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 THE LANSDOWNE POETS. 
 
 THE 
 
 POEMS AND PLAYS 
 
 OF 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 WITH THE ADDITION OF 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKE FIELD, 
 MEMOIR, ETC. 
 
 PORTRAIT, AND ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 LONDON: 
 FREDERICK WARNE AND C CX 
 
 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 MEMOIR PAG v 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THE TRAVELLER : or, a Prospect of Society _ ... i 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. First printed in 1769 16 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Clown's Reply. 1753 .^ 30 
 
 Stanzas on the Taking of Quebec. 1759 * 30 
 
 A Prologue written and spoken by the Poet Laberius, a Roman knight, 
 
 whom Csesar forced upon the stage. Preserved by Macrobius. 1759 31 
 
 The Double Transformation. A Tale. 1765 32 
 
 A New Simile in the manner of Swift. 1765 35 
 
 Description of an Author's Bedchamber 37 
 
 The Gift. To Iris, in Bow Street, Covent Garden. Imitated from the 
 
 French 38 
 
 Epitaph on Dr. Parnell 38 
 
 Epitaph on Edward Purdon 39 
 
 THE HERMIT ; a Ballad. 1765 39 
 
 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON ; a Poetical Epistle to Lord Clare. 
 
 '765 45 
 
 An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog. From the "Vicar of Wake- 
 field " 49 
 
 EPILOGUES AND PROLOGUES. 
 
 Epilogue to the Comedy of " The Sisters " 50 
 
 Epilogue to " She Stoops to Conquer." Spoken by Mrs. Bulkley and 
 
 Miss Catley 52 
 
 An Epilogue. Intended for Mrs. Bulkley 55 
 
 Prologue to "Zobeide." A Tragedy. Written by Joseph Cradock ; 
 
 acted at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, 1772 56
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Epilogue spoken by Mr. Lee Lewes, in the character of Harlequin, at his 
 
 Benefit 57 
 
 The Logicians Refuted. In imitation of Dean Swift 59 
 
 An Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize 61 
 
 On a Beautiful Youth Struck Blind by Lightning. Imitated from the 
 
 Spanish 62 
 
 On a Beautiful Youth Struck Blind by Lightning 62 
 
 A Sonnet 62 
 
 Song from "The Vicar of Wakefield." On Woman 63 
 
 Song. Intended to have been sung in the Comedy of " She Stoops to 
 Conquer," but omitted because the actress who played Miss Hard- 
 castle did not sing 63 
 
 RETALIATION. Printed in 1774, after the author's death .., ... 63 
 
 Postscript 69 
 
 Burlesque Elegy on a Right Honourable Person. From the "Citizen of 
 
 the World" 70 
 
 On the Death of the Right Honourable 70 
 
 Answer to an Invitation to Dinner. This is a Poem ! this is a copy of 
 
 Verses * 71 
 
 Answer to an Invitation to Pass the Christmas at Barton ... ... ... 73 
 
 On Seeing a Lady Perform in a certain character 75 
 
 Lines attributed to Goldsmith. These Lines appeared in the Morning 
 
 Advertiser of April 3rd, 1800 75 
 
 Birds. From the Latin Lines of Addison (Spectator, 412) 76 
 
 Translation of a South American Ode 76 
 
 From Scarron ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 77 
 
 From the Latin of Vida 77 
 
 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. Sacred to the Memory of her late 
 Royal Highness the Princess Dowager of Wales. Spoken and Sung 
 in the Great Room in Soho Square, Thursday, the 2Oth of February, 
 
 1772 77 
 
 AN ORATORIO. 1720 86 
 
 PLAYS. 
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. A Comedy 98 
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ; or, The Mistakes of a Night. A 
 
 Comedy X 6 4 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 233
 
 MEMOIR OE OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 LIVER GOLDSMITH, bom November 2^ 
 
 1728, at Pallas, in the parish of Ferney, county 
 Longford, Ireland, was the second son of the 
 Rev. Charles Goldsmith, and Annie, daughter of 
 the Rev. Oliver Jones, master of the diocesan school at 
 Elphin. Oliver's parents resided for some time after their 
 marriage with Mrs. Goldsmith's uncle, the Rev. Mr. Green, 
 at that time Rector of Kilkenny-West. At his death, 
 Charles Goldsmith succeeded him in his benefice. The 
 poor clergyman had five children, and having taxed 
 his slender means very heavily, in order to bestow a 
 classical education on his eldest son, Henry (whom he 
 intended for the church), he was unable to bestow the 
 same amount of cultivation on the genius of his gifted 
 second son ; and Oliver destined to earn his future 
 livelihood in a merchant's office was accordingly sent 
 to a kind of hedge school in the parish, where he was 
 taught reading, writing, and arithmetic, by the village 
 schoolmaster ; an old soldier who had been quarter-master 
 Ui the army in Queen Anne's days, and had fought in
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Spain during the wars of the Spanish Succession, under 
 the chivalrous and romantic Earl of Peterborough. Often, 
 when lessons were over, this singular pedagogue enter- 
 tained his young pupils with stories of those days of wild 
 adventure and heroic daring. Oliver's vivid imagination 
 kindled at these recitals ; and the love of adventure and 
 excitement thus instilled into his childish mind tinged all 
 his after life. Doubtless, pleasant memories of his first 
 teacher inspired the charmingly playful description of the 
 schoolmaster in the " Deserted Village." 
 
 At the age of seven or eight years, Oliver attempted 
 to write poetry, and would scribble verses which he after- 
 wards burnt ; but his mother detected in them the germ of 
 his future powers, and pleaded hard that he might receive 
 better instruction. He was therefore placed under the 
 care of the Reverend Mr. Griffin, of Elphin, as a daily 
 pupil, residing at the same time at the house of his 
 uncle, John Goldsmith, of Ballyoughton, near that town. 
 An incident occurred at this time which changed the 
 future career of the young genius. Mr. Goldsmith was 
 entertaining a juvenile party at his house, and Oliver 
 was desired to dance a hornpipe ; a youth playing the 
 violin for his performance. The poor child had only 
 just recovered from the small-pox, with which he was 
 much marked, and his figure was comically short and 
 thick. The musician compared him to yEsop dancing, and 
 pleased with the comparison, harped on it, till Oliver 
 suddenly stopped short in the dance and retorted : 
 
 ' ' Our herald hath proclaimed this saying ; 
 
 1 See Msop dancing and his monkey playing. ' "
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. vii 
 
 His uncles Messrs. Contarine and Green who were 
 present, were so much struck with the precocious wit of 
 the boy that they induced his father to alter his intentions 
 regarding him, offering to bear the greater portion of his 
 expenses, if Mr. Goldsmith would let him study for one of 
 the learned professions, instead of putting him into an office. 
 Oliver was in consequence removed to the school of Athlone, 
 where he remained for two years under the care of the Rev. 
 Mr. Campbell. On this gentleman resigning the master- 
 ship from ill health, the boy was removed to the Rev. 
 Patrick Hughes's school at Edgeworthstown, county 
 Longford ; and of this tutor's learning and goodness 
 he often spoke in after years with respect and grati- 
 tude. 
 
 In June, 1744, Oliver was sent to Dublin, and entered 
 Trinity College as a Sizar. His tutor, the Rev. Mr. Wilder, 
 one of the Fellows, was a man of savage temper and a 
 great disciplinarian. The thoughtless, gay, and social lad 
 of eighteen inspired this man with a dislike which he mani- 
 fested on every occasion. One evening, Goldsmith had 
 invited some of his young acquaintances of both sexes to 
 a supper and dance in his room. The tutor entered in the 
 midst of this out-of-place revelry, and not only addressed 
 the harshest invectives to the thoughtless Sizar, but 
 actually inflicted corporal punishment on him in his friends' 
 presence. The sensitive poet was wounded to the soul. 
 After so terrible a disgrace, he felt that he could not meet 
 his acquaintances again, and he determined to fly from 
 Dublin and seek his fortune in some distant land.
 
 viii MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 He disposed of his books and left the College, but 
 lingered in Dublin till he had only a shilling left in his 
 pocket. On this shilling he subsisted (he affirmed himself), 
 for three days, and then had to sell great part of the 
 clothes he wore. So terrible was the want to which he was 
 at length reduced that for four and twenty hours he had 
 no food, and thought a handful of grey peas which a girl 
 gave him at a wake, a delicious repast. 
 
 His spirit lowered by suffering, the thoughts of the 
 young man prodigal like reverted to his home from 
 which he was not far distant. He managed to send for 
 his brother Henry, who at once obeyed the summons ; 
 comforted, fed and clothed him, and finally took hinj 
 back to College, where he effected a hollow reconciliation 
 between Oliver and his tutor. The dissensions between 
 Mr. Wilder and young Goldsmith had an unfortunate 
 effect on the studies of the pupil. He was not, in conse- 
 quence, admitted to the degree of Bachelor of Arts till 
 February, 1749, two years after the regular time. Never- 
 theless, Goldsmith showed no lack of ability, according to 
 the testimony of his celebrated fellow student, Edmund 
 Burke. Archdeacon Kearing Senior Fellow of Trinity 
 College asserted that Goldsmith obtained a premium at 
 a Christmas examination for being first in literary merit. 
 He was also elected an exhibitioner on the foundation 
 of Erasmus Smyth, June 15, 1747. 
 
 In 1750, soon after he had taken his degree, his excel- 
 lent father died. Goldsmith preserved a tender recollection 
 of this good man, and has immortalised his virtues in the
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 exquisite portrait of the " Village Preacher" in the " Deserted 
 Village." The Rev. Charles Goldsmith was also the origi- 
 nal of the " Man in Black," in the " Citizen of the 
 World." Mr. Contarine endeavoured to supply the loss of 
 Oliver's father, and urged him to take holy orders. But 
 the poet had no vocation for the church, and probably 
 felt but little regret when Dr. Synge, Bishop of Elphin, 
 refused to ordain him, ostensibly on account of his youth 
 probably because he found him ignorant of theology, 
 or had heard of his freaks at College. His uncle then 
 procured him a situation as tutor in a private family, where 
 he continued a year, but having by that time saved thirty 
 pounds and become weary of the monotonous thraldom of 
 his position, he purchased a good horse and suddenly left 
 the country. At the end of six weeks, however, he reappeared 
 at his mother's house, mounted on a miserable little horse, 
 which he called Fiddleback. Mrs. Goldsmith was greatly 
 displeased with her erratic son, but his brothers and sisters 
 interfered in his behalf, and reconciled her to him. He 
 then told his story. He had gone to Cork, sold his horse, 
 and taken his passage to America ; but the winds proving 
 contrary for three weeks, he had started on an excursion 
 into the country. That very same day the wind veered 
 round to fair, and the ship sailed without him. He 
 remained at Cork till he had only 2 55. 6d. left, then he 
 bought Fiddleback for forty shillings and started for his 
 home a journey of 150 miles with only 53. 6d. in his 
 pocket. On the road not far from Cork, resided a College 
 friend of his, who had often urged Oliver to visit him and
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 spend a summer at his house. Thither, therefore, Gold- 
 smith, confiding in the young man's former professions, 
 resolved to proceed, hoping that he should be able to 
 borrow enough money to supply the wants of himself and 
 his steed oti their homeward journey. Feeling certain of 
 this aid, he gave away half his stock of money to a poor 
 woman whom he met on his road ; touched by her story 
 of " eight starving children and a husband in jail for rent." 
 At last the house of his acquaintance appeared in sight 
 and cheered the traveller's spirits. He found the master of it 
 at home, just recovering from a severe illness. He received 
 Oliver with much warmth, and inquired what fortunate cir- 
 cumstance had brought him to that place. The simple, warm- 
 hearted youth at once told his tale ; but as he proceeded 
 his host's countenance and manner changed. He sighed 
 deeply and walked about the room, rubbing his hands in 
 solemn silence, till Oliver paused ; when he said that he re- 
 gretted he had no means of entertaining visitors, as having 
 been recently very ill, he lived on slops and a milk diet, but 
 that if Mr. Goldsmith pleased to partake of invalid fare he 
 should be welcome. The traveller, who had fasted the 
 whole day, had little choice. By and by an old woman 
 appeared and spread the table, on which she placed a bowl 
 of sago for her master, and a porringer of sour milk and a 
 piece of brown bread for his guest The next day the 
 half-starved Oliver proffered his request for the loan of a 
 guinea. He was answered by grave counsel to avoid debt. 
 " Sell your horse," was the advice given, " that will supply 
 you with funds, and I will furnish you with a steed for the
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 journey." As he spoke he drew from under the bed a 
 stout oaken staff. Goldsmith asserted that he was about 
 to use it over the miser's shoulders, when a guest was 
 suddenly admitted, who came, like a good angel, to his aid. 
 This gentleman, who lived in the neighbourhood, had come 
 to invite Oliver's host to dine with him on the morrow, 
 and, prepossessed by the young stranger's conversation, 
 extended the invitation to Goldsmith. Oliver at first 
 refused, but he actually needed food, and was therefore 
 easily persuaded to accompany his churlish host to his 
 friend's home. The gentleman perceived that there 
 was something wrong between the fellow collegians, and 
 insisted on Goldsmith's remaining as his guest for a few 
 days. When his friend took leave Oliver advised him to 
 take care of the steed he had kindly offered him, and not 
 surfeit his friends on milk diet. 
 
 The story of his miserly entertainment, which Goldsmith 
 told on the morrow to his new friend, made him laugh 
 heartily. He kept the poet with him a few days, and 
 finally lent him three half guineas to pay his travelling 
 expenses. Such was the tale which Oliver told to his 
 mother at his return, concluding by saying, "and now, 
 dear mother, after having struggled so hard to come home 
 to you, I wonder you are not more glad to see me !" 
 
 His uncle Contarine again came to the aid of the pro- 
 digal, and offered to send him to study law at the Temple. 
 But once more the kind intentions of that good man were 
 baffled by the incorrigible simplicity and thoughtlessness 
 of his young kinsman. Oliver, when on his way to England,
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 met a sharper in Dublin, who tempted him to play, and 
 speedily relieved him of the fifty pounds which good Mr. 
 Contarine had given him for the expenses of his voyage. 
 Again he returned to his poor mother destitute, and again 
 her natural anger was appeased by his regrets. Mr. 
 Contarine also forgave him, and it was finally decided by 
 the much tried family that the beloved, but troublesome 
 genius, should enter the medical profession, and, by the 
 untiring generosity of his uncle, he was sent to Edinburgh 
 about the latter end of 1752. 
 
 On the evening of his arrival in the Scottish metropolis 
 he very nearly became again a homeless wanderer without 
 clothes, through his singular inattention and carelessness. 
 He had his luggage carried by a porter to a lodging which 
 he engaged, and, telling the landlady that he would be 
 home to supper, he went out to view the picturesque city 
 of the north, and wandering about till dark, suddenly re- 
 membered that he had not asked the name of the lodging- 
 house keeper, or noticed that of the street in which she 
 lived. To find her house appeared impossible ; but while he 
 was standing in anxious perplexity, he chanced to see the 
 porter whom he had employed, and who at once guided 
 him to his new dwelling-place. 
 
 Goldsmith does not appear to have studied very earn- 
 estly at Edinburgh ; for though he attended the lectures 
 of Munro and Cullen, and the usual classes for two years, 
 he left the university without a diploma. 
 
 His generous uncle suggested that he should go to 
 Leyden, and conclude his medical studies there ; and as
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xiii 
 
 this advice was enforced by the unpleasant circumstance of 
 an arrest for the payment of a debt for which he had gener- 
 ously become surety, Goldsmith after being released by 
 his college friends, Mr. Maclane and Dr. Sleigh embarked 
 for Bordeaux. A very singular adventure once more 
 occurred, which delayed his journey, but also saved his 
 life. He gives the following account of it in a letter to his 
 benefactor : 
 
 " Some time after the receipt, of your last, I embarked 
 for Bordeaux, on board a Scotch ship, called the 'St. 
 Andrew's,' Captain John Wall, master. The ship made a 
 tolerable appearance, and as another inducement, I was let 
 to know that six agreeable passengers were to be my 
 company. Well, we were but two days at sea, when a 
 storm drove us into a city of England called Newcastle-on- 
 Tyne. We all went on shore to refresh us after our 
 yoyage. Seven men and I were one day on shore, and on 
 \he following evening, as we were all very merry, the room 
 doors burst open ; enters a sergeant and twelve grenadiers 
 with their bayonets fixed, and puts us all under the king's 
 arrest. It seems my company were Scotchmen in the 
 French service, and had been in Scotland to enlist soldiers 
 for the French army. I endeavoured all I could to prove 
 my innocence ; however, I remained in prison with the 
 rest a fortnight, and with difficulty -got off even then. 
 Dear sir, keep this all a secret, or at least say it was for 
 debt ; for if it were once known at the university I should 
 hardly get a degree. But hear how Providence interposed
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH'. 
 
 in my favour. The ship was gone on to Bordeaux before 
 I got from prison, and was wrecked at the mouth of the 
 Garonne, and every one of the crew was drowned. It 
 happened the last great storm. There was a ship at that 
 time ready for Holland ; and, in nine days, thank my God, 
 I arrived safely at Rotterdam, whence I travelled by land 
 to Leyden, and whence I now write." 
 
 He resided for about a year at Leyden, studying chem- 
 istry under Gaubius, the favourite pupil of the celebrated 
 Boerhaave, and anatomy under Albinus ; his expenses being 
 paid by his uncle Contarine. But here his fatal passion for 
 gambling reduced him to the greatest pecuniary difficulties, 
 from which he was released by the liberality of his friend, 
 Dr. Ellis, Clerk of the Irish House of Commons, who, also, 
 lent him a sum of money to enable him to quit Leyden, and 
 travel. But, unfortunately, Oliver happened to visit im- 
 mediately afterwards a garden where the finest flowers in 
 tulip-loving Holland were produced. He remembered how 
 his uncle Contarine loved flowers, and in a sudden glow of 
 grateful recollection, spent all his money on the purchase 
 of some costly roots to send to his benefactor. 
 
 He was now without money or resources, and determined 
 therefore to make a pedestrian tour through Europe. He 
 started with only a new shirt in his pocket, and a German 
 flute. He spoke French tolerably, and knew a little 
 Italian ; these languages enabled him (with the help of 
 Latin) to make himself understood in most of the lands 
 he visited. He walked by day, visiting and exploring
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 the beautiful South of France, the valleys of the Alps, 
 or the classic plains of Italy ; when evening gathered 
 over the earth, he took out his German flute, and played 
 from memory the delicious Irish airs which haunted his 
 ear, the charm of which won for him ready hospitality 
 from the French peasant or the Flemish boor, at whose 
 doors he lingered. 
 
 Sometimes he came to one of those monastic seats of 
 learning, where it was still the custom on certain days, 
 to maintain thesis against any wandering disputant ; for 
 which, if the scholar- errant acquitted himself ably, he 
 might claim a gratuity in money, a dinner, and a bed for 
 the night. This was a great resource for Oliver, who had 
 no objection to an argument for its own sake, and who was 
 quite ready to win money and needful refreshment by it. 
 " Thus," he says, " I fought my way from convent to con- 
 vent ; walked from city to city ; examined mankind more 
 nearly ; and, if I may so express it, saw both sides of the 
 picture." 
 
 In this manner he travelled through Flanders, and parts 
 of France, Germany, and Switzerland. He went to Padua, 
 where he remained six months. He visited also Venice, 
 Verona, and Florence. Whilst he was in Italy his kind 
 uncle contrived to get a little money to him, and by this 
 aid probably Goldsmith was enabled to resume his medical 
 studies at P-adua. 
 
 But the death of that generous man made it necessary 
 for Oliver to seek some permanent means of subsist- 
 ence, and with a sad heart the poet, (he had already begun
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 to write his fine poem the " Traveller,") took his homeward 
 way, striving with all sorts of difficulties till he had crossed 
 the Channel, and at last reached London, 1756. There he 
 stood, a ragged, way-worn man, with but a few half-pence 
 in his pocket. He attempted to obtain a situation as usher 
 in a school, and through the recommendation of Dr. Rad- 
 cliffe, a mild, benevolent man, who had been joint tutor with 
 the savage Wilder at Trinity College, he succeeded in ob- 
 taining the post he desired. But disgusted at the drudgery 
 and mortifications to which he found himself exposed, he 
 soon left his situation, and applied to several apothecaries 
 for the place of assistant His threadbare coat, ungainly 
 figure, and broad Irish accent, however, stood in his way, 
 and he was finally compelled to take the place of journey- 
 man-assistant in the laboratory of a chemist, near Fish- 
 street Hill. From the drudgery of this place he was 
 released by the generous aid of his old fellow-student, at 
 Edinburgh, Dr. Sleigh, whom he accidentally met in 
 London, and who at once supplied him with money. By 
 his advice Goldsmith set up in practice as a physician in 
 Southwark (at Bankside), from whence he removed to the 
 Temple. But Oliver did not find his profession a remuner- 
 ative one ; he had, as he said, " an extensive circle of 
 patients, but no fees." Necessity therefore drove him to 
 literature as a pursuit. 
 
 At this time he renewed his acquaintance with several 
 young medical men whom he had known when in Edinburgh ; 
 amongst them was the son of a Dr. Milner, a dissenting 
 minister who had a classical school at Peckham, Surrey. Dr.
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Milner was seriously indisposed shortly after the renewal 
 of Goldsmith's acquaintance with his son, and the latter 
 asked his friend to superintend his academy till the master 
 should be able to resume his duties. That time never 
 came ; for Dr. Milner's illness was of long duration and 
 ended in death ; but before he died he had secured for 
 Goldsmith a situation as physician to one of the English 
 factories on the Coromandel Coast. This appointment 
 was considered likely to produce an income of one thou- 
 sand per annum ; but Goldsmith ultimately refused it. 
 Probably his lively imagination realized too vividly the 
 distant exile from all whom he loved, and he preferred a 
 struggle with poverty in his own land to wealth in the far 
 East Moreover, he had, as he used to phrase it, " a happy 
 knack at hoping," and he was beginning to find that he 
 could earn money quickly by his pen. 
 
 In 1758 he was engaged by Mr. Griffiths, the publisher 
 and proprietor of the Monthly Review, as a writer on the staft 
 of that periodical ; for this work he received board, lodging 
 and a handsome salary. At the end of seven or eight 
 months the engagement was broken off, however ; Gold- 
 smith then took lodgings in Green Arbour Court, in the 
 Old Bailey, where he completed his " Present State of 
 Literature in Europe," printed for Dodsley, 1759. A friend 
 paying him a visit at this time, found him in a miserably 
 dirty room, which contained only one chair. Goldsmith, 
 yielding it to his guest/ was compelled to find a seat in the 
 window. He afterwards removed to tolerably good 
 lodgings in Wine Office Court, Fleet Street; there he
 
 xviii MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 wrote his famous novel the " Vicar of Wakefield," and also 
 became acquainted with Samuel Johnson, to whose just 
 appreciation of its rare merit we probably owe the publi- 
 cation of that enchanting story. We give Johnson's own 
 account of how he became the literary sponsor of " Dr. 
 Primrose." 
 
 " I received one morning a message from poor Gold- 
 smith 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 
 him to come directly. I accordingly went as soon as I was 
 drest, 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 Madeira 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. I looked into it and saw its merit , 
 told the landlady I should soon return, and having gone to 
 a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Gold- 
 smith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without 
 rating his landlady for having used him so ill."* 
 
 But Mr. Newberry had not much faith in the wonderful 
 novel which was so great a contrast to the popular fictions 
 of the day ; and he kept the MS. by him till the publi- 
 
 * This is the account given by Boswell in his " Life of Johnson. 1
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 cation of the "Traveller" had established Goldsmith's 
 literary fame, and ensured the success of his tale. 
 
 In the spring of 1763 Goldsmith removed to lodgings at 
 Canonbury House, Islington, and undertook a great deal 
 of literary employment for Mr. Newberry, for whom he 
 corrected and revised the " Art of Poetry," wrote the " Life 
 of Beau Nash," and probably did much useful but now 
 unknown work. Here also he wrote his " Letters on 
 English History, from a Nobleman to his Son," which 
 were attributed at the time to Lord Lyttelton, the Earl 
 of Orrery, and other noblemen, and obtained good success. 
 His "Survey of Experimental Philosophy," which was 
 not printed till some years afterwards, was written at this 
 time. 
 
 In 1765 Goldsmith published his fine poem "The 
 Traveller." He had written part of it whilst he wandered 
 amongst the Swiss mountains ; he completed it at intervals, 
 while doing literary drudgery for his daily bread. He 
 conducted for Wilkie a Lady's Magazine, and wrote 
 some delightful essays for a publication called the " Bee." 
 For the " Public Ledger," he wrote a series of letters in the 
 character of a Chinese philosopher ; they were afterwards, 
 collected and published by Newberry, 1762, under the title 
 of the " Citizen of the World." This work proved suffi- 
 ciently profitable to permit him, in 1764, to take up his 
 abode in the Temple ; first in the Library Staircase, next 
 in the King's Bench Walk, and latterly at 2, Brick Court, 
 where he had handsome apartments on the first floor, 
 elegantly furnished. He began at this time to pay more
 
 xx MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 attention to his dress, wearing the physician's peculiar 
 costume of scarlet cloak, wig, sword, and cane ; he also 
 engaged an amanuensis to lighten his literary toil, but this 
 last luxury was speedily dispensed with, for Goldsmith found 
 that head and hand must in his case work together. He 
 was unable to dictate a sentence ; so he gave his clerk a 
 guinea and dismissed him. 
 
 In 1764 the celebrated Literary Club was instituted, and 
 Goldsmith, as one of its earliest members, became asso- 
 ciated with the most distinguished men of the day ; Dr. 
 Johnson already his tried and affectionate friend Sir 
 Joshua Reynolds, Edmund Burke, Topham Beauclerk, 
 Mr. Langton, Mr. Chamier, Under Secretary of State, &c., 
 &c., were members of it The club met for some years 
 every Monday evening, at the " Turk's Head," in Gerard 
 Street, Soho ; had supper, and sat till a late hour. This 
 society weaned Goldsmith in a great degree from the 
 low associates towards whom the privations of his former 
 life had drawn him. 
 
 He was at this time possessed by a desire to explore 
 Asia and the interior of Africa, with a view of introducing 
 the arts of the east into England. He applied to Lord 
 Bute for a salary sufficient to enable him to carry out this 
 idea ; and drew up an essay on the subject, which ap- 
 peared in his " Citizen of the World," but his memorial 
 received no attention, and he was unable to achieve his 
 purpose. 
 
 The success of the "Traveller," which obtained the 
 praise of Johnson, who declared it to be 'the finest poem since
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Pope's time," and of Fox, who called it " one of the finest 
 poems in the English language," introduced Goldsmith 
 to many noble and influential people. Lord Nugent 
 (afterwards Lord Clare) became his intimate friend, and 
 introduced him to Earl Percy, afterwards Duke of North- 
 umberland, who was then lord lieutenant of Ireland. The 
 earl invited Goldsmith, through his friend Dr. Percy, to 
 call on him. The simple-minded poet obeyed with natural 
 pride at the distinction ; and being shown into an anti- 
 chamber where he had to wait some time, he amused 
 himself by thinking over a complimentary address with 
 which he meant to greet the earl. But alas ! a groom 
 of the chambers of pompous presence chanced to enter 
 first, and Goldsmith bestowed on him the compliments 
 destined for his master! At that moment Lord Percy 
 entered the room, and the absent poet perceiving his 
 blunder, was so shocked and embarrassed that he could 
 scarcely stammer out a reply to the earl's courteous greet- 
 ing. Earl Percy (Goldsmith afterwards told Sir John 
 Hawkins) told the poet that he had read the " Traveller," 
 " and was much delighted with it ; that he was going as 
 lord lieutenant to Ireland, and as he understood Mr. Gold- 
 smith was a native of that country, he should be glad to 
 do him any kindness he could." No thought of self 
 crossed the mind of Oliver Goldsmith. He replied that he 
 had a brother there, a clergyman, who needed help, and 
 that he should be grateful if Earl Percy would show to 
 him the kindness destined for himself. 
 
 It is to be regretted that this generous request met with
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 no attention, though Earl Percy on his return from his vice- 
 royalty renewed his acquaintance with the poet. 
 
 Goldsmith had the weakness of priding himself on pos- 
 sessing grand acquaintances, and was fond of boasting of his 
 intimacy with Earl Percy. An ingenious bailiff, who wished 
 to serve a writ on him, took advantage of it to arrest him. 
 He wrote to Goldsmith in the character of steward to a 
 nobleman who had read his poem, admired it, and requested 
 the pleasure of an interview at a certain coffee-house. The 
 poet, deceived and flattered, obeyed the summons, and 
 found himself confronted by his enemy, the bailiff. The 
 debt (which was trifling) was, however, discharged on the 
 spot by Mr. Hamilton, printer of the " Critical Review," 
 an old friend of Goldsmith's and he was set free. 
 
