. 
 The Edda mentions the manner of his death 
 when killed by Odin's other son, Hoder, and 
 also that Hoder was himself slain by Vali, the 
 son of Odin and Einda, consonant with this 
 prophecy. — Mason. 
 
 51. Women were looked upon by the Gothic 
 nations as having a peculiar insight into futu- 
 rity ; and some there were that made profession 
 of magic arts and divination. These travelled 
 round the country, and were received in every 
 house with great respect and honour. Such a 
 woman bore the name of Volva, Seidkona, or 
 Spakona. The dress of Thorbiorga, one of 
 these prophetesses, is described at large in 
 Eirik's " Rauda Sogu " (apud Bartholin, lib iii. 
 cap. iv. p. 688). She had on a blue vest span- 
 gled all over with stones, a necklace of glass 
 
 * The notes marked thus (*) are marked G in Mason's 
 Notes, but they never appeared in any edition published 
 in Gray's lifetime. They were taken by Mason from 
 notes in Gray's Commonplace Book, Pembroke MSS. 
 
320 NOTES. 
 
 beads, and a cap made of the skin of a black 
 lamb lined with white cat-skin. She leaned on 
 a staff adorned with brass, with a round head 
 set with stones ; and was girt with an Hun- 
 landish belt, at which hung her pouch full of 
 magical instruments. Her buskins were of 
 rough calf-skin, bound on with thongs studded 
 with knobs of brass, and her gloves of white 
 cat-skin, the fur turned inwards, etc. They 
 were also called Fiolkyiigi^ or Fiolkunnug, i.e.y 
 Multi-scia ; and Visindakona, i.e., Oraculorum 
 Mulier, Nor^iir, i.e., Parcae. 
 
 55. See Matthew Arnold's " Balder Dead," 
 1-8:— 
 
 "So on the floor lay Balder dead : and round 
 Lay thickly strewn swords, axes, darts, and spears, 
 Which all the Gods in sport had idly thrown 
 At Balder, whom no weapon pierced or clove ; 
 But in his breast stood fixt the fatal bough 
 Of mistletoe, which Lok the Accuser gave 
 To Hoder, and unwitting Hoder threw — 
 'Gainst that alone had Balder's life no charm." 
 
 QQ. King Harold made (according to the 
 singular custom of his time) a solemn vow 
 never to clip or corah his hair, till he should 
 have extended his sway over the whole country. 
 Herbert, " Icelandic Translations." In the 
 " Dying Song of k.'&\)iOYn.''^—Mitford. 
 
 75. What virgins these. These were the Norns 
 
THE DESCENT OF ODIN. 321 
 
 or Fates, invisible to mortals ; so by recogniz- 
 ing them Odin revealed his divinity. 
 
 Various Readings in the Wharton MS. 
 
 11. Fruitless. Ceaseless. 
 
 14. Shakes. Quakes. 
 
 23. Accents. Murmurs. 
 
 27. Call. Voice. 
 
 29. My troubled. A weary, 
 
 35. He. This. 
 
 41. To7i. The. 
 
 48. ReacJi. Touch. 
 
 51, 52. Prophetess, my call obey, 
 
 Once again arise and say. 
 59, 60. Once again my call obey. 
 
 Prophetess, arise and say. 
 61, 62. Who tK Avenger., etc. These verses 
 are transposed in the Wharton MS. 
 65. Wond'rous. Giant. 
 74. Awake. Arise. 
 77. That. Who. Flaxen. Flovs^ing. 
 79. Tell me. Say from. 
 83. The mightiest of the mighty line. 
 87. Hence and. Odin. 
 90. Has. Have. 
 92. Has 7'eassumed. Reassumes her, 
 
 21 
 
322 NOTES. 
 
 IX. THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEK 
 
 The original Welsh of the above poem was the 
 composition of Gwalchmai, the son of Melir, 
 immediately after Prince Owen Gwynedd had 
 defeated the combined fleets of Iceland, Den- 
 mark, and Norway, which had invaded his ter- 
 ritory on the coast of Anglesea. There is like- 
 wise another poem which describes this famous 
 battle, written by Prince Howel, the son of 
 Owen Gwynedd. — Mitford. 
 
 10. Squadrons three. The fleets of Ireland 
 (Erin), Denmark (Lochlin), and Norway. 
 
 11-14. The construction is : " This (squad- 
 ron) hiding (concealing) the Irish force ; Loch- 
 lin, riding side by side as proudly, ploughs the 
 way," etc. 
 
 13. On her shadow. The Danish fleet sails 
 on the shadow it makes in the water. Canning 
 in his celebrated simile, speaks of " those tre- 
 mendous fabrics now reposing on their shadows 
 in perfect stillness." — Candy. Her stands for 
 Lochlin, an army or fleet being often described 
 by the name of the country itself, long and 
 gay agree with Lochlin. 
 
 14, 15. See Scott's " Lay of the Last Min- 
 strel," vi. 22 :— 
 
THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN. 323 
 
 *' For thither came, in times afar, 
 
 Stern LocJilin's sons of roving war, 
 
 The Norsemen trained to spoil and blood." 
 
 —324-326. 
 
 22. ruby crest. A red dragon was the device 
 Owen wore, 
 
 25. Talymalfra. Moelfre, a small bay on the 
 north-east coast of Anglesea. 
 
 27. After line 26 there are the four following 
 lines in the MS. ; but, though Gray never 
 printed them, Mason inserted them in his edi- 
 tion, and they have been retained in the text 
 by all subsequent editors. 
 
 Checked by the torrent-tide of blood. 
 Backward Meinai rolls his flood ; 
 While, heaped his master's feet around, 
 Prostrate %varriors gnaw the ground. 
 
 27. From this line to the end is Gray's am- 
 plification rather than a translation, very little 
 of it being in the original, which closes as fol- 
 lows : " And the glory of our Prince's wide- 
 wasting sword shall be celebrated in a hundred 
 languages, to give him his merited praise." 
 
 The omission of this sentence and his not 
 printing the four lines quoted above may ac- 
 count for Gray's describing this as " a Frag- 
 ment." 
 
 30, 31. Marking . . . J^ear, etc. Marking 
 ivith indignant looks those who were afraid to 
 
324 NOTES. 
 
 stop, or ashamed to fl3\ This is a peculiar use 
 of the abstract for the concrete. Marking 
 agrees with he. 
 
 X.— THE ELEGY. 
 
 The " Elegy Written in a Country Church- 
 Yard " was begun at Stoke-Poges in 1742, prob- 
 ably about the time of the death of Gray's 
 uncle, Jonathan Kogers, who died there on the 
 21st of October. In the winter of 1749, after 
 the death of his aunt, Mary Antrobus, Gray 
 resumed it at Cambridge, and finished it at 
 Stoke early in June, 1750 ; and on the 12th of 
 that month he sent a copy of it in MS. to Horace 
 Walpole, who circulated it among his friends. 
 On the 10th of February, 1751, Gray received 
 a letter from the editors of the " Magazine of 
 Magazines," asking permission to publish it. 
 He thereupon wrote next day to Walpole, as 
 follows : — 
 
 " Cambridge, Feb. 11, 1751. 
 
 " As you have brought me into a little sort 
 of distress, you must assist me, I believe, to get 
 out of it as well as I can. Yesterday I had the 
 misfortune of receiving a letter from certain 
 gentlemen (as their bookseller expresses it), 
 who have taken the ' Magazine of Magazines ' 
 
THE ELEGY. 325 
 
 into their hands. They tell me that an ingenious 
 Poem, called ' Keflections in a Country Church- 
 yard,' has been communicated to them, which 
 they are printing forthwith ; that they are in- 
 formed that the excellent author of it is I by 
 name, and that they beg not only his indulgence 
 but the honour of his correspondence, etc. As 
 I am not at all disposed to be either so indul- 
 gent, or so correspondent as they desire, I have 
 but one bad way left to escape the honour 
 they would inflict upon me ; and therefore 
 am obliged to desire you would make Dodsley 
 print it immediately (which may be done in 
 less than a week's time), from your copy, but 
 without my name, in what form is most con- 
 venient for him, but on his best paper and 
 character ; he must correct the press himself, 
 and print it without any interval between the 
 stanzas because the sense is in some places con- 
 tinued beyond them ; and the title must be, 
 — Elegy, written in a Country Church-yard.' 
 If he would add aline or two to say it came 
 to his hands by accident, 1 should like it bettor. 
 If you behold the 'Magazine of Magazines' in 
 the light that I do, you will not refuse to give 
 yourself this trouble on my account, which you 
 have taken of your own accord before now. 1 1 
 Dodsley do not do this immediately, he may 
 as well let it alone." 
 
326 NOTES. 
 
 "Walpole lost no time, and on the 16th of 
 February the poem was published in a quarto 
 pamphlet, the following being the contents of 
 the title-page : — *' An Elegy Wrote in a Coun- 
 try Church Yard. London : Printed for R. 
 Dodsley in Pali-Mall ; and sold by M. Cooper 
 in Pater-Noster Row. 1751. ( Price six- 
 pence.) " 
 
 This then was the first appearance of the 
 *' Elegy" in print. It was anonymous, and 
 contained these prefatory remarks by Wal- 
 pole : — 
 
 Advertisement. — The following Poem came 
 into my Hands by Accident, if the general Ap- 
 probation with which this little Piece has been 
 spread, may be called by so slight a Term as 
 Accident. It is this Approbation which makes 
 it unnecessary for me to make any Apology but 
 to the Author As he cannot but feel some 
 Satisfaction in having pleas'd so many Readers 
 already, I flatter myself he will forgive my 
 communicating that Pleasure to many more. — 
 The Editor. 
 
 The poem was at once reproduced in the 
 magazines ; it appeared in the " Magazine of 
 Magazines " on the 28th of February, in the 
 " London Magazine " and in the " Scots' Maga- 
 zine," on the 31st of March and in the " Grand 
 Magazine of Magazines " on the 30th of April. 
 
THE ELEGY. 327 
 
 Gray has entered the following note in the 
 margin of the Pembroke MS. : — " Published 
 in Febry. 1751, by Dodsley, & went thro' four 
 editions, in two months ; and afterwards a 
 fifth, 6th, Tth, & 8th, 9th, 10th, & 11th ; print- 
 ed also in 1753 with Mr. Bentley's Designs, of 
 wch. there is a 2d edition ; & again by Dodsley 
 in his * Miscellany,' vol. 4th, & in a Scotch Col- 
 lection call'd the ' Union ' ; translated into Latin 
 by Chr. Anstey, Esq., and the Revd. Mr. Rob- 
 erts, & published in 1762, & again in the same 
 year by Rob. Lloyd, M. A." 
 
 It first appeared with Gray's name in the 
 " Six Poems " of 1753. 
 
 Mason says that Gray " originally gave it 
 only the simple title of ' Stanzas written in a 
 Country Church-yard,' " but that he " persuad- 
 ed him first to call it an Elegy, because the 
 subject authorized him so to do, and the alter- 
 nate measure seemed particularly fit for that 
 species of composition ; also so capital a poem 
 written in this measure, would as it were ap- 
 propriate it in future to writings of this sort." 
 
 The title of the eighth edition, 1753, is 
 " Elegy, originally written in a Country Church- 
 yard." 
 
 Three copies of the " Elegy " in Gray's hand- 
 writing still exist. One of these belonged to 
 Wharton, and is now among the Egerton MSS. 
 
328 NOTES. 
 
 in the British Museum, and this copy is there- 
 fore referred to as the " Egerton MS." The 
 two other copies were among the " books, man- 
 uscripts, coins, music printed or written and 
 papers of all kinds," which Gray bequeathed 
 in his will to Mason, " to preserve or destroy at 
 his own discretion." These Mason bequeathed 
 to Stonehewer (Fellow of St. Peter's College, 
 Cambridge, and a friend of Gray's), who, at 
 his death in 1809, left the greater portion to 
 Pembroke College, and the remainder to his 
 friend Mr. Bright, — each set containing a copy 
 of the " Elegy." The copy in the possession of 
 the College is usually described as the " Pem- 
 broke MS., " and of it there is a facsimile in 
 Mathias' edition of Gray's Works, published in 
 1814. The collection left to Mr. Bright was 
 sold by auction in 1845 ; the MS. of the 
 " Elegy " was bought by Mr. Granville John 
 Penn, of Stoke Park, for £100 ; in 1854 the MS. 
 was sold for £131 ; and in 1875 it was bought 
 by Sir William Eraser for £230, who had 100 
 copies of it printed in 1884. Mr. Rolfe calls this 
 the " Eraser MS. " ; and Mr. Gosse refers to it 
 as the " Mason MS." ; but it may not always 
 belong to the Eraser family ; and " Mason MS. " 
 is not suflBciently distinctive, as the " Pembroke 
 MS." was also Mason's. As this MS. seems to 
 have been the rough draft, and contains a 
 
THE ELEGY. 329 
 
 greater number of original readings and alter- 
 ations, the other two apparently being made 
 from it by Gray when he had almost ceased cor- 
 recting the " Elegy," I shall refer to it in the 
 Notes and Various Readings as the " Original 
 MS." 
 
 1. The Curfew. The curfew was a bell, or 
 the ringing of a bell, rung at eight o'clock in 
 the evening for putting out fires ( Fr. couvre, 
 cover, and feu, fire), a custom introduced by 
 William the Conqueror. The word continued 
 to be applied to an evening bell long after the 
 law for putting out fires ceased, but it is not 
 now so used, and the word would have become 
 obsolete but for Gray's use of it here, and when 
 one speaks of the curfew one thinks of the first 
 line of the " Elegy." It occurs frequently in 
 Shakespeare, and Milton uses it twice, — 
 *' Comus," 435, and in the well-known lines in 
 " II Penseroso '' : — 
 
 " I hear the far-off curfew sound 
 Over some wide-watered shore." — 74, 75. 
 
 Gray quotes in original the lines from Dante 
 which suggested this line. Gary's translation 
 is as follows : — 
 
 " And pilgrim, newly on his road with love, 
 Tlirills if he hear the vesper bell from far, 
 That seems to mourn for the expiring day." 
 
330 NOTES. 
 
 2. wind. This is the correct reading, as, 
 though winds occur in the first printed edition 
 (1751), wind is what Gray has in the MS. copies 
 and in the first edition of his Poems (1768), as 
 well as in all reprints of the " Elegy " approved 
 by him. After 1751 the first edition I find 
 with winds is Stephen Jones' (1799), and though 
 Mitford in his edition of 1814 has wind in the 
 Aldine edition (1836) he has winds, and is fol- 
 lowed — without comment — by almost all sub- 
 sequent editors of Gray's " Poems," and in 
 popular reprints of the " Elegy." Another 
 false reading is herds for herd. 
 
 13. that yew-tree. The yew-tree under which 
 Gray often sat in Stoke churchyard still exists 
 there ; it is on the south side of the church, it? 
 branches spread over a large circumference, 
 and under it as well as under its shade there 
 are several graves. 
 
 14. Wakefield quotes from Parnell's 
 « Night Piece on Death " (1722) :— 
 
 " Those graves with bending osier bound, 
 
 That nameless heave the crumbled ground." — 29, 30. 
 
 16. rudeYieve means rustic, simple ; he applies 
 it to the beach, " Spring," 13. Throughout the 
 " Elegy" he refers to the poor, the people of 
 the hamlet, as contrasted with the rich, who 
 were interred and had their monmuents inside 
 
THE ELEGY. 331 
 
 the church. In the MSS. left by Mitford, now 
 in the British Museum, he has recorded the fol- 
 lowing line found among Gray's papers, jotted 
 down probably for the " Elegy," of. lines 57-60 ; 
 it may be quoted here as an illustration of his 
 use of rude : — 
 
 " The rude Columbus of an infant world." 
 
 13-16. This stanza and the ninth form the 
 inscription on the east side of the monument to 
 Gray in Stoke Park. 
 
 17. incense-hreathing. Sending forth fragrant 
 
 smells. 
 
 " Now whenas sacred light began to dawn 
 In Eden on the humid flowers, that breathed 
 Their morning incense.''— Par. Lost, ix. 192-194. 
 
 19. The coc^s shrill clarion. A clarion is a 
 wind instrument, a kind of trumpet, with a 
 shrill sound, from Lat. clarus, clear. It is 
 from Milton that he takes clarion for the sound 
 of the cock's crow : — 
 
 " . . . . the crested cock, whose clarion sounds 
 The silent hours."— Par. Lost, vii. 443. 
 
 Cf. also : — 
 
 " When chanticleer with clarion shrill recalls 
 The tardy day."— Philip's Cyder, i. 753 (pub. 1708). 
 
 " The cock that is the trumpet to the morn 
 Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat 
 Awake the god of day."— Haialet, i. 1. 150. 
 
g32 NOTES. 
 
 In the original MS. the reading is : — " Or 
 chanticleer so shrill or echoing horn " ; the 
 word " chanticleer " itself meaning " clear- 
 singing," and the name of the cock in Chaucer's 
 " Nun's Priest's Tale " was * Chauntecleer.' 
 the echoing horn. The huntsman's horn, that 
 wakens echoes. Cf. Milton again : — 
 
 " Oft listening how the hounds and horn 
 Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, 
 From the side of some hoar hill 
 Through the high wood echoing shrill." 
 
 —V Allegro, 53. 
 
 20. their lowly hed. The humble bed in which 
 they have been sleeping. Lloyd in his Latin 
 translation strangely mistook " lowly bed " for 
 the grave. 
 
 21-24. The following are parallel passages :— 
 
 " Jam jam non domus acciplet te laeta, neque uxor 
 Optima, nee dulces occurrent oscula nati 
 Praeripere, et tacita pectus dulcedine tangent." 
 
 — Lucretius, ill. 894. 
 
 " Quod si pudica mulier in partem juvet 
 
 Domum atque dulces liberos, . . . 
 Sacrum et vetustis exstruat lignis focum 
 
 Lassi sub adventum viri." — Horace, Epode, ii. 39. 
 
 " In vain for him the officious wife prepares 
 The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm ; 
 In vain his little children, peeping out 
 Into the mingled storm, demand their sire 
 With tears of artless innocence." 
 
 —Thomson, Winter, 
 
THE ELEGY. 333 
 
 22. jply Tier . . . care. Be busied at her 
 household duties. Some annotators talie ex- 
 ception to this use of ply ; but it is a shortened 
 form of apply similarly used by Milton and old 
 writers : — " He is ever at his plow, he is ever 
 applying his iusiness.'^ — Latimer. 
 
 " The birds their choir apply.— Pai\ Lost, iv. 264. 
 " Assiduous in his bower the wailing owl 
 Plies his sad song."— Thomson, Winter, 114. 
 
 And Gray has " their labours ply " in the " Ode 
 on Eton," 32. The expression is a good in- 
 stance of the poetical language against which 
 Wordsworth protested. When he had occa- 
 sion to refer to a similar scene, he wrote : — 
 
 " And she I cherished turned her wheel 
 Beside an English fire." 
 
 25. the stiMorn glehe. Luke quotes from 
 Gay's « Fables " :— 
 
 " 'Tis mine to tame the stxCbhom glebe.'" 
 
 Glehe is used in its primary sense from Lat. 
 gleha., a sod, the ground : — 
 
 " Rastris glebas qui frangit inertes. "—(Jeorgrzcs, i. 94. 
 
 2Y. afield. To the field. Milton's expres- 
 sion, " we drove afield," " Lycidas," 27. 
 
 28. Wakefield quotes from Spenser's " Shep- 
 herd 's Kalendar " : — 
 
334 NOTES. 
 
 " But to the root bent his sturdie stroah, 
 And made many wounds in the wast oak." 
 
 — February. 
 
 sturdy stroke also occurs in Dryden's transla- 
 tion of the " Georgics," iii. 639. 
 
 32. This, like many another line of the 
 " Elegy," may be said to be part of the English 
 language ; it was " chiselled for immortality." 
 
 33-36. This stanza is the second of the two 
 on the east side of the monument, vide note on 
 13-16. 
 
 Hurd refers to these lines in his note on the 
 following passage in Cowley : — 
 
 " Beauty, and strength, and wit, and wealth, and 
 power, 
 
 Have their short flourishing hour ; 
 And love to see themselves, and smile, 
 And joy in their pre-eminence a while ; 
 
 E'en so in the same land 
 Poor weeds, rich corn, gay flowers together stand. 
 Alas 1 Death mows down all with an impartial hand." 
 
 But Gray is likely to have had West and his 
 " Monody on Queen Caroline " in his mind ; 
 not only as the early death of his friend which 
 occurred a few months before he began to write 
 the " Elegy," was almost always before him, 
 but as West's Ode (which Gray refers to in a 
 letter in Nov. 1747 as, " in spite of the subject, 
 excellent ") had been published a few months 
 
THE ELEGY. 335 
 
 before he finished the " Elegy," in Yol. II. of 
 Dodsley's " Collection," immediately after 
 Gray's three Odes. The lines are : — 
 
 "These are thy glorious deeds, almighty Death I 
 
 These are thy triumphs o'er the sons of men, 
 That now receive the miserable breath, 
 
 Which the next moment they resign agrin I 
 Ah me ! what boots us all our boasted jwiver, 
 
 Our golden treasure, and our purple state ; 
 They cannot ward th' inevitable hour, 
 
 Nor stay the fearful -violence of fate." — 73--80. 
 
 35. Awaits. This is Gray's reading in his 
 MSS. and in the editions published by him ; 
 but almost all editors follow Mason and Mitford 
 and read await. Scott of Amwell in his " Crit- 
 ical Essay " on the " Elegy," published in 1785, 
 writes in a footnote : " It should be aioait, the 
 plural, for it includes a number of circum- 
 stances." I have traced await back to the 
 appearance of the "Elegy " in Dodsley's " Col- 
 lection of Poems," i.e., in Volume IV. published 
 in 1755. But as in the editions of the " Elegy " 
 in 1753, " corrected by the author," and in his 
 last edition, 1768, Gray prints awaits, it is clear 
 that he intended it to be so retained ; besides, 
 it is better to take " inevitable hour " as the 
 subject of " awaits," and not " boast," " pomp," 
 etc. ; as not only is this inversion more in Gray's 
 manner, but also the statement that the in- 
 
336 NOTES. 
 
 evitable hour of death is waiting for the great, 
 the beautiful and the wealthy, like the 
 
 " whirlwind's sway, 
 That hushed in grim repose expects his evening prey." 
 