 In 1765 Goldsmith published his beautiful ballad of the 
 " Hermit," and in 1768 his first play, " The Good-natured 
 Man," was performed at Covent Garden, then under the 
 management of Coleman. The play was not as successful 
 as from its extraordinary merits it deserved to be, but it 
 obtained, nevertheless, much admiration, and brought some 
 profit for the author. Whilst Goldsmith was engaged on 
 it he wrote numerous prefaces, introductions, and histories ; 
 he was, indeed, always full of business as a writer. He 
 wrote and abridged at this time the histories of England 
 and Rome, which have almost up to the present day been 
 standard school books. 
 
 His exquisite poem, " The Deserted Village," appeared 
 in 1769. It offers charming pictures of the village in 
 which his youth had been passed. The schoolmaster, the
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xxiii 
 
 preacher (a portrait of his excellent father) the aged 
 beggar, the ale-house, the lads and lasses of the hamlet, 
 still live in the melodious lines of the poet. The truth and 
 tenderness of his affectionate recollections stamp the 
 " Deserted Viilage " with a vitality which will probably pre- 
 serve it in its present high place as long as the language in 
 which it is written exists. 
 
 Goldsmith's poems were composed with so much pains 
 and care, that it is said that scarcely a word of his first copy 
 ever went to press. He wrote his lines very far apart, and 
 filled up the intermediate space with his numerous correc- 
 tions. He was two years writing the " Deserted Village." 
 
 Happily for his pecuniary circumstances, he wrote prose 
 both rapidly and well, and is said in the course of fourteen 
 years to have received upwards of ^8000 as the price of 
 his literary labours. In 1771 he wrote a " Life of Parnell," 
 and in the same year, a " Life of Lord Bolingbroke," and 
 his " History of Greece." 
 
 His next large work was a comedy, " She Stoops to 
 Conquer," which appeared at Covent Garden, March 15, 
 1773. He is said to have cleared 800 by it. One of his last 
 works was "A History of the Earth and of Animated 
 Nature," published 1774. He received for it 850. 
 
 But no money could enrich the thoughtless, generous, 
 benevolent poet. He supported two or three poor authors ; 
 he had several widows and poor housekeepers constant 
 pensioners on his bounty. When his money was exhausted 
 he gave them his clothes, and sometimes the whole of his 
 breakfast, saying, after they were gone, with a smile of
 
 dv MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 satisfaction, "Now let me suppose that I have eaten a 
 good breakfast, and am nothing out of pocket." Of 
 economy he had no idea, and as a fatal habit of gambling 
 possessed him, and his charity was simply boundless, the 
 purse of Fortunatus alone could have kept him free from 
 pecuniary embarrassments. 
 
 When his money was exhausted he was in the habit of 
 hiring a lodging some miles out of London, and writing 
 incessantly, without taking any exercise, till his work was 
 done. He would then carry the MS. to London, sell it to 
 the booksellers, and with the price of it, enter at once into 
 all the gaieties of London life. As he attained popularity, 
 however, and the value of his name became apparent, the 
 booksellers were only too ready to advance him money for 
 works to be hereafter written, and with these engagements 
 he became greatly burdened towards the beginning of 
 1774, although for the past year's work he had received 
 ;i8oo. This life of long intervals of heavy work without 
 exercise, and of reckless dissipation after it, joined to his 
 pecuniary anxieties, and a painful complaint from which 
 he suffered, brought on, in March, 1774, a nervous fever. 
 He sent for Mr. Hobbs, and expressed a wish to take 
 some of Dr. James's Powders, from which he had once 
 before, in a similar illness, derived great benefit. Mr. 
 Hobbs tried to persuade him not to do so, and finding his 
 entreaties fruitless, requested him to call in Dr. Fordyce, 
 in whose skill both had great confidence. This second 
 adviser also objected to the powders, but Goldsmith per- 
 sisted in taking them, and was so ill on the following day
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 that his friends summoned Dr. Turton to a consultation. 
 Dr. Turton, after feeling his patient's pulse, observed, " Your 
 pulse is in greater disorder than it should be from the 
 degree of fever which you have ; is your mind at ease ?" 
 Goldsmith answered, " It is not." 
 
 Nothing could stop the progress of the fever, and on the 
 4th of April, 1774, the poet, historian, novelist, essayist, 
 passed away to his rest ; regretted, not only by his literary 
 associates, but by numbers of poor and lowly creatures 
 who had never found his bounty fail them. Our readers 
 will probably remember the beautiful picture exhibited 
 in the Royal Academy a few years ago of the scene 
 in Bolt Court the morning after Goldsmith's death ; 
 the weeping poor who mourned the man who had been 
 every one's friend but his own the gentle, generous Gold- 
 smith. He died in the prime of his life, and full force of 
 his intellect being only forty-five years of age when he 
 expired. 
 
 One of the probable causes of his mental disquietude 
 became apparent after his death. He was ^"2000 in debt. 
 In consequence of this untoward circumstance his friends 
 did not think it advisable to give him a public funeral. 
 They determined to bury him privately in the Temple, and 
 to erect a marble monument to his memory afterwards, in 
 Westminster Abbey. His remains were therefore interred 
 quietly in the Temple burying-ground, April Qth, 1774, 
 and soon after a subscription was commenced for the 
 purchase of the monument. It was executed by Nollekens, 
 and bears a large medallion with a good resemblance of
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 the poet in profile ; underneath, on a tablet of white marble 
 is the inscription written by Dr. Johnson : 
 
 OLIVARII GOLDSMITH, 
 
 POET.E, PHYSICI, HISTORICI, 
 QUI NULLUM FERE SCRIBENDI GENUS 
 
 NON TETIGIT, 
 
 NULLUM QUOD TETIGIT NON ORNAVIT : 
 SIVE RISUS ESSENT MOVENDI 
 
 SIVE LACRYM.E, 
 
 AFFECTUUM POTENS AD LENIS DOMINATOR ; 
 
 INGENIO SUBLIMIS, VIVIDUS, VERSATILIS, 
 
 ORATIONE GRANDIS, NITIDUS VENUSTUS ; 
 
 HOC MONUMENTO MEMORIAM COLUIT 
 
 SODALIUM AMOR, 
 
 AMICORUM FIDES, 
 
 ECTORUM VENERATIO. 
 
 NATUS IN HIBERNIA, FORNLE LONGFORDIENSIS 
 IN LOCO GUI NOMEN PALLAS, 
 
 NOV. 29, MDCCXXXI.,* 
 EBLAN.E LITERIS INSTITUTUS ; 
 
 OBIIT LONDINI, 
 
 APRIL 4, MDCCLXXIV. 
 
 (TRANSLATION.) 
 
 To the Memory of Oliver Goldsmith, 
 
 Poet, Naturalist, and Historian, 
 who left no species of writing untouched or unadorned by 
 
 A mistake not discovered till the monument W keen erected ; it should 
 be I72&.
 
 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xxvii 
 
 his pen ; a powerful master of the passions, whether to 
 move to laughter or to draw forth tears ; of a genius sub- 
 lime, vivid, and versatile ; in expression noble, pure, and 
 graceful. This monument has been consecrated by the 
 love of his companions, the affection of his friends, and the 
 veneration of his readers. He was born in the kingdom of 
 Ireland, at Ferney in the County of Longford, at a place 
 named Pallas, Nov. 29th, 1731 (1728). He was educated 
 at Dublin, and died in London, April 4th, 1774. 
 
 Goldsmith's personal appearance by no means equalled 
 his mental gifts. He was a short thick-set man, his* 
 features large and coarse, and his face much marked with 
 the small-pox. His manner was awkward ; and he either 
 dressed carelessly, or was absurdly fine. 
 
 The great fault of his character was vanity, both of his 
 plain person and his rare and delightful intellectual gifts ; 
 and the simplicity of his character, open as a child's, exposed 
 this weakness to the sneers of those around him. But he 
 had a rare power of winning affection ; from grave old Dr. 
 Johnson to the smallest child who knew "Goldy" all truly 
 loved him, and his boundless charity should surely suffice 
 to cover far heavier failings than the simple pride of one 
 who had risen by his own talents from a homeless wanderer 
 to be the admired poet of his day. 
 
 His genius was of the highest order. Scott's eulogium 
 of the " Vicar of Wakefield" is well known. Johnson says of 
 him, " Whether we take him as a poet, as a comic writer,
 
 MEMOIR OP OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 or as an historian he stands in the first class. Whatever he 
 wrote he did it better than any other man could." 
 
 With this generous criticism from the grand old moralist 
 we close our brief memoir, merely adding that so power- 
 fully do the comic weaknesses, the humanity, good nature, 
 and archness of this prince of novelists affect the minds of 
 most readers, that, perhaps, if required to name the author 
 who has the strongest hold on our affections, even in the 
 present day, we should very generally reply, " Oliver 
 Goldsmith,"
 
 GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. 
 
 THE TRAVELLER: 
 
 OR, 
 
 A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 
 
 TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. 
 
 |EAR SIR, I am sensible that the friendship between us 
 can acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedi- 
 cation ; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix 
 your name to my attempts, which you decline giving with 
 your own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written to you 
 from Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be only in- 
 scribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, 
 when the reader understands, that it is addressed to a roan, who 
 despising fame and fortune, has retired early to happiness and 
 obscurity with an income of forty pounds a-year. 
 
 I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your humble 
 choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where the harvest 
 is great, and the labourers are but few ; while you have left the 
 field of ambition, where the labourers are many, and the harvest 
 not worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition what 
 from the refinement of the times, from different systems of criti-
 
 GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. 
 
 cism, and from the divisions of party that which pursues poetical 
 fame is the wildest. 
 
 Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished nations ; 
 but in a country verging to the extremes of refinement, Painting 
 and Music come in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind 
 a less laborious entertainment, they at first rival Poetry, and at 
 length supplant her ; they engross all that favour once shown 
 to her, and though but younger sisters, seize upon the elder's 
 birthright. 
 
 Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it is 
 still in greater danger from the mistaken efforts of the learned 
 to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard of late in 
 favour of blank verse and Pindaric odes, choruses, anapests and 
 iambics, alliterative care and happy negligence ! Every absurdity 
 has now a champion to defend it; and as he is generally much 
 in the wrong, so he has always much to say ; for error is ever 
 talkative. 
 
 But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous ; 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 pleasure in what contributes to increase the distemper. 
 Like the tiger, that seldom desists from pursuing man after having 
 once preyed upon human flesh, the reader who has once gratified 
 his appetite with calumny makes ever after the most agreeable 
 feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers generally admire 
 some half-witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, 
 having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with 
 the name of poet : his tawdry lampoons are called satires, his 
 turbulence is said to be force, and his frenzy fire. 
 
 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 endeavoured to show, that there may be equal happiness 
 in states that are differently governed from our own ; that every 
 state has a particular principle of happiness; and that this prin-
 
 Remote, unfriended, melancbol-, slow 
 
 Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po. p. 3
 
 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 ciple in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There 
 are few can judge better than yourself how far these positions are 
 illustrated in this poem. 
 
 I am, 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 Your most affectionate brother, 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 | EMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow 
 Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po, 
 Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
 Against the houseless stranger shuts the dooi \ 
 Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
 A weary waste expanding to the skies 
 Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
 My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee ; 
 Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
 And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 
 
 Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
 And round his dwelling guardian saints attend : 
 Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
 To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ; 
 Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
 And every stranger finds a ready chair : 
 Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned, 
 Where all the ruddy family around 
 Laugh at the jests of pranks that never fail, 
 Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
 Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
 And learn the luxury of doing good. 
 
 But me, not destined such delights to share, 
 My prime of life in wandering spent and care ; 
 Impelled, with steps unceasing, to pursue 
 Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view ;
 
 GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. 
 
 That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
 Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; 
 My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
 And find no spot of all the world my own. 
 
 E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
 I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
 And placed on high above the storm's career, 
 Look downward where a hundred realms appear; 
 Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
 The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 
 When thus Creation's charms around combine, 
 Amidst the store should thankless Pride repine ? 
 Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
 That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? 
 Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 
 These little things are great to little man ; 
 And wiser he whose sympathetic mind 
 Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
 Ye glittering towns with wealth and splendour crowned, 
 Ye fields where summer spreads profusion round, 
 Ye lakes whose vessels catch the busy gale, 
 Ye bending swains that dress the flowery vale, 
 For me your tributary stores combine : 
 Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine ! 
 
 As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
 Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er 
 Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 
 Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still 
 Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
 Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies j 
 Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
 To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 
 And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find 
 Some spot to real happiness consigned,
 
 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest. 
 May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 
 
 But where to find that happiest spot below 
 Who can direct, when all pretend to know? 
 The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
 Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
 Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
 And his long nights of revelry and ease ; 
 The naked negro, panting at the line, 
 Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
 Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 
 And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
 
 Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, 
 His first, best country ever is at home. 
 And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 
 And estimate the blessings which they share, 
 Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
 An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
 As different good, by art or nature given, 
 To different nations makes their blessings even. 
 
 Nature, a mother kind alike to all, 
 Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call : 
 With food as well the peasant is supplied 
 On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; 
 And though the rocky crested summits frown, 
 These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. 
 From art more various are the blessings sent 
 Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content. 
 Yet these each other's power so strong contest, 
 That either seems destructive of the rest. 
 {'.Where wealth and freedom reign contentment fails, 
 And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. 
 Hence every state to one loved blessing prone, 
 Conforms and models life to that alone.
 
 GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. 
 
 Each to the favourite happiness attends, 
 And spurns the plan that aims at other ends 
 Till, carried to excess in each domain, 
 This favourite good begets peculiar pain. 
 
 But let us try these truths with closer eyes. 
 And trace them through the prospect as it lies ; 
 Here, for a while my proper cares resigned, 
 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 j 
 Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
 Woods over woods in gay theatric pride, 
 While oft some temple's mouldering tops between 
 With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 
 
 Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
 The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
 Whatever fruits in different climes are found, 
 That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground 
 Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
 Whose bright succession decks the varied year 
 Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
 With vernal lives, that blossom but to die 
 These, here disporting, own the kindred soil, 
 Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
 While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand 
 To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 
 
 But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
 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 j though submissive, vain \
 
 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue j 
 And even in penance planning sins anew. 
 All evils here contaminate the mind, 
 That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
 For wealth was theirs not far removed the date, 
 When commerce proudly flourished through the state. 
 At her command the palace learned to rise, 
 Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies ; 
 The canvas glowed beyond e'en nature warm, 
 The pregnant quarry teemed with human form : 
 Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
 Commerce on other shores displayed her sail, 
 While nought remained of all that riches gave, 
 But towns unmanned, 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 arrayed, 
 The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; 
 Processions formed for piety and love 
 A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
 By sports like these are all their cares beguiled : 
 The sports of children satisfy the child. 
 Each nobler aim, repressed by long control, 
 Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul j 
 While low delights succeeding fast behind, 
 In happier meanness occupy the mind. 
 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.
 
 GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. 
 
 My soul, turn from them ! turn we to survey 
 Where rougher climes a nobler race display 
 Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, 
 And force a churlish soil for scanty bread. 
 No product here the barren hills afford, 
 But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. 
 No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, 
 But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 
 No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
 But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 
 
 Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm, 
 Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
 Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though small, 
 He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
 Sees no contiguous palace rear its head 
 To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
 No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal 
 To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
 But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, 
 Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil 
 Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, 
 Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 
 With patient angle trolls the finny deep, 
 Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep ; 
 Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, 
 And drags the struggling savage into day. 
 At night returning, every labour sped, 
 He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
 Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 
 His children's looks that brighten at the blaze 
 While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard, 
 Displays her cleanly platter on the board : 
 And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, 
 With many a tale repays the nightly bed.
 
 No product here the barren hills afford, 
 
 But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. p.
 
 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 Thus every good his native wilds impart, 
 Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
 And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise, 
 Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
 Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
 And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; 
 And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
 Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 
 So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, 
 But bind him to his native mountains more. 
 
 Such are the charms to barren states assigned 
 Their wants but few, their wishes all confined ; 
 Yet let them only share the praise^ due, 
 If few their wants, their pleasures are but few \ 
 For every want that stimulates the breast, 
 Becomes, a source of pleasure when redrest ; 
 Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, 
 That first excites desire, and then supplies ; 
 Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, 
 To fill the languid pause with finer joy; 
 Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, 
 Catch every nerve and vibrate through the frame ; 
 Their level life is but a smouldering fire, 
 Unquenched by want, unfanned by strong desire ; 
 Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
 On some high festival of once a year, 
 In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
 Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 
 
 But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow 
 Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low ; 
 For as refinement stops, from sire to son 
 Unaltered, unimproved the manners run 
 And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart 
 Fall blunted from each indurated heart.
 
 GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. 
 
 Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
 
 May sit like falcons cowering on the nest j 
 
 But all the gentler morals, such as play 
 
 Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the way- 
 
 These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly, 
 
 To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 
 
 To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
 I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. 
 Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
 Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please, 
 How often have I led thy sportive choir, 
 With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring Loire, 
 Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
 And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew ! 
 And haply though my harsh touch, falt'ring still, 
 But mocked all tune, and marred the dancer's skill 
 Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, 
 And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour. 
 Alike all ages : dames of ancient days 
 Have led their children through the mirthful maze , 
 And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore, 
 Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore. 
 
 So blest a life these thoughtless realms display ; 
 Thus idly busy rolls their world away. 
 Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, 
 For honour forms the social temper here : 
 Honour, that praise which real merit gains, 
 Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, 
 Here passes current paid from hand to hand, 
 It shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land > 
 From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, 
 And all are taught an avarice of praise 
 They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem, 
 Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.
 
 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
 It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
 For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought, 
 Enfeebles all internal strength of thought 
 And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 
 Leans for all pleasure on another's breast 
 Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, 
 Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart , 
 Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, 
 And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace j 
 Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
 To boast one splendid banquet once a year : 
 The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, 
 Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 
 
 To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
 Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies. 
 Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
 Where the broad ocean leans against the land : 
 And sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
 Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
 Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, 
 The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; 
 Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, 
 Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore 
 While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, 
 Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
 The slow canal, the yellow blossomed 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
 
 GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. 
 
 Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 
 
 With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, 
 
 Are here displayed. Their much-loved wealth imparts 
 
 Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; 
 
 But view them closer, craft and fraud appear 
 
 E'en liberty itself is bartered here. 
 
 At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 
 
 The needy sell it, and the rich man buvs : 
 
 A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, 
 
 Her wretches seek dishonourable graves, 
 
 And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, 
 
 Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 
 
 Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old I 
 Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; 
 War in each breast, and freedom on each brow 
 How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 
 
 Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 
 And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; 
 Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 
 And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide : 
 There all around the gentlest breezes stray ; 
 There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
 Creation's mildest charms are there combined, 
 Extremes are only in the master's mind. 
 Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state, 
 With daring aims irregularly great. 
 Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
 I see the lords of human kind pass by ; 
 Intent on high designs a thoughtful band, 
 By forms unfashioned, fresh from nature's hand, 
 Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 
 True to imagined right, above control ; 
 While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 
 And learns to venerate himself as man.
 
 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here 
 Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ; 
 Too blest indeed were such without alloy, 
 But, fostered e'en by freedom, ills annoy. 
 That independence Britons prize too high, 
 Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie : 
 The self-dependent lordlings stand alone 
 All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown. 
 Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
 Minds combat minds, repelling and repelled. 
 Ferments arise, imprisoned factions roar, 
 Repressed ambition struggles round her shore 
 Till over-wrought, the general system feels 
 Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 
 
 Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, 
 As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, 
 Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 
 Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
 Hence all obedience bows to these alone, 
 And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 
 Till time may come when, stript of all her charms, 
 The land of scholars and the nurse of arms 
 Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, 
 Where kings have toiled, and poets wrote for fame 
 One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
 And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonoured 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 favour's fostering sun
 
 GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. 
 
 Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure ! 
 I only would repress them to secure : 
 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 proportioned loads on each. 
 Hence, should one order disproportioned 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 I 
 Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
 Except when fast approaching danger warms : 
 But when contending chiefs blockade the throne ; 
 Contracting regal power to stretch their own 
 When I behold a factious band agree 
 To call it freedom when themselves are free 
 Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
 Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law 
 The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
 Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home 
 Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, 
 Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart ; 
 Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
 I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 
 
 Yes, brother ! curse with me that baleful hour 
 When first ambition struck at regal power ; 
 And thus polluting honour in its source, 
 Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
 Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, 
 Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? 
 Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
 Like flaring tapers bright'ning as they waste ? 
 Seen opulence her grandeur to maintain, 
 Lead stern depopulation in her train,
 
 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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 murd'rous 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 sympathise with mine. 
 
 Vain, very vain, my weary search to find, 
 That bliss which only centres in the mind. 
 Why have I strayed from pleasure and repose, 
 To seek a good each government bestows ? 
 In every government though terrors reign, 
 Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, 
 How small of all that human hearts endure, 
 That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ! 
 Still to ourselves in every place consigned, 
 Our own felicity we make or find : 
 With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 
 Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
 
 A lake of the State of New York.
 
 l6 GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. 
 
 The lifted axe, the agonising wheel, 
 Luke's iron crown,* and Damiens' bed of steel/t 
 To men remote from power but rarely known, 
 Leave reason, faith, and conscience all our own.} 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 FIRST PRINTED IN 1769. 
 
 TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 
 
 [JEAR SIR, I can have no expectations, in an address of 
 this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to estab- 
 lish 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 pre- 
 sent in following my affections. The only dedication I ever made 
 was to my brother, because I loved him better than most other 
 men. He is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this Poem to you. 
 How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere 
 mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to inquire ; but 
 I know you will object (and indeed several of our best and wisest 
 friends concur in the opinion), that the depopulation it deplores 
 is nowhere to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be 
 found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can scarcely make 
 
 * Luke Zeck and his brother George headed an insurrection in Hungary, 
 A.D. 1514. George, not Luke (as the poet says by mistake), had his head 
 encircled by a red-hot iron crown in mocking punishment. 
 
 t Robert Francois Damiens, a mad fanatic, attempted the life of Louis XV., 
 in 1757. He was put to death with horrible tortures, being broken asunder 
 on the wheel and then torn by horses. 
 
 * The last nine lines of the "Traveller" were written by Dr. Johnson.
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 any other answer, than that I sincerely believe what I have 
 written ; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country ex- 
 cursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I 
 allege ; and that all my views and inquiries have led me to believe 
 those miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But this is 
 not the place to enter into an inquiry, whether the country be de- 
 populating 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 unfeigned attention to 
 a long poem. 
 
 In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against 
 the increase of our luxuries ; and here also I expect the shout of 
 modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past 
 it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest 
 national advantages ; and all the wisdom of antiquity in that par- 
 ticular as erroneous. Still, however, I must remain a professed 
 ancient on that head, and continue to think those luxuries preju- 
 dicial to states by which so many vices are introduced, and so 
 many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed so much has been 
 poured out of late on the other side of the question, that merely 
 for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to 
 be in the right. 
 
 I am, 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 Your sincere friend and ardent admirer, 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 [WEET AUBURN ! loveliest village of the plain, 
 
 Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain, 
 
 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
 
 And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed 
 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please 
 
 How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 
 
 Where humble happiness endeared each scene ;
 
 GOLDSMITWS POEMS. 
 
 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 topped the neighbouring hill, 
 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made : 
 
 How often have I blessed the coming day, 
 
 When toil remitting lent its"" turn to play, 
 
 And all the village train from labour free, 
 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree 
 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 
 The young contending as the old surveyed ; 
 
 And many a gambol frolicked 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 tittered round the place : 
 
 The bashful virgin's side-long 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 ;
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
 Sunk are thy bovvers in shapeless ruin all, 
 And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
 And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
 Far, far away thy children leave the land. 
 
 Ill fares the land, to- hastening ills a prey, 
 Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
 Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made 
 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
 When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 
 
 A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
 When every rood of ground maintain'd its man ; 
 For him light labour spread her wholesome store, 
 Just gave what life required, but gave no more : 
 His best companions, innocence and health ; 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 
 But times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train 
 Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain : 
 Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 
 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose j 
 And every want to luxury allied, 
 And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
 Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
 Those calm desires that asked but little room, 
 Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, 
 Lived in each look, and brightened 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 ruined grounds, 
 
 21
 
 GOLDSMITHS POEMS. 
 
 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-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 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 blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 
 A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
 And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep , 
 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 ; 
 Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, 
 While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
 And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
 His heaven commences ere the world be past.
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when 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 milk-maid 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 spoke the vacant mind, 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
 And filled 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 foot-way tread, 
 But all the blooming flush of life is fled. 
 All but yon widowed, solitary thing, 
 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
 She, wretched matron forced in age, for bread, 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
 To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn 
 She only left of all the harmless train, 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain ! 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place 
 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 
 By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour : 
 Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 
 More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
 
 GOLDSMITHS POEMS. 
 
 And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
 Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew- 
 Remerabrance 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-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 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 blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 
 A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
 And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep , 
 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 ; 
 Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, 
 While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
 And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
 His heaven commences ere the world be past
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when 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 milk-maid sung, 
 The sober herd that lowed to meet their young j 
 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 spoke the vacant mind, 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
 And filled 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 foot-way tread, 
 But all the blooming flush of life is fled. 
 All but yon widowed, solitary thing, 
 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
 She, wretched matron forced in age, for bread, 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
 To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn 
 She only left of all the harmless train, 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain ! 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place 
 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 
 By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour : 
 Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 
 More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
 
 GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 grey-beard mirth, and smiling toil retired, 
 Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, 
 And news much older than their ale went round. 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
 The parlour splendours of that festive place : 
 The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
 The varnished clock that clicked behind the door j 
 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 j 
 The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, 
 With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay 
 While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
 Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 
 
 Vain transitory splendours ! could not all 
 Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
 An hour's importance to the poor man's heart 
 Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
 No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
 No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
 No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
 Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear j 
 The host himself no longer shall be found 
 Careful to see the mantling bliss go round : 
 Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
 Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 
 
 Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. 
 These simple blessings of the lowly train 
 To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
 One native charm, than all the gloss of art
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 
 The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 
 Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
 Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined ; 
 But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
 With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed. 
 In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
 The toiling pleasure sickens into pain 
 And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy 
 The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy ? 
 
 Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
 The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay 
 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 
 Between a splendid and a happy land. 
 Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
 And shouting Folly hails them from 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 robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth. 
 His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
 Around the world each needful product flies, 
 For all the luxuries the world supplies : 
 While thus the land adorned for pleasure all 
 In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 
 
 As some fair female, unadorned and plain, 
 Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
 Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, 
 Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes
 
 26 GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 betrayed : 
 In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed, 
 But verging to decline, its splendours rise, 
 Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
 While, scourged by famine, from the smiling land, 
 The mournful peasant leads his humble band 
 And while he sinks, without one arm to save 
 The country blooms a garden and a grave. 
 
 Where, then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, 
 To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
 If to some common's fenceless limits strayed, 
 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
 Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
 And even the bare-worn common is denied. 
 
 If to the city sped What waits him there ? 
 To see profusion that he must not share ; 
 To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
 To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
 To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
 Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
 Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
 There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
 Here, while the proud their long drawn pomps display, 
 There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
 The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, 
 Here, richly decked, 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 1
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 27 
 
 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 distressed ; 
 
 He> modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 
 
 Now lost to all her friends, her virtue fled, 
 
 Near her betrayer's door she lays her head 
 
 And 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. 
 
 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 i 
 
 Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
 Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
 Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
 Where wild Altama* murmurs to their woe. 
 Far different there from all that charmed 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 crowned, 
 Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
 Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
 The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake 
 Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
 And savage men, more murderous still than they ; 
 While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
 Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
 
 * A river of Georgia, United States.
 
 28 GOLD SMI TITS POE MS. 
 
 Far different these from every former scene, 
 The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, 
 The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
 That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 
 
 Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that parting day 
 That called them from their native walks away ; 
 When the poor exile, 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, 
 Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep I 
 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 wished 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 blessed the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
 And kissed 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 cursed by Heaven's decree, 
 How ill exchanged are things like these for thee 1 
 How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
 Diffuse thy pleasures only to destroy ! 
 Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
 Boast of a florid vigour not their own ; 
 At every draught more large and large they grow, 
 A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
 Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 
 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round-
 
 Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that parting day 
 That called them from their native walks away. p. 28
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 E'en now the devastation is begun, 
 And half the business of destruction done ; 
 E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
 I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 
 That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 
 Downward they move a melancholy band, 
 Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand ; 
 Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
 And kind connubial tenderness, are there \ 
 And piety, with wishes placed above, 
 And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
 
 And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
 Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
 Unfit in these degenerate times of shame, 
 To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame 
 Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
 My shame in crowds, my solitary pride 
 Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, 
 That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me sc 
 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 Tornea's cliffs, or Pambamarca's * side, 
 Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 
 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
 Redress the rigours of 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 possessed, 
 Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
 As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away ; 
 
 * A mountain of Mexico.
 