 Also see " Epitaph on Mrs. Clarke," 11 ; and 
 " Shakespeare Yerses," 8. 
 
 36. In Hayley's life of Crashaw," in the 
 Biographia Britannica, it is said that this line 
 is " literally translated from the Latin prose of 
 Bartholinus in his Danish Antiquities." 
 
 44. dull cold. These words occur together in 
 Shakespeare : — 
 
 " And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, 
 And sleep in dull cold marble." 
 
 —Henry VIII. iii. 2. 433. 
 
 46. pregnant with celestial fire. Full of 
 heaven-sent inspiration ; cf. " the Muse's^^me," 
 line 72 ; a " prophet's fire,'' " The Bard," 21. 
 Cowper has the expression in " Boadicea " : — 
 
 " Sucli the bard's prophetic words, 
 
 Pregnant with celestial fire, 
 Bending as he swept the chords 
 
 Of his sweet but awful lyre." 
 
 47. rod. He first wrote reins / and changed 
 it probably because Tickell has it in his lines 
 on the death of Addison " To Earl Warwick " : — 
 
 " Proud names, who once the reins of empire held." 
 
 —37. 
 
 63-56. Various originals have been cited for 
 
THE ELEGY. 337 
 
 this famous stanza, but often as the thought 
 may have occurred before Gray it is in the 
 form in which he has worded it that it is known 
 the world over. Mitford quotes : — 
 
 " There is many a rich stone laid up in the 
 bowels of the earth, many a fair pear'l in the 
 bosom of the sea, that never was seen, nor never 
 shall be." Bishop Hall's "Contemplations," 
 vi. 872. 
 
 A writer in the " Gentleman's Magazine " for 
 May, 1782, refers to Young, " Universal Pas- 
 sion " : — 
 " In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen, 
 She rears her flowers, and spreads her velvet green ; 
 Pure gurgling rills the lonely desert trace, 
 And ivaste their music on the savage race." — Sat. v. 
 
 Gray introduces " the gem and the flower " in 
 his " Ode at the Installation " (written nearly 
 twenty years later) thus : — 
 
 " Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye, 
 Thefloiver unheeded shall descry. 
 And bid it round heaven's altars shed 
 The fragrance of its blushing head ; 
 Shall raise from earth the latent gem 
 To glitter on the diadem."— 71-76. 
 
 56. This line occurs in Churchill's " Gotham," 
 
 ii. 19, 20, published 1764, by which time it 
 
 was probably a familiar quotation : — 
 
 " So that they neither give a tawdry glare, 
 Nor waste their sweetness on the desert air.' " 
 
338 NOTES. 
 
 59. For the allusions to Hampden (1594- 
 1643), Milton (1608-1674), and Cromwell (1599- 
 1658), the student should refer to a History. 
 
 Instead of these three names there are, in the 
 Original MS., Cato, Tully, and Caesar; but 
 the change to well-known characters of our 
 own country has added to the vividness as well 
 as fixed the nationality of a poem that has been 
 translated into so many languages. 
 
 It is noteworthy that both Hampden and 
 Milton lived in Buckinghamshire — the county in 
 which is the Stoke-Poges Churchyard. Hamp- 
 den was M.P. for Buckingham, and it was as 
 a resident of that county that he refused to 
 pay ship money. Chalfont, in which is the cot- 
 tage where Milton finished " Paradise Lost," 
 is only a few miles from the " Churchyard " 
 of the " Elegy." 
 
 Mitford quotes the following from Plautus 
 as the thought in brief of this stanza and lines 
 45-48 :— 
 
 " Ut saepe summa ingenia in occulto latent, 
 Hie qualie imperator, nunc privatus est." 
 
 — Captiv. iv. 2. 
 
 63. To scatter plenty, etc. Mitford quotes 
 a line from Tickell, and one from Mrs. Behn 
 containing these expressions ; but Gray repeats 
 what he wrote in "Education and Govern- 
 ment " : — 
 
THE ELEGY. 339 
 
 " If equal Justice with unclouded face 
 
 Smile not indulgent on the rising race, 
 
 And scatter with a free, though frugal, hand 
 
 Like golden showers of plenty o'er the Za«d."— 15-18. 
 
 The early poems and translations of Gray, 
 unpublished in his lifetime, and now so little 
 read, are like a storehouse from which he took 
 thoughts and expressions for the " Odes " and 
 " Elegy." In " Agrippina " he has " the sen- 
 ate's joint applause," 77 (" Elegy," 61) ; " he 
 lived unknown to fame or fortune," 38 (" Elegy," 
 118), and (besides several others) : — 
 
 " Thus ever grave and undisturbed reflection 
 Pours its cool dictates in the madding ear 
 Of rage, and thinks to quench the fire it feels not." 
 
 —81-83. 
 
 70. quench the blushes. This is in Shake- 
 speare, " Winter's Tale," iv. 4. 67 :-- - 
 
 " Come, quench your blushes, and present yourself." 
 
 ingenuous. Genuine, natural ; the " in " has 
 not a negative force. 
 
 72. After this verse, in the Original MS. 
 of the poem, are the four following stanzas : — 
 
 The thoughtless world to Majesty may bow. 
 
 Exalt the brave, and idolize success ; 
 But more to innocence their safety owe 
 
 Than power and genius e'er conspired to bless. 
 
 And thou, who mindful of th' unhonoured dead 
 Dost in these notes their artless tale relate, 
 
340 NOTES. 
 
 By Night and lonely Contemplation led 
 To linger in the gloomy walks of Fate ; 
 
 Hark ; how the sacred Calm, that broods around, 
 Bids ev'ry fierce tumultuous passion cease ; 
 
 In still small accents whispering from the ground 
 A grateful earnest of eternal Peace. 
 
 No more with reason and thyself at strife, 
 Give anxious cares and endless wishes room ; 
 
 But thro' the cool sequestered vale of life 
 Pursue the silent tenor of thy doom. 
 
 73. madding. " Maddening " would be the 
 more correct formation ; but Gray's use of 
 madding has given it currency, and " Far from 
 the Madding Crowd " has been adopted as the 
 title of a novel, just as " Annals of the Poor," 
 32, supplies the title of Leigh Richmond's well- 
 known work. Rogers quotes from one of Drum= 
 mond's " Sonnets " : — - 
 
 " Far from the madding worldling's hoarse discord." 
 
 Madding occurs in " Paradise Lost " : — 
 
 " the madding wheels 
 Of brazen chariots raged." — vi. 210. 
 
 Gray has it in "Agrippina," 83, already quoted. 
 81. sj)elt hy W unlettered Muse means com- 
 posed or engraved b}^ an illiterate person. Gray 
 had probably in mind that under the yew-tree 
 there is a tombstone with several words wrongly 
 spelt and some letters ill-formed, and that even 
 
THE ELEGY. 341 
 
 in the inscription which he composed for his 
 aunt's tomb the word resurrection is spelt in- 
 correctly by the unlettered stone-cutter. 
 
 85-88. This stanza is capable of two construc- 
 tions, according as we take frey in agreement 
 with who or with heinij. I prefer the former : — 
 For what person, a prey to forgetfulness, ever 
 resigned his life, and left the world, without 
 casting a regretful look behind ? If jprey be 
 taken with heing^ then " to dumb Forgetfulness 
 a prey " is the completion of the predicate 
 resigned^ and we have two questions asked : — 
 For who ever resigned this life to be a prey to 
 forgetfulness, and left the world without, etc. ? 
 
 85. The For refers to what has gone before, 
 lines Y7-84: ; even to these poor rustics there are 
 memorials that ask for the sympathy of the 
 passer-by, because who ever left the world 
 without a regretful look and a desire to be re- 
 membered % ajprey^ given over to, the victim of. 
 
 87. precincts of the day. Gray probably 
 took this expression from " Paradise Lost," iii. 
 88, the only place in .Milton's poems where 
 " precincts " occurs : — 
 
 " Not far off Heaven, in the precincts of light." 
 
 89-92. This stanza may be regarded as an 
 answer to the question in the last : When dying 
 one rests on some loving friend, and needs the 
 
 22— a & G— cc 
 
342 NOTES. 
 
 tears of affection ; and even after one is buried 
 the same natural desire for loving remem- 
 brance shows itself ; and when all is dust and 
 ashes the fire that was accustomed to be in 
 those ashes lives in them (and finds expression 
 in the inscription on the tombs). 
 
 Here Mitford quotes Drayton and Pope : — 
 
 *' It is some comfort to a wretch to die, 
 (If there be comfort in the way of death) 
 To have some friend, or kind alliance by 
 To be officious at the parting breath."— ilibses. 
 *' No friend's complaint, no hind domestic tear 
 Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier, 
 By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed.'" 
 
 —Elegy, 81. 
 
 92. The translation (by ISTott) of the lines 
 Gray quotes from Petrarch is : — 
 
 " These, my sweet fair, so warns prophetic thought, 
 (Closed thy bright eye, and mute thy poet's tongue) 
 E'en after death shall still with sparks be fraught." 
 
 Gray translated this sonnet into Latin Ele- 
 giacs, the last two lines of his version being : — 
 
 Infelix musa seternos spirabit amores, 
 Ardebitque urna multa fa villa mea, 
 
 Still more closely does line 92 resemble one in 
 Chaucer, in the " Reeve's Prologue," speaking 
 of old men not forgetting the passions of their 
 youth : — 
 
 " Yet in our ashen cold is fire yreken." — 3880. 
 
THE ELEGY. 343 
 
 It has been suggested that the first line of this 
 stanza seems to regard the near approach of 
 death ; the second, its actual advent ; the third, 
 the time immediately succeeding its advent ; the 
 fourth, a time still later. 
 
 93-96. This stanza is altered from the second 
 of the rejected stanzas quoted above as coming 
 after line 72 in the Original MS. ; and in that 
 MS. instead of this stanza (lines 93-96) there 
 are two, the entry in the MS. being : — " For 
 thee Avho mindful, etc., as above," i.e, the re- 
 mainder of the rejected stanza, and after that 
 the following : — 
 
 " If chance that e'er some pensive spirit more 
 By sympathetic musings here delayed, 
 
 With vain tho' kind inquiry shall explore 
 Thy once loved haunt, this long deserted shade. 
 
 98. peep of dawn. Both here and in the 
 " Installation Ode " Gray has Milton's expres- 
 sions in view : — 
 
 " See the blabbing eastern scout, 
 
 The nice Morn, on the Indian steep, 
 
 From her cabined loopliole peep, 
 
 And to the tell-tale sun descry 
 
 Our concealed solemnity."— Comus, 138-142. 
 
 And in the " Installation Ode " he puts the 
 
 following words into Milton's mouth, — dawn 
 
 rhyming as here with laion : — 
 
 " Oft at the blush of dawn 
 
 I trod your level lawn." — 30, 31. 
 
344 NOTES. 
 
 99, 100. Brushing ... the dews . . . uj)- 
 land lawn. Milton's words again : — 
 
 ..." though from off the boughs each morn 
 We brush mellifluous deivs." — Par. Lost, v. 428, 429. 
 
 *' Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 
 Under the opening eyelids of the morn, 
 We drove afield." — Lycidas, 25-27. 
 
 After this stanza there is the following in the 
 Original MS. :— 
 
 Hira have we seen the greenwood side along, 
 While o'er the heath we hied, our labours done, 
 
 Oft as the woodlark piped her farewell song. 
 With wistful eyes pursue the setting sun. 
 
 " I rather wonder that he rejected this stanza, 
 as it not only has the same sort of Doric del- 
 icacy which charms us peculiarly in this part 
 of the poem, but also completes the account of 
 his whole day ; whereas, this evening scene 
 being omitted, we have only his morning walk, 
 and his noon-tide repose." — Mason. 
 
 In a footnote the reviewer of Mason's edition 
 of Gray's Poems, in the " Gentleman's Maga- 
 zine," June, 1775, says Gray plainly alludes to 
 this stanza and this evening employment when 
 in a subsequent stanza he mentions not only the 
 customed hill, etc., but also the heath. 
 
 101. yonder nodding beech. It is " at the 
 fooV^ of a beech that Gray describes himself as 
 "squatting," in a letter to Walpole (already 
 
THE ELEGY. 345 
 
 quoted, note on line 17 of the " Ode on the 
 Spring"), and there he "grows to the trunk 
 for a whole morning." 
 
 103. listless length. Cf. in "As You Like 
 It,"ii. 1,31:— 
 
 " He lay along 
 Under an oak, whose antique roots peep out 
 Upon the brook that brawls along this wood." 
 
 107. In the Pembroke MS. there is no comma 
 after drooping^ and there is a hyphen between 
 wof ul and wan. Mitford prints " wof ul-wan, " 
 but in the printed copies published in Gray's 
 lifetime the line stands as in this edition, wo- 
 ful wan means sad and pale, not " wofully 
 pale." 
 
 110. Along the heath, the reference is to the 
 heath mentioned in the rejected stanza which 
 came after line 100. his fav'rite tree, the tree 
 that he was fond of lying under (lines 101-104) ; 
 not necessarily that he preferred the beech to 
 other kinds of trees, but this beech was his 
 favourite resort. 
 
 105-112. These two stanzas form the inscrip- 
 tion on the monument to Gray, in Stoke Park, 
 on the side that faces the church. 
 
 114. the church-way path, the path leading 
 (from the main road) to the church. Shake- 
 speare has the phrase in " Midsummer Night's 
 Dream " : — 
 
346 NOTES. 
 
 " Now it is the time of night 
 
 That, the graves all gaping wide, 
 Every one lets forth his sprite, 
 In the church-way paths to glide." — v. 1. 386-389. 
 
 Gray may not have taken the words from 
 Shakespeare ; the graveyard at Stoke-Poges is 
 reached by paths leading from the road ; and it 
 is one of these paths rather than a path in the 
 graveyard that is referred to. 
 
 115. for thou canst read. Mr Hales con- 
 siders that these words are introduced because 
 " reading was not such a common accomplish- 
 ment then that it could be taken for granted " ; 
 and Mr. Rolfe says " the ' hoary-headed swain ' 
 of course could not read." I rather take it as 
 a poetical turn, a repetition that gives vivid- 
 ness to the speech of the old swain, and well 
 brought in as he had not hitherto personally 
 addressed the kindred spirit. Cf. the follow- 
 ing from Milton and Young : — 
 
 " And chiefly thou, O Spirit ! . . 
 Instruct me (for thou knowest) . . ." 
 
 —Par. Lost, i. 17, 19. 
 
 " And steal (for you can steal) celestial fire." 
 
 lay is used for the sake of the rhyme, and 
 not in its strict sense of song or lyrical poem, 
 but here stands for verse or poetry ; cf . '' Ode 
 for Music, " 14, and " Imitations from the 
 Welsh," 5. 
 
THE ELEGY. 347 
 
 116. In the Pembroke MS. of the " Elegy " 
 Gray has entered after this stanza : " Insert 
 
 There scattered oft, the earliest of the year, 
 By hands unseen, are showers of violets found ; 
 
 The red-breast loves to build, and warble there, 
 And little footsteps lightly print the ground." 
 
 This stanza, which may be described as " the 
 redbreast stanza," was first printed in the thiy^d 
 edition of the " Elegy," the date of which I 
 have been able to fix as March, 1751, as I find 
 the " Elegy " with the redbreast stanza in the 
 " Scots' Magazine " for that month, and it was 
 then published in the end of the month. Op- 
 posite this stanza in the Pembroke MS. Gray 
 has written " Omitted, 1753." Mason states 
 that the reason for his omitting it was " be- 
 cause he thought that it was too long a paren- 
 thesis in this place." Another reason may be 
 that this stanza was different in character from 
 the preceding, as it dealt in fancies whereas 
 the former described facts. Also he may have 
 noted the resemblance it bears to some expres- 
 sions and lines in Collins' " Dirge in Cymbeline " 
 (pub. 1747) :— 
 
 "Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
 Each opening sweet of earliest bloom. . . . 
 The red-hreast oft, at evening hours. 
 Shall kindly lend its little aid," etc. 
 
 118. This line has become a hackneyed 
 
348 NOTES. 
 
 quotation. In Gray's translation of Propertius 
 he has — 
 
 ♦' Happy the youth and not unknown to Fame." 
 119. Science. Knowledge in general ; see " Ode 
 on Eton," 3, where it is applied to the learning 
 that is to be had in that College, frowned not 
 on his hirth^ looked favourably on him. Wake- 
 field quotes from Horace : — 
 
 " Quern tu, Melpomene, semel 
 
 Nascentem placido lumine videris." — Odes, iv. 3. 
 
 Whom thou, Melpomene, may have looked on 
 with a favourable eye at the hour of his birth. 
 123. all he had. Mitford and others misprint 
 this by placing these words in brackets ; it does 
 not mean to say that " he gave to Mis'ry a tear," 
 but he gave to Misery all he had, and that all 
 was only a tear. 
 
 Various Eeadings. 
 Except where otherwise noted, the follow- 
 ing " various readings " are from the Original 
 MS. 
 
 6. All. Now. 8. And. Or.— Egerton MS. 
 17, For ever sleep ; the breezy call of Morn, 
 
 Or swallow, etc. 
 19. Or chanticleer so shrill, or echoing horn. 
 
 24. Or. Nor. Envied. Coming. 
 
 25. Sickle. Sickles.—Egerton MS. 
 
 29. Useful, Homely. 30. Homely. Eustic. 
 
THE ELEGY. 349 
 
 37, 38. Forgive, ye proud, th' involuntary 
 fault, 
 If Memory to these no trophies raise. 
 
 All MSS. 
 The present reading is written in the margin. 
 43. Pi'ovoke. Awake. 47 Rod. Reins. 
 — Egerton MS. 
 
 51. Reiyressed. Had damped. 57. Hamp- 
 den. Cato. 
 
 59. Milton. Tully. 60. Cromwell. Caesar. 
 QQ. Growing. Struggling. 68. And. Or. — 
 Egerton MS. 
 
 71. Or heap. And at the. Shrine. Shrines. 
 — Egerton MS. 
 
 72. With. Burn. 74. Learned. Knew. 
 76. Noiseless. Silent. 79. Rhimes. Rhime. 
 82. Elegy. Epitaph. 
 
 92. And buried ashes glow with social fires. — 
 Original MS. 
 
 And in our ashes glow their wonted fires. — 
 Egerton and Pembroke MSS. 
 97. May. Shall. 
 
 99, 100. With hasty footsteps brush the 
 dews away. 
 On the high brow of yonder hang- 
 ing lawn. 
 101. There. Oft. Nodding. IToary. 
 105. Hard hy yon wood. With gestures 
 quaint. 
 
350 NOTES. 
 
 106. He would. Would he. — Egerton and 
 Pembroke MSS. 
 
 107. Now woful wan he drooped, as one 
 
 forlorn. 
 109. /. We. 110. By the heath-side and 
 
 at his fav'rite tree. 
 113. Due. Meet. 116. Graved. Wrote. 
 
 121. Soul. Heart. 
 126, 127. Nor seek to draw them from their 
 dread abode. 
 His frailties there in trembling 
 hope repose. 
 
 o 
 
 XL— A LONG STOEY. 
 
 The " Eleg}^ " having been handed about in 
 MS. by Horace Walpole was seen by Lady 
 Cobham, then residing at the Mansion-house, 
 Stoke-Poges ; being anxious to make the poet's 
 acquaintance, she learned from the Rev. Mr. 
 Purt of Stoke that the poet lived in the neigh- 
 bourhood and was Mr. Gray, whom she did 
 not know. This was in summer of 1750, and 
 two ladies who were stopping with her, Miss 
 Speed and Lady Schaub, on the strength of 
 the latter knowing Lady Brown, a friend of 
 Gray's, called at his aunt's house, but the poet 
 
A LONG STORY. 351 
 
 was not at home. He returned the call, and 
 thus began his acquaintance and friendship 
 with Lady Cobham and Miss Speed, which re- 
 sulted in his humorous account of his introduc- 
 tion to them, which he called " A Long Story," 
 and his " Amatory Lines " and the " Song " 
 written at the request of Miss Speed. See the 
 Notes on the " Amatory Lines " and " Song." 
 
 The " Long Story " was only once printed in 
 Gray's lifetime, viz.,in the edition with Bentley's 
 " Designs " in 1753. In a letter to Dr. Beattie, 
 dated 24th December, 1767, Gray says he had 
 consented to let Dodsley reprint all he ever 
 published " if he would omit entirely the " Long 
 Story" (which was never meant for the public, 
 and only suffered to appear in that pompous 
 edition because of Mr. Bentley's designs, which 
 were not intelligible without it) " 
 
 There is a copy of the " Long Story " in the 
 Pembroke MSS., and in the margin, at the top, 
 the date " Aug. 1750 " is entered. 
 
 1. The first line of Parnell's " Fairy Tale " 
 jg • 
 
 In Britain's Isle, and Arthur's days." 
 
 2. Sir Edward Coke's mansion at Stoke- 
 Poges, now the seat of Mr. Penn, was the scene 
 of Gray's " Long Story." The antique chim- 
 neys have been allowed to remain as vestiges 
 
 ' of the Poet's fancy, and a column with a statue 
 
352 NOTES. 
 
 of Coke marks the former abode of its illus- 
 trious inhabitant. — Mitford. 
 
 The Mr. Penn who bought the mansion on 
 the death of Lady Cobham in 1760, was a son 
 of William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania, 
 and it remained in the possession of the Penn 
 family until 1848, when it was bought by the 
 Rt. Hon. H. Labouchere (Baron Taunton), and 
 by him sold to Mr. Edward Coleman, from 
 whom it was purchased in 1887 by Mr. Wilber- 
 force Bryant. For further information and 
 illustrations of Stoke see the " Universal 
 Review " for May, 1889, and " Cathedrals, Ab- 
 beys and Churches of England and Wales," 
 Cassell and Co., Part 13. 
 
 2. Building. Misprinted huildings in Mr. 
 Gosse's edition. 
 
 11. The residence of Sir Christopher Hatton 
 at Stoke is doubted by his biographer. Sir 
 Harris Nicolas, who believes the tradition 
 originated in the marriage of his widow with 
 Sir E. Coke, to whom Stoke Mansion belonged, 
 and by whom Queen Elizabeth was entertained 
 there. 
 
 hrawU were a sort of French figure-dance, 
 then in vogue. See " England's Helicon " and 
 Ben Jonson's " Masque " : — 
 
 " And thence did Venus learn to lead 
 The Idalian brawls." 
 
 I 
 
A LONG STORY. 353 
 
 29-31. Miss Speed, who, after the death of 
 her father, Colonel Speed, was brought up in 
 the family of Lord Cobham. Mason says she 
 was a relation of Lady Cobham's. See " Gray 
 and his friends." In a letter to Martha Blount, 
 July 4, 1739, Pope refers to Lady Cobham and 
 Miss Speed being at Stowe, the seat of Lord 
 Cobham. 
 
 35. Melissa. A beneficent fairy invented by 
 the Italian poets. 
 
 37. Gcqnicine, now spelt " capuchin," a cloak 
 with a hood like that of the monks of the Capu- 
 chin order, so-called from their wearing this 
 garment ; the primary root is cajput^ the head, 
 just as hood is another form of head. 
 
 41. Mr. Robert Purt was Fellow of King's 
 College, Cambridge, 1738, assistant master at 
 Eton, and tutor to Lord Baltimore's son there ; 
 in 1749 he was presented to the rectory of Set- 
 trington in Yorkshire. He died in April, 1752, 
 of the small-pox. 
 
 " It has been said that this gentleman, a 
 neighbour and acquaintance of Gray's in the 
 country, was much displeased with the liberty 
 here taken with his name ; yet, surely, with- 
 out any great reason." — Mason. 
 
 51. " Henry the Fourth, in the fourth year 
 of his reign, issued out the following commission 
 against this species of vermin : — ' And it is en- 
 
354 NOTES. 
 
 acted, that no master-rimour, minstrel, or other 
 vagabond, be in any wise sustained in the land 
 of Wales, to make commoiths, or gatherings 
 upon the people there.' ' Vagabond,' says 
 Ritson, ' was a title to which the profession had 
 been long accustomed.' 
 
 ' Beggars tliey are with one consent, 
 
 And rogues by act of parliament.' " — Mitford. 
 
 56. bounce, with a sudden jump ; an adverb 
 like whisk, 79. 
 
 67. " There is a very great similarity," says 
 Mitford, " between the style of part of this 
 poem and Prior's ' Dove ; ' as for instance in 
 the following stanzas, which Gray must have 
 had in his mind : — 
 
 ' With one great peal they rap the door 
 
 Like footmen on a visiting day : 
 Folks at her house at such an horn. 
 
 Lord ! what will all the neighbours say ? . . . 
 Her keys he takes, her door unlocks, 
 
 Thro' wardrobe, and thro' closet bounces, 
 Peeps into every chest and box, 
 
 Turns all her furbelows and flounces. . . . 
 I marvel much, she smiling said. 
 
 Your poultry cannot yet be found. 
 Lies he in yonder slipper dead. 
 
 Or may be in the tea-pot drowned ? ' " 
 
 80. a spell, a writing that would have a mag- 
 ical effect ; this refers to the little note that 
 the ladies left for him, which was : — " Lady 
 
A LONG STORY. 355 
 
 Schaub's compliments to Mr. Gray ; she is 
 sorry not to have found him at home, to tell 
 him that Lady Brown is very well." 
 
 83, 84. hirdlime and chains, a playful way of 
 describing the contents of the note as evidently 
 written to catch him like a bird, and cause him 
 to come to their house ; while the border of the 
 paper is compared to chains that will have the 
 same effect, but are invisible. 
 
 100. the gallery, the picture gallery ; we are 
 now to suppose that the ladies in the large por- 
 traits, high dames of honour that lived as long 
 ago as Queen Mary's time, come down from 
 their pictures, or their spirits appear, as they 
 often did on dark nights. 
 
 103. In the elegant little edition of Gray's 
 poems, published by Sharpe, with illustrations 
 by Westall, in 1826, this name is printed Tyacke 
 in the text, and there is the following foot- 
 note : — " Her name which has hitherto, in all 
 editions of Gray's Poems, been written Styack, 
 is corrected from her gravestone in the church- 
 yard, and the accounts of contemporary persons 
 in the parish. House-keepers are usually styled 
 Mrs. ; the final s doubtless caused the name to 
 be misapprehended and misspelt." There is a 
 similar manuscript note iu Upcott's edition, 
 1800, in the- British Museum, signed ' P.'. 
 
 It is very probable that Gray mistook " Mrs. 
 
356 NOTES. 
 
 Tyacke " for " Mrs. Styacke," as when he wrote 
 the " Long Story " he had only just become ac- 
 quainted with Lady Cobham's household. I 
 see no necessity, however, for altering the name 
 in the text ; but the point is worth recording, 
 as it has not been referred to by any other edi- 
 tor of Gray. In the edition published by 
 Bickers and Bush, 1858, ' Tyacke ' is the read- 
 ing in the text, without note. 
 
 115. James Squibb, son of Dr. Arthur Squibb, 
 chaplain to Colonel Bellasis's regiment about 
 1685, attracted the notice of Lord Cobham, in 
 whose service he continued for many years, 
 and died at Stowe in June, 1762. 
 
 116. Groom. " His grave is close to that of 
 Tyacke in the south-west corner of the church- 
 yard."—' P.' in Upcott's MS. Notes. 
 
 120. From the " Gentleman's Magazine " for 
 1750, I find that James Maclean (wrongly spelt 
 by Gray), was hanged on the 3rd October, 1750 ; 
 this then, taken with Gray's footnote, gives us 
 the date of his finishing the poem. " Since the 
 27th of July, the conversation of the town has 
 been turned upon the gentleman highwayman." 
 He was sentenced to death in September for 
 robbery in the Salisbury coach, near Turnham 
 Green, on June 26th. When he was called to 
 receive sentence, he only said, " My Lord, I 
 cannot speak.'''' Several pamphlets about him 
 
ODE FOR MUSIC. 357 
 
 are announced in the " Gentleman's Magazine " 
 for September, 1750. 
 
 159. The ghostly Prudes^ the ghosts of the 
 ladies in the portraits, hagged. Mason has 
 the following note :— " The face of a witch or 
 hag ; the epithet haggard has been sometimes 
 mistaken as conveying the same idea ; but it 
 means a very different thing, viz., wild and 
 farouche, and is taken from an unreclaimed 
 hawk, called an haggard, in which its proper 
 sense the poet uses it finely on a sublime oc- 
 casion. Ode VI." See " The Bard," 18, and 
 the note. 
 
 135. the square hoods, the dames of honour 
 in the portraits, so-called from their wearing 
 square or peaked hoods. 
 
 XII.— ODE FOR MUSIC. 
 
 The full title of this Ode explains the oc- 
 casion of its being written ; it is : — Ode | Per- 
 formed in the | Senate-House at Cambridge | 
 July 1, 1769, I at the Installation of His Grace 
 Augustus-Henry Fitzroy | Duke of Grafton ( 
 Chancellor of the University. | Set to music 
 by I Dr. Randal, | Professor of Music. | Cam- 
 bridge | Printed for J. Archdeacon Printer to 
 the University | 1769. 
 
358 NOTES. 
 
 The Duke of Grafton, as Prime Minister, had 
 in July, 1768, conferred on Gray the Professor- 
 ship of Modern History at Cambridge, and 
 when he was elected to succeed, as Chancellor, 
 the Duke of Newcastle, who died in November, 
 1768, Gray determined to show his gratitude 
 by writing the usual Installation Ode. He re- 
 fers to it thus in a letter of July 16, 1769, to 
 Dr. Beattie (author of "The Minstrel,"):— 
 " 1 thought myself bound in gratitude to his 
 Grace, unasked, to take upon me the task of 
 writing those verses which are usually set to 
 music. I do not think them worth sending 
 you, because they are by nature doomed to live 
 but a single day ; or, if their existence be pro- 
 longed beyond that date it is only by means of 
 newspaper parodies and witless criticism. This 
 sort of abuse I had reason to expect, but do not 
 think it worth while to avoid." And in a note 
 to Mr. Stonehewer, the Duke's secretary, to 
 whom he sent the Ode in manuscript, on the 
 12th June, for the Duke's perusal, he says : — 
 " I did not intend the Duke should have heard 
 me till he could not help it. You are desired to 
 make the best excuses you can to his Grace for 
 the liberty I have taken of praising him to his 
 face, but as somebody must necessarily do this 
 1 did not see why Gratitude shoul'd sit silent 
 and leave it to Expectation to sing, who cer- 
 
ODE FOR MUSIC. 359 
 
 tainly would have sung, and that a gorge de- 
 ploy ee upon such an occasion." 
 
 It was this Duke of Grafton to whom 
 " Junius " addressed some of his " Letters." 
 Here are two passages from them in strong 
 contrast to Gray's eulogy : — " The first uni- 
 form principle, or, if I may call it, the genius, 
 of your life has carried you through every pos- 
 sible change and contradiction of conduct, 
 without the momentary imputation or colour 
 of a virtue, and the wildest spirit of inconsist- 
 ency has never once betrayed you into a wise 
 or honourable action." And as regards his de- 
 scent from royalty he tells him : — " The char- 
 acter of the reputed ancestors of some men 
 has made it possible for their descendants to 
 be vicious in the extreme without being de- 
 generate. Those of your Grace, for instance, 
 left no distressing example of virtue even to 
 their legitimate posterity, and you may look 
 back with pleasure to an illustrious pedigree, 
 in ^vhich heraldry has left not one single good 
 quality on record to insult or upbraid you." 
 
 In a letter to the Duke, dated 8th July, 17G9, 
 " Junius " refers to this " Installation Ode : " — 
 "even the venal muse^ though happiest in 
 fiction, will forget your virtues." 
 
 The compliments Gray paid the Duke in this 
 Ode led to a parody on the Epitaph in the 
 
860 NOTES. 
 
 " Elegy," in a newspaper in 1769, which is to 
 be found cut out therefrom and pasted on the 
 last page of Vol. 11. of Upcott's edition of 
 Gray in the British Museum. The letter runs 
 as follows : — " As a certain Church-yard Poet 
 has deviated from the principles he once prof est, 
 it is very fitting that the necessary alterations 
 should be made in his Epitaph." — Marcus, 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 " Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
 One nor to fortune nor to fame unknown ; 
 
 Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
 And smooth-tongued flatt'ry mark'd him for her 
 own. 
 
 Large was his wish — in this he was sincere — 
 Fate did a recompence as largely send, 
 
 Gave the poor C . . r four hundred pounds a year. 
 And made ad.. . y Minister his friend. 
 
 No further seek his deeds to bring to light, 
 For, ah ! he offer'd at Corruption's shrine ; 
 
 And basely strove to wash an Ethiop white, 
 While Truth and Honour bled in ev'ry line." 
 
 Gray finished the Ode in April, 1769 ; it 
 was his last poetical composition, and except 
 the Odes from the Norse and the Welsh, 
 written in 1761 and 1764, he had published 
 nothing new for twelve years, i. e., since the 
 " Progress of Poesy " and the " Bard " ap- 
 peared in 1757. 
 
ODE FOR MUSIC. 361 
 
 The " Ode for the Installation " was published 
 by the University in quarto, the second title 
 beinff " Ode for Music." It was never edited 
 by Gray, and when Mason published it in his 
 editions of Gray's Poems, he entitled it simply 
 "For Music," and added, the epithet "Irregu- 
 lar " ; he also, " for the sake of uniformity in 
 the page, divided the Ode into stanzas, and 
 discarded the musical divisions of Recitative, 
 Air, and Chorus." Mason has been followed 
 in most of these changes, and in no other 
 edition (except that edited by me for Messrs. 
 Macraillan and Co.) has the Ode been correctly 
 printed, as now, with the divisions, etc., as it 
 appeared when first published. 
 
 A still more noteworthy point is that Gray 
 has been credited with some of Mason's work. 
 There were no notes in the University edition 
 of the Ode, but Mason wrote notes in the 
 manner of the historical notes which Gray 
 wrote for the " Bard," and placed them as 
 footnotes to the Ode in his edition of 1775, 
 and Graj^'s notes on the other poems as foot- 
 notes in their proper places ; he also had ad- 
 ditional notes of his own as an appendix. 
 With the exception of Matbias, every editor of 
 Gray concluded that the footnotes to the Ode 
 were by Gray, and all the notes which I have 
 marked Mason, from line 41 to 84, are in all 
 
362 NOTES. 
 
 other editions (except Mathias') marked Gray, 
 The note on " Elizabeth de Burg " ought to 
 have led them to susjiect that the reference to 
 " the poet " was not by Gray ; still stranger is 
 it that it has escaped so many editors to the 
 present day that Mason states in the appendix 
 that the notes are by himself : — " I have added," 
 he says, " at the bottom of the page a number 
 of explanatory notes, which this Ode seemed 
 to want still more than that which preceded it 
 [the " Bard "] ; especially when given not to 
 the University only, but the public in general, 
 who may be reasonably supposed to know little 
 of the particular founders of different colleges 
 and their history here alluded to." 
 
 4. Sloth of pallid hue. Contrast this with 
 the " rosy hue, and lively cheer of vigour 
 born," " Ode on Eton," 45, 47. 
 
 14. W indignant lay, the previous verses 
 which the poet feigns to have heard said by 
 sages and bards as they look down on their old 
 University, " indignant " lest Comus, Igno- 
 rance, etc., should profane the " holy ground." 
 
 21. their opening soul, their minds when, as 
 
 students there, they were expanding. Of. in 
 
 Gray's " Education and Government " : — 
 
 " Spread the young thought, and warm the opening 
 heart."— \2 
 
 25. Meek. Sir Isaac Newton, though one of 
 
ODE FOR MUSIC. 363 
 
 the greatest philosophers that ever lived, had 
 an humble opinion of his knowledge. He was 
 born in 1642 and died in 1727, aged 85, hence 
 here spoken of as " hoary." He was twenty- 
 five years old when " Paradise Lost " was 
 published in 1667. According to Dr. Whe- 
 well he resided at Trinity College for thirty- 
 five years without the interruption of a single 
 month. 
 
 27-34. " This stanza, being supposed to be 
 sung by Milton, is very judiciously written in 
 the metre which he fixed upon for the stanza 
 of his Christmas Hymn ; " 'Twas in the winter 
 wild," etc. — Mason. It is also w^ritten in the 
 language of Milton, his very words as well as 
 thoughts and manner being adopted : — 
 
 " when the sun begins to fling 
 His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring 
 To arched walks of twilight groves, 
 And shadows brown." — II Penseroso, 131-134. 
 
 " By the rushy-fringed bank. 
 Where grows the unlloiv and the osier dank." 
 
 — Comus, 890. 
 
 " Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow." 
 
 Lycidas, 103. 
 
 " Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 
 Under the opening eyelids of the morn 
 We drove afield."— i6. 25, 26. 
 
 [In the above lines Milton refers to his life at 
 Cambridge.] 
 
364 NOTES. 
 
 " After short bliish of morn.'"— Par. Lost, xi. 185. 
 
 •' The shepherds on the laivn, 
 
 Or ere the point of daivn." — Christmas Hymn, 85. 
 
 " I did not err ; there dees a sable cloud 
 Turn forth her silver lining on the night, 
 And casts a gleam over this tufted grove." 
 
 — Comus, 223. 
 
 " The Cherub Contemplation 
 
 And the mute Silence hist along, .... 
 
 While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 
 
 Gently o'er the accustomed oak. 
 
 Sweet bird, that shunnest the noise of folly, 
 
 Most musical, most melancholy." 
 
 — U Penseroso, 54-62, 
 
 " But let my due feet never fail 
 
 To walk the studious cloister's pale." — lb. 155-156. 
 
 29. willowy. With willows growing on the 
 banks ; cf. " rushy brink," " Ode on Spring," 
 15 ; and his " Hymn to Ignorance " : 
 
 " Where rushy Camus' sloivly-ivinding flood," 
 
 35. the portals sound, i. e., the doors are opened 
 Portals occurs only twice in " Paradise Lost," 
 iii. 508, vii. 575, and in each place refers to the 
 gates of heaven ; and in this sense Gray uses it 
 again in his lines in the epitaph on Mrs. Mason. 
 
 39. " Edward the Third, who added ihefleur- 
 de-lys of France to the arms of England. He 
 founded Trinity CoWq^q.^^— Mason, Mitford 
 quotes from Denham : — 
 
ODE FOR MUSIC. 365 
 
 " Oreat Edioard, and thy greater son, 
 He that the lilies wore, and he that won." 
 
 41. " Mary de Valentia, Countess of Pem- 
 broke, daughter of Guy de Chatillon, Comte de 
 St. Paul in France ; of whom tradition says 
 that her husband, Audemar de Yalentia, Earl of 
 Pembroke, was slain at a tournament on the 
 day of his nuptials. She was the foundress of 
 Pembroke College or Hall, under the name of 
 Aula Marios de Yalentia." — Mason. 
 
 42. " Elizabeth de Burg, Countess of Clare, 
 was wife of John de Burg, son and heir of the 
 Earl of Ulster, and daughter of Gilbert de Clare, 
 Earl of Gloucester, by Joan de Acres, daughter 
 of Edward the First. Hence the poet gives 
 her the epithet of ' princely.' She founded 
 Clara Hall." Mason. 
 
 43. " Margaret of Anjou, wife of Henry the 
 Sixth, foundress of Queen's College. The poet 
 has celebrated her conjugal fidelity in the 
 former Ode ('The Bard,' %^:'— Mason, the 
 paler Rose. " Elizabeth Widville, wife of Ed- 
 ward the Fourth, hence called the paler rose, 
 as being of the House of York. She added to 
 the foundation of Margaret of Anjou." — Mason. 
 
 45. " Henry the Sixth and Eighth. The for- 
 mer the founder of King's, the latter the great- 
 est benefactor to Trinity College." — Maso^i. 
 eitlier. Each, the one and the other ; either is 
 
 22— G & G— DD 
 
366 NOTES. 
 
 properly one of two ; but in old writers and 
 
 in poetry is used for each of two : — 
 
 " In either hand the hastening angel caught 
 Our lingering parents." — Par. Lost, xii. 637. 
 
 61-64. These lines may be based on that well- 
 known passage in " Paradise Lost," in which Eve 
 says to Adam : — 
 
 " Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet ; 
 .... fragrant the fertile earth 
 After soft showers ; and sweet the coming on 
 
 Of grateful evening mild 
 
 But neither breath of Morn, 
 
 .... without thee is sweet." — iv. 641-656. 
 
 Another passage recalled by both is Byron's 
 
 " 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear .... 
 'Tis sweet to know there is an ej'e will mark 
 Our coming, and look brighter when we come." 
 
 — Don Juan. 
 
 65. her golden cloud, her abode in heaven ; 
 
 so in " Paradise Lost," vi. 28 : — 
 
 " from whence a voice, 
 From midst a golden cloud, thus mild was heard." 
 
 66. " Countess of Richmond and Derby ; the 
 mother of Henry the Seventh, foundress of St. 
 John's and Christ's College." — Mason. 
 
 70. " The Countess was a Beaufort, and 
 married to a Tudor ; hence the application of 
 this line to the Duke of Grafton, who claims 
 descent from both these families." — Mason. 
 
 In the volume in the British Museum (No. 
 
ODE FOR MUSIC. 
 
 367 
 
 840, 1. 5) which contains Gray's " Odes," Ed. 
 1757, there is, in neat handwriting on a fly-leaf 
 at the end, the following genealogical tree 
 drawn out to illustrate the lines, 
 
 " Pleased in thy lineaments, we trace 
 A Tudor's fire, a Beaufort's grace." 
 
 John Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, 
 Grandson to John of Gaunt. 
 
 Edmund 
 
 TUDOR,- 
 
 *' The venerable 
 -Margaret." 
 
 Earl of Richmond. 
 
 who founded Clu-ist's College, St. 
 John's, etc. 
 
 Henry VII. Margaret Tudor, 
 
 wife of James IV. of Scotland. 
 
 James V. of Scotland. 
 
 Mary, Queen of Scots. 
 
 I 
 James VI. of Scotland, 
 and I. of Gt. Britain. 
 
 Charles I. 
 
 Charles II. 
 
 Henry Fitzroy, 1st Duke of Grafton, 
 born 1663, died 1690. 
 Charles Fitzroy, 2nd Duke of Grafton, 
 born 1683, died 1757. 
 
 George, Earl of Euatou, 
 died 1747. 
 
 Ld. Augustus Fitzroy, 
 died 1741. 
 
 Augustus Henry Fitzroy, 3rd Duke of 
 
 Grafton, born 1736, installed Chancellor 
 
 of Cambridge, July 1, 1769. 
 
368 NOTES. 
 
 75. the latent gem^ the gem that lies hid. 
 The stanza means " Thy discriminating eye 
 will find out men of genius, Avho would other- 
 wise be unknown, and will raise them to places 
 of honour and usefulness." He reproduces his 
 simile of the " gem and the flower " from the 
 " Elegy," 53-56. 
 