 30 GO IX SMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 While self-dependent power can time defy, 
 As rocks resist the billows and the sky.* 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 CLOWN'S REPLY. 
 
 1753- 
 
 OHN 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. 
 
 STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.t 
 
 '759- 
 
 j MIDST the clamour of exulting joys, 
 
 Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, 
 Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, 
 
 And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. 
 O Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe 
 
 Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear ; 
 Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, 
 
 Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. 
 Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled, 
 
 And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes ; 
 Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead I 
 Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. 
 
 * The four last lines are by Dr. Johnson. 
 
 t General James Wolfe was born 1726, and fell at the moment of victory at 
 Quebec, Sept. I3th, 1759. Goldsmith claimed relationship with this gallant 
 and distinguished soldier.
 
 PROLOGUE BY LABERIUS. 31 
 
 A PROLOGUE 
 
 WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE 
 
 POET LABERIUS,* 
 
 A. ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CAESAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE. 
 
 PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS. 
 
 1759- 
 
 |HAT ! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, 
 And save from infamy my sinking age ? 
 Scarce half alive, oppressed 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 unappalled by fear, 
 
 With honest thrift I held my honour dear : 
 
 But this vile hour disperses all my store, 
 
 And all my hoard of honour is no more 
 
 For ah ! too partia! to my life's decline, 
 
 Caesar persuades, submission must be mine ! 
 
 Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys, 
 
 Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please. 
 
 Here, then, at once I welcome every shame, 
 
 And cancel, at threescore, a life of fame. 
 
 No more my titles shall my children tell, 
 
 The old buffoon will fit my name as well ; 
 
 This day beyond its term my fate extends, 
 
 For life is ended when our honour ends. 
 
 * Decimus Laberius wrote mimes or satirical productions for the stage. 
 Caesar compelled him to perform in one against his will ; and Laberius spoke a 
 satirical prologue against Caesar on the occasion. This prologue was preserved 
 by Aulus Gellius. Laberius died B c. 44.
 
 GOLDSMITfTS MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 
 A TALE. 
 
 1765- 
 
 CLUDED from domestic strife, 
 Jack Book-worm led a college life ; 
 A fellowship at twenty-five 
 Made him the happiest man alive j 
 
 He drank his glass, and cracked his joke, 
 
 And freshmen wondered as he spoke. 
 
 Such pleasures unalloyed 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 ! 
 
 Oh 1 but let exclamations cease, 
 
 Her presence banished all his peace. 
 
 So with decorum all things carried ; 
 
 Miss frowned, and blushed, and then was married 
 
 Need we expose to vulgar sight 
 The raptures of the bridal night? 
 Need we intrude on hallowed 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 ;
 
 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 33 
 
 A third, a fourth, were not amiss, 
 The fifth was friendship mixed with bliss, 
 But, when a twelvemonth passed away, 
 Jack found his goddess made of clay ; 
 Found half the charms that decked her face 
 Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ; 
 But still the worst remained behind 
 That very face had robbed her mind. 
 
 Skilled in no other arts was she, 
 But dressing, patching, repartee ; 
 And, just as humour rose or fell, 
 By turns a slattern or a belle. 
 'Tis true she dressed with modern grace, 
 Half naked at a ball or race ; 
 But when at home, at board or bed, 
 Five greasy night-caps wrapped her head. 
 Could so much beauty condescend 
 To be a dull domestic friend ? 
 Could any curtain lectures bring 
 To decency so fine a thing? 
 In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting ; 
 By day 'twas gadding or coquetting. 
 Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy 
 Of powdered coxcombs at her levee ; 
 The 'squire and captain took their stations, 
 And twenty other near relations : 
 Jack sucked his pipe, and often broke 
 A sigh in suffocating smoke ; 
 While all their hours were passed between 
 Insulting repartee or spleen. 
 
 Thus as her faults each day were known., 
 He thinks her features coarser grown ; 
 He fancies every vice she shows, 
 Or thins her lip, or points her nose : 
 Whenever rage or envy rise, 
 How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes !
 
 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 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 ravelled noose, 
 As each a different way pursues 
 While sullen or loquacious strife 
 Promised to hold them on for life 
 That dire disease, whose ruthless power 
 Withers the beauty's transient flower : 
 Lo ! the small-pox whose horrid glare 
 Levelled its terrors at the fair ; 
 And, rifling every youthful grace, 
 Left but the remnant of a face. 
 
 The glass, grown hateful to her sight, 
 Reflected now a perfect fright. 
 Each former art she vainly tries 
 To bring back lustre to her eyes ; 
 In vain she tries her paste and creams 
 To smooth her skin, or hide its seams ; 
 Her country beaux and city cousins, 
 Lovers no more, flew off by dozens ; 
 The 'squire himself was seen to yield, 
 And ev'n the captain quit the field. 
 
 Poor madam now condemned 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 :
 
 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 35 
 
 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. 
 
 A NEW SIMILE 
 
 IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. 
 I765- 
 
 ONG had I sought in vain to find 
 . A likeness for the scribbling kind 
 
 The modern scribbling kind who write ; 
 
 In wit, and sense, and nature's spite 
 Till reading, I forget what day on, 
 A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,* 
 I think I met with something there 
 To suit my purpose to a hair. 
 But let us not proceed too furious 
 First please to turn to God Mercurius : 
 You'll find him pictured at full length, 
 In book the second, page the tenth : 
 The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, 
 And now proceed we to our simile. 
 
 Imprimis, Pray observe his hat, 
 Wings upon either side mark that. 
 Well ! what is it from thence we gather ? 
 Why these denote a brain of feather. 
 A brain of feather ! very right 
 With wit that's flighty, learning light ; 
 Such as to modern bards decreed : 
 A just comparison, proceed. 
 
 * A School Mythology, written by Andrew Tooke, head-master of the 
 Charterhouse. 
 
 32
 
 36 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 In the next place, his feet peruse, 
 Wings grow again from both his shoes ; 
 Designed, no doubt, their part to bear, 
 And waft his godship through the air : 
 And here my simile unites 
 For in the 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, 
 Filled with a snake-encircled wand, 
 By classic authors termed Caduceus, 
 And highly famed for several uses. 
 To wit most wondrously endued, 
 No poppy water half so good ; 
 For let folks only get a touch, 
 Its soporific virtue's such, 
 Though ne'er so much awake before, 
 That quickly they begin to snore. 
 Add too, what certain writers tell, 
 With this he drives men's souls to hell. 
 
 Now to apply, begin we then ; 
 His wand's a modern author's pen ; 
 The serpents round about it twined, 
 Denote him of the reptile kind 
 Denote the rage with which he writes. 
 His frothy slaver, venomed bites, 
 An equal semblance still to keep, 
 Alike too both conduce to sleep 
 This difference only, as the god 
 Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod, 
 With his goose-quill the scribbling elf, 
 Instead of others, damns himself. 
 
 And here my simile almost tript, 
 Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
 
 A MEW SIMILE. 37 
 
 Moreover Mercury had a failing : 
 
 Well ! what of that ? out with it stealing: 
 
 In which all modern bards agree, 
 
 Being each as great a thief as he ; 
 
 But ev'n 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 BEDCHAMBER.* 
 
 (HERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, 
 
 Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; 
 Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black cham- 
 pagne, 
 
 Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane : 
 There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, 
 The Muse found Scroggen stretched beneath a rug : 
 A window patched with paper, lent a ray, 
 That dimly showed 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 Williamt showed his lamp-black face. 
 The morn was cold, he views with keen desire 
 The rusty grate unconscious of a fire ; 
 With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, 
 And five cracked tea-cups dressed the chimney board : 
 A night-cap decked his brows instead of bay, 
 A cap by night a stocking all the day ! 
 
 * Goldsmith intended this for the beginning of a serio-comic poem on the 
 shifts and straggles of a poor author, but never finished it 
 t The Duke of Cumberland.
 
 3 8 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE GIFT. 
 
 TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN IMITATED 
 FROM THE FRENCH.* 
 
 | AY, cruel Iris, pretty rake, 
 
 Dear mercenary beauty, 
 What annual offering shall I make 
 
 Expressive of my duty ? 
 My heart, a victim to thine eyes, 
 
 Should I at once deliver, 
 Say, would the angry fair one prize 
 
 The gift, who slights the giver? 
 A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, 
 
 My rivals give and let 'em ! 
 If gems, or gold, impart a joy, 
 
 I'll give them when I get 'em. 
 I'll give but not the full-blown rose, 
 
 Or rose-bud more in fashion : 
 Such short-lived offerings but disclose 
 
 A transitory passion. 
 I'll give thee something yet unpaid, 
 
 Not less sincere than civil 
 I'll give thee ah ! too charming maid ! 
 
 I'll give thee to the devil ! 
 
 EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.t 
 
 JHIS 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 ! 
 OfGercourt. 
 
 Hit ? f ' f Th ma - S P u ra ,?L WaS an Irish P et and divine ' born I6 ?9> died W- 
 His chief poem is the ". Hermit."
 
 EPITAPH ON DR. PA KNELL. 39 
 
 Celestial themes confessed his tuneful aid ; 
 And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. 
 Needless to him the tribute we bestow, 
 The transitory breath of fame below : 
 More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, 
 While converts thank their poet in the skies. 
 
 EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.* 
 
 ERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, 
 
 Who long was a bookseller's hack : 
 He led such a damnable life in this world, 
 I don't think he'll wish to come back. 
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 THE FOLLOWING LETTER, ADDRESSED TO THE PRINTER OF THE " ST. 
 
 JAMES'S CHRONICLE," APPEARED IN THAT PAPER IN JUNE, 1767^ 
 
 |lR, as there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper con 
 troversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as 
 concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, 
 that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I 
 thought the book was a good one, and I think so still. I said I 
 was told by the bookseller that it was then first published ; but 
 in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not 
 extensive enough to set me right, 
 
 * This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin, but, having 
 wasted his patrimony, enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that mode of 
 life he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He 
 translated Voltaire's "Henriade." 
 
 t He had been accused in the St. James's Chronicle of imitating Percy's 
 ballad "The Friar of Orders Grey. Both, probably, were indebted to 
 the old ballad, "Gentle Herdsman." See "Legendary Ballads," Warne's 
 "Chandos Poets."
 
 40 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a 
 ballad I published some time ago from one* by the ingenious 
 Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between 
 the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken 
 from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago ; and he (as 
 we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his 
 usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken 
 my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare 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 disposition of some 
 of your correspondents, the public should never have known that 
 he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his 
 friendship and learning for communications of a much more im- 
 portant nature. 
 
 I am, Sir, yours, &c., 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 I76S. 
 
 (URN, 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 lengthening as I go." 
 
 " Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, 
 
 " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
 For yonder faithless phantom flies 
 
 To lure thee to thy doom. 
 
 No. 18. 
 
 The Friar of Orders Grey." " Reliq. of Anc. Poetry," voL i. boo* 2,
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 " Here to the houseless child of v/ant 
 
 My door is open still ; 
 And though my portion is but scant, 
 
 I give it with goodwill. 
 
 "Then turn to-night, and freely share 
 
 Whate'er my cell bestows ; 
 My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
 
 My blessing and repose. 
 
 " No flocks that range the valley free 
 
 To slaughter I condemn ; 
 Taught by that Power that pities me, 
 
 I learn to pity them : 
 
 " But from the mountain's grassy side 
 
 A guiltless feast I bring 
 A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 
 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 " Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; 
 
 All earth-born cares are wrong : 
 Man wants but little here below, 
 
 Nor wants that little long." 
 
 Soft as the dew from heaven descends. 
 
 His gentle accents fell : 
 The modest stranger lowly bends, 
 
 And follows to the cell. 
 
 Far in a wilderness obscure 
 
 The lonely mansion lay ; 
 A refuge to the neighb'ring poor 
 
 And strangers led astray. 
 
 No stores beneath its humble thatch. 
 
 Required a master's care ; 
 The wicket, opening with a latch, 
 
 Received the harmless pair.
 
 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And now, when busy crowds retire 
 
 To take their evening rest, 
 The Hermit trimmed his little fire, 
 
 And cheered his pensive guest. 
 
 And spread his vegetable store, 
 And gaily pressed, and smiled j 
 
 And, skilled in legendary lore, 
 The lingering hours beguiled. 
 
 Around in sympathetic mirth 
 
 Its tricks the kitten tries 
 The cricket chirrups in the hearth, 
 
 The crackling faggot flies. 
 
 But nothing could a charm impart 
 To soothe the stranger's woe 
 
 For grief was heavy at his heart, 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 His rising cares the Hermit spied 
 With answering care opprest ; 
 
 " And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 
 " The sorrows of thy breast ? 
 
 " From better habitations spurned;, 
 
 Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
 Or grieve for friendship unreturned ; 
 
 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 ?
 
 THE HERMIT. 43 
 
 ' 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 betrayed. 
 
 Surprised he sees new beauties rise, 
 
 Swift mantling to the view 
 Like colours o'er the morning skies, 
 
 As bright, as transient too. 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast, 
 
 Alternate spread alarms : 
 The lovely stranger stands confest 
 
 A maid in all her charms. 
 
 u And ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 
 A wretch forlorn," she cried 
 
 " Whose feet unhallowed 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 marked as mine 
 
 He had but only me. 
 
 " To win me from his tender arms, 
 
 Unnumbered suitors came ; 
 Who praised me for imputed charms, 
 
 And felt, or feigned a flame.
 
 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 " Each hour a mercenary crowd 
 With richest proffers strove ; 
 
 Amongst the rest young Edwin bowed, 
 But never talked 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 caroled lays of love, 
 His breath lent fragrance to the gale 
 
 And music to the grove. 
 
 " The blossom op'ning 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 touched my heart, 
 
 I triumphed in his pain ; 
 
 " Till quite dejected with my scorn, 
 
 He left me to my pride ; 
 And sought a solitude forlorn, 
 
 In secret, where he died. 
 
 u 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 j
 
 
 "'luin, Angelina, ever dear 
 
 My charmer, turn to see." p. 45
 
 THE HERMIT. 4$ 
 
 " 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, Heav'n !" the Hermit cried, 
 And clasped her to his breast : 
 
 The wond'ring fair one turned to chide 
 'Twas Edwin's self that pressed. 
 
 " Turn, Angelina, ever dear 
 
 My charmer, turn to see 
 Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 
 
 Restored to love and thee. 
 
 " Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 
 
 And every care resign ; 
 And shall we never, never part, 
 
 My life my all that's mine ! 
 
 " No, never from this hour to part. 
 
 We'll live and love so true ; 
 The sigh that rends thy constant heart, 
 
 Shall brealtthy Edwin's too." 
 
 THE HAUNCH O^ VENISON ;* 
 
 A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. 
 1765. 
 
 jlHANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter 
 Never 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 : 
 Imitated from Boileau,
 
 46 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 I had thoughts, in my chambers 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.* 
 
 To go on with my tale as I gazed on the haunch, 
 I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch 
 So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undressed, 
 To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. 
 Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose : 
 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's :t 
 But in parting with these I was puzzled again, 
 With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. 
 There's Howard, and Colley,J and Hogarth, and Hiff, 
 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 called himself entered ; 
 
 * Lord Clare's nephew. 
 
 t Dorothy Monroe, a beautiful woman ; celebrated by Lord Townsend's 
 lines. 
 
 * Colman. 
 
 AD Irish author now forgotten.
 
 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON'. 
 
 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 I 
 
 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 j 
 My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare. 
 And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner. 
 We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. 
 What say you a pasty ? it shall, and it must, 
 And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
 Here, porter this venison with me to Mile-end : 
 No stirring, I beg my dear friend my dear friend !" 
 Thus, snatching his hat, he brushed off like the wind, 
 And the porter and eatables followed behind. 
 
 Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 
 And " nobody with me at sea but myself ;"* 
 Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, 
 Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty, 
 Were things that I never disliked in my life, 
 Though clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. 
 So next day in due splendour to make my approach, 
 I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. 
 
 When come to the place where we all were to dine ; 
 (A chair-lumbered closet, just twelve feet by nine :) 
 
 * See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry, Duke of 
 Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor. 1769.
 
 48 GOLDSMITH 'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb, 
 With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; 
 " For I knew it," he cried, " both eternally fail, 
 The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale ;* 
 But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party 
 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 think he writes Cinna he owns to Panurge :" 
 While thus he described them by trade and by name, 
 They entered, 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 spinach, and pudding made hot ' } 
 In the middle a place where the pasty was not. 
 Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, 
 And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
 So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, 
 While the bacon and liver went merrily round : 
 
 But what vexed me most was that d d Scottish rogue, 
 
 With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue. 
 
 And " Madam/' quoth he, " may this bit be my poison, 
 
 A prettier dinner I never set eyes on : 
 
 Pray, a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, 
 
 But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." 
 
 " The tripe," quoth the Jew, " if the truth I may speak, 
 
 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." 
 
 The great brewer and friend of Dr. Johnson.
 
 THE HA UNCH OF VENISON. 49 
 
 " What the de'il, mon, a pasty !" re-echoed the Scot, 
 
 " Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." 
 
 " We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out ; 
 
 " We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about. 
 
 While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed, 
 
 With looks that quite petrified, entered the maid : 
 
 A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, 
 
 Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night 
 
 But we quickly found out for who could mistake her ? 
 
 That she came with some terrible news from the baker : 
 
 And so it fell 'out ; for that negligent sloven 
 
 Had shut out the pasty on shutting nis oven. 
 
 Sad Philomel thus but let similes drop 
 
 And now that I think on't, the story may stop 
 
 To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced 
 To send such good verses to one of your taste ; 
 You've got an odd something a kind of discerning, 
 A relish a taste sickened 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. 
 
 AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 
 
 FROM THE " VICAR OF WAKEFIELD." 
 
 OOD 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 orav.
 
 GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 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 some private ends, 
 
 Went mad, and bit the man. 
 Around from all the neighbouring streets 
 
 The wond'ring neighbours ran, 
 And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
 
 To bite so good a man. 
 The wound it seemed both sore and sad, 
 
 To every Christian eye ; 
 And while they swore the dog was mad, 
 
 They swore the man would die. 
 But soon a wonder came to light, 
 
 That showed the rogues they lied, 
 The man recovered of the bite, 
 
 The dog it was that died. 
 
 EPILOGUES AND PROLOGUES. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 TO THE COMEDY OF " THE SISTERS."* 
 
 ]HAT? 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 ; 
 
 * By Charlotte Lennox, a lady who was the intimate friend of Dr. Johnsor 
 and of Richardson, the author of "Pamela." She wrote the "Female Quixote,' 
 and several plays, &c. She was horn at New York, and died 1804. Johnson 
 -aid she was the cleverest woman ol IKT aj^. <-'< " !; \\vll"
 
 EPILOGUES AND PROLOGUES. 
 
 Warmed up each bustling scene, and in her rage 
 
 Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. 
 
 My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking ; 
 
 Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking. 
 
 Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, 
 
 What if I give a masquerade? I will. 
 
 But how ? ay, there's the rub ! [pausing} I've got my cue ; 
 
 The world's a masquerade ! the masquers, you, you, you. 
 
 [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. 
 Lud ! what a group the motley scene discloses ! 
 False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses ! 
 Statesmen with bridles on ; and close beside 'em, 
 Patriots in party-coloured suits that ride 'em. 
 There Hebes, turned of fifty, try once more 
 To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore. 
 These in their turn, with appetites as keen, 
 Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen. 
 Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, 
 Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman ; 
 The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, 
 And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure. 
 Thus 'tis with all ; their chief and constant care 
 Is to seem everything but what they are. 
 Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, 
 Who seems t' have robbed his vizor from the lion ; 
 Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade, 
 Looking as who should say, dam'me ! who's afraid ? 
 
 [Mimicking. 
 
 Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am 
 You'll find his lionship a very lamb. 
 Yon politician, famous in debate, 
 Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state ; 
 Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume, 
 He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom. 
 Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight, 
 And seems to every gazer, all in white, 
 
 42
 
 52 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 If with a bribe his candour you attack, 
 
 He bows, turns round, and whip the man's a black I 
 
 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 TO " SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER." 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY. 
 
 Enter MRS. BULKLEY who curtseys very low as beginning to speak, 
 
 Then enter Miss CATLEY, who stands full before her and curtseys 
 
 to the Audience. 
 
 Mrs. Bui. Hold, Ma'am, your pardon. What's your business 
 here? 
 
 Miss Cat. The Epilogue. 
 
 Mrs. Bui. The Epilogue ? 
 
 Miss Cat. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear. 
 
 Mrs. Bui. Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue, 7 bring it. 
 
 Miss Cat. Excuse me, Ma'am. The Author bid me sing it. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, 
 Suspend your conversation while I sing. 
 Mrs. Bui. 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 Cat. What if we leave it to the House ? 
 Mrs. Bui. The House ! Agreed. 
 Miss Cat. Agreed. 
 
 Mrs. Bui. And she whose party's largest shall proceed. 
 And first I hope you'll readily agree, 
 I've all the critics and the wits for me.
 
 EPILOGUE TO "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER." $3 
 
 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 Cat. 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 ravished 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. Bui. Let all the old pay homage to your merit ; 
 Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. 
 Ye travelled tribe, ye macaroni train, 
 Of French friseurs, and nosegays, justly vain, 
 Who take a trip to Paris once a year 
 To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here 
 Lend me your hands. O fatal news to tell, 
 Their hands are only lent to the Heinel.* 
 
 Miss Cat. 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 BONNY 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 ; 
 
 A popular dancer at the Opera House, 1773.
 
 54 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
 When you with your bagpipes are ready to play, 
 My voice shall be ready to carol away 
 
 With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, 
 With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey. 
 Mrs. Bui. 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.* 5 
 Doctors, who answer every misfortuner, 
 " I wish I'd been called in a little sooner." 
 Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, 
 Come end the contest here, and aid my party. 
 
 AIR. BALLINAMONY. 
 
 Miss Cat. Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, 
 Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack : 
 For sure I don't wrong you you seldom are slack, 
 When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back. 
 For you're always polite and attentive, 
 Still to amuse us inventive. 
 And death is your only preventive. 
 
 Your hands and your voices for me. 
 Mrs. Bui. Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring, 
 We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring ? 
 
 Miss Cat. And that our friendship may remain unbroken, 
 What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken ? 
 Mrs. Bui. Agreed. 
 Miss Cat. Agreed. 
 
 Mrs. Bui. 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. 
 
 AN EPILOGUE, 
 
 INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY. 
 
 (HERE is a place so Ariosto sings,* 
 A treasury for lost and missing things : 
 Lost human wits have places there assigned 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, rakes, macaronies,t cits, 
 
 Come thronging to collect their scattered wits. 
 
 The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, 
 
 Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. 
 
 Hither the affected city dame advancing, 
 
 Who sighs for operas, and dotes 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 " Dam'me, sir," and " Sir, I wear a sword :" 
 
 * See Ariosto, canto 34. 
 
 t A macaroni was a travelled fop of those days. 
 
 J The Mohawks were the riotous bullies who traversed the streets of London 
 at night, and thought injuring and insulting the passers-by good sport. See 
 s.ccount of them in the Tatler.
 
 56 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Here lessoned for a while, and hence retreating, 
 Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. 
 Hire come the sons of scandal and of news, 
 But find no sense for they had none to lose. 
 Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser, 
 Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser : 
 Has he not seen how you your favour place, 
 On sentimental Queens and Lords in lace ? 
 Without a star, a coronet or garter, 
 How can the piece expect or hope for quarter ? 
 No high-life scenes, no sentiment ; the creature 
 Still stoops among the low to copy nature. 
 Yes, he's far gone : and yet some pity fix, 
 The English laws forbid to punish lunatics. 
 
 PROLOGUE TO " ZOBEIDE," A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Written by Joseph Cradock ; acted at the Theatre Royal, Cwent Garden, 1772 
 
 ]N 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,t 
 
 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. 
 
 * Cook and Green. + Burke and Solandev
 
 PROLOGUE TO " ZOBEIDEJ' $? 
 
 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 turtles in 'em 
 
 [Balconies. 
 
 Here ill-conditioned oranges abound [Stage. 
 
 And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground : [Tasting them. 
 The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear : 
 I hear a hissing there are serpents here ! 
 O, there the natives are a dreadful race, 
 The men have tails, the women paint the face ; 
 No doubt they're all barbarians yes, 'tis so ; 
 I'll try to make palaver with them though ; 
 'Tis best, however, keeping at a distance. 
 Good savages, our Captain craves assistance ! 
 Our ship's well stored in yonder creek we've laid her, 
 His honour is no mercenary trader. 
 This is his first adventure ; lend him aid, 
 And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. 
 His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, 
 Equally fit for gallantry and war. 
 What ? no reply to promises so ample ? 
 I'd best step back and order up a sample. 
 
 EPILOGUE SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, 
 
 IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT. 
 
 ; ; OLD ! Prompter, hold ! a word before your nonsense : 
 I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. 
 My pride forbids it ever should be said, 
 My heels eclipsed the honours of my head ; 
 
 That I found humour in a piebald vest, 
 
 Or ever thought that jumping was a jest, [Takes off his mask.
 
 58 GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 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 filled the scene with all thy brood 
 
 Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued ! 
 
 Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses, 
 
 Whose only plot it is to break our noses : 
 
 Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise, 
 
 And from above the dangling deities ; 
 
 And shall I mix in this unhallowed crew ? 
 
 May rosined lightning blast me if I do ! 
 
 No I will act, I'll vindicate the stage : 
 
 Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. 
 
 Off ! off ! vile trappings ! a new passion reigns, 
 
 The maddening monarch revels in my veins. 
 
 Oh ! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme j [dream." 
 
 " Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds ! soft 'twas but a 
 
 Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating ; 
 
 If I cease Harlequin I cease from eating. 
 
 'Twas thus that ^Esop's stag, a creature blameless, 
 
 Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, 
 
 Once on the margin of a fountain stood, 
 
 And cavilled 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 horns are the fashion now." 
 
 Whilst thus he spoke, astonished, to his view, 
 
 Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew 3 
 
 Hoicks ! hark forward ! came thund'ring from behind; 
 
 He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind : 
 
 He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways : 
 
 He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze
 
 PROLOGUE TO " ZOBEIDE." 59 
 
 At length, his silly head, so prized before, 
 Is taught his forme* 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. 
 
 THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 
 
 IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT. 
 
 IOGICIANS have but ill denned 
 As rational the human mind ; 
 Reason, they say, belongs to man, 
 But let them prove it if they can. 
 
 Wise Aristotle and Smiglecius,* 
 
 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 brutorum. 
 
 Who ever knew an honest brute 
 
 At law his neighbour prosecute. 
 
 Bring action for assault and battery? 
 
 Or friend beguile with lies and flattery ? 
 
 O'er plains they ramble unconfined, 
 
 No politics disturb their mind ; 
 
 * A Polish Jesuit born 1562, died 1618, who wrote a. Treatise on Logic used 
 at the foreign universities.
 
 GOLDSM1TH''S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 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 jugglers, fiddlers, dancing-masters, 
 
 No pickpockets or poetasters, 
 
 Are known to honest quadrupeds ; 
 
 No single brute his fellows leads. 
 
 Brutes never meet in bloody fray, 
 
 Nor cut each other's throats for pay 
 
 Of beasts it is confessed, the ape 
 
 Comes nearest us in human shape. 
 
 Like man he imitates each fashion, 
 
 And malice is his ruling passion : 
 
 But both in malice and grimaces, 
 
 A courtier any ape surpasses. 
 
 Behold him humbly cringing wait 
 
 Upon the minister of state ; 
 
 View him soon after to inferiors 
 
 Aping the conduct of superiors : 
 
 He promises with equal air, 
 
 And to perform takes equal care. 
 
 He in his turn finds imitators, 
 
 At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, 
 
 Their master's manners still contract 
 
 And footmen, lords, and dukes can act. 
 
 Thus at the court, both great and small 
 
 Behave alike for all ape all. 
 
 * Sir Robert Walpole.
 
 AN ELEGY TO MRS. MARY BLAIZE. 6l 
 
 AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, 
 MRS. MARY BLAIZE. 
 
 OOD people all, with one accord, 
 
 Lament for Madam Blaize, 
 i 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 neighbourhood 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 : ' 
 STie never slumbered 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 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.
 
 6-2 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND 
 BY LIGHTNING. 
 
 IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 UMINE Aeon dextro capta est Leonida sinistro, 
 
 Et poterat forma vincere uterque Deos. 
 Parve puer, lumen quod habes concede puellse : 
 Sic tu csecus Amor sic erit, ilia Venus. 
 
 ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND 
 BY LIGHTNING. 
 
 URE 'twas by Providence designed, 
 
 Rather in pity than in hate, 
 That he should be, like Cupid, blind, 
 To save him from Narcissus'* fate. 
 