 78. This line is taken from Adam's descrip- 
 tion of Eve (" Paradise Lost," viii. 504) :— 
 " Not obvious, not obtrusive, but retired." 
 
 84. " Lord Treasurer Burleigh was Chancel- 
 lor of the University in the reign of Queen 
 Elizabeth." — Mason. 
 
 laureate wreath is from Milton — " "Worces- 
 ter's laureate wreath,'' " Sonnet to Cromwell." 
 
 89. The words of Milton again, "Comus," 
 
 87:— 
 
 " Well knows to still the wild winds when they roar." 
 
 92. This means " guid6 the ship of state 
 safely," in allusion to the Duke being Prime 
 Minister ; the idea is from Horace : — 
 
 " Neque altum 
 Semper urgendo, neque, dum procellas 
 Cantus horrescis, nimium premendo 
 Littus iniquum. — Odes, ii. 10. 
 
 93. The Star of BrunswicJc, etc. This is a 
 double compliment to the King and to the 
 Prime Minister. " The star that guides your 
 royal master is now in the ascendant, and 
 
AGRIPPINA. 369 
 
 shines brightly to guide you in steering the 
 ship of state." Mitford refers to Pope, " Essay 
 on Criticism " : — 
 
 " The mighty Stagyrite first left the shore 
 Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore ; 
 He steered securely, and discovered far, 
 Led by the light of the Moeonian star." — 645. 
 
 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 
 
 XIII.— AGRIPPINA. 
 
 " Agrippina " was begun in London in De- 
 cember, 1741. The first scene was sent to West 
 in Hertfordshire about 31st March, 1742, with 
 the following remarks : — " I take the liberty of 
 sending you a long speech of Agrippina ; much 
 too long, but I could be glad you would re- 
 trench it. Aceronia, you may remember, had 
 been giving quiet counsels. I fancy, if it ever 
 be finished, it will be in the nature of Nat. Lee's 
 ' Bedlam Tragedy,' which had twenty-five 
 acts and some odd scenes." On the 4th April 
 West wrote in reply, "I own, in general, I 
 think Agrippina's speech too long ; but how 
 to retrench it 1 know not. But I have some- 
 thing else to say, and that is in relation to the 
 style, which appears to me too antiquated." 
 
370 NOTES. 
 
 Gray replied defending his style, observing, 
 " the language of the age is never the lan- 
 guage of poetry ; except among the French, 
 whose verse, where the thought or image does 
 not support it, dilfers in nothing from prose. 
 Our poetry, on the contrary, has a language 
 peculiar to itself, to which almost every one 
 that has written has added something by en- 
 riching it with foreign idioms and derivatives, 
 nay sometimes words of their own composition 
 or invention. Shakespeare and Milton have 
 been great creators this way." 
 
 To this West replied in a very interesting 
 letter ; and in his next letter Gray dismisses 
 the subject thus : " As to Agrippina, I begin to 
 be of your opinion, and find myself (as women 
 of their children) less enamoured of my pro- 
 ductions the older they grow. She is laid up 
 to sleep till next summer, so bid her good- 
 night." 
 
 Gray never resumed it ; possibly West's death 
 made him unwilling to take up again what had 
 been a subject of interest to each ; also, as he 
 told Norton Nicholls, the labour of polishing a 
 long poem would be intolerable. Gray thought 
 the first ten or twelve lines of "Agrippina" 
 the best, but West preferred the last fourteen 
 in the first scene. 
 
 This fragment no longer exists in Gray's MS. 
 
AGRIPPINA. 371 
 
 35. flattery's incense, cf. the " Elegy," 71, 72 ; 
 « Ode for Music," 79. 
 
 38. Cf. the " Elegy," 118. 
 
 42. Writing to Stonehewer ■when sending 
 the " Ode for Music " for the perusal of the Duke 
 of Grafton, Gray says : " I did not see why 
 Gratitude should sit silent and leave it to Ex- 
 pectation to sing, who certainly would have 
 sung and that a gorge deploy ee upon such an 
 occasion." 
 
 83. Madding. Cf. " Elegy," 73. 
 
 94. Cf. " Progress of Poesy," 53. 
 
 98. Cf. Shakespeare's " Henry V." ii. Cho- 
 
 rus : — 
 
 " And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies." 
 
 114. Old respect is from Milton, " Samson 
 Agonistes," 333. 
 
 124. Spirit-stirring. Cf. " Othello," iii. 3 :— 
 
 "The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife." 
 
 147. See the " Bard," G9. 
 
 149. gorgeous p>hrase, cf. ' gorgeous Trag- 
 edy,' " II Penseroso," 97. 
 
 154. fruitless^ cf. " Sonnet on the Death of 
 West," 13. 
 
 165. Cf. Pope's " Prologue to the Satires " :— 
 
 " Whom have I hurt ? has poet yet or peer 
 Lost tlie arched brows or Parnassian sneer ? "—95. 
 
 188. elusive, cf. " Ode on Eton," 29 and Note. 
 
372 NOTES. 
 
 XIV.— SONNET ON" THE DEATH OF 
 KICHARD WEST. 
 
 This is one of Gray's earliest original pro- 
 ductions in English verse, the first being the 
 first scene of "Agrippina," sent to West in 
 March, 1T42 ; the next was the " Ode on the 
 Spring," sent to West in June ; and then this 
 Sonnet, written at Stoke in August. 
 
 There is a copy of this Sonnet in Gray's 
 handwriting in his Commonplace Books, in 
 Pembroke College. 
 
 It is remarkable that since the Sonnets of 
 Milton (1642-1655) there had been no Sonnets 
 that have survived, except a single one by Walsh 
 " On Death " (see my " English Anthology," 
 p. 236), more than fifty years before this of 
 Gray's which, moreover, was not published 
 till Mason's " Life of Gray " in 1175. 
 
 This Sonnet possesses an additional interest 
 from the use made of it by Wordsworth in the 
 Preface to his " Lyrical Ballads " (1800), in il- 
 lustration of his assertion that " there neither 
 is nor can be any essential difference between 
 the language of prose and metrical composi- 
 tion " ; and on account of Coleridge's criticism 
 of Wordsworth's theory, and of the Sonnet 
 
ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD WEST. 373 
 
 itself, in his " Biographia Literaria " (1817), 
 chap, xviii. 
 
 1. smiling. Milton three times speaks of the 
 " smiling morn," " Paradise Lost," v. 124, 168 ; 
 xi. 175. 
 
 3. amorous descant is from Milton, " Para- 
 dise Lost," iv. 603 :— 
 
 " all but the wakeful nightingale ; 
 She all night long her amorous descant sung." 
 
 4. attire. Milton also uses this word of the 
 clothing of the fields : — 
 
 " Earth in her rich attire 
 Consummate lovely smiled." — Par. Lost, vii. 501. 
 
 8. imperfect, incomplete, because he no longer 
 has his friend to share them. 
 
 14. " A similar line occurs in Gibber's Alter- 
 ation of ' Richard the Third ' : — 
 
 ' So we must weep, because we weep in vain.' — ii. 8. 
 
 * Solon, when he wept for his son's death, 
 on one saying to him, ' Weeping will not help,' 
 answered : ' I weep for that very cause, that 
 weeping will not avail.' It is also told of 
 Augustus. See also Fitzgeoffry's ' Life and 
 Death of Sir Francis Drake' : — 
 
 ' Oh I therefore do we plain'^, 
 And therefore weepe because we weepe in vaine.' " 
 
 — Mitford. 
 
374 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 XY.— HYMN TO IGNORANCE. 
 
 This, as may be inferred from line 11, was 
 written on Gray's return to Cambridge, to reside 
 there, in the winter of 1742. 
 
 The title was given by Mason who states : — 
 " I find among his papers a small fragment of 
 verse ; ... it seems to have been intended as a 
 Hymn or Address to Ignorance, and, I presume, 
 had he proceeded with it, would have con- 
 tained much good satire upon false science and 
 scholastic pedantry." 
 
 2. fanes, see " Ode for Music," 53. 
 
 3. rushy Camus. Cf. Milton, " Elegia " 
 I.:— 
 
 Jam nee arundiferm mihi cura revisere Camum. — 11. 
 
 4. Also from Milton, " Paradise Lost," viii. 
 
 306:— 
 
 " Where rivers now 
 Stream, and perpetual draw their humid train." 
 
 36. In Young's "Love of Fame," Sat. 5, 
 Philips' " Blenheim," and Pope's " Temple of 
 Fame," there are similar references to Se- 
 sostris : — 
 
 " As CTirst Sesostris, proud Egyptian King, 
 That monarchs harnessed to his chariot yoked." 
 
 —J. Phtt.tps. 
 
EDUCATION AND GOVERNMENT 375 
 
 " High on his car, Sesostris struck my view, 
 Whom sceptred slaves in golden harness drew." 
 
 —Pope. 
 
 38. It has not been noted before that in the 
 Pembroke MSS. after the asterisks after this 
 line there is the following : — 
 
 " The ponderous waggon lumbered slowly on. " .... 
 
 XYL— THE ALLIANCE OF EDUCATION 
 AND GOVERNMENT. 
 
 The first fifty-seven lines of this poem were 
 sent from Stoke, in August, 1748, in a letter to 
 Dr. "Wharton, which concludes as follows: — 
 " I fill up with the beginning of a sort of 
 Essay ; what name to give it I know not, but 
 the subject is the Alliance of Education and 
 Government ; I mean to show that they must 
 necessarily concur to produce great and useful 
 men. I desire your judgment upon so far be- 
 fore I proceed any further. Pray show it to 
 no one (as it is a fragment) except it be Stone- 
 hewer, who has seen most of it already, I 
 think." Mason says, " he was busily employed 
 in it at the time when M. de Montesquieu's 
 book ' L'Esprit dec Lois' was first published. 
 On reading it he found the Baron had fore- 
 
376 NOTES. 
 
 stalled some of his best thoughts ; . . . yet the 
 two writers differ a little in one very material 
 point, viz., the influence of soil and climate on 
 national manners. Some time after, he had 
 thoughts of resuming his plan, and of dedicat- 
 ing it, by an introductory ode, to M. de Mon. 
 tesquieu, but that great man's death, which hap- 
 pened in 1755, made him drop his design 
 finally." 
 
 In a note to his Koman History, Gibbon 
 says : " Instead of compiling tables of chro- 
 nology and natural history, why did not Mr. 
 Gray apply the powers of his genius to finish the 
 philosophic poem of which he has left such an 
 exquisite specimen ? " Yol. iii. p. 248. "Would 
 it not have been more philosophical in Gibbon 
 to have lamented the situation in which Gray 
 was placed ; which was not only not very 
 favourable to the cultivation of poetry, but 
 which naturally directed his thoughts to those 
 learned inquiries, that formed the amusement 
 or business of all around him ? — Mitford. 
 
 2. Flinty. This and the other words which 
 Mr. Gosse (in the footnotes to pages 113-115 of 
 vol. i. of his edition of Gray's " Works ") attrib- 
 utes to Mason are really Gray's, as may be 
 seen in the Pembroke MSS., where the whole of 
 this poem is in Gray's handwriting and as 
 given by Mason except in line 106. 
 
EDUCATION AND GOVERNMENT. 37^ 
 
 9. " Yitales auras carpis." — Yirg. jEneid^ i. 
 
 387. 
 
 12. Opening heart. See " Ode for Music," 21. 
 
 14. " And lavish Nature laughs and throws 
 her stores around." — Dryden, Virgil^ vii. 76. 
 
 17. Scatter .... plenty. Cf . the " Elegy," 
 63. 
 
 19, 21. Tyranmj has, — he first wrote " gloomy- 
 sway have," and for " blooming " he had " ver- 
 nal." 
 
 48. sweeping sway, cf . the " Bard," 75, and 
 note. 
 
 56. Cf. "gathered fragrance," "Ode on 
 Spring," 10, and Milton, " Arcades," 32 :— 
 " And ye, ye breathing roses of the wood." 
 
 66. Rogers refers to Dryden's " Religio 
 Laici " : — 
 
 •' And as these nightly tapers disappear, 
 
 When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere." 
 
 Eve should be" ev'n," the reading in the 
 Pembroke MS. 
 
 103. Jlings, cf. the use of " fling," " Ode on 
 Spring," 10. 
 
 105. drive, etc. Cf. "Paradise Lost," iiL 
 
 438:— 
 
 " Where Chineses drive 
 With sails and wind their cany waggons light." 
 
 106. distant. Mason has ' neigh b'ring.' 
 
3Y8 NOTES. 
 
 And gospel-light. In the short notice of 
 Gray by Horace Walpole, prefixed to Mitford's 
 " Correspondence of Gray and Mason," he says 
 he began a poem on the reformation of learn- 
 ing, but soon dropped it on finding his plan too 
 much resembling the " Dunciad." It had this 
 admirable line in it — 
 
 " When gospel-light," etc. 
 
 "Walpole seems to have quoted from memory ; 
 the couplet does not occur in the " Hymn to 
 Ignorance," to which he refers, nor yet in the 
 poem before us, but among the papers in which 
 Mason found the plan in prose of this poem. 
 
 "Walpole imitated the couplet in an inscrip- 
 tion on a Gothic column to Queen Catherine : — 
 
 " From Katherine's wrongs a nation's bliss was 
 
 spread, 
 And Luther's light from Henry's lawless bed." 
 
 XYIL— STANZAS TO MR BENTLEY. 
 
 These verses were written in 1752 as a com- 
 pliment to Bentley for drawing the designs for 
 the " Six Poems " of 1753. 
 
 3. Bentley. This Kichard Bentley was a son 
 of the celebrated critic, sister-art. Painting 
 and poetry are often spoken of as sister-arts ^ 
 
STANZAS TO MR. BENTLEY. 379 
 
 thus Dryden to Kneller, " Our arts are sisters, " 
 " Long time the sister-arts in iron sleep." And 
 Pope, " Epistle to Jervas " : — 
 
 "Smit with the love of sister-arts we came, 
 And met congenial, mingling flame with flame." 
 
 —13. 
 
 And in the title of Dryden's Ode " To the 
 Memory of Mrs. Anne Killigrew," she is de- 
 scribed as " Excellant in the two sister arts of 
 Poesy and Painting. " 
 
 7, 8. "■ Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow. 
 
 Strike on the sketch, or in the picture glow." 
 — Pope, Epistle to Jervas, 43. 
 
 " When life aivaJces and dawns at every line." 
 
 —lb. 4. 
 
 17-20. Gray was the favourite poet of the late 
 Earl of Carlisle. The bust of Gray in the upper 
 school-room in Eton College was presented by 
 him ; he delivered an admirable lecture on the 
 writings of Gray at the Sheffield Institute, in 
 December, 1852, which is published in the Eton 
 edition of Gray's " Poems ; " and on another 
 occasion I heard him recite this stanza with 
 much feeling. 
 
 20. Luke quotes from Dryden : — 
 
 " Heaven, that but once was prodigal before, 
 To Shakespeare gave as much, she could not give 
 him more. "—To my Friend, Mr. Congreve. 
 
 21-24. The thought in this stanza and the 
 
380 NOTES. 
 
 remarkable expression " luxury of light " occur 
 in Gray's translation of a passage in Tasso, 
 which he made while a student in Cambridge 
 in 1738. The lines are : — 
 
 " The diamond there attracts the wondering sight, 
 Proud of its thousand dies, and luxury of light." 
 
 Mitford, in his " Life of Gray," in the Eton edi- 
 tion, tells us he remembers hearing Dr. Edward 
 Clarke, when Professor of Mineralogy, finish 
 one of his lectures with the eight concluding 
 lines of this translation of Tasso, and rest on 
 the beautiful expression in the last line, quoted 
 above, with peculiar enunciation. 
 
 26. The corner of the last stanza of the only 
 existing MS. was torn off when Mason found it, 
 and these stanzas are incomplete. Mason filled 
 up the blanks thus, observing that he was " not 
 quite satisfied with the words inserted in the 
 third line" : — 
 
 " Enough for me, if to some feeling breast 
 My lines a secret sympathy impart ; 
 
 And as their pleasing influence flows confest, 
 A. sigh of soft reflection heaves the heart." 
 
 Mitford says : — " I do not consider that he 
 has been successful in the selection of the few 
 words which he had added to supply the im- 
 perfect lines : my own opinion is, that Gray 
 had in his mind Dryden's ' Epistle to Kneller,' 
 
PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE. 381 
 
 from which he partly took his expressions ; 
 under the shelter of that supposition, I shall 
 venture to give another reading : — 
 
 ' Enough for me, if to some feeling breast 
 My lines a secret sympathy convey ; 
 
 And as their pleasing influence is exjyrest, 
 A sigh of soft reflection dies away.' " 
 
 XYIIL— ODE ON THE PLEASUKE 
 ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE. 
 
 This Ode was left unfinished by Gray ; it was 
 first published by Mason in his " Memoirs " of 
 Gray, 1775, and he " had the boldness to at- 
 tempt to finish it himself, making use of some 
 other lines and broken stanzas which Gray had 
 written." Almost every editor of Gray's 
 " Poems" has reprinted this Ode as defaced by 
 Mason. 
 
 Gray wrote what we have of this Ode prob- 
 ably in the winter of 175-i-55. In a letter 
 to Dr. Wharton, dated 9th March, 1755, he 
 speaks of his objection to publishing the Ode 
 on the " Progress of Poesy " alone ; and adds : 
 — " I have two or three ideas more in my head ; " 
 " one of these," says Mason, " was unquestion- 
 ably this Ode,— since I found in his memo- 
 randum book, of 1754, a sketch of his design as 
 
382 NOTES. 
 
 follows : — Contrast between the winter past 
 and coming spring. — Joy owing to that vicissi- 
 tude. — Many that never feel that delight. — 
 Sloth. — Envy. — Ambition. How much happier 
 the rustic that feels it, though he knows not 
 how." 
 
 13-16. Cf. Word worth's " To a Skylark " ;— 
 
 " To the last point of vision, and beyond, 
 Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted 
 
 strain . . . 
 Tlirills not the less the bosom of the plain." 
 
 17. " I have heard Gray say, that Gresset's 
 " Epitre a ma Soeur " gave him the first idea of 
 this Ode ; and whoever compares it with the 
 French poem will find some slight traits of re- 
 semblance, but chiefly in our author's seventh 
 stanza." — Mason. 
 
 Mitford quotes the following lines from 
 
 Gresset : — 
 
 " Mon ame, trop long tems fletrie 
 Va de nouveau s'epanouir ; 
 Et loin de toute reverie 
 
 Voltiger avec le Zephire, 
 Occupe tout entier du soin plaisir d'etre," etc. 
 
 29-36. This stanza is an expansion of lines 
 25-28 ; beasts and birds have no yesterday or 
 to-morrow, but man has both Reflection and 
 Hope. 
 
 45-52. This is one of the finest stanzas in 
 Gray's poetry, and is quite distinct in tone 
 
PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE, 383 
 
 from the artificial poetry of the eighteenth 
 century, resembling in sentiment and in the 
 ring of the verse Wordsworth's " Intimations 
 of Immortality," the last lines of -which may 
 have been borrowed in part from this passage 
 of Gray : 
 
 " To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears." 
 
 55. crystalline^ a Miltonic word, " crystalline 
 sphere," " Par. Lost," iii. 482 ; " the crystal- 
 line sky," vi. 772 ; the " crystalline ocean," vii. 
 271 ; " cool crystalline stream," " Samson Ago- 
 nistes," 546. 
 
 The following incomplete lines are in Gray's 
 MS. Mason filled up the gaps, and added 
 three stanzas more. 
 
 " Far below the crowd, 
 
 Where broad and turbulent it grows 
 
 with resistless sweep 
 They perish in the boundless deep. 
 Mark where Indolence and Pride, 
 Softly rolling, side by side. 
 Their dull, but daily round." 
 
 XIX.—EPITAPH ON MRS. CLAPKE. 
 
 This epitaph is on a mural tablet of slate and 
 marble in the Church at Beckenham, Kent, 
 The inscription is — 
 
384 NOTES. 
 
 " Jane Claeke 
 Died April 27, 1757. Aged 31." 
 
 and then follow the verses in two columns. 
 
 The epitaph was first printed in the " Gentle- 
 man's Magazine " for October, 1774. 
 
 Mason's note is : " This Lady, the wife of 
 Dr. Clarke, Physician at Epsom, died April 27, 
 1757, and is buried in the Church of Becken- 
 ham, Kent." 
 
 Subsequent editors have repeated his note, 
 but the fact that the epitaph is on a tablet in 
 the church, and that it appeared in print before 
 Mason's edition of Gray, has not been recorded 
 before. Clarke was a college friend of Gray's. 
 
 1. this silent marble weeps. This was a 
 common poetical phrase last century in speak- 
 ing of monuments to the dead. 
 
 6. soft humanity. Mitford cites lines from 
 Dryden and Pope in which this phrase occurs. 
 
 7-10. Mitford gives the six following lines 
 
 as in a manuscript copy instead of lines 7 to 10 
 
 as finally decided on : — 
 
 " To hide her cares her only art, 
 Her pleasure, pleasures to impart, 
 In ling- ring pain, in death resigned, 
 Her latest agony of mind 
 Was felt for him, who could not save 
 His all from an untimely grave." 
 
 9. Mrs. Clarke died in childbirth, but the 
 infant survived her. 
 
EPITAPH ON A CHILD. 385 
 
 XX.— EPITAPH ON A CHILD. 
 
 This epitaph was written at the request of 
 Dr. Wharton, whose then only son died in 
 infancy in April, 1758. Gray describes his dif- 
 ISculty in writing it in a letter to Wharton, 
 dated June 18, 1758, as follows : — " You flatter 
 me in thinking that anything I can do could at 
 all alleviate the just concern your late loss has 
 given you ; but I cannot flatter myself so far, 
 and know how little qualified I am at present 
 to give any satisfaction to myself on this head, 
 and in this way, much less to you. I by no 
 means pretend to inspiration, but yet I affirm 
 that the faculty in question is by no means 
 voluntary. It is the result, I suppose, of a cer- 
 tain disposition of mind, which does not depend 
 on oneself, and which I have not felt this long 
 time. You that are a witness how seldom 
 this spirit has moved me in my life, may easily 
 give credit to what I say. 
 
 It is here printed from a copy in the Mitford 
 MSS., now in the British Museum (32, 561, Add. 
 MSS.). Mitford has entered it in two places 
 in his volume of MSS. ; at p. 74 with the note, 
 — " N. B. in Gray's writing"; and at p. 182, 
 " Not in Gray's writing." The former version, 
 therefore I have followed. 
 
386 NOTES. 
 
 It was first printed by Mr. Gosse (1884) 
 " from a copy in the handwriting of Alexander 
 Dyce, lately found slipped into a book at South 
 Kensington, and made by him when the origi- 
 nal MS. was sold in 1854." 
 
 Each of the three copies differs slightly from 
 the others. In line 1 there is a comma after 
 " Here " in the Dyce copy ; and it is " free from 
 pain," in Mitford No. 2, p. 182. In line 8 in 
 the Dyce copy it is " Now " instead of " Here " ; 
 and in Mitford No. 2 it is " the Night of Death." 
 Also in the Mitford copies almost every substan- 
 tive begins with a capital letter. 
 
 XXL— GRAY ON HIMSELF. 
 
 1. "This is similar to a passage in one of 
 Swift's letters to Gay, speaking of poets: 'I 
 have been considering why poets have such ill 
 success in making their court. They are too 
 libertine to haunt antechambers, too poor to 
 hrihe porters, and too proud to cringe to second- 
 hand favourites in a great family.' See Pope's 
 * Works,' xi. 36, ed. Wharton."— Jfi^(9r<jf. 
 
 importune must here be pronounced with the 
 accent on the second syllable, for the sake of 
 the rhyme. 
 
 4. This means — " I am not like some of the 
 
EPITAPH ON SIR W. WILLIAMS. 387 
 
 wits of the day who profess not to believe in 
 God." 
 
 6. Charles Townshend was Chancellor of the 
 Exchequer in Chatham's last ministry (1767). 
 Horace Walpole regarded him as scarcely in- 
 ferior to Charles James Fox in wit and forensic 
 ability ; and Macaulay calls him the most bril- 
 liant and versatile of mankind, adding that he 
 " belonged to every party and cared for none." 
 
 Squire. Dr. Samuel Squire, at that time 
 Fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge, and 
 afterwards Bishop of St. David's. He died in 
 1766. 
 
 Some editors suppose that Goldsmith took 
 these lines as the model of his character of 
 Burke in " Retaliation " ; but the latter was 
 published in April, 1774, and Gray's lines did 
 not appear till printed in Mason's edition in 
 1775 (as a footnote to a letter dated August, 
 1758). 
 
 XXII.— EPITAPH ON SIK W. WILLIAMS. 
 
 Sir William Peere Williams, Bart., was 
 killed at the siege of Belleisle, 1761. " In the 
 recklessness of a desponding mind, he ap- 
 proached too near to the enemy's sentinels, and 
 was shot through the body." Walpole de- 
 
388 NOTES. 
 
 scribes "Williams as " a gallant and ambitious 
 yoimg man, who had devoted himself to war and 
 politics." He was a captain in Burgoyne's 
 Dragoons, raised in 1759, now the 16th Lan- 
 cers ; see the " Graphic," 4rth April, 1891. 
 
 A letter of Gray's to Mason, in August, 1761, 
 gives the date of the composition of this epi- 
 taph, and contains the following remarks of 
 Gray on it : — " Mr. Montagu (as I guess at 
 your instigation) has earnestly desired me to 
 write some lines to be put on a monument which 
 he means to erect at Belleisle. It is a task I 
 do not love, knowing Sir William Williams so 
 slightly as T did ; but he is so friendly a person, 
 and his affliction seemed to me so real, that I 
 could not refuse him. I have sent him the fol- 
 lowing verses, which I neither like myself nor 
 will he, I doubt ; however, I have showed him 
 that I wished to oblige him. Tell me your 
 real opinion." 
 
 Writing to Brown on the 23rd October, 1780, 
 Gray says : — " In my way to town I met with 
 the first news of the expedition from Sir Wil- 
 liam Williams, who makes a part of it, and per- 
 haps may lay his fine Vandyke head in the 
 dust." 
 
 In the "Gentleman's Magazine" for 1761, 
 under date 7th May, it is stated, " An express 
 from Belleisle brought advice that Sir W. P. 
 
EPITAPH ON SIR W. WILLIAMS. 389 
 
 "Williams, Bart., a captain of Burgoyne's Dra- 
 goons, and M. P. for Shorebam, had been killed 
 reconnoitering." The date of his death is not 
 given, but it was probably in the last week of 
 April. See also the " Annual Kegister," 1761, 
 p. 17, and the " Scots' Magazine," 1761, p. 437. 
 The citadel of Belleisle capitulated on the 7th 
 June * (" Gentleman's Magazine," 1761, p. 282, 
 under date 13 June *). 
 
 In a letter to Brown, dated 26th May, 1761, 
 Gray writes : — " Montagu had thoughts of 
 going thither [Cambridge] with me, but I know 
 not what his present intentions may be. He 
 is in real affliction for the loss of Sir W. Wil- 
 liams, who has left him one of his executors, 
 and (as I doubt his affairs were a good deal 
 embarrassed) he possibly may be detained in 
 town on that account." 
 
 The version in the text is that given by 
 Mason, and it has been generally followed by 
 subsequent editors. The copy in the Mitford 
 MSS. and in the " Correspondence of Gray and 
 Mason," p. 268, differs from that published by 
 Mson in three places : and it seems probable that 
 
 * Mitford, " Correspondence of Gray and Mason " by 
 mistake gives the 13th June as the date of the capitula- 
 tion. Mr. Gosse makes a furtlier mistake in stating 
 that Williams was " killed at the storming of Belleisle, 
 June 13." 
 
 22— G & G— EE 
 
390 NOTES. 
 
 Mason, acting on Gray's request for his " real 
 opinion," took the liberty, as he did in several 
 other instances, of altering the wording when 
 he printed it among Gray's " Poems " in 1775. 
 There is also a copy, but not in Gray's hand- 
 writing, in the Pembroke MSS. with the fol- 
 lowing " Kejected stanza " : — 
 
 " Warrior, that midst the melancholy line 
 ***** 
 Oh be his genius, be his spirit thine, 
 And share his virtues with a happier fate." 
 
 5. " In the expedition to Aix he was on board 
 the Magnanme with Lord Howe, and was de- 
 puted to receive the capitulation." — Mason. 
 
 5. Sir W, Scott probably took from this the 
 
 similar expression : — 
 
 " Since, riding side by side, our hand 
 First drew the voluntary brand." 
 
 — Marmion, C. iv. Introduction, 10. 
 
 In the Mitford MSS. and Correspondence " 
 
 it is 
 
 " At Aix uncalled his maiden sword he drew." 
 
 6. honour, glory. Mitford MSS. and " Cor- 
 respondence." 
 
 9. undaunted, intrepid. Mitford MSS. and 
 " Correspondence." 
 
 10. Victor. Belleisle had not surrendered at 
 the time that "Williams was killed, but he calls 
 him " victor " as belonging to the side that was 
 
THE DEATH OF HOEL. 39I 
 
 ultimately victorious, and also for poetical efifect 
 and as more calculated to call forth sympathy 
 that he should have met his death instead of re- 
 turning home with the victorious troops. 
 
 Belleisle is a fortified island off the coast of 
 France, in the north of the Bay of Biscay. 
 
 XXIII.— THE DEATH OF HOEL. 
 
 This and the " Imitation from the Welsh " 
 were probably written about the same time, 
 1764, as the " Triumphs of Owen," and inspired, 
 like it, by Evans' " Specimens of the Welsh 
 Poetry." 
 
 Gray's heading to this in the Pembroke MSS. 
 is " From Aneurin, Monarch of the Bards, ex- 
 tracted from the Gododin." 
 
 The original Welsh is by Aneurin, who 
 flourished about the time of Taliessin, a. d. 
 570. Gray's version is from the Latin transla- 
 tion in Evans' " Specimens." 
 
 " Aneurin with the flowing Muse, King of 
 Bards, brother to Giidas Albanius the historian, 
 lived under Mynyddawg of Edinburgh, a prince 
 of the North, whose Eurdorchogion, or war- 
 riors wearing the golden torques, 363 in number, 
 were all slain, except Aneurin and two others, 
 in a battle with the Saxons at Cattraeth, on 
 
392 NOTES. 
 
 the eastern coast of Yorkshire. His ' Godo- 
 din,' a heroic poem written on that event, is 
 perhaps the oldest and noblest production of 
 that age." — Jones, Relics. 
 
 3. " The kingdom of De'ira included the 
 counties of Yorkshire, Durham, Lancashire, 
 Westmoreland, and Cumberland." — Jones, 
 Relics. 
 
 11. Cattraeth. Catterick, in the valley of the 
 Swale, near Richmond, in Yorkshire. 
 
 12. Gray gives the number in round numbers 
 to suit his verse ; in the Latin it is " tricenti 
 et sexaginta tres," 363. 
 
 14. Collars of gold were badges of distinction 
 amongst Keltic nations. 
 
 16-18. These three lines are a rather un- 
 necessary expansion, in so short a piece, of 
 three words in the Latin, — " nimio potu ma- 
 didi," which might have been translated by 
 " flushed with wine," as line 19 also is not in 
 the original. 
 
 23. And I. It should be me, " save me " ; 
 but /sounds more emphatic here; the Latin 
 is: — "Non evasere nisi tres, Acronet Conanus, 
 et egomet ipse." Cf. a similar license in 
 *' Paradise Lost," vi. 900:— 
 
 " Of those too high aspii'ing, who rebelled 
 With Satan,— /te, who envies now thy state." 
 
CARADOC— CONAN. 393 
 
 XXIY.— CAEADOC. 
 
 This and the following are Imitations from 
 the "Welsh, and were first published in the 
 Notes at the end of Mason's edition. 
 
 1. tusky. In Webster's " Dictionary " an- 
 other instance in given from Dryden : — 
 
 " The scar indented by the tusky boar.'" 
 
 2. sullen originally meant lonely (through 
 the French from the Lat. solus) ; hence gloomy ; 
 Milton applies it to a wintry day, and Gray 
 follows him in speaking of the " sullen year," 
 " Ode on Vicissitude," 21 ; " with sullen roar " 
 he also takes from Milton : — 
 
 " I hear the far-off curfew sound, 
 
 Over some wide-watered shore, 
 
 Swinging slow with sullen roar." — H Penseroso, 76. 
 
 XXV.— CONAK 
 
 1. rehearse. Of. "repeat their Chiefs and 
 
 Loves." " Progress of Poesy," 60. 
 
 " Build the lofty verse. The expression is 
 
 from " Lycidas " : — 
 
 " He knew 
 Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme." — 10, 11. 
 
394 NOTES. 
 
 And before Milton we have it in Horace and 
 
 Spenser : — > 
 
 " Seucondis amabile carmen." — Epistola, I. iii. 25. 
 
 " To build with level of my lofty style." 
 
 — Ruins of Rome, 2. 
 
 8. shivered, shattered by lightning. 
 10. crimson. See the " Fatal Sisters," 36, 
 and " Triumphs of Owen," 29. 
 
 XXIV.— THE CANDIDATE. 
 
 This squib was written by Gray on the occa- 
 sion of the Earl of Sandwich being a candidate 
 for the oifice of High Steward of the University 
 of Cambridge in 1764. " Jemmy Twitcher " 
 was Lord Sandwich's nickname, and his fol- 
 lowers were called " Twitcherites." Lord 
 Sandwich was a schoolfellow of Gray's at 
 Eton ; he refers to him and Lord Halifax in a 
 letter to West, dated 27 May, 1742, as then 
 statesmen, though not long before " dirty boys 
 playing at cricket." See also letters of Feb. 21, 
 and July 10, 1764, and 29 April, 1765. 
 
 A printed copy of these verses, entitled 
 "The Candidate, by Mr. Gray," in a quarto 
 double sheet, is preserved in the Webb Collec- 
 tion * in the Cambridge University Library. 
 
 * " A Collection of Papers [College notices, news- 
 
VERSES FROM WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 395 
 
 In January, 1782, they appeared in the 
 " Gentleman's Magazine." The first edition 
 of Gray's Poems in which they appeared, was 
 the second edition of S. Jones', in 1800. 
 
 There are a few trifling verbal differences in 
 the printed sheet in the Webb papers, and it 
 contains the last couplet (which I have never 
 seen elsewhere in print), exactly as follows : — 
 
 " D n ye both for a couple of Puritan bitches I 
 
 He's Christian enough that repents and that. . . ." 
 
 9. Mitf ord quotes from Mason's " Heroic 
 
 Epistle " : — 
 
 " That babe of grace 
 Who ne'er before at sermon showed his face 
 See Jemmy Twitcher shambles." 
 
 XXVII.— VERSES FROM WILLIAM 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 These verses were sent from Hartlepool to 
 Mason in a letter dated July 16, 1765. They 
 were first published in Mitford's " Correspond- 
 ence of Gray and Mason," 1853. 
 
 The letter begins with the verses, and then 
 proceeds to say : " Tell me if you do not like 
 
 paper cuttings, etc.], formed by tlie late Dr. Webb, 
 Master of Clare College, relating to the University of 
 Cambridge." 
 
396 NOTES. 
 
 this, and I will send you a worse. I rejoice to 
 hear your eyes are better, as much as if they 
 were my own." Mason acknowledged it on 
 the 22nd July, saying, " As bad as your verses 
 were they are yours, and, therefore, when I 
 get back to York, I will paste them carefully 
 in the first page of my Shakespeare to enhance 
 its value. . . . You will not pity me now, no 
 more than you did when 1 was in residence 
 and sore eyes." 
 
 I have followed the copy given in Mitford's 
 " Correspondence of Gray and Mason," p. 339 ; 
 but in the Mitford MSS. there is another copy 
 with several variations which I shall note in 
 their places. 
 
 1. Mistress Anne. Mason's servant at York. 
 
 3. right proper onan, this is an archaic ex- 
 pression, and here simply means " a real man " 
 not a mere book or a name), right is an adverb, 
 " truly," — " right fat." — Chaucer, proper, 
 " well-formed " : — " Thou art a proper man." — 
 Chaucer. " Moses was hid three months of 
 his parents, because they saw he was a proper 
 child." — Hebrews, xi. 23. 
 
 5. cankered. In the Mitford MSS. it is 
 " crabbed." 
 
 6-7. The references are to the editions of 
 Shakespeare published by Rowe, 1709 ; Pope, 
 1721; Theobald, 1733 (an attorney); Sir 
 
VERSES FROM WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 397 
 
 Thomas Hanmer, 1743 (a 'baronet'); War- 
 burton, 1747 (a ' parson '), and Dr. Johnson, 
 1765 (a 'small poet'). Steevens', published 
 in 1766, and Capell's, 1767, were probably 
 announced as in preparation when Gray wrote 
 these lines. 
 
 8. worst of all. ' Worse than all,'— Mitford 
 MSS. 
 
 12. residence. Mason was Precentor of York, 
 and " Kesidentiary " in the cathedral; in a 
 letter of Gray's (October 19, 1763) he refers to 
 Mason's "repining at his four and twenty 
 weeks' residence at York, unable to visit his 
 bowers, the work of his own hands, at Aston." 
 marriage. Mason at the time Gray sent these 
 verses, was engaged to be married, and his 
 marriage took place on the 25th of September. 
 sore eyes. In the Mitford MSS. it is " mince 
 pies " ; but sore eyes is evidently the correct 
 reading as shown by the extracts from the 
 letters quoted above. 
 
 17-20. In the Mitford MSS. this verse is the 
 third. 
 
 21. Clouet was a celebrated cook ; the mean- 
 ing is, people in York will taste cakes and pies 
 that even Clouet never heard of — being made 
 with the help of Shakespeare, i. e., of the paper 
 of a copy of Shakespeare. 
 
 In the British Museum there is the copy oi 
 
398 NOTES. 
 
 Verral's " Cookery " which belonged to Gray. 
 The title is — " A Complete System of Cookery, 
 in which is set forth a variety of genuine re- 
 ceipts collected from several years' experience 
 under the celebrated M. de St. Clouet, sometime 
 since Cook to his Grace the Duke of Newcastle, 
 by William Verral, Master of the White Hart 
 Inn in Lewes, Sussex, 1759." This copy con- 
 tains several receipts in Gray's handwriting ; it 
 subsequently belonged to Mitford. 
 
 22. works. In the Mitford MS. it is " work " ; 
 and instead oi fumes the word se.ems to be 
 " views.^^ 
 
 24. For . . . puddings. The Mitford MS. 
 has " To . . . cheesecakes." 
 
 XXYIIL— IMPROMPTU. 
 
 These lines were written at Denton in Kent, 
 in June, 1Y66, when Gray was on a visit to the 
 Rev. William Robinson, and were found in the 
 drawer of Gray's dressing-table after he was 
 gone. They were restored to him, for he had 
 no other copy, and had forgotten them. Wal- 
 pole writes : " I am very sorry that he ever 
 wrote them and ever gave a copy of them. 
 You may be sure I did not recommend them 
 being printed in his works, nor were they." 
 
IMPROMPTU. 399 
 
 The first four stanzas appeared in the sup- 
 plement to the " Gentleman's Magazine" for 
 1777, prefaced by the following letter from the 
 correspondent who sent them : — " The im- 
 mortal Gray is suificiently known by his elegiac 
 poetry. The world has not yet known to re- 
 vere him as a lover of his country, and an ab- 
 horrer of its intestine foes. Learn from the 
 underwritten stanzas, suggested by a view, in 
 
 1766, of the late lord H d's seat and ruins 
 
 at King's-gate, no longer to consider Gray as 
 a mere man of rhyme, but as possessing a con- 
 stitutional spirit of liberty congenial to Church- 
 hill's." 
 
 In February, 1778, the two last stanzas were 
 supplied, but incorrectly, by another cor- 
 respondent ; and in January, 1782, in a third 
 letter to the " Gentleman's Magazine " the 
 errors in the previous one were pointed out, 
 the writer " lamenting that Mr. Gray did not 
 apply himself more to satire in which undoubt- 
 edly he would have excelled." The first edition 
 of Gray's Poems in which the verses appeared 
 was Stephen Jones'. 
 
 The house was that built for Lord Holland 
 as a correct imitation of Cicero's Formian villa 
 at Baiae, under the superintendence of Sir T. 
 Wynne, afterwards Lord Newborough. 
 
 17. Lord Bute was Prime Minister, 1762-63. 
 
400 NOTES. 
 
 Gray got his name suggested to Bute in 1762 
 for the Professorship of Modern History, but 
 was not successful. 
 
 18. In Upcott's edition the names given are 
 Mansfield, Rigby, Bedford. In the Egerton 
 MSS. they are Shelburne, Rigby, Calcraft. 
 For all these see the Index to the " Letters of 
 Junius." Rigby was Paymaster of the British 
 Forces. Thomas Bradshaw was Secretary to 
 the Duke of Grafton, and afterwards a Lord of 
 the Admiralty. 
 
 XXIX.— SATIRE UPON THE HEADS. 
 
 These lines were first printed in Mr. Gosse's 
 edition of Gray's " Works " from a MS. then 
 in the possession of Lord Houghton. 
 
 I have taken them from the Mitford MSS. 
 in the British Museum. 
 
 XXX.— AMATORY LINES. 
 
 These verses were first printed by Warton 
 in his edition of Pope's " Works," 1797, as a 
 footnote to Pope's " Imitations of English 
 Poets," with this note : — " In the following love- 
 verses is a strain of sensibility which the reader 
 
AMATORY LINES. 401 
 
 will be pleased, I suppose, to see, being now 
 first published from a manuscript of Mr. Gray." 
 They next appeared in a letter signed " C. L. T. 
 Etonenis," in the " Gentleman's Magazine " 
 for Aug. 1799, described as a " literary curi- 
 osity, being the only specimen of Gray's ex- 
 cellence in amatory composition." 
 
 The original MS. was presented by the 
 Countess de Yiry (Miss Speed) with the ensuing 
 " Song," to the Rev. Mr. Leman when he visited 
 her in 1780, and by him they were given to 
 Warton. 
 
 It is probable that like the " Song," and the 
 " Rondeau," they were written at the request 
 of this Lady, of whom Gray says in the " Long 
 Story," — " Alas who would not wish to please 
 her." 
 
 The first edition of Gray's " Poems " in 
 which these verses appeared was Stephen Jones' 
 (1799), who gave them the title of " The En- 
 quiry," observing, " the following amatory 
 lines having been found among the MSS. of 
 Gray, but bearing no title, I have ventured 
 for the sake of uniformity in this volume to 
 prefix the above " ; and Mitford (ed. 1814) gave 
 them the title of " Amatory Lines," by which 
 they have been known ever since. 
 
402 NOTES. 
 
 XXXL— SONG. J 
 
 In a brief memoir of Gray by Horace Wal- 
 pole, prefixed to Mitford's " Correspondence of 
 Gray and Mason," Walpole says : — " In Oc- 
 tober, 1761, he made words for an old tune of 
 Geminiani, at the request of Miss Speed. It 
 
 begins — 
 
 ' Thyrsis, when we parted, swore.' 
 
 Two stanzas — the thought adapted from the 
 French." 
 