 A SONNET. 
 
 EEPING, murmuring, complaining, 
 
 Lost to ev'ry 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 follow'd my direction, 
 
 She long had wanted cause of fear. 
 
 * Narcissus fell in love with his own image in a brook, and died of self-love.
 
 63 
 
 SONG FROM THE " VICAR OF WAKEFIELD." 
 
 ON WOMAN. 
 
 | HEN lovely woman stoops to folly, 
 
 And finds too late that men betray, 
 
 What charm can soothe her melancholy. 
 
 What art can wash her guilt away ? 
 
 The only art her guilt to cover, 
 
 To hide her shame from every eye, 
 To give repentance to her lover, 
 
 And wring his bosom, is to die< 
 
 SONG.* 
 
 Intended to have been sung in the Comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer" but omitted, 
 because the actress who played Miss Hardcastle did not sing. 
 
 || H me ! when shall I marry me? 
 
 Lovers are plenty but fail to relieve me, 
 He, fond youth, that could carry me, 
 Offers to love, but means to deceive me. 
 
 But I will rally, and combat the ruiner ! 
 
 Not a look, not a smile shall my passion discover ; 
 She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, 
 
 Makes but a penitent and loses a lover. 
 
 RETALIATION. 
 
 PRINTED IN 1774, AFTER THE AUTHOR'S DEATH 
 
 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, dia- 
 lect, and person furnished subjects of witticism. He 
 was called on for RETALIATION, and at their next meeting pro- 
 duced the following poem. 
 
 * This song Goldsmith used to sing to a pretty Irish air, called "The 
 Humours of Ballamaguiry."
 
 64 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 OF old, when Scarron* his companions invited, 
 
 Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united : 
 
 If our landlordt supplies us with beef and with fish, 
 
 Let each guest bring himself and he brings the best dish : 
 
 Our DeanJ shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; 
 
 Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains ; 
 
 Our Will|| shall be wild fowl of excellent flavour, 
 
 And Dick^T with his pepper shall heighten the savour ; 
 
 Our Cumberland's** sweet-bread its place shall obtain, 
 
 And Douglastt is pudding, substantial and plain ; 
 
 Our Garrick'sJJ a salad for in him we see 
 
 Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree; 
 
 To make out the dinner, full certain I am, 
 
 That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds|||| is lamb; 
 
 That Hickey'siriT 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. 
 
 * Paul Scarron was a popular French author ; the husband of the celebrated 
 Madame de Maintenon. He was extremely poor, and the feasts described 
 by Goldsmith were his mode of entertaining his friends. Scarron was born 
 1610, died 1660. 
 
 f The landlord of the coffee-house. 
 
 J Dr. Barnard, Dean of Deny. 
 
 The Right Hon. Edmund Burke, the celebrated orator. 
 
 !l Mr. William Burke, a relation of Edmund Burke, and M.P. for Bedwin. 
 Secretary to General Conway. 
 
 II Mr. Richard Burke, youngest brother of Edmund Burke, and Recorder of 
 Bristol. 
 
 ** The dramatist 
 
 t+ Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor, and afterwards Bishop of Salisbury. 
 
 The celebrated actor. 
 
 John Ridge, a barrister in the Irish courts. 
 
 ||:| Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
 
 UH An Irish lawyer.
 
 RETALIATION. 6$ 
 
 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 them out ; 
 Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, 
 That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. 
 
 Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, 
 We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; 
 Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, 
 And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. 
 Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat, 
 To persuade Tommy Townshend* to lend him a vote ; 
 Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, 
 And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining. 
 Though equal to all things, for all things unfit : 
 Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; 
 For a patriot, too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient ; 
 And too fond of the right, to pursue the expedient. 
 In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed 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 honour, yet fearing to roam 
 The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home : 
 Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none ; 
 What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. 
 
 Here lies honest Richard,f 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 ! 
 
 * Thomas Townshend. afterwards Lord Sydney. 
 
 t Richard Burke. 
 
 % He had recently fractured his arm. e
 
 66 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the bah \ 
 
 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 Nick ; 
 
 But missing his mirth and agreeable vein, 
 
 As often we wished to have Dick back again. 
 
 Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, 
 The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; 
 A flattering painter, who made it his care 
 To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 
 His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, 
 And comedy wonders at being so fine ! 
 Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, 
 Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. 
 His fools have their follies fao lost in a crowd 
 Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; 
 And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, 
 Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
 Say, where has our poei this malady caught, 
 Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault ? 
 Say, was it that vainly directing his view 
 To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, 
 Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 
 He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? 
 
 Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, 
 The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : 
 Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, 
 Come and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines. 
 When satire and censure encircled his throne, 
 I feared for your safety, I feared for my own ; 
 But now he is gone, and we want a detector, 
 Our Dodds* shall be pious, our Kenrickst shall lecture 
 
 * The Rev. Dr. Dodd, a popular preacher, who was hung for forgery. 
 
 t Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern under the title of 
 " The School of Shakespeare." He was a man of no principle ; he had severely 
 libelled Goldsmith.
 
 RETALIATION. 
 
 Macpherson* write bombast, and call it a style, 
 
 Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile : 
 
 New Lauderst 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 me who can, 
 An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man j 
 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 colours 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 : 
 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 gluttcn, he swallowed what came, 
 And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame j 
 Till his relish grown callous almost to disease, 
 Who peppered the highest, was surest to please. 
 
 * James Macpherson, Esq., about whom disputes were then raging as to the 
 authenticity of his edition of Ossian's Poems. 
 
 t Will Lauder, a Scotch schoolmaster, attempted fraudulently, by translat- 
 ing portions of Milton's "Paradise Lost" into Latin and interpolating them 
 with the "Adamus Exul" of Grotius, &c., &c., to make it appear full of 
 plagiarisms. Dr. Douglas detected and exposed this imposition, and Dr. 
 Johnson, who had been deceived by it, made Lauder confess and apologise. 
 
 Bower was a Scotch Jesuit, who wrote and published a pamphlet called 
 "Motives of Conversion from Popery to Protestantism." Dr. Douglas ex- 
 mined this pamphlet and convicted Bo 
 is statement. 
 
 Dr. Douglas being supposed dead. 
 
 amined this pamphlet and convicted Bower of gross falsehood and imposture in 
 his statement. 
 
 52
 
 8 GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, 
 
 If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
 
 Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,* ye Woodfallst so grave, 
 
 What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ! 
 
 How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised, 
 
 While he was be-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 skill, 
 
 Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will, 
 
 Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, 
 
 And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 
 
 Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature, 
 And slander itself must allow him good -nature; 
 He cherished his friend, and he relished a bumper, 
 Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. 
 Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? 
 I answer no, no for he always was wiser. 
 Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? 
 His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. 
 Perhaps he confided in men as they go, 
 And so was too foolishly honest ? ah, no ! 
 Then what was his failing? come tell it. and burn ye, 
 He was could he help it ? a special attorney. 
 
 Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, 
 He has not left a wiser or better behind ; 
 His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; 
 His manners were gentle, complying, and bland : 
 Still born to improve us in every part 
 His pencil our faces, his manners our heart ; 
 To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 
 When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing; 
 
 Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of "False Delicacy," "Word to the Wise,' 
 ' Clementina," " School for Wives," &c., &c. 
 t Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 65 
 
 When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, 
 He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 AFTER the fourth edition of this Poem was printed, the publish ei 
 received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoordt from a friend 
 of the late Dr. Goldsmith. 
 
 HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, 
 Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man : 
 Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun ! 
 Who relished a joke, and rejoiced in a pun j 
 Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; 
 A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear ; 
 Who scattered around wit and humour at will; 
 Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill ; 
 A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; 
 A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. 
 
 What pity, alas ! that so lib'ral a mind 
 Should so long be to newspaper essays confined ! 
 Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, 
 Yet content " if the table 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 ! 
 Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes ; 
 Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, 
 Still follow your master, and visit his tomb ; 
 To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, 
 And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; 
 
 * Sir Joshua Reynolds was so deaf, that he was obliged to use an ear- 
 trumpet in company. 
 
 t Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. He was so no- 
 torious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to be with 
 him without being infected with the itch of punning. 
 
 J Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.
 
 70 GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Then strew all around it (you can do no less) 
 Cross-readings y ship-news, and mistakes of the press* 
 
 Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for thy sake I admit 
 That a Scot may have humour, I'd almost said wit 
 This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, 
 " Thou best-humoured man with the worst-humoured Muse. 
 
 BURLESQUE ELEGY ON A RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 PERSON. 
 
 FROM THE "CITIZEN OF THE WORLD." 
 
 AM amazed that none have yet found out the secret 
 of flattering the worthless, and y^t of preserving a safe 
 conscience. I have often wished for some method 
 by which a man might do himself and his deceased 
 patron justice, without being under the hateful reproach of self- 
 conviction. After long lucubration I have hit upon such an 
 expedient, and send you a specimen of a poem upon the 
 decease of a great man, in which the flattery is perfectly fine, and 
 yet the poet perfectly innocent." 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE . 
 
 jE muses, pour the pitying tear 
 For Pollio snatched away : 
 Oh, had he lived another year 
 
 He had not died to-day. 
 Oh, were he born to bless mankind 
 
 In virtuous times of yore, 
 Heroes themselves had fall'n behind 
 Whene'er he went before. 
 
 * Mr. Whitefoord sent humorous pieces poder those titles to the Public 
 Advertiser.
 
 BURLESQUE EtEGY. 71 
 
 How sad the groves and plains appear, 
 
 And sympathetic sheep : 
 Ev'n pitying hills would drop a tear 
 
 If hills could learn to weep. 
 
 His bounty in exalted strain 
 Each bard may well display : 
 
 Since none implored relief in vain- - 
 That went relieved away. 
 
 And hark ! I hear the tuneful throng 
 
 His obsequies forbid : 
 He still shall live, shall live as long 
 
 As ever dead man did. 
 
 ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO DINNER. 
 
 THIS IS A POEM ! THIS IS A COPY OF VERSES 
 
 )UR 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 Kauffman* beside, 
 
 And the Jessamy bride,t 
 
 With the rest of the crew 
 
 The Reynoldses two, 
 
 Angelica Kauffman. t Miss Mary Horneck.
 
 72 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Little Comedy's* face, 
 And the Captaint in lace. 
 (By-the-by, you may tell him 
 I have something to sell him ; 
 Of use, I insist, 
 When he comes to enlist. 
 Your worships must know 
 That a few days ago, 
 An order went out, 
 For the foot-guards so stout 
 To wear tails in high taste 
 Twelve inches at least : 
 Now I've got him a scale 
 To measure each tail ; 
 To lengthen a short tail, 
 And a long one to curtail.) 
 Yet how can I, when 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 Reynolds'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 1 \ 
 
 * Miss Catherine Horneck, afterwards Mrs. Bunbury. 
 
 + Ensign Horneck. 
 
 J Angelica Kauffman was born at Chur, in Switzerland, 1742. She was a cele- 
 brated female artist, and was one of the original thirty-six members of the Royal 
 Academy. A large allegorical painting of hers, called " Religion attended 
 by the Graces," is exhibited now in the South Kensington Museum Galleries. 
 Angelica married Antonio Zucchi, and died at Rome, 1807. 
 
 The allusion is to a high compliment paid to the two artists in the ./aW.
 
 ANSWER TO AN INVITATION. 73 
 
 ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO PASS THE 
 CHRISTMAS AT BARTON.* 
 
 JIRST let me suppose, what may shortly be true, 
 The company set, and the word to be loo ; 
 All smirking, and pleasant, and big with adventure, 
 And ogling the stake which is fixed in the centre. 
 Round and round go the cards, while I inwardly damn 
 At never once finding a visit from Pam. 
 I lay down my stake, apparently cool, 
 While the harpies about me all pocket the pool ; 
 I fret in my gizzard yet cautious and sly, 
 I wish all my friends may be bolder than I : 
 Yet still they sit snug ; not a creature will aim, 
 By losing their money, to venture at fame. 
 'Tis in vain that at niggardly caution I scold, 
 Tis in vain that I flatter the brave and the bold ; 
 All play their own way, and they think me an ass : 
 " What does Mrs. Bunbury ?" " I, sir ? I pass." 
 " Pray what does Miss Horneck ? Take courage, come, do !" 
 " Who I ? Let me see, sir ; why, I must pass, too." 
 Mr. Bunbury frets, and I fret like the Devil, 
 To see them so cowardly, lucky, and civil ; 
 Yet still I sit snug, and continue to sigh on, 
 Till, made by my losses as bold as a lion, 
 I venture at all, while my avarice regards 
 The whole pool as my own. " Come, give me five cards." 
 " Well done !" cry the ladies ; " ah ! Doctor, that's good 
 The pool's very rich. Ah ! the Doctor is loo'd." 
 Thus foil'd in my courage, on all sides perplext, 
 I ask for advice from the lady that's next. 
 " Pray, ma'am, be so good as to give your advice ; 
 Don't you think the best way is to venture for't twice ?" 
 
 To Mrs. Bunbury.
 
 74 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 "I advise," cries the lady, "to try it, I own 
 
 AhJ the Doctor is loo'd : come, Doctor, put down." 
 
 Thus playing and playing, I still grow more eager, 
 
 And so bold, and so bold, I'm at last a bold beggar. 
 
 Now, ladies, I ask if law matters you're skill'd in, 
 
 Whether crimes such as yours should not come before Fielding? 
 
 For, giving advice that is not worth a straw, 
 
 May well be called picking of pockets in law ; 
 
 And picking of pockets, with which I now charge ye, 
 
 Is, by Quinto Elizabeth death without clergy. 
 
 What justice ! when both to the Old Bailey brought ; 
 
 By the gods ! I'll enjoy it, though 'tis but in thought. 
 
 Both are placed at the bar with all proper decorum, 
 
 With bunches of fennel and nosegays before 'em ; 
 
 Both cover their faces with mobs and all that, 
 
 But the Judge bids them, airily, take off their hat 
 
 When uncovered, a buzz of inquiry runs round : 
 
 " Pray, what are their crimes ?'' " They've been pilfering found." 
 
 " But, pray, whom have they pilfered ?" " A Doctor, I hear." 
 
 " What, that solemn-faced, odd looking man that stands near?" 
 
 " The same." " What a pity ! How does it surprise one : 
 
 Two handsomer culprits I never set eyes on !" 
 
 Then their friends all come round me, with cringing and leering, 
 
 To melt me to pity, and soften my swearing. 
 
 First, Sir Charles advances, with phrases well strung : 
 
 " Consider, dear Doctor, the girls are but young." 
 
 " The younger the worse," I return him again ; 
 
 " It shows that their habits are all dyed in grain." 
 
 " But, then, they're so handsome ; one's bosom it grieves." 
 
 " What signifies handsome when people are thieves ?" 
 
 " But where is your justice ? their cases are hard." 
 
 " What signifies justice ? I want the reward. 
 
 There's the parish of Edmonton offers forty pounds ; 
 
 There's the parish of St. Leonard, Shoreditch, offers forty pounds; 
 
 There's the parish of Tyburn offers forty pounds : 
 
 i shall have all that, if I convict them."
 
 ANSWER TO AN INVITATION. 75 
 
 " But consider their case, it may yet be your own ; 
 And see how they kneel : is your heart made of stone ?" 
 This moves ; so, at last, I agree to relent, 
 For ten pounds in hand, and ten pounds to be spent. 
 
 I challenge you all to answer this. I tell you, you eannot ; 
 it cuts deep. But now for the rest of the letter ; and next 
 but I want room so I believe I shall battle the rest out at 
 Barton some day next week. I don't value you all ! 
 
 O. G. 
 
 ON SEEING A LADY PERFORM IN A CERTAIN 
 CHARACTER. 
 
 jjOR you, bright fair, the Nine address their lays, 
 And tune my feeble vcice to sing thy praise ; 
 The heartfelt power of every charm divine, 
 Who can withstand their all-commanding shine ? 
 See how she moves along with every grace, 
 While soul-bought tears steal down each shining face. 
 She speaks ! 'tis rapture all and nameless bliss ; 
 Ye Gods ! what transport else compared to this ? 
 As when, in Paphian groves, the Queen of Love 
 With fond complaint addressed the listening Jove 
 'Tvvas joy and endless blisses all around. 
 And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound. 
 Then first, at last, even Jove was taken in 
 And felt her charms, without disguise, within. 
 
 LINES ATTRIBUTED TO GOLDSMITH. 
 
 These lines appeared in the Morning Advertiser of April ^rd, 1800. 
 
 |'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 meets the blaze of day
 
 76 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 So soft, so delicate, so sweet, she came, 
 Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek : 
 
 I gazed, I sighed, I caught the tender flame, 
 Felt the fond pang, and drooped with passion weak. 
 
 BIRDS. 
 
 From the Latin Lines of Addison (" Spectator" 412), -who remarks : "fn birds 
 wt often see the male determined in his courtship by the single grain or tincturt 
 oj a feather, and never discovering any charms but in the colour of its species" 
 
 | HASTE are their instincts, faithful is their fire, 
 No foreign beauty tempts lo false desire ; 
 The snow-white vesture, and the glittering crown, 
 The simple plumage, or the glossy down, 
 
 Prompt not their love : the patriot bird pursues 
 
 His well-acquainted tints, and kindred hues. 
 
 Hence, through their tribes no mixed polluted flame, 
 
 No monster breed to mark the groves with shame j 
 
 But the chaste blackbird to its partner true 
 
 Thinks black alone is beauty's favourite hue. 
 
 The nightingale, with mutual passion blest, 
 
 Sings to its mate, and nightly charms the nest j 
 
 While the dark owl to court his partner flies, 
 
 And owns his offspring in their yellow eyes. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF A SOUTH AMERICAN ODE. 
 
 N all my Enna's beauties blest, 
 
 Amidst profusion still I pine ; 
 For though she gives me up her breast, 
 Its panting tenant is not mine.
 
 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 77 
 
 FROM SCARRON. 
 
 HUS when soft love subdues the heart 
 With smiling hopes and chilling fears, 
 
 The soul repels the aid of art, 
 And speaks in moments more than years. 
 
 FROM THE LATIN OF VIDA. 
 
 |AY, heavenly Muse, their youthful frays rehearse, 
 Begin, ye daughters of immortal verse ; 
 Exulting rocks have owned the power of song, 
 And rivers listened as they flowed along. 
 
 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS.* 
 
 SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE 
 PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES. 
 
 SPOKEN AND SUNG IN THE GREAT ROOM IN SOHO SQUARE, 
 
 Thursday, the ^Qth of February, 1772. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 iiHE following may more properly be termed a compilation 
 ' than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in 
 little more than two days: and may therefore rather 
 be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than 
 of genius. 
 
 * This poem was first printed in Chalmers' edition of the "English Poets," 
 from a copy gi^en by Goldsmith to his friend, Joseph Cradock, Esq., author o, 
 "Zobeide," a tragedy.
 
 78 GOLDS MITfTS MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 In justice to the composer, it may likewise be right to inform 
 the public, that the music was adapted in a period of time equally 
 short 
 
 SPEAKERS Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy. 
 SINGERS Mr. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson. 
 
 THE MUSIC PREPARED AND ADAPTED BY SIGNOR VENTO. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 OVERTURE A SOLEMN DIRGE. 
 AIR TRIO. 
 
 RISE, ye sons of worth, arise, 
 
 And waken every note of woe ! 
 When truth and virtue reach the skies, 
 "Tis ours to weep the want below. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 When truth and virtue, &c. 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 
 The praise attending pomp and power, 
 
 The incense given to kings, 
 Are but the trappings of an hour, 
 
 Mere transitory things. 
 The base bestow them ; but the good agree 
 To spurn the venal gifts as flattery. 
 But when to pomp and power are joined 
 An equal dignity of mind ; 
 When titles are the smallest claim ; 
 When wealth, and rank, and noble blood, 
 But aid the power of doing good : 
 
 Then all their trophies last and flattery turns to fame. 
 
 Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom, 
 Shall spread and flourish from the tomb, 
 How hast thou left mankind for Heaven !
 
 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 79 
 
 Even now reproach and faction mourn, 
 And, wondering how their rage was born, 
 
 Request to be forgiven ! 
 Alas ! they never had thy hate ; 
 
 Unmoved, in conscious rectitude, 
 
 Thy towering mind self-centred stood, 
 Nor wanted man's opinion to be great. 
 
 In vain, to charm the ravished sight, 
 A thousand gifts would fortune send ; 
 
 In vain, to drive thee from the right, 
 A thousand sorrows urged thy end ; 
 Like some well-fashioned arch thy patience stood, 
 And purchased strength from its increasing load. 
 Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free, 
 Affliction still is virtue's opportunity ! 
 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 AFFETUOSCX 
 
 Virtue, on herself relying, &c. 
 
 to 
 Only rocks her to repose. 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER. 
 
 Yet ah ! what terrors frowned upon her fate, 
 
 Death, with its formidable band, 
 Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care, 
 
 Determined took their stand. 
 Nor did the cruel ravagers design 
 
 To finish all their efforts at a blow : 
 
 But, mischievously slow, 
 They robbed the relic and defaced the shrme.
 
 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 With unavailing grief, 
 
 Despairing of relief, 
 Her weeping children round 
 
 Beheld each hour 
 
 Death's growing power, 
 And trembled as he frowned. 
 As helpless friends who view from shore 
 The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar, 
 
 While winds and waves their wishes cross, 
 They stood, while hope and comfort fail, 
 Not to assist, but to bewail 
 
 The inevitable loss. 
 Relentless tyrant, at thy call 
 How do the good, the virtuous fall ! 
 Truth, 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, 
 Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings, 
 If virtue fail her counsel sage, 
 Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage ! 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 
 Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example, 
 
 Teach us to estimate what all must suffer : 
 
 Let us prize death as the best gift of nature, 
 
 As a safe inn where weary travellers, 
 
 When they have journeyed through a world of cares, 
 
 May put off life, and be at rest for ever. 
 
 Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables, 
 
 May oft distract us with their sad solemnity :
 
 THRENOD1A AUGUSTAL1S. g, 
 
 The preparation is the executioner. 
 
 Death, when unmasked, shows me a friendly face, 
 
 And is a terror only at a distance : 
 
 For as the line of life conducts me on 
 
 To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair, 
 
 'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open 
 
 To take us in when we have drained the cup 
 
 Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness. 
 
 In that secure, serene retreat, 
 
 Where all the humble, all the great, 
 
 Promiscuously recline : 
 Where, wildly huddled to the eye, 
 The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie : 
 
 May every bliss be thine ! 
 And, ah ! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight, 
 Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light, 
 May cherubs welcome their expected guest ! 
 May saints with songs receive thee to their rest ! 
 May peace, that claimed, 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 favourites of the sky J 
 Lovely, lasting Peace, appear ! 
 This world itself, if thou art here, 
 Is once again with Eden blest, 
 And man contains it in his breast. 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER. 
 
 Our vows are heard ! Long, long to mortal eyes, 
 Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies : 
 Celestial-like her bounty fell, 
 Where modest Want and patient Sorrow dwell, 
 
 6
 
 82 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 OVERTURE PASTORALE. 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 
 FAST by that shore where Thames' translucent stream 
 
 Reflects new glories on his breast, 
 Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream, 
 
 He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest ; 
 
 Where sculptured elegance and native grace 
 
 Unite to stamp the beauties of the place ; 
 
 While, sweetly blending, still are seen 
 
 The wavy lawn, the sloping green ; 
 While novelty, with cautious cunning, 
 Through every maze of fancy running, 
 
 From China borrows aid to deck the scene :
 
 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 83 
 
 There, sorrowing by the river's glassy bed, 
 
 Forlorn, a rural band 'complained, 
 All whom Augusta's bounty fed, 
 
 All whom her clemency sustained ; 
 The good old sire, unconscious of decay, 
 The modest matron, clad in home-spun grey, 
 The military boy, the orphaned maid, 
 The shattered veteran now first dismayed 
 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 formed your beauties is no more. 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 
 First of the train the patient rustic came, 
 
 Whose callous hand had formed the scene, 
 Bending at once with sorrow and with age, 
 
 With many a tear, and many a sigh between : 
 " And where," he cried, " shall now my babes have bread, 
 
 Or how shall age support its feeble fire ? 
 No lord will take me now, my vigour fled, 
 
 Nor can my strength perform what they require : 
 Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare, 
 A sleek and idle race is all their care. 
 My noble mistress thought not so : 
 
 Her bounty, like the morning dew, 
 Unseen, though constant, used to flow, 
 
 And as my strength decayed, her bounty grew." 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER. 
 
 In decent dress, and coarsely clean, 
 The pious matron next was seen, 
 
 6 a
 
 GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Clasped in her hand a godly book was borne, 
 By use and daily meditation worn ; 
 The decent dress, this holy guide, 
 Augusta's care had well supplied. 
 " And, ah !" she cries, all wobegone, 
 
 " 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 succour, should I need. 
 But all my wants, before I spoke, 
 
 Were to my mistress known ; 
 She still relieved, nor sought my praise, 
 
 Contented with her own; 
 But every day her name I'll bless, 
 
 My morning prayer, my evening song, 
 I'll praise her while my life shall last, 
 
 A life that cannot last me long." 
 
 SONG. BY A WOMAN. 
 
 Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless, 
 My morning and my evening song, 
 
 And when in death my vows shall cease, 
 My children shall the note prolong. 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 
 The hardy veteran after struck the sight, 
 Scarred, mangled, maimed in every part, 
 Lopped of his limbs in many a gallant fight, 
 In nought entire except his heart : 
 Mute for a while, and sullenly distressed, 
 At last the impetuous sorrow fired his breast. 
 " Wild is the whirlwind rolling 
 
 O'er Afric's sandy plain, 
 And wild the tempest howling 
 
 Along the billowed main :
 
 THRENODIA AUGUST ALIS. 85 
 
 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 laurelled field 
 
 To do thy memory right : 
 For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel, 
 Again they snatch the gleamy steel, 
 
 And wish the avenging fight. 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER. 
 
 In innocence and youth complaining, 
 
 Next appeared 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 harmonised the whole. 
 " The garland of beauty," 'tis thus she would say, 
 
 " No more shall my crook or my temples adorn ; 
 I'll not wear a garland Augusta's away 
 
 I'll not wear a garland until she return. 
 But, alas ! that return I never shall see : 
 
 The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim, 
 There promised a lover to come but, ah me ! 
 
 'Twas death 'twas the death of my mistress that came. 
 But .ever, for ever, her image shall last, 
 
 I'll strip all the Spring of its earliest bloom ; 
 On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, 
 
 And the new- blossomed thorn shall whiten her tomb."
 
 86 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 SONG. BY A WOMAN PASTORALE. 
 
 With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May 
 
 No more will her crook or her temples adorn ; 
 For who'd wear a garland when she is away, 
 
 When she is removed, and shall never return ? 
 On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed, 
 
 We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom, 
 And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, 
 
 And the new blossomed 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. 
 
 AN ORATORIO. 
 
 1720. 
 
 THE PERSONS. 
 
 First Jewish Prophet. 
 Second Jewish Prophet. 
 Israelitish Woman. 
 
 First Chaldean Priest. 
 Second Chaldean Priest. 
 Chaldean Woman. 
 
 Chorus of Yotiths and Virgins. 
 SCENE The Banks of the River Euphrates, near Babylon. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 E captive tribes, that hourly work and weep 
 
 Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep 
 Suspend your woes awhile, the task suspend, 
 And turn to God, your father and your friend. 
 Insulted, chained and all the world our foe, 
 Our God alone is all we boast below.
 
 AN ORATORIO. g 7 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 AIR. 
 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 drest, 
 
 Nor sacrifice are here 
 We'll make His temple in our breast, 
 And offer up a tear. 
 
 \Thefirst Stanza repeated by the CHORUS 
 
 ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 That strain once more ! it bids remembrance rise, 
 And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes. 
 Ye fields of Sharon, drest in flowery pride, 
 Ye plains where Jordan rolls its glassy tide. 
 Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crowned, 
 Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around, 
 Those hills how sweet, 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. 
 
 Thou, like the world, the oppressed oppressing, 
 Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe ; 
 
 And he who wants each other blessing 
 In thee must ever find a foe. 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 Yet why repine ? What though by bonds confined ? 
 Should bonds enslave the vigour of the mind ?
 
 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 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 crushed or trodden to the ground, 
 Diffuse their balmy sweets around. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near 
 T'.ie 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. 
 
 Enter CHALDEAN PRIESTS, attended. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 AIR. 
 Come on, my companions, the triumph display, 
 
 Let rapture the minutes employ, 
 The sun calls us out on this festival day, 
 And our monarch partakes in the joy.
 
 AN OR A TO RIO. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture supplies, 
 
 Both similar blessings bestow ; 
 The sun with his splendour illumines the skies, 
 
 And our monarch enlivens below. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 CHALDEAN WOMAN. 
 Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure ; 
 Love presents the fairest treasure ; 
 Leave all other joys for me. 
 
 A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT. 
 Or rather, Love's delights despising, 
 Haste to raptures ever rising ; 
 
 Wine shall bless the brave and free. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 Wine and beauty thus inviting, 
 Each to different joys exciting, 
 Whither shall my choice incline ? 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 I'll waste no longer thought in choosing, 
 But, neither Love nor Wine refusing, 
 I'll make them both together mine. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the land, 
 This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band ? 
 Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung ? 
 Or why those harps on yonder willows hung? 
 Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along, 
 The day demands it ; sing us Sion's song. 
 Dismiss your griefs, and join our tuneful choir, 
 For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre ?
 
 90 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 Chained as we are, the scorn of all mankind, 
 To want, to toil, and ev'ry ill consigned, 
 Is this a time to bid us raise the strain, 
 Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain ? 
 No, never ! May this hand forget each art 
 That wakes to finest joys the human heart, 
 Ere I forget the land that gave me birth, 
 Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth ! 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 Rebellious slaves ! if soft persuasion fail, 
 More formidable terrors chall prevail. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 Why, let them come ; one good remains to cheer 
 We fear the Lord, and know no other fear. 
 
 \Exeunt CHALDEANS 
 CHORUS OF ISRAELITES. 
 Can chains or tortures bend the mind 
 On God's supporting breast reclined ? 
 Stand fast and let our tyrants see 
 That fortitude is victory. \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 ISRAELITES and CHALDEANS, as befote. 
 
 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 receeding from our eyes, 
 
 Shall vanish as we soar. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 No more ! Too long has justice been delayed, 
 The king's command must fully be obeyed ;
 
 AN ORATORIO. 91 
 
 Compliance with his will your peace secures, 
 Praise but our gods, and every good is yours. 
 But if, rebellious to his high command, 
 You spurn the favours offered at his hand 
 Think, timely think, what ills remain behind ; 
 Reflect, nor tempt to rage the royal mind, 
 
 AIR. 
 
 Fierce is the tempest howling 
 
 Along the furrowed main, 
 And fierce the whirwind 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 monarch's raging. 
 
 ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 Ah me ! What angry terrors round us grow ! 
 
 How shrinks my soul to meet the threatened blow I 
 
 Ye prophets, skilled in Heaven's eternal truth, 
 
 Forgive my sex's fears, forgive my youth. 
 
 If shrinking thus, when frowning pow'r appears, 
 
 I wish for life and yield me to my fears ; 
 
 Ah ! let us one, one little hour obey : 
 
 To-morrow's tears may wash the stain away. 
 
 AIR. 
 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.
 
 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 Why this delay? At length for joy prepare, 
 I read your looks, and see compliance there. 
 Come on, and bid the warbling rapture rise, 
 Our monarch's fame the noblest theme supplies ; 
 Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre, 
 The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire, 
 
 CHALDEAN WOMAN. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 See the ruddy morning smiling, 
 Hear the grove to bliss beguiling ; 
 Zephyrs through the woodland playing, 
 Streams along the valley straying. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 While these a constant revel keep, 
 Shall reason only teach to weep ? 
 Hence, intruder ! we'll pursue 
 Nature a better guide than you. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 Every moment as it flows 
 Some peculiar pleasure owes. 
 Come then, providently wise, 
 Seize the debtor ere it flies. 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 Think not to-morrow can repay 
 The debt of pleasure lost to-day j 
 Alas ! to-morrow's richest store 
 Can but pay its proper score. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 But hush ! see foremost of the captive choir, 
 The master prophet grasps his full-toned lyre. 
 Mark where he sits with executing art, 
 Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart j
 
 ORATORIO. 93 
 
 See how prophetic rapture fills his form, 
 Awful as clouds that nurse the growing storm. 
 And now his voice, accordant to the string, 
 Prepares our monarch's victories to sing. 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 From north, from south, from east, from 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 has served the just J 
 'Tis fixed It shall be done. 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 No more ! when slaves thus insolent presume, 
 The king himself shall judge, and fix their doom. 
 Unthinking wretches ! have not you and all 
 Beheld our power in Zedekiah's fall ? 
 To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes 
 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 thy people's cause 
 Till. every tongue in every land 
 
 Shall offer up unfeigned applause. {Exeunt.
 
 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE, as before. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 Yes, my companions, Heaven's decrees are passed, 
 And our fixed empire shall for ever last : 
 In vain the madd'ning prophet threatens woe 
 In vain rebellion aims her secret blow ; 
 Still shall our name and growing power be spread, 
 And still our justice crush the traitor's head. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 Coeval with man 
 Our empire begin, 
 And never shall fall 
 Till ruin shakes all 
 With the ruin of all, 
 Then shall Babylon fall. 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 Tis thus that pride triumphant rears the head 
 A little while and all her 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.
 
 OK A TOR TO. 95 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 Ye vain, whom youth and pleasure guide, 
 
 Awhile the bliss suspend ; 
 Like yours, his life began in pride 
 Like his, your lives shall end. 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 Behold his wretched corse with sorrow worn, 
 His squalid limbs by ponderous fetters torn : 
 Those eyeless orbs that shock with ghastly glare, 
 Those ill-becoming rags, that matted hair ! 
 And shall not Heaven for this avenge the foe, 
 Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low ? 
 How long, how long, Almighty Lord of all, 
 Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall 1 
 
 ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 
 AIR. 
 
 As panting flies the hunted hind, 
 Where brooks refreshing stray ; 
 And rivers through the valley wind, 
 
 That stop the hunter's way. 
 Thus we, O Lord, alike distrest, 
 
 For streams of mercy long : 
 Streams which cheer the sore opprest . 
 And overwhelm the strong. 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 But whence that shout ? Good heavens ! Amazement all ! 
 See yonder tower just nodding to the fall : 
 Behold, an army covers all the ground, 
 'Tis Cyrus here that pours destruction round. 
 The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along ; 
 How low the great, how feeble are the strong I 
 And now behold the battlements recline 
 O God of hosts, the victorv is Thine !
 
 96 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 CHORUS OF CAPTIVES. 
 Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust : 
 
 Thy vengeance be begun ; 
 Serve her as she hath served the just, 
 And let Thy will be done. 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 All, all is lost The Syrian army fails, 
 Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails ! 
 Save us, O Lord ! to Thee, though late, we pray ; 
 And give repentance but an hour's delay. 
 FIRST AND SECOND PRIESTS. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 Thrice happy, who in happy hour, 
 To Heaven their praise bestow, 
 And own His all-consuming power, 
 Before they feel the blow ! 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 Now, now's our time ! ye wretches bold and blind, 
 Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind, 
 Ye seek in vain the Lord unsought before, 
 Your wealth, 'your lives, your kingdom, are no more I 
 
 AIR. 
 
 O Lucifer, thou son of morn, 
 Of heaven alike and man the foe 
 
 Heaven, men, and all, 
 
 Now press thy fall, 
 And sink thee lowest of the low. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 O Babylon, how art thou fallen ! 
 Thy fall more dreadful from delay ! 
 
 Thy streets forlorn 
 
 To wilds shall turn, 
 Where toads shall pant, and vultures prey.
 
 AN ORATORIO. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 Such be her fate ! But hark ! how from afar 
 The clarion's note proclaims the finished war ! 
 Cyrus, our great restorer, is at hand, 
 And this way leads his formidable band. 
 Now, 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 raptures past expressing, 
 
 Sweeter from remembered 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, 
 
 Skilled in every peaceful art ; 
 Who from bonds our limbs unchaining, 
 
 Only binds the willing heart. 
 
 THE LAST CHORUS. 
 But chief to thee, our God, our Father, Friend, 
 
 Let praise be given to all eternity ; 
 O Thou, without beginning, without end, 
 
 Let us and all begin, and end in Thee !
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PLA KS, 
 
 PLAYS, 
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 A COMEDY.* 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 HEN I undertook to write a comedy, I confess I was 
 strongly prepossessed in favour of the poets of the last 
 age, and strove to imitate them. The term genteel 
 comedy was then unknown amongst us, and little more 
 was desired by an audience than nature and humour, in whatever 
 walks of life they were most conspicuous. The author of the 
 following scenes never imagined that more would be expected of 
 him, and therefore to delineate character has been his principal 
 aim. Those who know anything of composition, are sensible, 
 that in pursuing humour, it will sometimes lead us into the re- 
 cesses of the mean j I was even tempted to look for it in the 
 master of a spunging-house ; but in deference to the public taste, 
 grown of late, perhaps, too delicate, the scene of the bailiffs was 
 retrenched in the representation. In deference also to the judg- 
 ment of a few friends, who think in a particular way, the scene is 
 here restored. The author submits it to the reader in his closet ; 
 and hopes that too much refinement will not banish humour and 
 character from ours, as it has already done from the French 
 theatre. Indeed, the French comedy is now become so very 
 elevated and sentimental, that it has not only banished humour 
 and Moliere from the stage, bnt it has banished all spectators too. 
 Upon the whole, the author returns his thanks to the public for 
 the favourable reception which the " Good-Natured Man" has met 
 
 * This Comedy was represented for the first time t Covent Garden, Jan. 
 29, 1768. Dr. Johnson spoke highly of it, and so did Burke.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 with ; and to Mr. Colman in particular, for his kindness to it. It 
 may not be improper to assure any who shall hereafter write for 
 the theatre, that merit, or supposed merit, will ever be a sufficient 
 passport to his protection. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 The cast of the play as it wasfirsi acted, 1768. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Mr. Honeywood - MR. POWELL. 
 Croaker- - - - MR. SHUTER. 
 Lofty - --- MR. WOODWARD. 
 Sir William Honey- 
 wood .... MR. CLARKE. 
 Leontine MR. BENSLEY. 
 Jarvis - ... MR. DUNSTALL. 
 Butler - - . - MR. GUSHING. 
 Bailiff .... MR. R. SMITH. 
 
 Dtibardieu - - - MR. HOLTAM. 
 Postboy .... MR. QUICK, 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Miss Richland - MRS. BULKI.EY. 
 Olivia - --- MRS. MATTOCKS. 
 Mrs. Croaker - - MRS. PITT. 
 Garnet .... MRS. GREEN. 
 Landlady - - - MRS. WHITE. 
 SCENE London. 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 WRITTEN BY DR. JOHNSON : SPOKEN BY MR. BENSLEY. 
 
 | RESSED by the load of life, the weary mind 
 Surveys the general toil of human kind ; 
 With cool submission joins the lab'ring train, 
 And social sorrow loses half its pain : 
 
 Our anxious bard, without complaints, may share, 
 
 This bustling season's epidemic care, 
 
 Like Caesar's pilot, dignified by fate, 
 
 Tossed in one common storm with all the great. 
 
 Distressed alike, the statesman and the wit, 
 
 When one a borough courts, and one the pit. 
 
 The busy candidates for power and fame 
 
 Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the same ; 
 
 Disabled both to combat, or to fly. 
 
 Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply. 
 
 Unchecked, on both loud rabbles vent their rage, 
 
 As mpngrels bay the lion in a cage. 
 
 Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale, 
 
 For that blest year when all that vote may rail ;
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, 
 Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss. 
 " This day the powdered curls and golden coat," 
 Says swelling Crispin, " begged a cobbler's vote." 
 " This night our wit," the pert apprentice cries, 
 " Lies at my feet I hiss him, and he dies." 
 The great, 'tis true, can charm the electing tribe : 
 The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. 
 Yet judged by those whose voices ne'er were sold, 
 He feels no want of ill-persuading gold ; 
 But confident of praise, if praise be due, 
 Trusts without fear to merit and to you. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE An apartment in Young Honey wood 's house. 
 Enter SIR WILLIAM HONEYWOOD and JARVIS. 
 
 Sir William. Good Jarvis, make no apologies for this honest 
 bluntness. Fidelity, like yours, is the best excuse for every 
 freedom. 
 
 Jarvis. I can't help being blunt, and being very angry too 4 
 when I hear you talk of disinheriting so good, so worthy a young 
 gentleman as your nephew, my master. All the world loves him. 
 
 Sir Wil Say rather, that he loves all the world ; that is his 
 fault 
 
 Jar. I am sure there is no part of it more dear to him than you 
 are, though he has not seen you since he was a child. 
 
 Sir Wil. What signifies his affection to me ; or how can I be 
 proud of a place in a heart where every sharper and coxcomb 
 finds an easy entrance ? 
 
 Jar. I grant you that he is rather too good-natured ; that he's 
 too much every man's man ; that he laughs this minute with one, 
 and cries the next with another ; but whose instructions may he 
 thank for all this ? 
 
 Sir Wil. Not mine, sure? My letters to him during my em- 
 ployment in Italy, taught him only that philosophy which might 
 prevent, not defend his errors.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Jar. Faith, begging your honour's pardon, I'm sorry they taught 
 him any philosophy at all ; it has only served to spoil him. This 
 same philosophy is a good horse in the stable, but an arrant jade 
 on a journey. For my own part, whenever I hear him mention 
 the name on't, I'm always sure he's going to play the fool. 
 
 Sir Wil. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his philosophy, I 
 entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good nature arises rather from his 
 fears of offending the importunate, than his desire of making the 
 deserving happy. 
 
 Jar. What it arises from, I don't know. But to be sure, every- 
 body has it, that asks it. 
 
 Sir Wil. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have been now for 
 some time a concealed spectator of his follies, and find them as 
 boundless as his dissipation. 
 
 Jar. And yet, faith, he has some fine name or other for them 
 all. He calls his extravagance generosity ; and his trusting every- 
 body, universal benevolence. It was but last week he went 
 security for a fellow whose face he scarce knew, and that he called 
 an act of exalted mu mu munificence ; ay, that was the name he 
 gave it. 
 
 Sir Wil. And upon that I proceed, as my last effort, though 
 with very little hopes, to reclaim him. That very fellow has just 
 absconded, and I have taken up the security. Now, my intention 
 is to involve him in fictitious distress, before he has plunged him- 
 self into real calamity; to arrest him for that very debt, to clap an 
 officer upon him, and let him see which of his friends will come 
 to his relief. 
 
 Jar. Well, if I could but any way see him thoroughly vexed, 
 every groan of his would be music to me ; yet, faith, I believe it 
 impossible. I have tried to fret him myself every morning these 
 three years ; but instead of being angry, he sits as calmly to hear 
 me scold, as he does to his hair-dresser. 
 
 Sir Wil. We must try him once more, however, and I'll go this 
 instant to put my scheme into execution ; and I don't despair of 
 succeeding, as, by your means, I can have frequent opportunities 
 of being about him without being known. What a pity it is,
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. 
 
 Jarvis, that any man's goodwill to others should produce so much 
 neglect of himself as to require correction ! Yet we must touch 
 his weaknesses with a delicate hand. There are some faults so 
 nearly allied to excellence, that we can scarce weed out the vice 
 without eradicating the virtue. \Exit. 
 
 Jar. Well, go thy ways, Sir William Honeywood. It is not 
 without reason that the world allows thee to be the best of men. 
 But here comes his hopeful nephew ; the strange good-natured, 
 foolish, open-hearted And yet all his faults are such, that one 
 loves him still the better for them. 
 
 Enter HONEYWOOD. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my friends this 
 morning ? 
 
 Jar. You have no friends. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, from my acquaintance then? 
 
 Jar. (Pulling out bills.} A few of our usual cards of compliment, 
 that's all. This bill from your tailor ; this from your mercer ; and 
 this from the little broker in Crooked Lane. He says he has been 
 at a great deal of trouble to get back the money you borrowed. 
 
 Honeyw. That I don't know ; but I am sure we were at a great 
 deal of trouble in getting him to lend it 
 
 far. He has lost all patience. 
 
 Honeyw. Then he has lost a very good thing. 
 
 Jar. There's that ten guineas you were sending to the pooi 
 gentleman and his children in the Fleet I believe that would 
 stop his mouth for a while at least 
 
 Honeyw. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their mouths in the mean- 
 time ? Must I be cruel, because he happens to be importunate ; 
 and, to relieve his avarice, leave them to insupportable distress ? 
 
 Jar. 'Sdeath ! sir, the question now is how to relieve yourself 
 yourself. Haven't I reason to be out of my senses, when I see 
 things going at sixes and sevens ? 
 
 Honeyw. Whatever reason you may have for being out of your 
 senses, I hope you'll allow that I'm not quite unreasonable for 
 continuing in mine. 
 
 Jar. You are the only man alive in your present situation that
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. rj 
 
 could do so. Everything upon the waste. There's Miss Richland 
 and her fine fortune gone already, and upon the point of being 
 given to your rival. 
 
 Honeyw. I'm no man's rival. 
 
 Jar. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disinherit you ; your own 
 fortune almost spent; and nothing but pressing creditors, false 
 friends, and a pack of drunken servants that your kindness has 
 made unfit for any other family. 
 
 Honeyw. Then they have the more occasion for being in mine. 
 
 Jar. Soh! What will you have done with him that I caught 
 stealing your plate in the pantry ? In the fact ; I caught him in the 
 fact. 
 
 Honeyw. In the fact? If so, I really think that we should pay 
 him his wages, and turn him off. 
 
 Jar. He shall be turned off at Tyburn, the dog ! we'll hang him, 
 if it be only to frighten the rest of the family. 
 
 Honeyw. No, Jarvis ; it's enough that we have lost what he has 
 stolen ; let us not add to it the loss of a fellow-creature ! 
 
 Jar. Very fine! well, here was the footman just now, to complain 
 of the butler : he says he does most work, and ought to have most 
 wages. 
 
 Honeyw. That's but just; though perhaps here comes the butler 
 to complain of the footman. 
 
 Jar. Ay, it's the way with them all, from the scullion to the 
 privy councillor. If they have a bad master, they keep quarrelling 
 with him ; if they have a good master, they keep quarrelling with 
 one another. 
 
 Enter BUTLER, drunk. 
 
 Buthr. Sir, I'll not stay in the family with Jonathan ; you must 
 part with him, or part with me, that's the ex ex exposition o/ 
 the matter, sir. 
 
 Honeyw. Full and explicit enough. But what's his fault, good 
 Philip? 
 
 But. Sir, he's given to drinking, sir, and I shall have my morals 
 corrupted by keeping such company. 
 
 Honeyw. Ha ! ha ! he has such a diverting way
 
 io 4 GOLDSM1TITS PLAYS. 
 
 Jar. Oh, quite amusing. 
 
 Bnt. I find my wine's a- going, sir; and liquors don't go without 
 mouths, sir ; I hate a drunkard, sir. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, well, Philip, I'll hear you upon that another time; 
 so go to bed now. 
 
 Jar. To bed ! let him go to the devil. 
 
 But. Begging your honour's pardon, and begging your pardon, 
 Master Jarvis, I'll not go to bed, nor to the devil neither. I have 
 enough to do to mind my cellar. I forgot, your honour, Mr. 
 Croaker is below. I came on purpose to tell you. 
 
 Honeyw. Why didn't you show him up, blockhead? 
 
 But. Show him up, sir! With all my heart, sir. Up or down, 
 all's one to me. [Exit. 
 
 Jar. Ay, we have one or other of that family in this house from 
 morning till night. He comes on the old affair, I suppose. The 
 match between his son that's just returned from Paris, and Miss 
 Richland, the young lady he's guardian to. 
 
 Honeyw. Perhaps so. Mr. Croaker, knowing my friendship for 
 the young lady, has got it into his head that I can persuade her to 
 what I please. 
 
 Jar. Ah ! if you loved yourself but half as well as she loves you, 
 we should soon see a marriage that would set all things to rights 
 again. 
 
 Honeyw. Love me ! Sure, Jarvis, you dream. No, no ; her 
 intimacy with me never amounted to more than friendship mere 
 friendship. That she is the most lovely woman that ever warmed 
 the human heart with desire, I own. But never let me harbour a 
 thought of making her unhappy, by a connection with one so un- 
 worthy her merits as I am. No, Jarvis, it shall be my study to 
 serve her, even in spite of my wishes ; and to secure her happiness, 
 though it destroys my own. 
 
 Jar. Was ever the like ? I want patience. 
 
 Honeyw. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain Miss Richland's 
 consent, do you think I could succeed with her guardian, or Mrs. 
 Croaker, his wife? who, though both very fine in their way, are yet a 
 little opposite in their disposition, you know.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Jar. Opposite enough, Heaven knows ! the very reverse of each 
 other: she all laugh and no joke; he always complaining and never 
 sorrowful; a fretful poor soul, that has a new distress for every hour 
 in the four-and-twenty 
 
 Honeyw. Hush, hush ! he's coming up, he'll hear you. 
 Jar. One whose voice is a passing-bell 
 
 Honeyw. Well, well ; go, do. 
 
 Jar. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief; a coffin and cross 
 bones; a bundle of rue ; a sprig of deadly nightshade; & (Honey- 
 wood, stopping his mouth, at last pushes him off}. \ExitJarvis. 
 
 Honeyw. I must own my old monitor is not entirely wrong. 
 There is something in my friend Croaker's conversation that quite 
 depresses me. His very mirth is an antidote to all gaiety, and his 
 appearance has a stronger effect on my spirits than an undertaker's 
 shop. Mr. Croaker, this is such a satisfaction 
 Enter CROAKER. 
 
 Croak. A pleasant morning to Mr. Honeywood, and many of 
 them. How is this ! you look most shockingly to-day, my dear 
 friend. I hope this weather does not affect your spirits. To be 
 sure, if this weather continues I say nothing But God send we 
 be all better this day three months. 
 
 Honeyw. I heartily concur in the wish, though, I own, not in 
 your apprehensions. 
 
 Croak. May be not. Indeed, what signifies what weather we 
 have in a country going to ruin like ours ? taxes rising and tratf 
 falling. Money flying out of the kingdom, and Jesuits swarming 
 into it. I know at this time no less than a hundred and twenty- 
 seven Jesuits between Charing Cross and Temple Bar. 
 
 Honeyw. The Jesuits will scarce pervert you or me, I should 
 hope. 
 
 Croak. May be not. Indeed, what signifies whom they pervert 
 in a country that has scarce any religion to lose ? I'm only afraid 
 for our wives and daughters. 
 
 Honeyw. I "have no apprehensions for the ladies, I assure you. 
 
 Croak. May be not. Indeed, what signifies whether they be 
 perverted or no ? the women in my time wre good for something.
 
 106 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 I have seen a lady dressed from top to toe in her own manufac- 
 tures formerly. But now-a-days, the devil a thing of their own 
 manufacture's about them, except their faces. 
 
 Honeyw. But, however these faults may be practised abroad, 
 you don't find them at home, either with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, or 
 Miss Richland ? 
 
 Croak. The best of them will never be canonised for a saint 
 when she's dead. By-the-by, my dear friend, I don't find this 
 match between Miss Richland and my son much relished, either 
 by one side or t'other. 
 
 Honeyw. I thought otherwise. 
 
 Croak. Ah, Mr. Honey wood, a little of your fine serious advice 
 to the young lady might go far : I know she has a very exalted 
 opinion of your understanding. 
 
 Honeyw. But would not that be usurping an authority that 
 more properly belongs to yourself? 
 
 Croak. My dear friend, you know but little of my authority at 
 home. People think, indeed, because they see me come out in the 
 morning thus, with a pleasant face, and to make my friends merry, 
 that all's well within. But I have cares that would break a heart 
 of stone. My wife has so encroached upon every one of my 
 privileges, that I'm now no more than a mere lodger in my own 
 house. 
 
 Honeyw. But a little spirit exerted on your side might perhaps 
 restore your authority. 
 
 Croak. No, though I had the spirit of a lion ! I do rouse some- 
 times. But what then ? always haggling and haggling. A man is 
 tired of getting the better before his wife is tired of losing the vic- 
 tory. 
 
 Honeyw. It's a melancholy consideration indeed, that our chief 
 comforts often produce our greatest anxieties, and that an increase 
 of our possessions is but an inlet to new disquietudes. 
 
 Croak. Ah, my dear friend, those were the very words of poor 
 Dick Doleful to me not a week before he made away with himself. 
 Indeed, Mr. Honeywood, I never see you but you put me in mind 
 of poor Dick. Ah, there was merit neglected for you ! and so true
 
 Croaker. 
 
 Indeed, Mr. Honey wood, I never see you but you put 
 me in mind ol poor Dick. p. 106
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 107 
 
 a friend ! we loved each other for thirty years, and yet he never 
 asked me to lend him a single farthing. 
 
 Honeyw. Pray what could induce him to commit so rash an 
 action at last ? 
 
 Croak. I don't know ; some people were malicious enough to 
 say it was keeping company with me : because we used to meet 
 now and then and open our hearts to each other. To be sure I 
 loved to hear him talk, and he loved to hear me talk ; poor dear 
 Dick. He used to say that Croaker rhymed to joker; and so we 
 used to laugh Poor Dick. [Going to cry. 
 
 Honeyw. His fate affects me. 
 
 Croak. Ah, he grew sick of this miserable life, where we do 
 nothing but eat and grow hungry, dress and undress, get up and 
 lie down; while reason, that should watch like a nurse by our side, 
 falls as fast asleep as we do. 
 
 Honeyw. To say the truth, if we compare that part of life which 
 is to come, by that which we have past, the prospect is hideous. 
 
 Croak. Life at the greatest and best is but a froward child, that 
 must be humoured and coaxed a little till it falls asleep, and then 
 all the care is over. 
 
 Honeyw. Very true, sir, nothing can exceed the vanity of our 
 existence, but the folly of our pursuits. We wept when we came 
 into the world, and every day tells us why. 
 
 Croak. Ah, my dear friend, it is a perfect satisfaction to be 
 miserable with you. My son Leontine shan't lose the benefit of 
 such fine conversation. I'll just step home for him. I am willing 
 to show him so much seriousness in one scarce older than himself 
 And what if I bring my last letter to the Gazetteer on the in- 
 crease and progress of earthquakes ? It will amuse us, I promise 
 you. I there prove how the late earthquake is coming round to 
 pay us another visit, from London to Lisbon, from Lisbon to the 
 Canary Islands, from the Canary Islands to Palmyra, from Palmyra 
 to Constantinople, and so from Constantinople back to London 
 again. [Exit. 
 
 Honeyw. Poor Croaker ! his situation deserves the utmost pity. 
 I shall scarce recover my spirits these three days. Sure, to live
 
 ID* GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. 
 
 upon such terms is worse than death itself. And yet, when I 
 consider my own situation a broken fortune, a hopeless passion, 
 
 friends in distress, the wish but not the power to serve them 
 
 (pausing and sighing). 
 
 Enter BUTLER. 
 
 But. More company below, sir ; Mrs. Croaker and Miss Rich- 
 land ; shall I show them up ? but they're showing up themselves. 
 
 {Exit. 
 Enter MRS. CROAKER and Miss HIGHLAND. 
 
 Miss Rich. You're always in such spirits. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. We have just come, my dear Honey wood, from 
 the auction. There was the old deaf dowager, as usual, bidding 
 like a fury against herself. And then so curious in antiquities ! 
 herself, the most genuine piece of antiquity in the whole col- 
 lection. 
 
 Honeyw. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasiness from friendship 
 makes me unfit to share in this good-humour: I know you'll 
 pardon me. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. I vow he seems as melancholy as if he had taken 
 a dose of my husband this morning. Well, if Richland here can 
 pardon you, I must. 
 
 Miss Rich. You would seem to insinuate, madam, that I have 
 particular reasons for being disposed to refuse it. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, don't be so ready 
 to wish an explanation. 
 
 Miss Rich. I own I should be sorry Mr. Honeywood's long 
 friendship and mine should be misunderstood. 
 
 Honeyw. There's no answering for others, madam. But I hope 
 you'll never find me presuming to offer more than the most deli- 
 cate friendship may readily allow. 
 
 Miss Rich. And I shall be prouder of such a tribute from you, 
 than the most passionate professions from others. 
 
 Honeyw. My own sentiments, madam : friendship is a disin- 
 terested commerce between equals ; love, an abject intercourse 
 between tyrants and slaves. 
 
 Miss Rich. And without a compliment I know none more
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 109 
 
 disinterested, or more capable of friendship, than Mr. Honey- 
 wood. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. And, indeed, I know nobody that has more 
 friends, at least among the ladies. Miss Fruzz, Miss Oddbody, 
 and Miss Winterbottom, praise him in all companies. As for Miss 
 Biddy Bundle, she's his professed admirer. 
 
 Miss Rich. Indeed ! an admirer ! I did not know, sir, you 
 were such a favourite there. But is she seriously so handsome? 
 Is she the mighty thing talked of? 
 
 Honeyw. The town, madam, seldom begins to praise a lady's 
 beauty, till she's beginning to lose it. (Smiling.) 
 