 In a long note to the " Long Story," in the 
 edition of Gray's " Poetical Works," published 
 by Sharpe, 1826, after referring to the fact that 
 his " gallantry had no deeper root than the 
 complaisance of friendship," the anonymous 
 editor proceeds to say : — " Another erroneous 
 surmise of the same nature [i. e., that he was 
 in love with Miss Speed ] might be formed 
 on hearing ( what nevertheless is true) that the 
 beautiful rondeau, which appears in the later 
 editions of his works, was inspired by the ' wish 
 to please ' this lady. The fact is, however, that 
 it was produced (and probably about this time) 
 on a request she made to the poet one day, 
 when he was in company with Mr. Walpole, 
 that she might possess something from his pen 
 on the subject of love. ... It was in the year 
 
SONG. 403 
 
 1780 that Miss Speed (then Countess de Yiry) 
 enabled the lovers of poetry to see in print the 
 ' Eondeau,' and another small amatory poem of 
 Gray's called ' Thyrsis,' by presenting them to 
 the Kev. Mr. Leman, of Suffolk, while on a visit 
 at her castle in Savoy. She died there in 1783." 
 The following references to Miss Speed in 
 Gray's " Letters" are interesting. In June, 
 1760, writing to Wharton, he saj^s : — " I remain 
 . . . still in town, though for these three weeks 
 I have been going into Oxfordshire with 
 Madam Speed. . . . She has got at least £30,000 
 with a house in town, plate, jewels, china and 
 old japan infinite [left by Lady Cobham]." On 
 Oct. 21, 1760 : — " You astonish me in wonder- 
 ing that my Lady Cobham left me nothing. 
 For my part, I wondered to find that she had 
 given me £20 for a ring, as much as she gave 
 to several of her nieces. The world said before 
 her death that Miss Speed and I had shut our- 
 selves up with her in order to make her will, 
 and that afterwards we were to he onarried.''^ 
 In Jan., 1761 :— " My old friend Miss Speed has 
 done what the world would call a very foolish 
 thing. She has married the Baron de la Pey- 
 riere, son to the Sardinian Minister, the Comte 
 de Viry. The Castle of Viry is in Savoy, a few 
 miles from Geneva, commanding a fine view of 
 the Lake." 
 
404 NOTES. 
 
 It would seem that there were two or three 
 manuscript copies of this Song. It was pub- 
 lished in Horace Walpole's " Works," in his let- 
 ters to the Countess of Ailesbury, and that 
 copy was followed by Mitford, and is identical 
 with the version in Mr. Gosse's edition which 
 he incorrectly describes as " printed from a 
 copy by Stonehewer at Pembroke College." 
 In the " Gentleman's Magazine" for Oct. 1799, 
 it is quoted in a letter in which it is stated that 
 it was first published in Walpole's " Works." 
 
 1. Thyrsis is the name of a shepherd in The- 
 ocritus and Virgil, and used in Milton's 
 " 1' Allegro," 83, for a shepherd or rustic, and 
 hence, in the pastoral and amatory poetry of the 
 eighteenth century, it is used to designate a lover. 
 
 In Stephen Jones' edition, in which he states 
 that this song then appears for the first time 
 among Gray's poems, there are the following 
 variations from the usual text : — 
 
 1. when we parted. When he left me. 2. 
 Ere. In. 
 
 3. yon molet flower. The opening flower. 
 
 Line 5 comes after line 6. 8. this. such. 
 
 9. Western. Gentle, skies, sky. 10. Speak. 
 Prove. 
 
 There is also a copy in the Mitford MSS., 
 which had the following variations in the sec- 
 ond verse : — 
 
EPITAPH ON MES. MASON. 405 
 
 7. g^'een. Bloom. 9. Western. Warmer. 
 10. Cannot prove that winter's past. 
 12. Dare not to reproach my love. 
 
 XXXIL— EPITAPH ON MES. MASON. 
 
 Mason's wife died in March, 1767, and he 
 erected a monument to her in the Cathedral at 
 Bristol, with the following inscription : — 
 
 Mary, the daughter of William Sherman, 
 
 of Kingston upon Hull, Esq. 
 
 and wife of the Rev. William Mason, 
 
 Died March 27, 1767, aged 28. 
 
 Take, holy earth ! all that my soul holds dear : 
 
 Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave : 
 To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care 
 
 Her faded form ; she bowed to taste the wave, 
 And died. Does Youth, Does Beauty, read the line? 
 
 Does sympathetic fear their breast alarm ? 
 Speak, dead Maria ! breathe a strain divine : 
 
 E'en from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. 
 Bid them be chaste, be innocent like thee ; 
 
 Bid them in Duty's sphere as meekly move ; 
 And if so fair, from vanity as free. 
 
 As firm in friendship, and as fond in love. 
 Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die 
 
 ('Twas e'en to thee) yet the dread path once trod, 
 Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high. 
 
 And bids the pure in heart behold their God. 
 
 A copy of it appeared in the " Gentleman's 
 
406 NOTES. 
 
 Magazine " for January, 1794, and it was always 
 assumed that the whole of the epitaph was 
 by Mason till the " Reminiscences of Norton 
 Nichoils " were published by Mitford in 1843, in 
 which he states that when Mason sent what he 
 had written to Gray, he showed it to Nichols, say- 
 ing, " that will never do for an ending. I have 
 altered them thus," and wrote in it the last four 
 lines as they now stand. 
 
 In a letter to Mason, not published by him, 
 dated May 23, 1767, Gray refers to the epitaph 
 and to the line " Heaven lifts, etc." being: his. 
 
 XXXIII.— TOPHET. 
 
 The person satirized in these lines was the 
 Rev. Henry Etough, rector of Therfield, Herts, 
 and Colmnorth, Bedfordshire. He was a con- 
 verted Jew, and the allusion in the second line 
 is to the fact that he " kept the conscience " of 
 Sir R. Walpole, who was his patron. The epi- 
 gram was first printed in the " Gentleman's 
 Magazine," May, 1785, where it is stated that 
 he was principally remarkable for the intimate 
 knowledge he had obtained of the private and 
 domestic history of all the great families in the 
 kingdom, which made him, in spite of outward 
 civilities, an object of secret dislike. 
 
TOPHET. 407 
 
 Further particulars about him may be found 
 in the Cole MSS., in Coxe's Life of Sir R. 
 "Walpole, and in Nichols' "Literary Anecdotes 
 of the Eighteenth Century." In the latter is 
 given the epitaph from his monument in the 
 church at Therfield, which concludes thus : — 
 " With a robust constitution, through a singular 
 habit of body, he lived many years without the 
 use of animal food, or of any fermented liquid ; 
 and died suddenly, Aug. 10, 1757, in the 70th 
 year of his age." 
 
 Previous to Mr. Gosse's " Gray " in " English 
 Men of Letters," only six lines of this epigram 
 had been printed, — lines 5 and 6 being omitted. 
 In the Pembroke MSS. the lines are in Stone- 
 hewer's hand, with the heading " Inscription on 
 a Portrait," and the first two lines are — 
 
 " Such Tophet was, so looked the grinning Fiend, 
 Whom many a frighted Prelate called his friend, 
 
 A note indicates that lines 3 and 4 are an 
 " addition in the first copy." 
 
 Regarding the portrait of Etough and the 
 occasion of Gray's writing these lines, Nichols 
 writes : — " Mr. Tyson, of Bene't College, who, 
 amongst other various and better attainments 
 successfully cultivated a taste for drawing, 
 made an etching of him, a small whole length 
 figure, and presented it to Mr. Gray ; who 
 
408 NOTES. 
 
 wrote underneath it the following epigram." 
 (Here follow the lines.) 
 
 An engraving from Tyson's drawing was first 
 published in Stephen Jones' edition, who states 
 that he was indebted for the sketch of the por- 
 trait to John Nichols, Esq. There is a pen-and- 
 ink sketch in the Cole MSS. 
 
 XXXIV.— COMIC LINES. 
 
 These lines occur in a letter from Gray to 
 Mason, dated Pembroke College, 8th January, 
 1768, and are written to tell him that all " his 
 old and new friends are in constant expectation 
 of him at Cambridge." 
 
 They were first published in Mitford's " Cor- 
 respondence of Gray and Mason," and were re- 
 printed therefrom by Mr. Gosse. A slightly 
 different version of them is in the Mitford MSS. 
 I have followed Mitford's printed copy, except 
 that from the MS. I have supplied in the 
 second line the words omitted in the " Corre- 
 spondence," and by Mr. Gosse. 
 
 1. Weddell. In the Mitford MSS. it is " Prim 
 Hurd." Mitford's note is : Mr. Weddell, of 
 Newby, who made the collection of statues, 
 since belonging to Lord de Grey, collected 
 
COMIC LINES. 409 
 
 during his travels in Italy with Mr, Pal- 
 grave." 
 
 Palgrave, one of the Fellows of Pembroke, 
 familiarly called " Old Pa." in Gray's letters. 
 He died 1799. See " Gentleman's Magazine." 
 
 2. Stoneheiuer, the lewd. These words are 
 represented by dashes in Mitford's " Corre- 
 spondence of Gray and Mason." 
 
 Delaval the loud. Edward Delaval, Fellow 
 of Pembroke and F.R. S. In a letter to Brown, 
 March, 1769, Gray writes "Delaval is by no 
 means well, and looks sadly, yet he goes about 
 and talks as loud as everP 
 
 3. Powell. William Samuel Powell, elected 
 Master of St. John's College, 17G4. His ser- 
 mons have been highly praised. Cole has given 
 a long account of him in Nichols' " Anecdotes," 
 1. 564. Died in Jan. 1775. 
 
 Marriot. Sir James Marriot, Kt., Master of 
 Trinity Hall, from 1764 to 1803. There are 
 some verses by him in Dodsley's " Collection," 
 vol. iv. 
 
 4. Glymi. Dr. Glynn was Gray's physician 
 at Cambridge, and a very intimate friend; 
 he was " the loved lapis on the banks of 
 Cam." 
 
 Tom Neville. Thomas Neville, Fellow of 
 Jesus College, published Imitations of Horace, 
 1758, and of Juvenal and Persius in 1769 ; and 
 
410 NOTES. 
 
 translated the Georgics of Yirgil, 1767. In the 
 
 " Horace " he praises 
 
 " Mason, who writes not with low sons of rhyme, 
 But on Pindaric pinions soars sublime." 
 
 Neville was one of the first persons to whom 
 Gray showed the " Bard " ; see letter to Mason, 
 June, 1757. 
 
 5. Brown. Dr. James Brown (or Browne) 
 was Fellow, and in 1770 Master, of Pembroke; 
 died 1784. He and Mason were Gray's exec- 
 utors. 
 
 8 Dr. Thomas Balguy, of St. John's, refused 
 a bishopric. 
 
 XXXY.— IMPKOMPTUS. 
 
 Pakody on an Epitaph. 
 
 The epitaph (which has never before been 
 given along with the parody) is as follows : 
 
 " Who Faith, Love, Mercy, noble Constancy 
 To God, to Virtue, to Distress, to Right 
 Observed, expressed, showed, held religiously 
 Hath here this monument thou seest in sight. 
 The cover of her earthly part, but passenger 
 Know Heaven and Fame contains the best of her." 
 
 It is on an altar tomb, with recumbent figure 
 in the chancel of Appleby Church ; the monu- 
 ment was erected in 1617, to Margaret (Rus- 
 sell), widow of George Clifford, 3rd Earl of 
 
IMPROMPTUS. 411 
 
 Cumberland, by her only daughter, Anne, suc- 
 cessively Countess of Dorset and of Pembroke 
 and Montgomery ; her own tomb, for which 
 she also wrote the inscription, stands opposite. 
 3. These were four castles of the Barony of 
 Westmoreland, which the Countess inherited, 
 all of which she rebuilt. 
 
 Couplet about Birds. 
 
 This couplet was first published in Mathias, 
 edition of Gray's Works (1814) vol. ii., p. 596, 
 introduced thus : — " One fine morning in the 
 spring Mr. Nicholls was walking in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Cambridge with Mr. Gray, who, 
 feeling the influence of the season, and cheered 
 with the melody of the birds on every bough, 
 turned round to his friend, and expressed him- 
 self extempore in these beautiful lines." Ma- 
 thias, no doubt, based his remarks on Norton 
 Nicholls' " Reminiscences of Gray," written in 
 1895, the MS. of which was in his possession, 
 — ISTichoUs' reference to them being : — " Two 
 verses made by Mr. Gray as we were walking 
 in the spring in the neighbourhood of Cam- 
 bridge." 
 
 Norton Nicholls' " Reminiscences " were 
 printed by Mitford in vol. v. of his " Works of 
 Gray," published by Bell and Daldy in 1843. 
 
412 OTES. 
 
 DOUBTFUL POEMS. 
 
 I.— ODE. 
 
 This " Ode " was first published by Mr. Gosse. 
 " It occurs," he says, " in Gray's handwriting, 
 and among other pieces known to be his in the 
 Stonehewer MSS. Gray has written ' Celadon, 
 Dec. 1736,' at the foot of it. At that date 
 Gray was an undergraduate at Peterhouse. 
 The verses do not bear the stamp of his mature 
 manner, but 1 know not to whom they must 
 be attributed, if not to Gray." 
 
 I have compared it with the MS., and there 
 are four errors in Mr. Gosse's copy. 
 
 Horace Walpole says " one of his first pieces 
 of poetry was an answer in English verse to an 
 epistle from H. W." This may be it, but why 
 should he sign it " Celadon " in his Common- 
 place Book? 
 
 II.— POETICAL RONDEAU. 
 
 These verses were first printed (in 1783) in 
 Professor Young's " Criticism on the Elegy 
 written in a country Churchyard, being a con- 
 
POETICAL RONDEAU. 413 
 
 tinuation of Dr. Johnson's Criticism on the 
 Poems of Gray " — in reality an extravagant 
 parody of Dr. Johnson's style and criticism, 
 
 111 criticising the alliteration in "longing 
 lingering look," the writer says : — 
 
 " Of all the elementary constituents of oral 
 articulate sound, there is no one which has had 
 more attention paid to it by the adepts in rep- 
 resentative composition, than the semivocal 
 incomposite I. It is easy of access, ready to 
 grant, or even proffer its services, and ever 
 within call. To it, of all the rest. Gray seems 
 to have paid peculiar court. The kindness of 
 Dr. Curzon, late of Brazenose, now residing in 
 Italy for his health, and to whom I embrace 
 this opportunity of recording my obligation 
 for materials that have been of use to me in 
 the present work, has put me in possession of 
 a little relic of Gray, furnishing a striking 
 illustration of his fondness for this letter, and 
 how much, as the Doctor terms it, it had in- 
 sensibly gained his ear. Of this relic I do not 
 know that, in any edition of Gray's works, the 
 communication has yet been indulged to the 
 public ; not even in that one in which the 
 author's literary correspondence and fragments 
 of projected poems have been printed. I am 
 contented, therefore, to give it to the world 
 with part of the letter to the Doctor, in which 
 
 22— a & G— FF 
 
414 NOTES. 
 
 it was inserted, as particularly connected with 
 the present subject, and as illustrative, more- 
 over, of that leading feature in the character 
 of Gray, the love of project ; hoping that I 
 may do so without offence ; as in offering this 
 gratification to rational literary curiosity, for 
 which I have the Doctor's permission, I invade 
 no property, nor violate any known right." 
 
 After some further remarks, there follows a 
 long letter (of 8 pp.) which the writer would 
 have us believe is by Gray, but which I do not 
 think is in Gray's style, but is rather of a piece 
 with the burlesque '• Criticism " itself. The 
 " Rondeau " referred to in Sharpe's edition of 
 Gray's " Poetical Works," quoted in my note 
 on the " Song " (xxxi), is, I think, the " Ama- 
 tory Lines " (xxx). 
 
 The copy printed by Mr. Gosse, for the 
 original of which he thanks Mr. Frederick 
 Locker, differs from that in the "Criticism" 
 (2nd ed.) (which I have followed) in the fol- 
 lowing points : — 
 
 21. " They who just have felt the flame." 
 31, 32. " Then to sever what is bound, 
 Is to tear the closing wound." 
 33. Thus to love, etc. 
 
THE CHRIST-CROSS-ROW. 415 
 
 III.— THE CHAKACTEES OF THE 
 CHRIST-CROSS-KOW. 
 
 This fragment was first printed by Mitford 
 in 1843, Gray's "Works," vol. v. p. 217. 
 Horace "Walpole says : — " Gray never would 
 allow the foregoing Poem to be bis, but it has 
 too much merit, and the humour and versifica- 
 tion are so much in his style, but I cannot be- 
 lieve it to be written by any other hand. — 
 (Signed) H. W." 
 
 "Dyce mentions, in a MS. note at South 
 Kensington, that Gray's original autograph of 
 these lines has been destroyed." 
 
 Walpole preserved the following fragment 
 of a letter from Gray, in which the verses were 
 introduced : — 
 
 " When I received the testimonial of so many 
 considerable personages to adorn the second 
 page of my next edition, and (adding them to 
 the Testimonium Autoris de seipso) do relish 
 and enjoy all the conscious pleasure resulting 
 from six pennyworths of glory, I cannot but 
 close my satisfaction with a sigh for the fate 
 of my fellow-labourer in poetry, the unfortu- 
 nate Mr. Golding, cut off in the flower or rather 
 the bud of his honours, who had he survived but 
 
416 NOTES. 
 
 a fortnight more, might have been by your kind 
 offices as much delighted with himself, as I. 
 Windsor and Eton might have gone down to 
 posterity together, perhaps appeared in the 
 same volume, like Philips and Smith, and we 
 mio"ht have sent at once to Mr. Pond for the 
 frontispiece, but these, alas ! are vain reflec- 
 tions. To return to myself. Nay! but you 
 are such a wit! sure the gentlemen an't so 
 good, are they ? and don't you play upon the 
 word. I promise you, few take to it here at 
 all, which is a good sign (for I never knew 
 anything liked here, that ever proved to be so 
 anywhere else) ; it is said to be mine, but I 
 strenuously deny it, and so do all that are in 
 the secret, so that nobody knows what to 
 think ; a few only of King's College gave me 
 the lie, but I hope to demolish them ; for if / 
 don't know, who should ? Tell Mr. Chute, I 
 would not have served him so, for any brother 
 in Christendom, and am very angry. To make 
 my peace with the noble youth you mention, 
 I send you a Poem that I am sure they will 
 read (as well as they can) a masterpiece — it is 
 said, being an admirable improvement on that 
 beautiful piece called Pugna Porcorum, which 
 begins 
 
 Plangite porcelli Porcorum pigra propago ; 
 
LATIN POEMS. 417 
 
 but that is in Latin, and not for their reading, 
 but indeed, this is worth a thousand of it, and 
 unfortunately it is not perfect, and it is not 
 mine. 
 
 " When you and Mr. Chute can get the re- 
 mainder of ' Marianne,' * I shall be much 
 obliged to you for it. — I am terribly impatient." 
 
 LATIN POEMS. 
 XY.— THE GAURUS. 
 
 The letter to West in which this was sent 
 begins thus : — " What I send you now, as long 
 as it is, is but a piece of a poem. It has the ad- 
 vantage of all fragments to need neither intro- 
 duction nor conclusion ; besides, if you do not 
 like it, it is but imagining that which went be- 
 fore and came after, to be infinitely better. 
 Look in Sandys' ' Travels ' for the history of 
 Monte Barbaro and Monte Nuovo." 
 
 The passage in Sandys' "Travels" is as 
 follows : — 
 
 " West of Cicero's Villa stands the eminent 
 Gaurus, a stony and desolate mountain, in 
 which there are divers obscure caverns, choked 
 
 * In July, 1743, Gray sent " 3 Parts of Marianne, a 
 novel by Marivaux," to Chute. 
 
41 8 NOTES. 
 
 almost with earth, where many have consumed 
 much fruitless industry in searching for treas- 
 ure. The famous Lucrine Lake extended for- 
 merly from Avernus to the aforesaid Gaurus, 
 but is now no other than a little sedgy plash, 
 choked up by the horrible and astonishing 
 eruption of the new mountain ; whereof as oft 
 as I think, I am easy to credit whatsoever is 
 wonderful. For who here knows not, or who 
 elsewhere will believe, that a mountain should 
 arise (partly out of a lake and partly out of 
 the sea) in one day and a night, unto such a 
 height as to contend in altitude with the high 
 mountains adjoining ? 
 
 In the year of our Lord 1538, on the 29th of 
 September, when for certain days foregoing 
 the country here about was so vested with per- 
 petual earthquakes, as no one house was left 
 so entire as not to expect an immediate ruin ; 
 after that the sea had retired two hundred 
 paces from the shore (leaving abundance of 
 fish, and springs of fresh water rising in the 
 bottom) this mountain visibly ascended, about 
 the second hour of the night, with an hideous 
 roaring, horribly vomiting stones, and such 
 store of cinders as overwhelmed all the build- 
 ing thereabout and the salubrious baths of 
 Tripergula, for so many ages celebrated, con- 
 sumed the vines to ashes, killing birds and 
 
ALCAIC ODE. 419 
 
 beasts ; the fearful inhabitants of Puzzol flying 
 through the dark with their wives and children, 
 naked, defiled, crying out and detesting their 
 calamities. Manifold mischiefs have they suf- 
 fered by the barbarous, yet none like this which 
 nature inflicted. 
 
 The new mountain, when newly raised, had 
 a number of issues ; at some of them smoking 
 and sometimes flaming; at others disgorging 
 rivulets of hot water ; keeping within a terrible 
 rumbling ; and many miserably perished that 
 ventured to descend into the hollowness above. 
 But that hollow on the top is at present an 
 orchard, and the mountain throughout is bereft 
 of its terrors." — Bk. iv. p. 275. 
 
 There is a translation of this poem in the 
 " Gentleman's Magazine " for July, 1775. 
 
 XYIII.— ALCAIC ODE. 
 
 In the letter to West in which Gray sent the 
 fragment on the " Gaurus," he says — " There 
 was a certain little ode set out from Rome, in 
 a letter of recommendation to you, but possibly 
 fell into the enemies' hands, for I never heard 
 of its arrival. It is a little impertinent to in- 
 quire after its welfare, but you that are a father, 
 will excuse a parent's foolish fondness." 
 
430 EXPLANATION OF THE PRINTS. 
 
 Stephen Jones gives two translations in verse 
 of this, one by " a gentleman of Sunderland," 
 and the other by Mr. Seward, — the latter ap- 
 peared in the " European Magazine " for 1791. 
 It was also translated by Walpole (" Works " 
 iv. p. 454), and by Samuel Kogers. 
 
 EXPLANATION OF THE PRINTS IN 
 BENTLEY'S "DESIGNS FOR SIX 
 POEMS BY MR. GRAY," 1753.* 
 
 Ode on the Spring. 
 
 Frontispiece. — A Figure musing, etc. The 
 ornaments allude to the chief subjects of the 
 poems, as the altar, chaplet of flowers and 
 rustic pipe, to this ode ; a boy with a hobby- 
 horse and a book, to that on Eton ; a cat-arion, 
 or cat with a lyre, sitting on a Dolphin's back, 
 to that line on the death of a cat — 
 
 No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred ; 
 
 a monkey with a violin and a lawyer's wig, to 
 my lord keeper Hatton's dancing in the " Long 
 Story " ; a Roman sepulchral altar inscribed 
 Diis Manibus Sacrum, with a spade and skull, 
 
 * Now first reprinted. 
 
IN BENTLEY'S " DESIGNS." 421 
 
 to the elegy. The monkey painting, the lyre, 
 the pen and crayon, are allusive to the poems 
 and drawings. 
 
 Headpiece. — The Graces and Zephyrs sport- 
 ing. 
 
 Initial Letter. — Flowers. 
 
 Tailpiece. — A landscape with herds reposing. 
 
 Od& on the Death of a Favourite Cat. 
 
 Frontispiece. — The cat standing on the brim 
 of the tub, and endeavourmg to catch a gold- 
 fish. Two cariatides of a river god stopping 
 his ears to her cries, and Destiny cutting the 
 nine threads of life, are on each side. Above, 
 is a cat's head between two expiring lamps 
 and over that, two mouse-traps, between a 
 mandarin-cat sitting before a Chinese pagoda 
 and angling for goldfish in a china jar ; and 
 another cat drawing up a net. At the bottom 
 are mice enjoying themselves on the prospect 
 of the cat's death ; a lyre and pallet. 
 
 Headpiece. — The cat almost drowned in the 
 tub. A standish on a table to write her elegy. 
 Two cats as mourners with hatbands and staves. 
 Dead birds, mice and fish hung up on each 
 side. 
 
 Initial Letter. — The cat, demurest of the 
 tabby kind, dozing in an elbow chair. 
 
 Tailpiece. — Charon ferrying over the ghost 
 
422 EXPLANATION OF THE PRINTS. 
 
 of the deceased cat, who sets up her back on 
 seeing Cerberus on the shore. 
 
 Ode on the Distant Prospect of Eton. 
 
 Frontispiece. — Boys at their sports, near the 
 chapel of Eton, the god of the Thames sitting 
 by ; the passions, misfortunes, and diseases com- 
 ing down upon them. On either side, terms 
 representing Jealousy and Madness. Above is 
 a head of Folly ; beneath are playthings inter- 
 mixed with thorns, a sword, a serpent, and a 
 scorpion. 
 
 Headpiece. — Science adorning the shade of 
 Henry VI. Two angels, bearing shields in- 
 scribed with that King's name, support a Gothic 
 building, in allusion to his foundations at Eton 
 and Cambridge. 
 
 Initial Letter. — Part of Windsor Castle. 
 
 Tailpiece. — Two boys drestin watermen's 
 cloaths, rowing another. A view of Eton col- 
 lege at a distance. 
 
 The Long Story. 
 
 Frontispiece. — The Muses conveying the Poet 
 under their hoops to a small closet in the gar- 
 den. Fame in the shape of Mr. P is flying 
 
 before ; and after him the two female warriors, 
 as described in the verses. On one side is my 
 lord keeper Hatton dancing; and among the 
 
IN BENTLEY'S " DESIGNS." 423 
 
 ornaments are the heads of the Pope and 
 Queen Elizabeth nodding at one another ; be- 
 hind him is a papal bull, a phial of sublimate, a 
 dagger and a crucifix ; behind her the cannon 
 called Queen Elizabeth's pocket-pistol. 
 
 neadpiece. — A view of the house which for- 
 merly belonged to the earls of Huntington and 
 lord keeper Hatton. 
 
 Initial Letter. — A coronet, fan, muff and 
 tippet, in the manner of Hollar. 
 
 Tailpiece. — Ghosts of ancient ladies and old 
 maids, peepmg over the gallery. 
 
 Hymn to Adversity. 
 
 Frontispiece. — Jupiter delivering infant virtue 
 to Adversity to be educated. Minerva and Her- 
 cules on each side. 
 
 Headpiece. — Adversity disturbing the orgies 
 of Folly, Noise and Laughter. 
 
 Initial Letter.— A. Gorgon's head, an instru- 
 ment of punishment. 
 
 Tailpiece. — Melancholy. 
 
 Elegy written iri a Country Churchyard. 
 
 Frontispiece. — A Gothic gateway in ruins, 
 with the emblems of nobility on one side ; on 
 the other, the implements and employments of 
 the poor. Through the arch appears a church- 
 
424 EXPLANATION OF BENTLEY'S " DESIGNS." 
 
 yard and village church built out of the remains 
 of an abbey. A countryman showing an epitaph 
 to a stranger. 
 
 Headpiece. — Country labours. 
 
 Initial Letter. — An owl disturbed and flying 
 from a ruinous tower. 
 
 Tailpiece. — A country burial. At bottom, a 
 torch fallen into an ancient vault. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 I .*— THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT 
 OF THOMAS GRAY. 
 
 Extracted from the Registry of the Prerogative Court 
 of Canterbury. 
 
 In the name of God. A7yien. I Thomas 
 Gray, of Pembroke-Hall in the University of 
 Cambridge, being of sound mind and in good 
 health of body, yet ignorant how long these 
 blessings may be indulged me, do make this 
 my last Will and Testament in manner and 
 form following. First, I do desire that my 
 body may be deposited in the vault, made by 
 my late dear mother in the churchyard of 
 Stoke-Pogeis, near Slough in Buckinghamshire, 
 by her remains, in a coffin of seasoned oak, 
 neither lined nor covered, and (unless it be 
 very inconvenient) I could wish that one of ray 
 executors may see me laid in the grave, and 
 distribute among such honest and industrious 
 poor persons in the said parish as he thinks fit, 
 
 * The first eight of the following extracts appeared ui 
 the Aldine edition, edited by Mitford. They have been 
 compared with the originals and corrected. 
 
 425 
 
426 APPENDIX. 
 
 the sum of ten pounds in charity. — Next, I 
 give to George Williamson, esq. my second 
 cousin by the father's side, now of Calcutta in 
 Bengal, the sum of five hundred pounds re- 
 duced Bank annuities, now standing in my 
 name. I give to Anna Lady Goring, also my 
 second cousin by the father's side, of the county 
 of Sussex, five hundred pounds reduced Bank 
 annuities, and a pair of large blue and white 
 old Japan china jars. Item^ I give to Mary 
 Antrobus of Cambridge, spinster, my second 
 cousin by the mother's side, all that my free- 
 hold estate and house in the parish of St. 
 Michael, Cornhill, London, now let at the yearly 
 rent of sixty-five pounds, and in the occupation 
 of Mr. Nortgeth, perfumer, provided that she 
 pay out of the said rent, by half-yearly pay- 
 ments, Mrs. Jane Olliffe, my aunt, of Cam- 
 bridge, widow, the sum of twenty pounds fer 
 annum during her natural life ; and after the 
 decease of the said Jane Olliffe I give the said 
 estate to the said Mary Antrobus, to have and 
 to hold to her heirs and assigns for ever. 
 Further, I bequeath to the said Mary Antro- 
 bus the sum of six hundred pounds new South- 
 sea annuities, now standing in the joint names 
 of Jane Olliffe and Thomas Gray, but charged 
 with the payment of five pounds j9er annum to 
 Graves Stokeley of Stoke-Pogeis, in the county 
 
GRAY'S LAST WILL. 427 
 
 of Bucks, Tvhich sum of six hundred pounds, 
 after the decease of the said annuitant, does (by 
 the will of Anna Rogers my late aunt) belong 
 solely and entirely to me, together ^vith all 
 overplus of interest in the mean-time accruing. 
 Further, if at the time of my decease there 
 shall be any arrear of salary due to me from 
 his Majesty's Treasury, I give all such arrears 
 to the said Mary Antrobus. Item., I give to 
 Mrs. Dorothy Comyns of Cambridge, my other 
 second cousin by the mother's side, the sum of 
 six hundred pounds old South-sea annuities, of 
 three hundred pounds iovci: per cent. Bank an- 
 nuities consolidated, and of two hundred pounds 
 three ^er cent. Bank annuities consolidated, all 
 now standing in my name. I give to Richard 
 Stonehewer, esq., one of his Majesty's Com- 
 missioners of Excise, the sum of five hundred 
 pounds reduced Bank annuities, and I beg his 
 acceptance of one of ray diamond rings. I 
 give to Dr. Thomas Wharton, of Old Park in 
 the Bishoprick of Durham, five hundred pounds 
 reduced Bank annuities, and desire him also to 
 accept one of m}'- diamond rings. I give to my 
 servant, Stephen Hempstead, the sum of fifty 
 pounds reduced Bank annuities, and if he con- 
 tinues in my service to the time of my death I 
 also give him all my wearing apparel and linen. 
 I give to my two cousins above mentioned, Mary 
 
428 APPENDIX. 
 
 Antrobus and Dorothy Comyns, all my plate, 
 watches, rings, china-ware, bed linen and table- 
 linen, and the furniture of my chambers, at Cam- 
 bridge, not otherwise bequeathed, to be equally 
 and amicably shared between them. I give to 
 the Reverend William Mason, precentor of York, 
 all my books, manuscripts, coins, music printed 
 or written, and papers of all kinds, to preserve 
 or destroy at his own discretion. And after 
 my just debts and the expenses of ray funeral are 
 discharged, all the residue of my personal estate, 
 whatsoever, I do hereby give and bequeath to 
 the said Reverend William Mason, and to the 
 Reverend Mr. James Browne, President of Pern- 
 broke-Hall, Cambridge, to be equally divided 
 between them, desiring them to apply the sum 
 of two hundred pounds to an use of charity 
 concerning which I have already informed them. 
 And I do hereby constitute and appoint them, 
 the said William Mason and James Browne, 
 to be joint executors of this my last Will and 
 Testament. And if any relation of mine, or 
 other legatee, shall go about to molest or com- 
 mence any suit against my said executors in the 
 ■execution of their office, I do, as far as the law 
 will permit me, hereby revoke and make void 
 all such bequests or legacies as I had given to 
 that person or persons, and give it to be divided 
 between my said executors and residuary legar 
 
GRAY'S LAST WILL. 429 
 
 tees, whose integrity and kindness I have so 
 long experienced, and who can best judge of 
 my true intention and meaning. In witness 
 whereof I have hereunto set my hand and seal 
 this 2d day of July, 1770. 
 
 Tho. Gray. 
 
 Signed, sealed, ind)lished, and declared hy the 
 said Thomas Gray, the testator, as and for his 
 Last Will and Testament, in the presence of 
 us, who in his presence and at his request, 
 and in the presence of each other, have signed 
 our names as witnesses hereto. 
 
 Richard Baker, 
 Thomas Wilson. 
 Joseph Turner. 
 
 Proved at London the 12th of August, 1771, 
 before the Worshipful Andrew Coltre Ducarel, 
 Doctor of Laws and Surrogate, by the oaths of 
 the Reverend William Mason, Clerk, Master of 
 Arts, and the Reverend James Browne,* Clerk, 
 Master of Arts, the executors, to whom ad- 
 
 * Mr. Gray used to go with his friend Browne to a 
 reading-room in the evening. Browne, who was a 
 very punctual man, just before the hour of going, used 
 to get up, walk about the room, and make a bustle with 
 his gown, etc. " Now," says Gray, " Browne is going 
 to strike."— Mitford. 
 
430 APPENDIX. 
 
 ministration was granted, having been first 
 sworn duly to administer. 
 
 John Stevens, 
 Henry Stevens, 
 George Gostlij^ig, jun. 
 
 Deputy 
 Registers, 
 
 IL— "CASE" SUBMITTED TO COUNSEL 
 BY MRS. PHILIP GRAY. 
 
 The following curious paper I owe to the 
 kindness of Sir Egerton Brydges and his friend 
 Mr. Haslewood. It was discovered in a volume 
 of manuscript law cases, purchased by the 
 latter gentleman at the sale of the late Isaac 
 Reed's books. It is a case submitted by the 
 mother of Gray to the opinion of an eminent 
 civilian in 1735 ; and it proves, that to the 
 great and single exertions of this admirable 
 woman. Gray was indebted for his education, 
 and consequently for the happiness of his life. 
 The sorrow and the mournful affection with 
 which he dwelt on his mother's memory, serves 
 to show the deep sense he retained of what she 
 suffered, as well as what she did for him. Those 
 who have read the memoirs of Kirke White in 
 Mr. Southey's Narrative, will recognize the 
 similarity of the situation in which the two 
 
MRS. GRAY'S CASE. 43I 
 
 poets were placed, in their entrance into life ; 
 and they will see, that if maternal love and 
 courage had not stept in, in both cases, their 
 genius and talents would have been lost in the 
 ignorance, or stifled by the selfishness, of those 
 about them. — Mitford. 
 
 CASE. 
 
 " Philip Gray, before his marriage with his 
 wife, (then Dorothy Antrobus, and who was 
 then partner with her sister Mary Antrobus,) 
 entered into articles of agreement with the 
 said Dorothy, and Mary, and their brother 
 Robert Antrobus, that the said Dorothy's stock 
 in trade (which was then 240^.) should be em- 
 ployed by the said Mary in the said trade, and 
 that the same, and all profits arising thereby, 
 should be for the sole benefit of the said 
 Dorothy, notwithstanding her intended cov- 
 erture, and her sole receipts alone a sufficient 
 discharge to the said Mary and her brother 
 Robert Antrobus, who was made trustee. But 
 in case either the said Philip or Dorothy dies, 
 then the same to be assigned to the survivor. 
 
 " That in pursuance of the said articles, the 
 said Mary, with the assistance of the said 
 Dorothy her sister, hath carried on the said 
 trade for near thirty years, with tolerable 
 
432 APPENDIX. 
 
 success for the said Dorothy. That she hath 
 been no charge to the said Philip ; and during 
 all the said time, hath not only found herself 
 in all manner of apparel, but also for all her 
 children, to the number of twelve, and most 
 of the furniture of his house ; and paying 40^. 
 a year for his shop, almost jpromding every 
 thing for her son, whilst at Eton school, and 
 now he is at Peter-House at Garnhridge. 
 
 " Notwithstanding which, almost ever since 
 he hath been married, he hath used her in the 
 most inhuman manner, by beating, kicking? 
 punching, and with the most vile and abusive 
 language; that she hath been in the utmost 
 fear and danger of her life, and hath been 
 obliged this last year to quit her bed, and lie 
 with her sister. This she was resolved, if pos- 
 sible, to hear ; not to leave her shop of trade for 
 the sake of her son, to he able to assist in the 
 maintenance of him at the University, since his 
 father wonH. 
 
 " There is no cause for this usage, unless it 
 be an unhappy jealousy of all mankind in 
 general (her own brother not excepted); but no 
 woman deserves, or hath maintained, a more 
 virtuous character : or it is presumed if he can 
 make her sister leave off trade, he thinks he 
 can then come into his wife's money, but the 
 s,rticles are too secure for his vile purposes. 
 
MRS. GRAY'S CASE. 433 
 
 " He daily threatens he will pursue her with 
 all the vengeance possible, and will 7'uin him- 
 self to undo her, and his only son ; in order to 
 which he hath given warning to her sister to 
 quit his shop, where they have carried on their 
 trade so successfully, which will be almost 
 their ruin : but he insists she shall go at Mid- 
 summer next ; and the said Dorothy, his wife, 
 in necessity must be forced to go along with 
 her, to some other house and shop, to be as- 
 sisting to her said sister, in the said trade, for 
 her own and son's siqyj^ort. 
 
 " But if she can be quiet, she neither expects 
 or desires any help from him : but he is really 
 so very vile in his nature, she hath all the 
 reason to expect most troublesome usage from 
 him that can be thought of. 
 
 QUESTION. 
 
 " What he can, or possibly may do to 
 molest his wife in living with her sister, and as- 
 sisting in her trade, for the purposes in the 
 said articles ; and which will be the best way 
 for her to conduct herself in this unhappy cir. 
 cumstance, if he should any way be trouble- 
 some, or endeavour to force her to live with 
 him ? And whether the said Dorothy in the 
 lifetime of the said Philip, may not by will, 
 or otherwise, dispose of the interest, or produce, 
 28 
 
434 APPENDIX. 
 
 which hath, or may arise, or become due for 
 the said stock as she shall think fit, it being 
 apprehended as part of her separate estate ? " 
 
 ANSWER. 
 
 " If Mrs. Gray should leave her husband's 
 house, and go to live with her sister in any 
 other, to assist her in her trade, her husband 
 may, and probably will call her, by process in 
 the Ecclesiastical Court, to return home and 
 cohabit with him, which the court will compel 
 her to do, unless she can show cause to the 
 contrary. She has no other defence in that 
 case, than to make proof, before the court, of 
 such cruelties as may induce the judge to think 
 she cannot live in safety with her husband : 
 then the court will decree for a separation. 
 
 " This is a most unhappy case, and such a 
 one, as I think, if possible, should be referred 
 to, and made up by some common friend ; 
 sentences of separation, by reason of cruelty 
 only, being very rarely obtained. 
 
 " What the cruelties are which he has used 
 towards her, and what proof she is able to 
 make of them, I am yet a stranger to. She 
 will, as she has hitherto done, bear what she 
 reasonably can, without giving him any prov- 
 ocation to use her ill. If, nevertheless, he 
 forces her out of doors, the most reputable 
 
EXTRACTS FROM THE COLE MSS. 435 
 
 place she can be in, is with her sister. If he 
 will proceed to extremities, and go to law, she 
 will be justified, if she stands upon her de- 
 fence, rather perhaps than if she was plaintiff 
 in the cause. 
 
 " As no power of making a will is reserved 
 to Mrs. Gray by her marriage settlement, and 
 not only the original stock, but likewise the 
 produce and interest which shall accrue, and 
 be added to it, are settled upon the husband, 
 if he survives his wife ; it is my opinion she 
 has no power to dispose of it by will, or other- 
 wise. 
 
 " JOH. AUDLEY." 
 
 " Doctors' Commons. 
 Feb. 9th, 1735." 
 
 III.— EXTRACTS FROM THE MSS. OF 
 THE REV. WILLIAM COLE, 
 
 (Rector of Bumham in BuckingMm, and of Milton in 
 Camhridgeshire. ) 
 
 On Tuesday, July 30th, 17Y1, Mr. Essex 
 calling on me, in his way to Ely, told me that 
 Mr. Gray was thought to be dying of the gout 
 in his stomach. I had not heard before that 
 he was ill, though he had been so for some 
 days. So I sent my servant in the evening to 
 
436 APPENDIX. 
 
 Pembroke-Hall, to enquire after his welfare ; 
 but he was then going off, and no message 
 could be delivered ; and he died that night. 
 He desired to be buried early in the morning 
 at Stoke-Pogeis ; * and accordingly was put in 
 lead, and conveyed from Cambridge on Sunday 
 morning, with a design to rest at Hodsdon the 
 first night, and Salt-hill on Monday night, 
 from whence he might be very early on Tues- 
 day morning at Stoke. He made the master 
 of Pembroke (his particular friend) his execu- 
 tor ; who, with his niece f Antrobus, Mr. 
 Cummins a merchant of Cambridge, who had 
 married her sister, and a young gentleman of 
 Christ's-College with whom he was very in- 
 timate, went in a mourning-coach after the 
 hearse, to see him put into his grave. 
 
 He left all his books and MSS. to his partic- 
 ular friend Mr. Mason, with a desire that he 
 would do with the latter what he thought 
 proper. When he saw all was over with him, 
 he sent an express to his friend Mr. Stonehewer, 
 who immediately came to see him ; and as Dr. 
 Gisborne happened to be with him when the 
 
 * At strawberry-Hill there was a drawing by Bacon 
 of Gray's tomb, by moonlight ; given to Lord Orford, 
 by Sir Edward Walpole. See Lord Orford's " Works," 
 vol. ii. p. 425. — Mitford. 
 
 f An oversight for " second cousin."— J. B, 
 
EXTRACTS FROM THE COLE MSS. 437 
 
 messenger came, he brought him down to 
 Cambridge with him ; which was the more 
 lucky, as Professor Plumptre * had refused 
 to get up, being sent to in the night. Put it 
 was too late to do any good : and indeed he 
 had all the assistance of the faculty f besides 
 at Cambridge. It is said, that he has left all 
 his fortune to his two nieces :J: at Cambridge ; 
 and just before his death, about a month, or 
 thereabout, he had done a very generous action, 
 for which he was much commended. 
 
 His aunt Olliffe, an old gentlewoman of 
 Norfolk, had left that county, two or three 
 years, to come and live at Cambridge ; and 
 dying about the time I speak of, left him and 
 Mr. Cummins executors and residuary legatees ; 
 but Mr. Gray generously gave up his part to 
 his nieces :{: one of whom Mrs. Olliffe had taken 
 no notice of, and who wanted it sufficiently. 
 .... I was told by Alderman Burleigh, the 
 present mayor of Cambridge, that Mr. Gray's 
 father had been an Exchange-broker, but the 
 
 * Dr. Plumptre certainly refused to get up to attend 
 Gray in his last illness ; but it was to be considered, 
 that he was grown old, and had found it necessary to 
 adopt this rule with all his patients. — Mitford. 
 
 f Dr. Glynn was Gray's physician at Cambridge, and 
 likewise a very intimate friend. — lb. 
 