 Mrs. Croak. But she's resolved never to lose it, it seems. 
 For, as her natural face decays, her skill improves in making the 
 artificial one. Well, nothing diverts me more than one of those 
 fine, old, dressy things, who thinks to conceal her age by 
 everywhere exposing her person ; sticking herself up in the front 
 of a side box ; trailing through a minuet at Almack's ; and then, 
 in the public gardens, looking for all the world like one of the 
 painted ruins of the place. 
 
 Honeyw. Every age has its admirers, ladies. While you, 
 perhaps, are trading among the warmer climates of youth, there 
 ought to be some to carry on a useful commerce in the frozen 
 latitudes beyond fifty. 
 
 Miss Rich. But, then, the mortifications they must suffer, before 
 they can be fitted out for traffic. I have seen one of them fret 
 a whole morning at her hair-dresser, when all the fault was her face. 
 
 Honeyw. And yet, I'll engage, has carried that face at last 
 to a very good market. This good-natured town, madam, has 
 husbands, like spectacles, to fit every age, from fifteen to 
 fourscore. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Well, you're a dear good-natured creature. But 
 you know you're engaged with us this morning upon a strolling 
 party. I want to show Olivia the town, and the things : I 
 believe I shall Lave business for you for the whole day. 
 
 Honeyw. I am sorry, madam, I have an appointment with 
 Mr. Croaker, which it is impossible to put off.
 
 GOLDSMITH 'S PL A YS. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. What! with my husband? then I'm resolved to 
 take no refusal. Nay, I protest you must. You know I never 
 laugh so much as with you. 
 
 Honeyw. Why, if I must, I must. I swear you have put me into 
 such spirits. Well, do you find jest, and I'll find laugh, I promise 
 you. We'll wait for the chariot in the next room. {Exeunt. 
 
 Enter LEONTINE and OLIVIA. 
 
 Leant. There they go, thoughtless and happy. My dearest 
 Olivia, what would I give to see you capable of sharing in their 
 amusements, and as cheerful as they are ! 
 
 Oliv. How, my Leontine, how can I be cheerful, when I have 
 so many terrors to oppress me? The fear of being 'detected by 
 this family, and the apprehension of a censuring world, when I 
 must be detected 
 
 Leont. The world, my love ! what can it say? At worst it can 
 only say, that, being compelled by a mercenary guardian to em- 
 brace a life you disliked, you formed a resolution of flying with 
 the man of your choice ; that you confided in his honour and took 
 refuge in my father's house ; the only one where you could remain 
 without censure. 
 
 Oliv. But consider, Leontine, your disobedience and my indis- 
 cretion ; your being sent to France to bring home a sister, and, 
 instead of a sister, bringing home 
 
 Leont. One dearer than a thousand sisters. One that I am con- 
 vinced will be equally dear to the rest of the family, when she 
 comes to be known. 
 
 Oliv. And that, I fear, v/ill shortly be. 
 
 Leont. Impossible, till we ourselves think proper to make the 
 discovery. My sister, you know, has been with her aunt at Lyons, 
 since she was a child, and you find every creature in the family 
 takes you for her. 
 
 Oliv. But may not she write, may not her aunt write ? 
 
 Leont. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all my sister's letters 
 are directed to me. 
 
 Oliv. But won't your refusing Miss Richland, for whom you 
 know the old gentleman intends you, create a suspicion ?
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Leont. There, there's my master-stroke. I have resolved not to 
 refuse her ; nay, an hour hence I have consented to go with my 
 father to make her an offer of my heart and fortune. 
 
 Oliv. Your heart and fortune ! 
 
 Leont. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can Olivia think so 
 meanly of my honour, or my love, as to suppose I could ever hope 
 for happiness from any but her ? No, my Olivia, neither the force, 
 nor, permit me to add, the delicacy of my passion, leave any room 
 to suspect me. I only offer Miss Richland a heart I am con- 
 vinced she will refuse ; as I am confident, that without knowing 
 it, her affections are fixed upon Mr. Honeywood. 
 
 Oliv. Mr. Honeywood ! You'll excuse my apprehensions ! but 
 when your merits come to be put in the balance 
 
 Leont. You view them with too much partiality. However, by 
 making this offer, I show a seeming compliance with my father's 
 command ; and perhaps, upon her refusal, I may have his consent 
 to choose for myself. 
 
 Oliv. Well, I submit. And yet, my Leontine, I own I shall 
 envy her even your pretended addresses. I consider every look, 
 every expression of your esteem, as due only to me. This is folly 
 perhaps ; I allow it ; but it is natural to suppose, that merit which 
 has made an impression on one's own heart, may be powerful 
 over that of another. 
 
 Leont. Don't, my life's treasure, don't let us make imaginary 
 evils, when you know we have so many real ones to encounter. 
 At worst, you know, if Miss Richland should consent, or my 
 father refuse his pardon, it can but end in a trip to Scotland ; 
 and 
 
 Enter CROAKER. 
 
 Croak. Where have you been, boy? I have been seeking you. 
 My friend Honeywood here has been saying such comfortable 
 things. Ah ! he's an example, indeed. Where is he? I left him 
 here. 
 
 Leont. Sir, 1 believe you may see him, and hear him too, in the 
 next room; he's preparing to go out with the ladies. 
 
 Croak. Good gracious ! can I believe my eyes or my ears ! I'm
 
 GOLDSMITfTS PLAYS. 
 
 struck dumb with his vivacity, and stunned with the loudness of 
 his laugh. Was there ever such a transformation ! (a laugh behind 
 the scenes. Croaker mimics it.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! there it goes ! a plague 
 take their balderdash; yet I could expect nothing less, when 
 my precious wife was of the party. On my conscience, I believe 
 she could spread a horse-laugh through the pews of a tabernacle. 
 
 Leont. Since you find so many objections to a wife, sir, how 
 can you be so earnest in recommending one to me ? 
 
 Croak. I have told you, and tell you again, boy, that Miss Rich- 
 land's fortune must not go out of the family ; one may find com- 
 fort in the money whatever one does in the wife. 
 
 Leont. But, sir, though in obedience to your dasire I am ready 
 to marry her, it may be possible she has no inclination to me. 
 
 Croak. I'll tell you once for all how it stands. A good part of 
 Miss Richland's large fortune consists in a claim upon Govern- 
 ment, which my good friend, Mr. Lofty, assures me the Treasury 
 will allow. One-half of this she is to forfeit, by her father's will, 
 in case she refuses to marry you. So if she rejects you, we seize 
 half her fortune ; if she accepts you, we seize the whole, and a fine 
 girl into the bargain. 
 
 Leont. But, sir, if you will listen to reason 
 
 Croak. Come then, produce your reasons. I tell you, I'm fixed, 
 determined : so now produce your reasons. When I'm determined 
 I always listen to reason, because it can then do no harm. 
 
 Leont. You have alleged that a mutual choice was the first re- 
 quisite in matrimonial happiness. 
 
 Croak. Well, and you have both of you a mutual choice. She 
 has her choice to marry you or lose half her fortune : and you 
 have your choice to marry her, or pack out of doors without any 
 fortune at all. 
 
 Leont. An only son, sir, might expect more indulgence. 
 
 Croak. An only father, sir, might expect more obedience : be- 
 sides, has not your sister here, that never disobliged me in her 
 life, as good a right as you ? He's a sad dog, Livy, my dear, and 
 would take all from you. But he shan't, I tell you he shan't, for 
 you shall have your share.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 113 
 
 Oliv. Dear sir, I wish you'd be convinced that I can never be 
 happy in any addition to my fortune, which is taken from his. 
 
 Croak. Well, well, it's a good child, so say no more ; but come 
 with me, and we shall see something that will give us a great deal 
 of pleasure, I promise you old Ruggins, the curry-comb maker, 
 lying in state : I am told he makes a very handsome corpse, and 
 becomes his coffin prodigiously. He was an intimate friend of 
 mine, and these are friendly things we ought to do for each other. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE Croaker's House. 
 Miss HIGHLAND, GARNET. 
 
 Miss Rich. Olivia not his sister ? Olivia not Leontine's sister ? 
 You amaze me ! 
 
 Gar. No more his sister than I am ; I had it all from his own 
 servant : I can get anything from that quarter. 
 
 Miss Rich. But how ? Tell me again, Garnet. 
 
 Gar. Why, madam, as I told you before, instead of going to 
 Lyons to bring home his sister, who has been there with her aunt 
 these ten years, he never went farther than Paris : there he saw 
 and fell in love with this young lady by-the-by, of a prodigious 
 family. 
 
 Miss Rich. And brought her home to my guardian as his 
 daughter. 
 
 Gar. Yes, and his daughter she will be. If he don't consent 
 to their marriage, they talk of trying what a Scotch parson 
 can do. 
 
 Miss Rich. Well, I own they have deceived me And so de- 
 murely as Olivia carried it too ! Would you believe it, Garnet, I 
 told her all my secrets ; and yet the sly cheat concealed all this 
 from me ! 
 
 Gar. And upon my word, madam, I don't much blame h er 
 she was loth to trust one with her secrets, that was so very bad a 
 keeping her own. 
 
 Miss Rich. But, to add to their deceit, the young gentleman, it
 
 ri 4 GOLDSMITH'S FLAYS. 
 
 seems, pretends to make me serious proposals. My guardian and 
 he are to be here presently, to open the affair in form. You 
 know I am to lose half my fortune if I refuse him. 
 
 Gar. Yet, what can you do ? For being, as you are, in love with 
 Mr. Honeywood, madam 
 
 Miss Rich. How ! Idiot, what do you mean ? In love with 
 Mr. Honeywood ! Is this to provoke me ? 
 
 Gar. That is, madam, in friendship with him ; I meant nothing 
 more than friendship, as I hope to be married ; nothing more. 
 
 Miss Rich. Well, no more of this : as to my guardian and his 
 son, they shall find me prepared to receive them : I'm resolved to 
 accept their proposal with seeming pleasure, to mortify them by 
 compliance, and so throw the refusal at last upon them. 
 
 Gar. Delicious ! and that will secure your whole fortune to 
 yourself. Well, who could have thought so innocent a face could 
 cover so much 'cuteness. 
 
 Miss Rich. Why, girl, I only oppose my prudence to their 
 cunning, and practise a lesson they have taught me against them- 
 selves. 
 
 Gar. Then you're likely not long to want employment, for here 
 they come, and in close conference. 
 
 Enter CROAKER, LEONTINE. 
 
 Leon. Excuse me, sir, if I seem to hesitate upon the point of 
 putting to the lady so important a question. 
 
 Croak. Lord ! good sir, moderate your fears ; you're so plaguy 
 shy, that one would think you had changed sexes. I tell you we 
 must have the half or the whole. Come, let me see with what 
 spirit you begin. Well, why don't you ? Eh ! What ? Well 
 then I must, it seems Miss Richland, my dear, I believe you 
 guess at our business ; an affair which my son here comes to open, 
 that nearly concerns your happiness. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to be pleased with 
 anything that comes recommended by you. 
 
 Croak. How, boy, could you desire a finer opening? Why 
 don't you begin, I say? [To Leontine. 
 
 Leon. 'Tis true, madam my father, madam has some intentions
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAM 115 
 
 hem of explaining an affair which himself can best explain, 
 madam. 
 
 Croak. Yes, my dear ; it comes entirely from my son ; it's all a 
 request of his own, madam. And I will permit him to make the 
 best of it. 
 
 Leon. The whole affair is only this, madam : my father has a 
 proposal to make, which he insists none but himself shall deliver. 
 
 Croak. My mind misgives me, the fellow will never be brought 
 on. (Aside). In short, madam, you see before you one -that loves 
 you ; one whose whole happiness is all in you. 
 
 Miss Rich. I never had any doubts of your regard, sir ; and I 
 hope you can have none of my duty. 
 
 Croak. That's not the thing, my little sweeting ; my love ! No, 
 no, another guess lover than I : there he stands, madam, his very 
 looks declare the force of his passion Call up a look, you dog ! 
 (Aside). But then, had you seen him, as I have, weeping, 
 speaking soliloquies and blank verse, sometimes melancholy, and 
 sometimes absent 
 
 Miss Rich. I fear, sir, he's absent now ; or such a declaration 
 would have come most properly from himself. 
 
 Croak. Himself! Madam, he would die before he could make 
 such a confession ; and if he had not a channel for his passion 
 through me, it would ere now have drowned his understand- 
 ing. 
 
 Miss Rich. I must grant, sir, there are attractions in modest 
 diffidence above the force of words. A silent address is the 
 genuine eloquence of sincerity. 
 
 Croak. Madam, he has forgot to speak any other language \ 
 silence is become his mother tongue. 
 
 Miss Rich. And it must be confessed, sir, it speaks very power- 
 fully in his favour. And yet I shall be thought too forward in 
 making such a confession ; shan't I, Mr. Leontine ? 
 
 Leont. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. But, if modesty 
 attracts her, impudence may disgust her. I'll try. (Aside.) Don't 
 imagine from my silence, madam, that I want a due sense of 
 the honour and happiness intended me. My father, madam, tells
 
 1 16 GOLDSMITH'S PL A YS. 
 
 me your humble servant is not totally indifferent to you he 
 admires you : I adore you ; and when we come together, upon 
 my soul I believe we shall be the happiest couple in all St. 
 James's. 
 
 Miss Rich. If I could flatter myself you thought as you speak, 
 sir 
 
 Leont. Doubt my sincerity, madam ? By your dear self I swear. 
 Ask the brave if they desire glory? ask cowards if they covet 
 safety 
 
 Croak, Well, well, no more questions about it. 
 
 Leont. Ask the sick if they long for health ? ask misers if they 
 love money ? ask 
 
 Croak. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense ? What's come over 
 the boy ? What signifies asking, when there's not a soul to give 
 you an answer ? If you would ask to the purpose, ask this lady's 
 consent to make you happy. 
 
 Miss Rich. Why indeed, sir, his uncommon ardour almost 
 compels me forces me to comply. And yet I'm afraid he'll 
 despise a conquest gained with too much ease ; won't you, Mr. 
 Leontine ? 
 
 Leont. Confusion ! (Aside.} Oh, by no means, madam, by no 
 means. And yet, madam, you talked of force. There is nothing 
 I would avoid so much as compulsion in a thing of this kind. 
 No, madam, I will still be generous, and leave you at liberty to 
 refuse. 
 
 Croak. But I tell you, sir, the lady is not at liberty. It's a 
 match. You see she says nothing. Silence gives consent. 
 
 Leont. But, sir, she talked of force. Consider, sir, the cruelty 
 of constraining her inclinations. 
 
 Croak. But I say there's no cruelty. Don't you know, block- 
 head, that girls have always a round-about way of saying yes 
 before company ? So get you both gone together into the next 
 room, and hang him that interrupts the tender explanation. Get 
 you gone, I say ; I'll not hear a word. 
 
 Leont. But, sir, I must beg leave to insist 
 
 Croak. Get off, you puppy, or I'll beg leave to insist upon
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 117 
 
 knocking you down. Stupid whelp ! But I don't wonder : the 
 boy takes entirely after his mother. 
 
 \Exeunt Miss HIGHLAND and LEONTINE. 
 
 Enter MRS. CROAKER. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Mr. Croaker, I bring you something, my dear, that 
 I believe will make you smile. 
 
 Croak. I'll hold you a guinea of that, my dear. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. A letter ; and as I knew the hand, I ventured to 
 open it. 
 
 Croak. And how can you expect your breaking open my letters 
 should give me pleasure ? 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Pooh ! it's from your sister at Lyons, and contains 
 good news ; read it. 
 
 Croak. What a Frenchified cover is here ! That sister of mine 
 has some good qualities, but I could never teach her to fold a 
 letter. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Fold a fiddlestick ! Read what it contains. 
 
 CROAKER (reading). 
 
 " DEAR NICK, An English gentleman, of large fortune, has 
 for some time made private, though honourable, proposals to your 
 daughter Olivia. They love each other tenderly, and I find she 
 has consented, without letting any of the family know, to crown 
 his addresses. As such good offers don't come every day, your 
 own good sense, his large fortune, and family considerations, will 
 induce you to forgive her. 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 " RACHAEL CROAKER." 
 
 My daughter Olivia privately contracted to a man of large for- 
 tune ! This is good news, indeed. My heart never foretold me 
 of this. And yet how slily the little baggage has carried it since 
 she came home ; not a word on't to the old ones for the world. 
 Yet I thought I saw something she wanted to conceal. 
 
 Mrs. CroctK. Well, if they have concealed their amour, they 
 shan't conceal their wedding ; that shall be public, I am resolved. 
 
 Croak. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the most foolish part
 
 1 1 8 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. 
 
 of the ceremony. I can never get this woman to think of the 
 most serious part of the nuptial engagement. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. What ! would you have me think of their funeral ? 
 But come, tell me, my dear, don't you owe more to me than you 
 care to confess ? Would you have ever been known to Mr. 
 Lofty, who has undertaken Miss Richland's claim at the Treasury, 
 but for me ? Who was it first made him an acquaintance at Lady 
 Shabbaroon's rout? Who got him to promise us his interest? 
 Is not a back-stairs favourite, one that can do what he pleases 
 with those that do what they please ! Is he not an acquaintance 
 that all your groaning and lamentation could never have got us ? 
 
 Croak. He is a man of importance, I grant you. And yet 
 what amazes me is, that while he is giving away places to all the 
 world, he can't get one for himself. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. That perhaps may be owing to his nicety. Great 
 men are not easily satisfied. 
 
 Enter FRENCH SERVANT. 
 
 Serv. An express from Monsieur Lofty. He vil be vait upon 
 your honours instramment. He be only giving four five in- 
 struction, read two tree memorial, call upon von ambassadeur. 
 He vil be vid you in one tree minutes. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. You see now, my dear. What an extensive de- 
 partment ! Well, friend, let your master know that we are ex- 
 tremely honoured by this honour. Was there anything ever in a 
 higher style of breeding ? All messages among the great are now 
 done by express. 
 
 Croak. To be sure, no man does little things with more solem- 
 nity, or claims more respect, than he. But he's in the right on't. 
 In our bad world, respect is given where respect is claimed. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Never mind the world, my dear ; you were never 
 in a plcasanter place in your life. Let us now think of receiving 
 him with proper respect (a loud rapping at the door], and there he 
 is, by the thundering rap. 
 
 Croak. Ay, verily, there he is ! as close upon the heels of his 
 own express, as an indorsement upon the back of a bill. Well, 
 I'll leave you to receive him, whilst I go to chide my little Olivia
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. ng 
 
 for intending to steal a marriage without mine or her aunt's con- 
 sent. I must seem to be angry, or she too may begin to despise 
 my authority. [Exit. 
 
 Enter LOFTY, speaking to his Servant. 
 
 Loft. "And if the Venetian ambassador, or that teasing creature 
 the Marquis, should call, I'm not at home. Damme, I'll be pack- 
 horse to none of them." My dear madam, I have just snatched a 
 moment ' And if the expresses to his Grace be ready, let them 
 be sent off; they're of importance,' madam, I ask a thousand 
 pardons. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Sir, this honour 
 
 Loft. " And, Dubardieu ! if the person calls about the commission, 
 let him know that it is made out. As for Lord Cumbercourt's 
 stale request, it can keep cold : you understand me." Madam, I 
 ask ten thousand pardons. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Sir, this honour 
 
 Loft. " And Dubardieu ! if the man comes from the Cornish 
 borough, you must do him, I say." Madam, I ask ten thousand 
 pardons. " And if the Russian ambassador calls ; but he will 
 scarce call to-day, I believe." And now, madam, I have just got 
 time to express my happiness in having the honour of being per- 
 mitted to profess myself your most obedient humble servant. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Sir, the happiness and honour are all mine; and 
 yet, I'm only robbing the public while I detain you. 
 
 Loft. Sink the public, madam, when the fair are to be attended. 
 Ah, could all my hours be so charmingly devoted ! Sincevcly. 
 don't you pity us poor creatures in affairs ? Thus it is eternally ; 
 solicited for places here, teased for pensions there, and courted 
 everywhere. I know you pity me. Yes, I see you do. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Excuse me, sir. " Toils of empires pleasures are," 
 as Waller says. 
 
 Loft. Waller, Waller, is he of the house ? 
 
 Mrs. Croak. The modern poet of that name, sir. 
 
 Loft. Oh; a modem! 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
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. 
 
 us. Why now, here I stand that know nothing of books. I say, 
 madam, I know nothing of books : and yet, I believe upon land- 
 carriage fishery, a stamp act, or a jag-hire, I can talk my two 
 hours without feeling the want of them. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. The world is no stranger to Mr. Lofty's eminence 
 in every capacity. 
 
 Loft. I vow to gad, madam, you make me blush ; I'm nothing, 
 nothing, nothing in the world ; a mere obscure gentleman. To be 
 sure, indeed, one or two of the present ministers are pleased to 
 represent me as a formidable man. I know they are pleased to 
 bespatter me at all their little dirty levees. Yet, upon my soul, I 
 wonder what they see in me to treat me so ! Measures, not men, 
 have always been my mark ! and I vow, by all that's honourable, 
 my resentment has never done the men, as mere men, any manner 
 of harm that is as mere men. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. What importance, and yet what modesty ! 
 
 Loft. Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam, there I own, I'm ac- 
 cessible 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 pro- 
 digious, he scouts them ; and yet all men have their faults ; too 
 much modesty is his," says his Grace. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. And yet I dare say, you don't want assurance when 
 you come to solicit for your friends. 
 
 Loft. Oh, there, indeed, I'm in bronze. Apropos ! I have just 
 been mentioning Miss Richland's case to a certain personage ; we 
 must name no names. When I ask, I'm not to be put off, madam. 
 No, no, I take my friend by the button. A fine girl, sir ; great 
 justice in her case. A friend of mine. Borough interest. Business 
 must be done, Mr. Secretary. I say, Mr. Secretary, her business 
 must be done, sir. That's my way, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Bless me ! you said all this to the Secretary of 
 State, did you ? 
 
 Loft. 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.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. This was going to the fountain-head at once, not 
 applying to the understrappers, as Mr. Honeyvvood would have 
 had us. 
 
 Loft. Honeywood ! he ! he ! He was, indeed, a fine solicitor. 
 I suppose you have heard what has just happened to him ? 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Poor dear man ! no accident, I hope ? 
 
 Loft. Undone, madam, that's all. His creditors have taken him 
 into custody. A prisoner in his own house. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. A prisoner in his own house 1 How ? At this very 
 time ? I'm quite unhappy for him. 
 
 Loft. Why, so am I. The man, to be sure, was immensely 
 good-natured. But then I could never find that he had anything 
 in him. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. His manner, to be sure, was excessively harmless; 
 some, indeed, thought it a little dull. For my part, I always con- 
 cealed my opinion. 
 
 Loft. It can't be concealed, madam ; the man was dull, dull as 
 the last new comedy ; a poor impracticable creature. I tried once 
 or twice to know if he was fit for business ; but he had scarce 
 talents to be groom-porter to an orange-barrow. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. How differently does Miss Richland think of him ! 
 For, I believe, with all his faults she loves him. 
 
 Loft. Loves him ! does she ? You should cure her of that by 
 all means. Let me see ; what if she were sent to him this instant, 
 in his present doleful situation ? My life for it, that works her 
 cure. Distress is a perfect antidote to love. Suppose we join her 
 in the next room ? Miss Richland is a fine girl, has a fine fortune, 
 and must not be thrown away. Upon my honour, madam, I have 
 a regard for Miss Richland ; and rather than she should be thrown 
 away, I should think it no indignity to marry her myself. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Enter OLIVIA and LEONTINE. 
 
 Leant. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every reason to expect 
 Miss Richland's refusal, as I did everything in my power to de- 
 serve it. Her indelicacy surprises me. 
 
 Oliv. Sure, Leontine, there's nothing so indelicate in being sen-
 
 GOLDSMITHS PLA VS. 
 
 sible of your merit. If so, I fear I shall be the most guilty thing 
 alive. 
 
 Leant. But you mistake, my dear. The same attention I used 
 to advance my merit with you, I practised to lessen it with her. 
 What more could I do ? 
 
 Oliv. Let us now rather consider what is to be done. We have 
 both dissembled too long. I have always been ashamed I am 
 now quite weary of it. Sure I could never have undergone so 
 much for any other but you. 
 
 Leont. And you shall find my gratitude equal to your kindest 
 compliance. Though our friends should totally forsake us, Olivia, 
 we can draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune. 
 
 Oliv. Then why should we defer our scheme of humble happi- 
 ness, when it is now in our power? I may be the favourite of 
 your father, it is true ; but can it ever be thought, that his present 
 kindness to a supposed child will continue to a known deceiver? 
 
 Leont. I have many reasons to believe it will. As his attach- 
 ments are but few, they are lasting. His own marriage was a 
 private one, as ours may be. Besides, I have sounded him already 
 at a distance, and find all his answers exactly to cur wish. Nay, 
 by an expression or two that dropped from him, I am induced to 
 think he knows of this affair. 
 
 Oliv. Indeed ! But that would be a happiness too great to be 
 expected. 
 
 Leont. However it be, I'm certain you have power over him ; 
 and I'm persuaded, if you informed him of our situation, that he 
 would be disposed to pardon it. 
 
 Oliv. You had equal expectations, Leontine, from your last 
 scheme with Miss Richland, which you find has succeeded most 
 wretchedly. 
 
 Leont. And that's the best reason for trying another. 
 
 Oliv. If it must be so, I submit. 
 
 Leont. As we could wish, he comes this way. Now, my dearest 
 Olivia, be resolute. I'll just retire within hearing, to come in at 
 a proper time, either to share your danger, or confirm your victory. 
 
 \Exit.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Enter CROAKER. 
 
 Croak. Yes, I must forgive her; and yet not too easily neither. 
 It will be proper to keep up the decorums of resentment a little, 
 if it be only to impress her with an idea of my authority. 
 
 Oliv. How I tremble to approach him ! Might I presume, sir, 
 if I interrupt you 
 
 Croak. No, child, where I have an affection, it is not a little 
 thing that can interrupt me. Affection gets over little things. 
 
 Oliv. Sir, you're too kind. I'm sensible how ijl I deserve this 
 partiality ; yet, Heaven knows, there is nothing I would not do 
 to gain it. 
 
 Croak. And you have but too well succeeded, you little hussy, 
 you. With those endearing ways of yours, on my conscience, I 
 could be brought to forgive anything, unless it were a very great 
 offence indeed. 
 
 Oliv. But mine is such an offence When you know my guilt 
 Yes, you shall know it, though I feel the greatest pain in the 
 confession. 
 
 Croak. Why, then, if it be so very great a pain, you may spare 
 yourself the trouble ; for I know every syllable of the matter before 
 you begin. 
 
 Oliv. Indeed ! then I'm undone. 
 
 Croak. Ay, miss, you wanted to steal a match without letting 
 me know it, did you ? But I'm not worth being consulted, I 
 suppose, when there's to be a marriage in my own family. No, 
 I'm to have no hand in the disposal of my children. No, I'm 
 nobody. I'm to be a mere article of family lumber ; a piece of 
 cracked china, to be stuck up in a corner. 
 
 Oliv. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your authority could 
 have induced us to conceal it from you. 
 
 Croak. No, no, my consequence is no more; I'm as little minded 
 as a dead Russian in winter, just stuck up with a pipe in its mouth 
 till there comes a thaw It goes to my heart to vex her. \Aside. 
 
 Oliv. I was prepared, sir, for your anger, and despaired of par- 
 don, even while I presumed to ask it. But your severity shall never 
 abate my affection, as my punishment is but justice.
 
 1 24 GOLDSMITH'S PL A VS. 
 
 Croak. And yet you should not despair neither, Livy. We ought 
 to hope all for the best. 
 
 Oliv. And do you permit me to hope, sir ? Can I ever expeci 
 to be forgiven ? But hope has too long deceived me. 
 
 Croak. Why, then, child, it shan't deceive you now, for I forgive 
 you this very moment; I forgive you all ! and now you are indeed 
 my daughter. 
 
 Oliv. O transport! this kindness overpowers me. 
 
 Croak. I was always against severity to our children. We have 
 been young and giddy ourselves, and we can't expect boys and 
 girls to be old before their time. 
 
 Oliv. What generosity! but can you forget the many falsehoods, 
 the dissimulation 
 
 Croak. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin you ; but where's 
 the girl that won't dissemble for a husband ? My wife and I had 
 never been married, if we had not dissembled a little beforehand. 
 
 Oliv. It shall be my future care never to put such generosity to 
 a second trial. And as for the partner of my offence and folly, 
 from his native honour, and the just sense he has of his duty, I 
 
 can answer for him that 
 
 Enter LEONTINE. 
 
 Leant. Permit him thus to answer for himself. (Kneeling.} Thus, 
 sir, let me speak my gratitude for this unmerited forgiveness. Yes, 
 sir, this even exceeds all your former tenderness. I now can boast 
 the most indulgent of fathers. The life he gave, compared to this, 
 was but a trifling blessing. 
 
 Croak. And, good sir, who sent for you, with that fine tragedy 
 face, and flourishing manner ? I don't know what we have to do 
 with your gratitude upon this occasion. 
 
 Leont. How, sir ! Is it possible to be silent, when so much 
 obliged ? Would you refuse me the pleasure of being grateful ? of 
 adding my thanks to my Olivia's ? of sharing in the transports that 
 you have thus occasioned ? 
 
 Croak. Lord, sir, we can be happy enough without your coming 
 in to make up the party. I don't know what's the matter with the 
 boy all this day ; he has got into such a rhodomontade manner all 
 this morning !
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 125 
 
 Leant. But, sir, I that have so large a part in the benefit, is it not 
 my duty to show my joy ? is the being admitted to your favour so 
 slight an obligation ? is the happiness of marrying my Olivia so 
 small a blessing ? 
 
 Croak. Marrying Olivia ! marrying Olivia ! marrying his own 
 sister ! Sure the boy is out of his senses. His own sister ! 
 
 Leont. My sister ! 
 
 Oliv. Sister ! How have I been mistaken ! [Aside. 
 
 Leont. Some cursed mistake in all this, I find. [Aside. 
 
 Croak. What does the booby mean ? or has he any meaning ? 
 Eh, what do you mean, you blockhead you ? 
 
 Leont. Mean, sir why, sir only, when my sister is to be married, 
 that I have the pleasure of marrying her, sir, that is, of giving her 
 away, sir I have made a point of it. 
 
 Croak. Oh, is that all ? Give her away. You have made a point 
 of it. Then you had as good make a point of first giving away 
 yourself, as I'm going to prepare the writings between you and Miss 
 Richland this very minute. What a fuss is here about nothing ! 
 Why, what's the matter now ? I thought I had made you at least 
 as happy as you could wish. 
 
 Oliv. Oh ! yes, sir ; very happy. 
 
 Croak. Do you foresee anything, child ? You look as if you did. 
 I think if anything was to be foreseen, I have as sharp a look-out as 
 another ; and yet I foresee nothing. [Exit. 
 
 LEONTINE and OLIVIA. 
 
 Oliv. What can it mean ? 
 
 Leont. He knows something, and yet for my life I can't teH 
 what. 
 
 Oliv. It can't be the connection between us, I'm pretty certain. 
 
 Leont. Whatever it be, my dearest, I'm resolved to put it out of 
 fortune's power to repeat our mortification. I'll haste and prepare 
 for our journey to Scotland this very evening. My friend Honey- 
 wood has promised me his advice and assistance. I'll go to him 
 and repose our distresses on his friendly bosom ; and I know so 
 much of his honest heart, that if he can't relieve our uneasiness, 
 he will at least share them. [Exeunt.
 
 126 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE Young Honey wood's House. 
 BAILIFF, HONEYWOOD, FOLLOWER. 
 
 Bailiff. Lookye, sir, I have arrested as good men as you in my 
 time ; no disparagement of you neither : men that would go forty 
 guineas on a game of cribbage. I challenge the town to show a 
 man in more genteeler practice than myself. 
 
 Honeywood. Without all question, Mr . I forget your name, 
 
 sir? 
 
 Bail. How can you forget what you never knew ? he ! he ! he ! 
 
 Honeyw. May I beg leave to ask your name ? 
 
 Bail. Yes, you may. 
 
 Honeyw. Then, pray, sir, what is your name ? 
 
 Bail. That I didn't promise to tell you. He ! he ! he ! A joke 
 breaks no bones, as we say among us that practise the law. 
 
 Honeyw. You may have reason for keeping it a secret, perhaps. 
 
 Bail. The law does nothing without reason. I'm ashamed to 
 tell my name to no man, sir. If you can show cause, as why, upon 
 a special capus, that I should prove my name But, come, Timothy 
 Twitch is my name. And now you know my name, what have you 
 to say to that ? 
 
 Honeyw. Nothing in the world, good Mr. Twitch, but that I 
 have a favour to ask, that's all. 
 
 Bail. Ay, favours are more easily asked than granted, as we say 
 among us that practise the law. I have taken an oath against 
 granting favours. Would you have me perjure myself? 
 
 Honeyw. But my request will come recommended in so strong 
 a manner, that, I believe, you'll have no scruple (pulling out his 
 purse}. The thing is only this : I believe I shall be able to dis- 
 charge this trifle in two or three days at farthest ; but as I would 
 not have the affair known for the world, I have thoughts of keep- 
 ing you, and your good friend here, about me, till the debt is dis- 
 charged ; for which I shall be properly grateful. 
 
 Bail. Oh! that's another maxim, and altogether within my oath. 
 For certain, if an honest man is to get anything by a thing, there's 
 no reason why all tilings should not be done in civility.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 127 
 
 Honeyw. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr. Twitch; and yours 
 is a necessary one. (Gives him money.} 
 
 Bail. Oh! your honour; I hope your honour takes nothing 
 amiss as I does, as I does nothing but my duty in so doing. I'm 
 sure no man can say I ever give a gentleman, that was a gentle- 
 man, ill usage. If I saw that a gentleman was a gentleman, I have 
 taken money not to see him for ten weeks together. 
 
 Honeyw. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. 
 
 Bail. Ay, sir, it's a perfect treasure. I love to see a gentleman 
 with a tender heart. I don't know, but I think I have a tender 
 heart myself. If all that I have lost by my heart was put together, 
 it would make a but no matter for that. 
 
 Honeyw. Don't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. The ingratitude of 
 the world can never deprive us of the conscious happiness of having 
 acted with humanity ourselves. 
 
 Bail. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It's better than gold. I love 
 humanity. People may say that we in our way have no humanity; 
 but I'll show you my humanity this moment. There's my follower 
 here, little Flanigan, with a wife and four children ; a guinea or two 
 would be more to him than twice as much to another. Now, as I 
 can't show him any humanity myself, I must beg leave you'll do it 
 for me. 
 
 Honeyw. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours is a most powerful 
 recommendation. (Giving money to the follower?) 
 
 Bail. Sir, you're a gentleman. I see you know what to do with 
 your money. But, to business: we are to be with you here as your 
 friends, I suppose. But set in case company comes. Little Fiani- 
 gan here, to be sure, has a good face ; a very good face ; but then, 
 he is a little seedy, as we say among us that practise the law. Not 
 well in clothes. Smoke the pocket-holes. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, that shall be remedied without delay. 
 Enter SERVANT. 
 
 Servant. Sir, Miss Richland is below. 
 
 Honeyw. How unlucky ! Detain her a moment. We must im- 
 prove my good friend little Mr. Flanigan's appearance first. Here, 
 let Mr. Flanigan have a suit of my clothes quick the brown and 
 silver Do you hear ?
 
 128 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Ser. That your honour gave away to the begging gentleman that 
 makes verses, because it was as good as new. 
 
 Honey w. The white and gold, then. 
 
 Ser. That, your honour, I made bold to sell, because it was 
 good for nothing. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, the first that comes to hand, then. The blue 
 and gold, then. I believe Mr. Flanigan will look best in blue. 
 
 [Exit FLANIGAN. 
 
 Bail Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look well in anything. 
 Ah, if your honour knew that bit of flesh as well as I do, you'd be 
 perfectly in love with him. There's not a prettier scout in the four 
 counties after a shy-cock than he : scents like a hound ; sticks like 
 a weasel. He was master of the ceremonies to the black Queen 
 of Morocco, when I took him to follow me. {Re-enter FLANIGAN.) 
 Heh ! ecod, I think he looks so well, that I don't care if I have a 
 suit from the same place for myself. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. Dear Mr. Twitch, 
 I beg you'll give your friend directions not to speak. As for your- 
 self, I know you will say nothing without being directed. 
 
 Bail. Never you fear me ; I'll show the lady that I have some- 
 thing to say for myself as well as another. One man has one way 
 of talking, and another man has another, that's all the difference 
 between them. 
 
 Enter Miss RICHLAND and her MAID. 
 
 Miss Rich. You'll be surprised, sir, with this visit. But, you 
 know, I'm yet to thank you for choosing my little library. 
 
 Honeyw. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary ; as it was I that 
 was obliged by your commands. Chairs here. Two of my very 
 good friends, Mr. Twitch and Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, sit 
 \vithout ceremony. 
 
 Miss Rich. Who can these odd-looking men be ? I fear it is as 
 I was informed. It must be so. [Aside. 
 
 Bail. (After a pause.} Pretty weather ; very pretty weather for 
 the time of the year, madam. 
 
 Fol. Very good circuit weather in the country. 
 
 Honeyw. You officers are generally favourites among the ladies.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAX. 129 
 
 My friends, madam, have been upon very disagreeable duty, I 
 assure you. The fair should in some measure recompense the 
 toils of the brave. 
 
 Miss Rich. Our officers do indeed deserve every favour. The 
 gentlemen are in the marine service, I presume, sir ? 
 
 Honeyw. Why, madam, they do occasionally serve in the fleet, 
 madam. A dangerous service ! 
 
 Miss Rich. I'm told so. And I own it has often surprised me, 
 that while we have had so many instances of bravery there, we 
 have had so few of wit at home to praise it 
 
 Honeyw. I grant, madam, that our poets have not written as 
 our soldiers have fought ; but they have done all they could, and 
 Hawke or Amherst could do no more. 
 
 Miss Rich. I'm quite displeased when I see a fine subject spoiled 
 by a dull writer. 
 
 Honeyw. We should not be so severe against dull writers, 
 madam. It is ten to one but the dullest writer exceeds the most 
 rigid French critic who presumes to despise him. 
 
 Fol. Damn the French, the parlez vous, and all that belongs to 
 them. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir ! 
 
 Honeyw. Ha, ha, ha ! honest Mr. Flanigan. A true English 
 officer, madam ! he's not contented with beating the French, but 
 he will scold them too. 
 
 Miss Rich. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not convince me 
 but that severity in criticism is necessary. It was our first adopt- 
 ing the severity of French taste that has brought them in turn to 
 taste us. 
 
 Bail. Taste us ! By the Lord, madam, they devour us. Give 
 
 rnonseers but a taste, and I'll be d d but they come in for a 
 
 bellyful. 
 
 Miss Rich. Very extraordinary, this ! 
 
 Fol. But very true. What makes the bread rising? the parlez 
 vous that devour us. What makes the mutton fivepence a pound? 
 the parlez vous that eat it up. What makes the beer threepence- 
 halfpenny a pot? 
 
 9
 
 1 30 GOLDSMITH'S PL A YS. 
 
 Honeyw. Ah ! the vulgar rogues j all will be out. (Aside.) 
 Right, gentlemen, very right, upon my word, and quite to the pur- 
 pose. They draw a parallel, madam, between the mental taste 
 and that of our senses. We are injured as much by the French 
 severity in the one, as by the French rapacity in the other. That's 
 their meaning. 
 
 Miss Rich. Though I don't see the force of the parallel, yet I'll 
 own, that we should sometimes pardon books, as we do our 
 friends, that have now and then agreeable absurdities to recom- 
 mend them. 
 
 Bail. That's all my eye. The king only can pardon, as the law 
 says ; for, set in case 
 
 Honeyw. I'm quite of your opinion, sir, I see the whole drift of 
 your argument Yes, certainly, our presuming to pardon any work, 
 is arrogating a power that belongs to another. If all have power 
 to condemn, what writer can be free ? 
 
 Bail. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus can set him free 
 at any time : for set in case 
 
 Honeyw. I'm obliged to you, sir, for the hint. If, madam, as 
 my friend observes, our laws are so careful of a gentleman's 
 person, sure we ought to be equally careful of his dearer part, his 
 fame. 
 
 Fol. Ay, but if so be a man's nabbed, you know 
 
 Honeyw. Mr. Flanigan, if you spoke for ever, you could not 
 improve the last observation. For my own part, I think it con- 
 clusive. 
 
 Bail. As for the matter of that, mayhap 
 
 Heneyw. Nay, sir, give me leave in this instance to be positiv 
 For where is the necessity of censuring works without genius, 
 which must shortly sink of themselves ? what is it, but aiming an 
 unnecessary blow against a victim already under the hands of 
 justice ? 
 
 Bail. Justice ! Oh, by the elevens ! if you talk about justice, I 
 think I am at home there : for, in a course of law 
 
 Honeyw. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern what you'd be at per- 
 fectly ; and I believe the lady must be sensible of the art with
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 131 
 
 which it is introduced. I suppose you perceive the meaning, 
 madam, of his course of law. 
 
 Miss Rich. I protest, sir, I do not. I perceive only that you 
 answer one gentleman before he has finished, and the other before 
 he has well begun. 
 
 Bail. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and I will make the 
 matter out. This here question is about severity, and justice, and 
 pardon, and the like of they. Now to explain the thing 
 
 Honeyw. O ! curse your explanations. \Aside. 
 
 Enter SERVANT. 
 
 Serv. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to speak with you upon 
 earnest business. 
 
 Honeyw. That's lucky. (Aside). Dear madam, you'll excuse me 
 and my good friends here, for a few minutes. There are books, 
 madam, to amuse you. Come, gentlemen, you know I make no 
 ceremony with such friends. After you, sir. Excuse me. Well, if I 
 must But I know your natural politeness. 
 
 Bail. Before and behind, you know. 
 
 Fol. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and behind. 
 
 \Exeunt HONEYWOOD, BAILIFF, and FOLLOWER. 
 
 Miss Rich. What can all this mean, Garnet ? 
 
 Garn. Mean, madam ! why, what should it mean, but what 
 Mr. Lofty sent you here to see ? These people he calls officers 
 are officers sure enough ; sheriff's officers ; bailiffs, madam. 
 
 Miss Rich. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though his perplexities 
 are far from giving me pleasure, yet I own there's something very 
 ridiculous in them, and a just punishment for his dissimulation. 
 
 Garn. And so they are. But I wonder, madam, that the 
 lawyer you just employed to pay his debts and set him free, has 
 not done it by this time. He ought at least to have been here 
 before now. But lawyers are always more ready to get a man into 
 troubles than out of them. 
 
 Enter SIR WILLIAM. 
 
 Sir WiL For Miss Richland to undertake setting him free, I 
 own, was quite unexpected. It has totally unhinged my schemes 
 
 92
 
 1 33 GOLDSMITHS PL A YS. 
 
 to reclaim him. Yet it gives me pleasure to find that, among a 
 number of worthless friendships, he has made one acquisition of 
 real value ; for there must be some softer passion on her side that 
 prompts this generosity. Ha ! here before me ? I'll endeavour 
 to sound her affections. Madam, as I am the person that have 
 had some demands upon the gentleman of this house, I hope 
 you'll excuse me if, before I enlarged him, I wanted to see your- 
 self. 
 
 Miss Rich. The precaution was very unnecessary, sir. I sup- 
 pose your wants were only such as my agent had power to satisfy. 
 
 Sir Wil. Partly, madam. But I was also willing you should be 
 fully apprised of the character of the gentleman you intended to 
 serve. 
 
 Miss Rich. It must come, sir, with a very ill grace from you. To 
 censure it after what you have done, would look like malice ; and 
 to speak favourably of a character you have oppressed, would be 
 impeaching your own. And, sure, his tenderness, his humanity, 
 his universal friendship, may atone for many faults. 
 
 Sir Wil. That friendship, madam, which is exerted in too wide 
 a sphere, becomes totally useless. Our bounty, like a drop of water, 
 disappears when diffused too widely. They who pretend most to 
 this universal benevolence are either deceivers or dupes, men 
 who desire to cover their private ill nature by a pretended regard 
 for all ; or men who, reasoning themselves into false feelings, are 
 more earnest in pursuit of splendid than of useful virtues. 
 
 Miss Rich. I am surprised, sir, to hear one, who has probably 
 been a gainer by the folly of others, so severe in his censure of it. 
 
 Sir Wil. Whatever I may have gained by folly, madam, you see 
 I am willing to prevent your losing by it. 
 
 Miss Rich. Your cares for me, sir, are unnecessary. I always 
 suspect those services which are denied where they are wanted, and 
 offered, perhaps, in hopes of a refusal. No, sir, my directions have 
 been given, and I insist upon their being complied with. 
 
 Sir Wil. Thou amiable woman ! I can no longer contain the 
 expressions of my gratitude my pleasure. You see before you one 
 who has been equally careful of his interest ; one, who has for some
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 133 
 
 time been a concealed spectator of his follies, and only punished 
 in hopes to reclaim him his uncle. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir William Honeywood ! you amaze me. How 
 shall I conceal my confusion ? I fear, sir, you'll think I have been 
 too forward in my services. I confess I 
 
 Sir Wil. Don't make any apologies, madam. I only find myself 
 unable to repay the obligation. And yet, I have been trying my 
 interest of late to serve you. Having learned, madam, that you 
 had some demands upon Government, I have, though unasked, 
 been your solicitor there. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir, I'm infinitely obliged to your intentions. But 
 my guardian has employed another gentleman, who assures him of 
 success. 
 
 Sir Wil. Who? the important little man that visits here? Trust 
 me, madam, he's quite contemptible among men in power, and 
 utterly unable to serve you. Mr. Lofty's promises are much better 
 known to people of fashion than his person, I assure you. 
 
 Miss Rich. How have we been deceived ! As sure as can be here 
 he comes. 
 
 Sir Wil. Does he ? Remember I'm to continue unknown. My 
 return to England has not yet been made public. With what im- 
 pudence he enters ! 
 
 Enter LOFTY. 
 
 Loft. Let the chariot let my chariot drive off; I'll visit to his 
 Grace's in a chair. Miss Richland here before me ! Punctual, as 
 usual, to the calls of humanity. I'm very sorry, madam, things of 
 this kind should happen, especially to a man I have shown every- 
 where, and carried amongst us as a particular acquaintance. 
 
 Miss Rich. I find, sir, you have the art of making the misfor- 
 tunes of others your own. 
 
 Loft. My dear madam, what can a private man like me do ? One 
 man can't do everything ; and then, I do so much in this way every 
 day : Let me see ; something considerable might be done for him 
 by subscription ; it could not fail if I carried the list. I'll under- 
 take to set down a brace of dukes, two dozen lords, and half the 
 lower house, at my own peril
 
 Sir WiL And, after all, if s more than probable, sir, be might 
 reject the offer of such powerful patronage. 
 Z#fc Then, madam, what can we do? Yon know I never 
 
 with him in the way of business ; but, as I often told his node, 
 So- Wfliam Honeywood, the man was utterly impracticable. 
 
 Sir WiL His node! then tltat gentleman, I suppose, is a par 
 tiailar friend of yours. 
 
 Left. Meaning me, sir? Yes, madam, as I often said, My dear 
 Sir Wflham, yon are sensible I would do anything, as fer as my 
 poor interest goes, to serve your family ; bat what can be done? 
 there's no procuring first-rate places for ninth-rate abilities. 
 
 Miss Rich. I have heard of Sir Wffliam Honeywood; lie's 
 abroad in employment : he confided in your judgment, I suppose? 
 
 Loft. Why, yes, madam, I beSeve Sir Wiffiam bad some reason 
 
 Miss Rick. Pray, sir, what was it? 
 
 Loft. Why, madam, but let it go no farther it was I procured 
 him his place. 
 
 Sir WiL Did you, sir? 
 
 Left. Either TOT or I, sir. 
 
 Miss Rick. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind indeed. 
 
 Left. I did love him, to be sure; he had some amasrogqoamies; 
 no man was fitter to be a toast-master to a dub, or bad a better 
 head. 
 
 Mia Rick. A better head? 
 
 Loft. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure he was as duU as a choice 
 spirit: but hang it, he was grateful, Tery grateful; and gratitude 
 hides a multitude of faults. 
 
 Sir WiL He might have reason perhaps. His place is pretty 
 considerable, Fro told. 
 
 Loft. A trifle, a mere trifle among us men of business. The 
 truth is, he wanted dignity to fin up a greater. 
 
 SirWiL Dignity of person, do you mean, sir? rmtoldhe's 
 about my size and figure, sir? 
 
 Loft. Ay, taU enough for a marching regiment; bat then he
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 135 
 
 wanted a something a consequence of form a kind of a I 
 believe the lady perceives my meaning. 
 
 Miss Rich, Oh, perfectly ! you courtiers can do anything, I 
 see. 
 
 Loft. My dear madam, all this is but a mere exchange ; we do 
 greater things for one another every day. Why, as thus, now : let 
 me suppose you the first lord of the treasury ; you have an em- 
 ployment in you that I want ; I have a place in me that you want; 
 do me here, do you there ; interest of both sides, few words, flat, 
 done and done, and it's over. 
 
 Sir Wil. A thought strikes me. (Aside.) Now you mention 
 Sir William Honeywood, madam, and as he seems, sir, an acquaint- 
 ance of yours, you'll be glad to hear he is arrived from Italy; I 
 had it from a friend who knows him as well as he does me, and 
 you may depend on my information. 
 
 Loft. The devil he is ! If I had known that we should not have 
 been so well acquainted. [Aside. 
 
 Sir Wil. He is certainly returned ; and as this gentleman is a 
 friend of yours, he can be of signal service to us, by introducing 
 me to him ; there are some papers relative to your affairs that re- 
 quire despatch, and his inspection. 
 
 Miss Rich. This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a person employed in 
 my affairs ; I know you'll serve us. 
 
 Loft. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. Sir William 
 shall even wait upon him, if you think proper to command it 
 
 Sir Wil. That would be quite unnecessary. 
 
 Loft. Well, we must introduce you then. Call upon me let 
 me see ay, in two days. 
 
 Sir Wil. Now, or the opportunity will be lost for ever. 
 
 Loft. Well, if it must be now, now let it be. But damn it, that's 
 unfortunate ; my Lord Grig's cursed Pensacola business comes on 
 this very hour, and I'm engaged to attend another time 
 
 Sir Wil. A short letter to Sir William will do. 
 
 Loft. You shall have it ; yet, in my opinion, a letter is a very 
 bad way of going to work : face to face, that's my way. 
 
 Sir Wil. The letter, sir, will do quite as well.
 
 r 3 6 GOLDSMITHS PL A \'S. 
 
 Loft. Zounds ! sir, do you pretend to direct me ? direct me in 
 the business of office ? Do you know me, sir ? who am I ? 
 
 Miss Rich. Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not so much his as 
 mine ; if my commands but you despise my power. 
 
 Loft. Delicate creature ! your commands could even control a 
 debate at midnight : to a power so constitutional, I am all 
 obedience and tranquillity. He shall have a letter : where is my 
 secretary ? Dubardieu ! and yet, I protest I don't like this way of 
 doing business. I think if I spoke first to Sir William. But you 
 will have it so. \Exit with Miss RICHLAND. 
 
 Sir WU. (alone.} Ha, ha, ha! This, too, is one of my nephew's 
 hopeful associates. O vanity, thou constant deceiver, how do all 
 thy efforts to exalt serve but to sink us ! Thy false colourings, like 
 those employed to heighten beauty, only seem to mend that bloom 
 which they contribute to destroy. I'm not displeased at this inter- 
 view : exposing this fellow's impudence to the contempt it deserves 
 may be of use to my design ; at least, if he can reflect, it will be 
 of use to himself. 
 
 Enter JARVIS. 
 
 Sir WU. How now, Jarvis, where's your master, my nephew ? 
 Jar. A.t his wit's ends, I believe : he's scarce gotten out of one 
 scrape, but he's running his head into another. 
 SirWil. How so? 
 
 Jar. The house has just been cleared of the bailiffs, and now 
 he's again engaging tooth and nail in assisting old Croaker's son to 
 patch up a clandestine match with the young lady that passes in the 
 house for his sister. 
 
 Sir WU. Ever busy to serve others. 
 
 Jar. Ay, anybody but himself. The young couple, it seems, are 
 just setting out for Scotland ; and he supplies them with money for 
 the journey. 
 
 Sir WU. Money ! how is he able to supply others, who has 
 scarce any for himself? 
 
 Jar. Why, there it is : he has no money, that's true ; but then, 
 as he never said No to any request in his life, he has given them a 
 bill, drawn by a friend of his, upon a merchant in the city> which
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 137 
 
 I am to get changed ; for you must know that I am to go with them 
 to Scotland myself. 
 
 SirWil How? 
 
 Jar. It seems the young gentleman is obliged to take a different 
 road from his mistress, as he is to call upon an uncle of his that 
 lives out of the way, in order to prepare a place for their reception 
 when they return ; so they have borrowed me from my master as 
 the properest person to attend the young lady down. 
 
 Sir Wil. To the land of matrimony ! A pleasant journey, 
 Jarvis. 
 
 Jar. Ay, but I'm only to have all the fatigues on't. 
 
 Sir Wil. Well, it may be shorter and less fatiguing than you 
 imagine. I know but too much of the young lady's family and 
 connections, whom I have seen abroad. I have also discovered 
 that Miss Richland is not indifferent to my thoughtless nephew; 
 and will endeavour, though, I fear, in vain, to establish that con- 
 nection. But, come, the letter I wait for must be almost finished ; 
 I'll let you farther into my intentions in the next room. \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE Croaker's House. 
 
 Enter LOFTY. 
 
 Lofty. Well, sure the devil's in me of late, for running my head 
 into such denies as nothing but a genius like my own could draw 
 me from. I was formerly contented to husband out my places and 
 pensions with some degree of frugality ; but, curse it, of late I have 
 given away the whole Court Register in less time than they could 
 print the title-page : yet, hang it, why scruple a lie or two to come 
 at a fine girl, when I every day tell a thousand for nothing. Ha ! 
 Honeywood here before me. Could Miss Richland have set him 
 at liberty t 
 
 Enter HONEYWOOD. 
 
 Mr. Honeywood, I'm glad to see you abroad again. I find my 
 concurrence was not necessary in your unfortunate affairs. I had
 
 1 38 GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. 
 
 put things in a train to do your business ; but it is not for me to 
 say what I intended doing. 
 
 Honeyw. It was unfortunate indeed, sir. But what adds to my 
 uneasiness is, that while you seem to be acquainted with my mis- 
 fortune, I myself continue still a stranger to my benefactor. 
 
 Loft. How ! not know the friend that served you ? 
 
 Honeyw. Can't guess at the person. 
 
 Loft. Inquire. 
 
 Honeyw. I have ; but all I can learn is, that he chooses to 
 remain concealed, and that all inquiry must be fruitless. 
 
 Loft. Must be fruitless ! 
 
 Honeyw. Absolutely fruitless. 
 
 Loft. Sure of that ? 
 
 Honeyw. Very sure. 
 
 Loft. Then I'll be d d if you shall ever know it from me. 
 
 Honeyw. How sir? 
 
 Loft. I suppose now, Mr. Honey wood, you think my rent-roll 
 very considerable, and that I have vast sums of money to throw 
 away; I know you do. The world, to be sure, says such things of me. 
 
 Honeyw. The world, by what I learn, is no stranger to your 
 generosity. But where does this tend ? 
 
 Loft, To nothing ; nothing in the world. The town, to be sure, 
 when it makes such a thing as me the subject of conversation, has 
 asserted, that I never yet patronized a man of merit. 
 
 Honeyw. I have heard instances to the contrary, even from 
 yourself. 
 
 Loft. Yes, Honeywood : and there are instances to the contrary, 
 that you shall never hear from myself. 
 
 Honeyw. Ha ! dear sir, permit me to ask you but one question. 
 
 Loft. Sir, ask me no questions ; I say, sir, ask me no questions; 
 I'll be d d if I answer them. 
 
 Honeyw. I will ask no farther. My friend ! my benefactor ! it 
 is, it must be here, that I am indebted for freedom, for honour. 
 Yes, thou worthiest of men, from the beginning I suspected it, but 
 was afraid to return thanks ; which, if undeserved, might seem 
 reproaches.
 
 TffE GOOD-NATURED MAM. 139 
 
 Loft. I protest I do not understand all this, Mr. Honeywood. 
 You treat me very cavalierly. I do assure you, sir Blood, sir, 
 can't a man be permitted to enjoy the luxury of his own feelings, 
 without all this parade ? 
 
 Honeyw. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an action that adds to 
 your honour. Your looks, your air, your manner, all confess it. 
 
 Loft. Confess it, sir ! fortune itself, sir, shall never bring me to 
 confess it. Mr. Honeywood, I have admitted you upon terms of 
 friendship. Don't let us fall out ; make me happy, and let this be 
 buried in oblivion. You know I hate ostentation ; you know I 
 do. Come, come, Honeywood, you know I always loved to be a 
 friend, and not a patron. 1 beg this may make no kind of distance 
 between us. Come, come, you and I must be more familiar. 
 Indeed we must 
 
 Honeyw, Heavens ! Can I ever repay such friendship ? Is 
 there any way ? Thou best of men, can I ever return the obliga- 
 tion? 
 