 X Second cousins. 
 
 22— O ft O— GO 
 
438 APPENDIX. 
 
 fortune he had acquired of about £10,000 was 
 greatly hurt by the fire in Cornhill ; so that 
 Mr. Gray, many years ago, sunk a good part 
 of what was left and purchased an annuity, in 
 order to have a fuller income. I have often 
 seen at his chambers, in his ink-stand, a neat 
 pyramidal bloodstone seal, with these arms at 
 the base, viz.^ a lion rampant, within a border 
 engrailed, being those of the name of Gray, 
 and belonged, as he told me, to his father. 
 His mother was in the millinery way of 
 business. 
 
 His person was small, well put together, and 
 latterly tending to plumpness. He was all his 
 life remarkably sober and temperate, but his 
 manner from a boy was disgustingly effeminate, 
 finical and affected. I think, 1 heard him say 
 he never was across a horse's back in his life. 
 He gave me a small print or etching of himself 
 by Mr. Mason, which is extremely like him. 
 
 W 7P 7P TP w W 
 
 I am apt to think the characters of Yoiture 
 and Mr. Gray were very similar. They were 
 both little men, very nice and exact in their 
 
 * Sir Egerton Brydges informs me, that Gray's arms 
 are the same as those of Lord Gray of Scotland ; who 
 claimed a relationship with him, (see Mason's " Me- 
 moirs," vol. iv, letter 55), and as the present Earl 
 Grey's.— 3Iitford. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM THE COLE MSS. 439 
 
 persons and dress, most lively and agreeable in 
 conversation, except that Mr. Gray was apt to 
 be too satirical, and both of them full of affec- 
 tation. 
 
 In Gil Bias, the print of Scipio in the arbour, 
 beginning to tell his own adventures to Gil 
 Bias, Antonio, and Beatrix, was so like the 
 countenance of Mr. Gray, that if he sat for it, 
 it could not be more so. It is in a 12mo edi- 
 tion in four volumes, printed at Amsterdam, 
 chez Herman Yytwerf, 1735, in the 4th volume, 
 p. 94 — p.m. It is ten times more like him than 
 his print before Mason's life of him, which is 
 horrible, and makes him a fury. That little 
 one done by Mr. Mason is like him ; and placid 
 Mr. Tyson spoilt the other by altering it. 
 
 It must have been about the year ITTO, — the 
 first time that Dr. Farmer and Mr, Gray ever 
 met to be acquainted together, as about that 
 time I met them at Mr. Oldham's chambers, in 
 Peter-House, to dinner. Before, they had been 
 shy of each other ; and though Dr. Farmer 
 was then esteemed one of the most ingenious 
 men in the University, yet Mr. Gray's singular 
 nicenessin the choice of his acquaintance made 
 him appear fastidious to a great degree, to all 
 who were not acquainted with his manner. 
 
440 APPENDIX. 
 
 Indeed, there did not seem to be any probabil- 
 ity of any great intimacy from the style and 
 manner of each of them. The one a cheerful, 
 companionable, hearty, open, downright man, 
 of no great regard to dress or common forms 
 of behaviour ; the other, of a most fastidious 
 and recluse distance of carriage, rather averse 
 to sociability, but of the graver turn ; nice, 
 and elegant in his person, dress, and behaviour, 
 even to a degree of finicalness and effeminacy. 
 So that nothing but their extensive learning 
 and abilities could ever have coalesced two 
 such different men, and both of great value in 
 their own line and walk. They were ever 
 after great friends ; and Dr. Farmer, and all 
 of his acquaintance, had soon after too much 
 reason to lament his loss, and the shortness of 
 their acquaintance. 
 
 IY._TWO LATIN EPITAPHS 
 
 In the Church of Burnham, in Buckingham- 
 shire, supposed by Cole to have been composed 
 by Gray.* 
 
 Huic Loco prope adsunt Cineres 
 
 ROBERTI ANTROBUS. 
 
 Vir fuit, si quis unquam fuit, Amicorum amans, 
 
 Et Amicis amandus. 
 
 * I doubt if the epitaph on Antrobus was by Gray, as 
 he was then but fifteen. — J. B. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM THE COLE MSS. 441 
 
 Ita Ingenio et Doctrina valuit, 
 
 Ut suis Honori fuerit, et aliis Commodo 
 
 Si Mores respicis, probus et humanus. 
 
 Si Animum, semper sibi constans. 
 
 Si Fortunam, plura meruit quam tulit. 
 
 In Memoriam defuncti posuit 
 
 Hoc Marmor 
 
 M. S. 
 
 Jonathani Rogers, 
 
 Qui Juris in Negotia diu versatus, 
 
 Opibus modicis laudabili Industria partis. 
 
 Extremes Vitee Annos 
 
 Sibi, Amicis, Deo dicavit, 
 
 Humanitati ejus nihil Otium detraxit, 
 
 Nihil Integritati Negotia. 
 
 Quaenam bonse Spei justior Causa, 
 
 Quam perpetua Moruni Innocentia 
 
 Animus erga Deum reverenter affectus, 
 
 Erga omnes Homines benevole ? 
 
 Vixit Ann. Ixv. Ob. Stoke in Com. Bucks. 
 
 A. D. MDCCXLH. Octob. xxi.* 
 
 Anna, Conjux moestissima, 
 
 per Annos xxxiii. 
 
 Nulla unquam intercedente 
 
 Querimonia 
 
 Omnium Curarum Particeps, 
 
 Hoc Marmor 
 
 (Sub quo et suos Cineres juxta condi destinat) 
 
 Pietatis OfBcium heu I ultimum, 
 
 P. C. 
 
 * Hitherto incorrectly given as xxxi. — J. B, 
 
442 APPENDIX. 
 
 y.— FEOM SIR EGERTON BRYDGES TO 
 REV. J. MITFORD. 
 
 Among the friends of Gray, was the Rev. 
 "William Robinson, (third brother of Mrs. 
 Montagu,) of Denton Court, near Canterbury, 
 and rector of Burfield, Berks. He was edu- 
 cated at Westminster, and at St. John's College, 
 Cambridge, where he formed a particular inti- 
 macy with Gray, Avho twice visited him at 
 Denton.* He died-December, 1803, aged about 
 seventy-five. 
 
 Mr. Robinson was an admirable classical 
 scholar, to whose taste Gray paid great defer- 
 ence. He did not consider Mason as equal to 
 the task of writing Gray's Life ; and on that 
 account when Mason (from his knowledge of 
 Mr. R.'s intimacy with Gray) communicated 
 his intention to him, Mr. Robinson declined 
 returning him an answer, which produced a 
 coolness between them which was never after- 
 wards made up. Mr. Robinson, however, 
 owned that Mason had executed his task better 
 than he had expected. 
 
 The " Lines on Lord Holland's House at 
 
 * See Gray's beautiful description of Kentish scenery, 
 in a letter to Dr. Wharton, dated August 26, 1766. 
 
FROM SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. 443 
 
 Kings-gate," were written when on a visit to 
 Mr. Robinson, and found in the drawer of 
 Gray's dressing-table after he was gone. They 
 were restored to him ; for he had no other 
 copy, and had forgotten them. 
 
 What was the real ground of the quarrel be- 
 tween Gray and Walpole Avhen abroad, I do 
 not know ; but have reason to believe that it 
 was of too deep a nature ever to be eradicated 
 from Gray's bosom ; which I gather from cer- 
 tain expressions half dropped to Mr. Robinson. 
 Mr. R. thought Gray not only a great poet, but 
 an exemplary, amiable, and virtuous man. 
 Gray's poems on " Lord Holland " first ap- 
 peared in the " Gentleman's Magazine " (1777), 
 vol. xlvii. p. 624, and vol. xlviii. p. 88 ; that 
 on " Jemmy Twitcher," in vol. liii. (January, 
 
 1782). 
 
 When he went to court to kiss the king's 
 hand * for his place, he felt a mixture of shy- 
 ness and pride, which he expressed to one of 
 his intimate friends in terms of strong ill- 
 humour. 
 
 * " What if for nothing once you kist 
 
 Against the grain, a monarch's fist."— SwiFTo 
 
444 APPENDIX. 
 
 VI.— FKOM CKADOCK'S "MEMOIES." 
 
 The pleasantest morning that I passed at 
 Cambridge, was in company with Mr. Gray, 
 and some critics, at the rehearsal of the music 
 for his Ode, previous to its grand performance 
 at the Senate House ; and I thought that as he 
 had so many directions to give, and such nice 
 distinctions to make, it was well he had to 
 deal with the pliant Dr. Kandall, rather than 
 with some of the very able composers in the 
 metropolis. Mr. Gray was not much more 
 comfortable than the Chancellor himself; for 
 the press was teeming with abuse, and a very 
 satirical parody was then preparing, which soon 
 afterwards appeared. His own delicious Ode 
 must always be admired, yet this envenomed 
 shaft was so pointedly levelled at him, though 
 he affected in his letter * to Mason to disregard 
 it, that with his fine feelings he was not only 
 annoyed, but very seriously hurt by it. — Yol i. 
 p. lOY-8. 
 
 From time to time I had treasured up many 
 bon-mots of Gray communicated by Mr. Tyson, 
 and by the former fellow-collegian of Gray, 
 
 * It should be "letter to Beattie," viz., that of 
 July 16. 
 
BRAY'S NOTES. 445 
 
 the Rev. Mr. Sparrow, of "Walthamstow, who 
 was always attentive to his witty effusions. 
 
 Some few of these have been printed incor- 
 rectly, and freely bestowed on others in the 
 Johnsoniana. Johnson was highly displeased 
 that any should be attributed to him, as men- 
 tioned by Mr. Davies. "When he was publish- 
 ing his " Lives of the Poets," I gave him sev- 
 eral anecdotes of Gray, but he was only anxious 
 as soon as possible to get to the end of his 
 labours. Not long since I received a very kind 
 message from the Kev. Mr. Bright, Skeffington 
 Hall, Leicestershire, to inform me that he had 
 wished to deposit with me all the remaining 
 papers and documents of Gray, as bequeathed 
 to him by Mr. Stonehewer, but that he found 
 they all had been carried to Rome inadver- 
 tently by a learned Editor. If recovered they 
 should certainly be consigned to me. — Ih. 
 p. 183-4. 
 
 YIL— EXTRACTS FROM MR. BRAY'S 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 See Mrs. Bray's Description of Devonshire, in letters to 
 R. Southey, Esq., vol. iii. p. 311. 
 
 Jan. 27, 1807. In a conversation which I 
 had with Mr. Mathias on Italian literature, he 
 informed me that Gray, though so great a 
 
446 APPENDIX. 
 
 poet himself, and an admirer of the poets of 
 Italy, was unacquainted with the works of 
 Guidi, Menzini, Filicaia, etc., and indeed of 
 almost all, that are contained in his " Compo- 
 Dimenti Lirici." He had once in his possession 
 the commonplace book of Gray, and it con- 
 tained very copious extracts from the Com- 
 mentary of Crescembini. He told me that he 
 could gratify me with a sight of Gray's hand- 
 writing, and fetched from his library a fac- 
 simile, being a kind of commentary in English 
 on Pindar and Aristophanes. It was written 
 remarkably neat and plain, but rather stiff, and 
 bearing evident marks of being written slowly. 
 It had a great resemblance to the Italian mode 
 of writing, every part of the letters being 
 nearly of an equal thickness. He wrote always 
 with a crow-quill. 
 
 Observing no obliterations or erasures, and 
 indeed only one or two interlineations ; I re- 
 marked that it must have been a fair copy, and 
 wondered how he could have taken so much 
 pains, unless he had intended it for publication. 
 But Mr. Mathias assured me, that Gray was so 
 averse to publication, that had not a surrep- 
 titious copy of his " Elegy in a Country Church- 
 yard" appeared, he never would have pub- 
 lished it ; and even when he did, it was with- 
 out his name. The reason that he was so cor- 
 
BRAY'S NOTES. 447 
 
 rect, was that he never committed any thing to 
 paper till he had most maturely considered it 
 beforehand, 
 
 Mr. Mathias explained to me how he was so 
 well acquainted with these particulars respect- 
 ing Gray, by informing me that he was most 
 intimate with Mr. Nichols, the familiar friend 
 and executor of Gray, who had lent him the 
 MSS. On my lamenting that they were never 
 made public, he said that it was not for want 
 of his most earnest solicitation, but that Mr. 
 Nichols was an old man, and wished ever to 
 conceal that he was in possession of any such 
 precious reliques, lest he should be plagued 
 with requests to have them copied, or at least 
 to show them. He therefore in a manner en 
 joined me to secrecy, and I consequently com- 
 mit the pleasant memoranda to paper, merely 
 for my own satisfaction, that, on occasional 
 inspection, the pleasure I received from this 
 conversation may be more firmly brought to 
 my recollection. For the same reason, and as 
 these MSS. are never likely to be made public, 
 I shall enter more at largo upon the considera- 
 tion of them ; at least as much as a cursory 
 inspection during a morning call would permit. 
 As Gray always affixed the date to every- 
 thing he wrote, which as Mr. Mathias assured 
 me, was the custom of Petrarch, it seems that 
 
448 APPENDIX. 
 
 he wrote his remark on Pindar at rather an 
 early age. I think the date was 1747. It is 
 very closely written : the Greek characters are 
 remarkably neat. He begins with the date of 
 the composition, and takes into his considera- 
 tion almost everything connected with it, both 
 chronologically and historically. The notes of 
 the Scholiasts do not escape him, and he is so 
 minute as to direct his attention to almost 
 every expression. He appears to have recon- 
 ciled many apparent incongruities, and to have 
 elucidated many difficulties. I the more lament 
 these valuable annotations remain unpublished, 
 as they would prove that in the opinion of so 
 great a man, the English language is in every 
 respect adequate to express everything that 
 criticism the most erudite can require. It pre- 
 sented to my eye a most gratifying novelty, to 
 see the union of Greek and English, and to 
 find that they harmonized together as well as 
 Greek and Latin. 
 
 The remarks on the plays of Aristophanes 
 were so minute, not only expressing where they 
 were written and acted, but when they were 
 revived ; that as Mr. Mathias justly observed, 
 " one would think he was reading the account 
 of some modern comedy, instead of the dramatic 
 composition of about two thousand years old." 
 Gray also left behind him very copious re- 
 
BRAY'S NOTES. 449 
 
 marks upon Plato, which had also formerly 
 been in Mr. Mathias's hands, likewise large col- 
 lections respecting the customs of the ancients, 
 etc. And so multifarious and minute were his 
 investigations, that he directed his attention 
 even to the Supellex, or household furniture of 
 the ancients, collecting together all the passages 
 of the classics that had any reference to the 
 subject. 
 
 Mr. Mathias showed me likewise many 
 sheets copied by Gray from some Italian au- 
 thor ; also, I believe, an historical composition, 
 and a great many genealogies, of which Gray 
 was particularly fond. On my remarking that 
 I wished Gray had written less genealogies 
 and more poetry, he informed me that the 
 reason he had written so little poetry, was 
 from the great exertion it cost him, (while he 
 made no reserve in composing) in the labour of 
 composition. Mr. Mathias informed me that 
 he had seen the original copy of Gray's " Ode 
 on the Progress of Poesj," that there were not 
 so many alterations as he expected ; which 
 was evidently owing to his method of long 
 previous meditation, and that some of the lines 
 were written three or four times over ; and 
 then, what is not always the case with an 
 author, the best is always adopted. 
 
 He said there was nothing of which Gray 
 
450 APPENDIX. 
 
 had not the profoundest knowledge, at least of 
 such subjects as come under the denonoiination 
 of learning, except mathematics, of which, as 
 well as his friend Mason, he was as completely 
 ignorant, and which he used frequently to 
 lament. He was acquainted with botany, but 
 hardly seems to have paid it the compliment it 
 deserves, when he said he learnt it merely for 
 the sake of sparing himself the trouble of 
 thinking. 
 
 VIIL— SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH ON 
 GRAY'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 
 
 "Gray was a poet of a far higher order 
 (than Goldsmith), and of an almost opposite 
 kind of merit. Of all English poets he was 
 the most finished artist. He attained the 
 highest degree of splendour of which poetical 
 style seems to be capable. If Virgil and his 
 scholar Racine may be allowed to have united 
 somewhat more ease with their elegance, no 
 other poet approaches Gray in this kind of ex- 
 cellence. The degree of poetical invention 
 diffused over such a style, the balance of taste 
 and of fancy necessary to produce it, and the 
 art with which the offensive boldness of imagery 
 is polished away, are not indeed always per- 
 
SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH ON GRAY 45I 
 
 ceptible to the common reader, nor do they 
 convey to any mind the same species of grati- 
 fication, which is felt from the perusal of those 
 poems, which seem to be the unpremeditated 
 effusions of enthusiasm. But to the eye of the 
 critic, and more especially to the artist, they 
 afford a new kind of pleasure, not incompatible 
 with a distinct perception of the art employed, 
 and somewhat similar to the grand emotions 
 excited by the reflection on the skill and toil 
 exerted in the construction of a magnificent 
 palace. They can only be classed among the 
 secondary pleasures of poetry, but they never 
 can exist without a great degree of its higher 
 excellencies. 
 
 Almost all his poetry was lyrical — that spe- 
 cies which, issuing from a mind in the highest 
 state of excitement, requires an intensity of 
 feeling which, for a long composition, the 
 genius of no poet could support. Those who 
 complained of its brevity and rapidity, only 
 confessed their own inability to follow the 
 movements of poetical inspiration.* Of the 
 
 * In another place, the same writer observes : — " The 
 obscurity of the Ode on the ' Progress of Poesy,' arises 
 from the variety of the subjects, the rapidity of the 
 transitions, the boldness of the imagery, and the 
 splendour of the language ; to those who are capable of 
 that intense attention, which the higher order of poetry 
 requires, and which poetical sensibility always pro- 
 
452 APPENDIX. 
 
 two grand attributes of the Ode, Dryden had 
 displayed the enthusiasm, Gray exhibited the 
 magnificence. 
 
 He is also the only modern English writer 
 whose Latin verses deserve general notice, but 
 we must lament that such difficult trifles had 
 diverted its genius from its natural objects. 
 In his Letters he has shown the descriptive 
 powers of a poet, and in new combinations of 
 generally familiar words, which he seems to 
 have caught from Madame de Sevigne (though 
 it must be said he was somewhat quaint) he 
 was eminently happy. It may be added, that 
 he deserves the comparatively trifling praise 
 of having been the most learned poet * since 
 Milton." t 
 
 duces, there is no obscurity. In the ' Bard ' some of 
 these causes of obscurity are lessened ; it is more im- 
 passioned and less magnificent, but it has more brevity 
 and abruptness. It is a lyric drama, and this structure 
 is a new source of obscurity." 
 
 * Gray and Mason first detested the imposition of 
 Chatterton. See " Archaeological Epistle to Dean 
 Milles," Stanza xi. It appears that Gray did not admire 
 Hudibras. " Mr. Gray," says Warburton, " has cer- 
 tainly a true taste. I should have read Hudibras with 
 as much indifference as perhaps he did, were it not for 
 a fondness of the transactions of those times, against 
 which it is a satire." — "Warburton's " Letters," xxxi. p. 
 
 t See " Life of Sir J. Mackintosh," vol. ii. p. 172. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT OF GRAY'S POEMS. 453 
 
 IX. — ADVEETISEMENT TO FOULIS' 
 GLASGOW EDITION OF GKAY'S 
 POEMS, 1768. 
 
 Some gentlemen may be surprised to see an 
 edition of Mr. Gray's Poems printed at Glas- 
 gow, at the same time that they are printed 
 for Mr. Dodslev at London. For their satis- 
 faction the printers mention what follows. 
 
 The property belongs to the author, and this 
 edition is by his permission. As an expression 
 of their high esteem and gratitude, they have 
 endeavoured to print it in the best manner. 
 
 Mr. Beattie, Professor of Philosophy in the 
 University of Aberdeen, first proposed this un- 
 dertaking. AVhen he found that it was most 
 agreeable to the printers, he procured Mr. 
 Gray's consent, and transcribed the whole 
 with accuracy. His transcription, is followed 
 in this edition. 
 
 This is the first work in the Roman character 
 which they have printed with so large a type ; 
 
 290. He appears highly to have praised some of W. 
 Whitehead's poems. See Mason's " Life of Whitehead," 
 p. 40, etc., and he approved H. Walpole's " Tragedy of 
 the Mysterious Mother." See " Letter to G. Montagu," 
 p. iOQ.—3IUford. 
 
454 APPENDIX. 
 
 and the J are obliged to Dr. Wilson for prepar- 
 ing so expeditiously, and with so much atten- 
 tion, characters of so beautiful a form. 
 
 X.— EXTRACT FROM ADVERTISEMENT 
 IN JOHN MURRAY'S EDITION OF 
 GRAY'S POEMS, 1778. 
 
 After stating that Mr. Mason had filed a 
 bill in chancery against the publisher for having 
 trespassed on his property by inserting fifty 
 lines in a former edition which belonged to 
 him, and had retained Thurlow, "Wedderburn, 
 and Denning as his counsel, the publisher adds : 
 — " Fifty lines cannot be an object for a man 
 to throw £100 or more money after ; it leads 
 an impartial person to suspect that Mr, Mason 
 has a further object in view, and that although 
 he has realised already nearly £1,000 from the 
 profits of his quarto edition of Mr. Gray's 
 Poems, he is not satisfied, but desires to sup- 
 press the publisher's little volume altogether, 
 although it has not hitherto paid the expenses 
 incurred in printing it, in order to retain the 
 monopoly of Mr. Gray's Poems entirely in his 
 own hands." 
 
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