 Loft. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle ! But I see your heart is 
 labouring to be grateful. You shall be grateful. It would be 
 cruel to disappoint you. 
 
 Honeyw. How ! teach me the manner. Is there any way ? 
 
 Loft. From this moment you're mine. Yes, my friend, you 
 shall know it I'm in love. 
 
 Honeyw. And can I assist you ? 
 
 Loft. Nobody so well. 
 
 Honeyw. In what manner ? I'm all impatience. 
 
 Loft. You shall make love for me. 
 
 Honeyw. And to whom shall I speak in your favour ? 
 
 Loft. To a lady with whom you have great interest, I assure 
 you : Miss Richland. 
 
 Honeyw. Miss Richland ! 
 
 Loft. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck the blow up to the 
 hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter. 
 
 Honeyw. Heavens ! was ever anything more unfortunate ? It 
 is too much to be endured. 
 
 Loft. Unfortunate, indeed ! And yet I can endure it, till you
 
 I 4 o GOLDSMITH'S FLA YS. 
 
 have opened the affair to her for me. Between ourselves, I think 
 she likes me. I'm not apt to boast, but I think she does. 
 
 Honeyw. Indeed ! But, do you know the person you apply to ? 
 
 Loft. Yes, I know you are her friend and mine : that's enough. 
 To you, therefore, I commit the success of my passion. I'll say 
 no more, let friendship do the rest I have only to add, that if 
 at any time my little interest can be of service but, hang it, I'll 
 make no promises you know my interest is yours at any time. 
 No apologies, my friend, I'll not be answered ; it shall be so. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Honeyw. Open, generous, unsuspecting man ! He little thinks 
 that I love her too ; and with such an ardent passion ! But then 
 it was ever but a vain and hopeless one ; my torment, my perse* 
 cution ! What shall I do ? Love, friendship ; a hopeless passion, 
 a deserving friend ! Love that has been my tormentor ; a friend 
 that has, perhaps, distressed himself to serve me. It shall be so. 
 Yes I will discard the fondling hope from my bosom, and exert 
 all my influence in his favour. And yet to see her in the posses- 
 sion of another ! Insupportable ! But then to betray a generous, 
 trusting friend ! Worse, worse ! Yes, I'm resolved. Let me but 
 be the instrument of their happiness, and then quit a country, 
 where I must for ever despair of finding my own. [Exit. 
 
 Enter OLIVIA, and GARNET, wtto carries a milliners box. 
 
 Oliv. Dear me, I wish this journey were over. No news of 
 Jarvis yet ? I believe the old peevish creature delays purely to 
 vex me. 
 
 Garn. Why, to be sure, madam, I did hear him say, a little 
 snubbing before marriage would teach you to bear it the better 
 afterwards. 
 
 Oliv. To be gone a full hour, though he had only to get a bill 
 changed in the city ! How provoking ! 
 
 Garn. I'll lay my life, Mr. Leontine, that had twice as much 
 to do, is setting off by this time from his inn : and here you are 
 left behind. 
 
 Oliv. Well, let us be prepared for his coming, however. Are 
 you sure you have omitted nothing, Garnet ?
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Garn. Not a stick, madam all's here. Yet I wish I could 
 take the white and silver to be married in. It's the worst luck in 
 the world, in anything but white. I knew one Bett Stubbs, of 
 our town, that was married in red j and as sure as eggs is eggs, 
 the bridegroom and she had a miff before morning. 
 
 Oliv. No matter. I'm all impatience till we are out of the 
 house. 
 
 Garn. Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot the wedding- 
 ring ! The sweet little thing I don't think it would go on my 
 little finger. And what if I put in a gentleman's nightcap, in case 
 of necessity, madam? But here's Jarvis. 
 Enter JARVIS. 
 
 Oliv. O Jarvis, are you come at last ? We have been ready 
 this half hour. Now let's be going. Let us fly. 
 
 Jam. Ay, to Jericho \ for we shall have no going to Scotland 
 this bout, I fancy. 
 
 Oliv. How ! what's the matter ? 
 
 Jarv. Money, money, is the matter, madam. We have got no 
 money. What the plague do you send me of your fool's errand 
 for ? My master's bill upon the city is not worth a rush. Here 
 it is ; Mrs. Garnet may pin up her hair with it. 
 
 Oliv. Undone ! How could Honeywood serve us so ? What 
 shall we do ? Can't we go without it ? 
 
 Jarv. Go to Scotland without money ! To Scotland without 
 money ! Lord, how some people understand geography ! We 
 might as well set sail for Patagonia upon a cork-jacket. 
 
 Oliv. Such a disappointment ! What a base, insincere man 
 was your master, to serve us in this manner ! Is this his good- 
 nature ? 
 
 Jarv. Nay, don't talk ill of my master, madam, I won't bear to 
 hear anybody talk ill of him but myself. 
 
 Garn. Bless us ! now I think on't, madam, you need not be 
 under any uneasiness : I saw Mr. Leontine receive forty guineas 
 from his father just before he set out, and he can't yet have left 
 the inn. A short letter will reach him there. 
 
 Oliv. Well remembered, Garnet ; I'll write immediately. How's
 
 r 4 2 GOLDSMITH'S PL A KS 1 . 
 
 this ! Bless me, my hand trembles so, I can't write a word. Do 
 you write, Garnet ; and, upon second thought, it will be better 
 from you. 
 
 Garn. Truly, madam, I write and indite but poorly. I never 
 was 'cute at my learning. But I'll do what I can to please you. 
 Let me see. All out of my own head, I suppose ! 
 
 Oliv. Whatever you please. 
 
 Garn. ( Writing?) Muster Croaker Twenty guineas, madam ? 
 
 Oliv. Ay, twenty will do. 
 
 Garn. At the bar of the Talbot till called for. Expedition- 
 Will be blown up All of a flame Quick despatch Cupid, the 
 little god of love. I conclude it, madam, with Cupid : I love to 
 see a love-letter end like poetry. 
 
 Oliv. Well, well, what you please, anything. But how shall we 
 send it ? I can trust none of the servants of this family. 
 
 Garn. Odso, madam, Mr. Honeywood's butler is in the next 
 room : he's a dear, sweet man : he'll do anything for me. 
 
 Jarv. He ! the dog, he'll certainly commit some blunder. He's 
 drunk and sober ten times a-day. 
 
 Oliv. No matter. Fly, Garnet : anybody we can trust will do. 
 \Exit GARNET.] Well, Jarvis, now we can have nothing more to 
 interrupt us ; you may take up the things, and carry them on to 
 the inn. Have you no hands, Jarvis ! 
 
 Jarv. Soft and fair, young lady. You, that are going to be married, 
 think things can never be done too fast; but we, that are old, and 
 know what we are about, must elope methodically, madam. 
 
 Oliv. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to be done over 
 
 again 
 
 Jarv. My life for it, you would do them ten times over. 
 
 Oliv. Why will you talk so ? If you knew how unhappy they 
 make me 
 
 Jarv. Very unhappy, no doubt : I was once just as unhappy 
 when I was going to be married myself. I'll tell you a story 
 about that 
 
 Oliv. A story ! when I am all impatience to be away. Was 
 there ever such a dilatory creature !
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 143 
 
 Jarv. Well, madam, if we must march, why we will march, 
 that's all. Though, odds-bobs, we have still forgot one thing; 
 we should never travel without a case of good razors, and a box 
 of shaving powder. But no matter, I believe we shall be pretty 
 well shaved by the way. [Going. 
 
 Enter GARNET. 
 
 Garn. Undone, undone, madam. Ah, Mr. Jarvis, you said 
 right enough. As sure as death, Mr. Honeywood's rogue of a 
 drunken butler dropped the letter before he went ten yards from 
 the door. There's old Croaker has just picked it up, and is this 
 moment reading it to himself in the hall. 
 
 Oliv. Unfortunate ! we shall be discovered. 
 
 Garn. No, madam ; don't be uneasy, he can make neither 
 head nor tail of it. To be sure he looks as if he was broken loose 
 from Bedlam about it, but he can't find what it means for all that. 
 O lud, he is coming this way all in the horrors ! 
 
 Oliv. Then let us leave the house this instant, for fear he should 
 ask farther questions. In the meantime, Garnet, do you write 
 and send off just such another. [Exeunt 
 
 Enter CROAKER. 
 
 Croak. Death and destruction ! Are all the horrors of air, fire, 
 and water, to be levelled only at me ! Am I only to be singled 
 out for gunpowder-plots, combustibles, and conflagration ? Here- 
 it is An incendiary letter dropped at my door. " To Muster 
 Croaker, these with speed." Ay, ay, plain enough the direction : 
 all in the genuine incendiary spelling, and as cramp as the devil. 
 " With speed." O, confound your speed. But let me read it 
 once more. (Reads.) " Muster Croaker, as sone as yowe see this, 
 leve twenty gunnes at the bar of the Talboot tell caled for, or 
 yowe and yower experetion will be al blown up." Ah, but too 
 plain. Blood and gunpowder in every line of it. Blown up ! 
 murderous dog ! All blown up ! Heavens ! what have I and 
 my poor family done, to be all blown up ? (Reads.) " Our 
 pockets are low, and money we must have." Ay, there's the 
 reason ; they'll blow us up, because they have got low pockets.
 
 I 4 4 GOI.DSM1TITS PLA YS. 
 
 (Reads.) " It is but a short time you have to consider ; for if this 
 take wind, the house will quickly be all of a flame." Inhuman 
 monsters ! blow us up, and then burn us ! The earthquake at 
 Lisbon was but a bonfire to it. (Reads.) " Make quick despatch, 
 and so no more at present. But may Cupid, the little god of 
 love, go with you wherever you go." The little god of love ! 
 Cupid^ the little god of love, go with me ; go you to the devil, 
 you and your little Cupid together. I'm so frightened, I scarce 
 know whether I sit, stand, or go. Perhaps this moment I'm 
 treading on lighted matches, blazing brimstone, and barrels of 
 gunpowder. They are preparing to blow me up into the clouds. 
 Murder! We shall be all burnt in our beds; we shall be all 
 burnt in our beds. 
 
 Enter Miss RICHLAND. 
 
 Miss Rich. Lord, sir, what's the matter ? 
 
 Croak. Murder's the matter. We shall be all blown up in our 
 beds before morning. 
 
 Miss Rich. I hope not, sir. 
 
 Croak. What signifies what you hope, madam, when I have a 
 certificate of it here in my hand ; will nothing alarm my family ? 
 Sleeping and eating, sleeping and eating is the only work from 
 morning till night in my house. My insensible crew could sleep 
 though rocked by an earthquake, and fry beef steaks at a volcano. 
 
 Miss Rich. But, sir, you have alarmed them so often already ; 
 we have nothing but earthquakes, famines, plagues, and mad dogs, 
 from year's end to year's end. You remember, sir, it is not above 
 a month ago, you assured us of a conspiracy among the bakers to 
 poison us in our bread ; and so kept the whole family a week upon 
 potatoes. 
 
 Croak. And potatoes were too good for them. But why do I 
 stand talking here with a girl, when I should be facing the enemy 
 without? Here, John, Nicodemus, search the house. Look into 
 the cellars, to see if there be any combustibles below : and above, 
 in the apartments, that no matches be thrown in at the windows. 
 Let all the fires be put out, and let the engine be drawn out in 
 the yard, to play upon the house in case of necessity. \Exit.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 145 
 
 Miss Rich. (Alone). What can he mean by all this ? Yet why 
 should I inquire, when he alarms us in this manner almost every 
 day. But Honeywood has desired an interview with me in pri- 
 vate. What can he mean ? or rather, what means this palpitation 
 at his approach? It is the first time he ever showed anything in 
 his conduct that seemed particular. Sure he cannot mean to 
 but he's here. 
 
 Enter HONEYWOOD. 
 
 Honeyw. I presumed to solicit this interview, madam, before I 
 left town to be permitted 
 
 Miss Rich. Indeed ! Leaving town, sir ? 
 
 Honeyw. Yes, madam ; perhaps the kingdom. I have pre- 
 sumed, I say, to desire the favour of this interview, in order to 
 disclose something which our long friendship prompts. And yet 
 my fears 
 
 Miss Rich. His fears! What are his fears to mine! (Aside.) 
 We have indeed been long acquainted, sir ; very long. If I re- 
 member, our first meeting was at the French ambassador's. Do 
 you recollect how you were pleased to rally me upon my com- 
 plexion there ? 
 
 Honeyw. Perfectly, madam : I presumed to reprove you for 
 painting ; but your warmer blushes soon convinced the company 
 that the colouring was all from nature. 
 
 Miss Rich. And yet you only meant it in your good-natured 
 way, to make me pay a compliment to myself. In the same man- 
 ner you danced that night with the most awkward woman in com- 
 pany, because you saw nobody else -vould take her out. 
 
 Honeyw. Yes ; and was rewarded the next night by dancing 
 with the finest woman in company, whom everybody wished to 
 take out. 
 
 Miss Rich. Well, sir, if you thought so then, I fear your judg- 
 ment has since corrected the errors of a first impression. We 
 generally show to most advantage at first. Our sex are like poor 
 tradesmen, that put all their best goods to be seen at the windows. 
 
 Honeyw. The first impression, ruadam, did indeed deceive me. 
 I expected to find a woman with all the faults of conscious flattered
 
 146 GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. 
 
 beauty ; I expected to find her vain and insolent. But every day 
 has since taught me, that it is possible to possess sense without 
 pride, and beauty without affectation. 
 
 Miss Rich. This, sir, is a style very unusual with Mr. Honey- 
 wood ; and I should be glad to know why he thus attempts to 
 increase that vanity, which his own lessons have taught me to 
 despise. 
 
 Honeyw. I ask pardon, madam. Yet, from our long friendship 
 I presumed I might have some right to offer, without offence, what 
 you may refuse without offending. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir ! I beg you'd reflect : though I fear, I shall scarce 
 have any power to refuse a request of yours, yet you may be pre- 
 cipitate : consider, sir. 
 
 Honeyw. I own my rashness ; but as I plead the cause of friend- 
 ship, of one who loves Don't be alarmed, madam who loves 
 you with the most ardent passions, whose whole happiness is 
 placed in you 
 
 Miss Rich. I fear, sir, I shall never find whom you mean, by 
 this description of him. 
 
 Honeyw. Ah, madam, it but too plainly points him out ; though 
 he should be too humble himself to urge his pretensions, or you 
 too modest to understand them. 
 
 Miss Rich. Well ; it would be affectation any longer to pretend 
 ignorance ; and I will own, sir, I have long been prejudiced in 
 his favour. It was but natural to wish to make his heart mine, as 
 he seemed himself ignorant of its value. 
 
 Honeyw. I see she always loved him. (Aside.) I find, madam, 
 you're already sensible of his worth, his passion. How happy is 
 my friend, to be the favourite of one with such sense to distinguish 
 merit, and such beauty to reward it. 
 
 Miss Rich. Your friend, sir ? What friend ? 
 
 Honeyw. My best friend my friend, Mr. Lofty, madam. 
 
 Miss Rich. He, sir ! 
 
 Honeyw. Yes, he, madam. He is, indeed, what your warmest 
 wishes might have formed him ; and to his other qualities he adds 
 that of the most passionate regard for you.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Miss Rick. Amazement ! No more of this, I beg you, sir. 
 
 Honeyw. I see your confusion, madam, and know how to in- 
 terpret it. And, since I so plainly read the language of your 
 heart, shall I make my friend happy, by communicating your sen- 
 timents. 
 
 Miss Rich. By no means. 
 
 Honeyw. Excuse me, I must ; I know you desire it. 
 
 Miss Rich. Mr. Honeywood, let me tell you, that you wrong 
 my sentiments and yourself. When I first applied to your friend- 
 ship, I expected advice and assistance : but now, sir, I see that it 
 is in vain to expect happiness from him, who has been so bad an 
 economist of his own ; and that I must disclaim his friendship who 
 ceases to be a friend to himself. [Exit. 
 
 Honeyw. How is this ! she has confessed she loved him, and 
 yet she seemed to part in displeasure. Can I have done any 
 thing to reproach myself with ? No ; I believe not : yet after all, 
 these things should not be done by a third person : I should have 
 spared her confusion. My friendship carried me a little too far. 
 
 Enter CROAKER, with the letter in his hand, and MRS. CROAKER. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Ha ! ha ! ha ! And so, my dear, it's your supreme 
 wish that I should be quite wretched upon this occasion ? ha ! ha ! 
 
 Croak. (Mimicking.} Ha ! ha ! ha ! And so, my dear, it's your 
 supreme pleasure to give me no better consolation ? 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Positively, my dear; what is this incendiary stuff 
 and trumpery to me ? our house may travel through the air like 
 the house of Loretto, for aught I care, if I am to be miserable 
 in it. 
 
 Croak. Would to Heaven it were converted into a house of 
 correction for your benefit! Have we not everything to alarm 
 us ? Perhaps this very moment the tragedy is beginning. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Then let us reserve our distress till the rising of 
 the curtain, or give them the money they want, and have done 
 with them. 
 
 Croak. Give them my money ! And pray, what right have 
 they to my money ? 
 
 10 2
 
 i 4 8 GOLDSMITHS PLA VS. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. And pray, what right then have you to my good- 
 humour ? 
 
 Croak. And so your good-humour advises me to part with my 
 money ? Why then, to tell your good-humour a piece of my mind, 
 I'd sooner part with my wife. Here's Mr. Honey wood, see what 
 he'll say to it. My dear Honeywood, look at this incendiary 
 letter dropped at my door. It will freeze you with terror ; and 
 yet lovey here can read it can read it, and laugh. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Yes, and so will Mr. Honeywood. 
 
 Croak. If he does, I'll suffer to be hanged the next minute in 
 the rogue's place, that's all. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Speak, Mr. Honeywood ; is there anything more 
 foolish than my husband's fright upon this occasion ? 
 
 Honeyw. It would not become me to decide, madam; but, 
 doubtless, the greatness of his terrors now will but invite them to 
 renew their villany another time. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. I told you he'd be of my opinion. 
 
 Croak. How, sir ! do you maintain that I should lie down 
 tinder such an injury, and show, neither by my tears nor com- 
 plaints, that I have something of the spirit of a man in me ? 
 
 Honeyw. Pardon me, sir. You ought to make the loudest 
 complaints, if you desire redress. The surest way to have redress, 
 is to be earnest in the pursuit of it. 
 
 Croak. Ay, whose opinion is he of now ? 
 
 Mrs. Croak. But don't you think that laughing off our fears is 
 the best way ? 
 
 Honeyw. What is the best, madam, few can say ; but I'll main- 
 tain it to be a very wise way. 
 
 Croak. But we're talking of the best. Surely ths best way is to 
 face the enemy in the field, and not wait till he plunders us in our 
 very bed-chamber. 
 
 Honeyw. Why, sir, as to the best, that that's a very wise way too. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. But can anything be more absurd, than to double 
 our distresses by our apprehensions, and put it in the power of 
 every low fellow that can scrawl ten words of wretched spelling 
 to torment us ?
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Honeyw. Without doubt, nothing more absurd. 
 
 Croak. How ! would it not be more absurd to despise the 
 tattle till we are bit by the snake? 
 
 Honeyw. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. 
 
 Croak. Then you are of my opinion. 
 
 Honeyw. Entirely. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. And you reject mine? 
 
 Honeyw. Heavens forbid, madam ! No sure, no reasoning can 
 be more just than yours. We ought certainly to despise malice 
 if we cannot oppose it, and not make the incendiary's pen as fatal 
 to our repose as the highwayman's pistol. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. O ! then you think I'm quite right ? 
 
 Honeyw. Perfectly right. 
 
 Croak. A plague of plagues, we can't be both right. I ought 
 to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. My hat must be on my head, 
 or my hat must be off. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Certainly in two opposite opinions, if one be per< 
 fectly reasonable, the other can't be perfectly right. 
 
 Honeyw. And why may not both be right, madam ? Mr. 
 Croaker in earnestly seeking redress, and you in waiting the event 
 with good-humour? Pray, let me see the letter again. I have it. 
 This letter requires twenty guineas to be left at the bar of the 
 Talbot Inn. If it be indeed an incendiary letter, what if you and 
 I, sir, go there ; and when the writer comes to be paid for his 
 expected booty, seize him ? 
 
 Croak. My dear friend, it's the very thing ; the very thing. 
 While I walk by the door, you shall plant yourself in ambush near 
 the bar; burst out upon the miscreant like a masked battery; 
 extort a confession at once, and so hang him up by surprise. 
 
 Honeyw. Yes, but I would not choose to exercise too much 
 severity. It is my maxim, sir, that crimes generally punish them- 
 selves. 
 
 Croak. Well, but we may upbraid him a little, I suppose? 
 (Ironically.") 
 
 Honeyw. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. 
 
 Croak. Well, well, leave that to my own benevolence.
 
 i so GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, I do ; but remember that universal benevolence 
 is the first law of nature. [Exeunt HONEYWOOD and MRS. CROAKER. 
 
 Croak. Yes ; and my universal benevolence will hang the dog, 
 if he had as many necks as a hydra. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE An Inn. 
 
 Enter OLIVIA and JARVIS. 
 
 Oliv. Well, we have got safe to the inn, however. Now, if the 
 post-chaise were ready 
 
 Jar. The horses are just finishing their oats ; and, as they are 
 lot going to be married, they choose to take their own time. 
 
 Oliv. You are for ever giving wrong motives to my impatience. 
 
 Jar. Be as impatient as you will, the horses must take their own 
 time ; besides, you don't consider we have got no answer from our 
 fellow-traveller yet. If we hear nothing from Mr. Leontine, we have 
 only one way left us. 
 
 Oliv. What way? 
 
 Jar. The way home again. 
 
 Oliv. Not so. I have made a resolution to go, and nothing 
 shall induce me to break it. 
 
 Jar. Ay; resolutions are well kept when they jump with inclina- 
 tion. However, I'll go hasten things without And I'll call, too, 
 at the bar to see if anything should be left for us there. Don't be 
 in such a plaguy hurry, madam, and we shall go the faster, I 
 promise you. \Exit JARVIS. 
 
 Enter LANDLADY. 
 
 Land. What! Solomon, why don't you move? Pipes and tobacco 
 for the Lamb there. Will nobody answer? To the Dolphin; quick. 
 The Angel has been outrageous this half hour. Did your ladyship 
 call, madam ? 
 
 Oliv. No, madam. 
 
 Land. I find as you are for Scotland, madam. But that's no 
 business of mine; married or not married, I ask no questions. To 
 be sure we had a sweet little couple set oif from this two days ago
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. r S i 
 
 for the same place. The gentleman, for a tailor, was, to be sure, 
 as fine a spoken tailor as ever blew froth from a full pot. And the 
 young lady so bashful : it was near half an hour before we could 
 get her to finish a pint of raspberry between us. 
 
 Oliv. But this gentleman and I are not going to be married, I 
 assure you. 
 
 Land. May be not. That's no business of mine ; for certain, 
 Scotch marriages seldom turn out well. There was, of my own 
 knowledge, Miss Macfag, that married her father's footman alack- 
 a-day, she and her husband soon parted, and now keep separate 
 cellars in Hedge-lane. . 
 
 Oliv. A very pretty picture of what lies before me ! [Aside. 
 Enter LEONTINE. 
 
 Leont. My dear Olivia, my anxiety, till you were out of danger, 
 was too great to be resisted. I could not help coming to see you 
 set out, though it exposes us to a discovery. 
 
 Oliv. May everything you do prove as fortunate. Indeed, 
 Leontine, we have been most cruelly disappointed. Mr. Honey- 
 wood's bill upon the city has, it seems, been protested, and we have 
 been utterly at a loss how to proceed. 
 
 Leont. How ! an offer of his own too ! Sure he could not mean 
 to deceive us ? 
 
 Oliv. Depend upon his sincerity : he only mistook the desire 
 for the power of serving us. But let us think no more of it. I 
 believe the post-chaise is ready by this. 
 
 Land. Not quite, yet ; and, begging your ladyship's pardon, I 
 don't think your ladyship quite ready for the post-chaise. The 
 north road is a cold place, madam. I have a drop in the house of 
 as pretty raspberry as ever was tipt over tongue. Just a thimble- 
 ful to keep the wind off your stomach. To be sure, the last couple 
 we had here, they said it was a perfect nosegay. Ecod, I sent them 
 both away as good-natured Up went the blinds, round went the 
 wheels, and, " Drive away, post-boy," was the word. 
 Enter CROAKER. 
 
 Croak. Well, while my friend Honeywood is upon the post of
 
 r$2. GOLDSMITfTS FLA YS. 
 
 danger at the bar, it must be my business to have an eye about me 
 here. I think I know an incendiary's look ; for wherever the devil 
 makes a purchase, he never fails to set his mark. Ha ! who. have 
 we here? My son and daughter ! What can they be doing here ? 
 
 Land. I tell you, madam, it will do you good ; I think I know 
 by this time what's good for the north road. It's a raw night, 
 madam. Sir 
 
 Leont. Not a drop more, good madam. I should now take it as 
 a great favour if you hasten the horses, for I am afraid to be seen 
 myself. 
 
 Land. That shall be done. Wha, Solomon ! are you all dead 
 there ? Wha, Solomon, I say ! [Exit bawling. 
 
 Oliv. Well, I dread lest an expedition begun in fear should end 
 in repentance. Every moment we stay increases our danger, and 
 adds to my apprehensions. 
 
 Leont. There's no danger, trust me, my dear : there can be none. 
 If Honeywood has acted with honour, and kept my father, as he 
 promised, in employment till we are out of danger, nothing can 
 interrupt our journey. 
 
 Oliv. I have no doubt of Mr. Honeywood's sincerity, and even 
 his desire to serve us. My fears are from your father's suspicions. 
 A mind so disposed to be alarmed without cause, will be but too 
 ready when there's a reason. 
 
 Leont. Why let him, when we are out of his power. But, believe 
 me, Olivia, you have no great reason to dread his resentment. His 
 repining temper, as it does no manner of injury to himself, so will 
 it never do harm to others. He only frets to keep himself em- 
 ployed, and scolds for his private amusement. 
 
 Oliv. I don't know that ; but I'm sure, on some occasions, it 
 makes him look most shockingly. 
 
 CROAKER, discovering himself. 
 
 Croak. How does he look now ? How does he look now ? 
 
 Ohv. Ah! 
 
 Leont. Undone. 
 
 Croak. How do I look now ? Sir, I am your very humble ser 
 vant. Madam, I am yours. What, you are going off, are you? Then.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 153 
 
 first, if you please, take a word or two from me with you before 
 you go. Tell me first where you are going ; and when you have 
 told me that, perhaps I shall know as little as I did before. 
 
 Leont. If that be so, our answer might but increase your dis- 
 pleasure, without adding to your information. 
 
 Croak. I want no information from you, puppy : and you, too, 
 good madam, what answer have you got ? Eh ! (A cry without, 
 Stop him/} I think I heard a noise. My friend Honey wood with- 
 out has he seized the incendiary ? Ah, no, for now I hear no 
 more on't. 
 
 Leont. Honeywood without ! Then, sir, it was Mr. Honeywood 
 that directed you hither ? 
 
 Croak. No, sir, it was Mr. Honeywood conducted me hither. 
 
 Leont. Is it possible ? 
 
 Croak. Possible! Why he's in the house now, sir ; more anxious 
 about me than my own son, sir. 
 
 Leant. Then, sir, he's a villain. 
 
 Croak. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes most care of 
 your father ? I'll not bear it. I tell you, I'll not bear it. Honey- 
 wood is a friend to the family, and I'll have him treated as such. 
 
 Leont. I shall study to repay his friendship as it deserves. 
 
 Croak. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly he entered into my 
 griefs, and pointed out the means to detect them, you would love 
 him as I do. (A cry without, Stop him/} Fire and fury ! they have 
 seized the incendiary : they have the villain, the incendiary in view. 
 Stop him ! stop an incendiary ! a murderer ! stop him ! [Exit. 
 
 Oliv. Oh, my terrors ! What can this tumult mean ? 
 
 Leont. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr. Honeywood's sin- 
 cerity. But we shall have satisfaction : he shall give me instant 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Oliv. It must not be, my Leontine, if you value my esteem or 
 happiness. Whatever be our fate, let us not add guilt to our mis- 
 fortunes. Consider that our innocence will shortly be all that we 
 have left us. You must forgive him. 
 
 Leont. Forgive him ! has he not in every instance betrayed us ? 
 Forced me to borrow money from him, which appears a mere trick
 
 154 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 to delay us ; promised to keep my father engaged till we were out 
 of danger, and here brought him to the very scene of our escape? 
 Oliv. Don't be precipitate. We may yet be mistaken. 
 
 Enter POSTBOY, dragging in JARVIS ; HONEYWOOD entering soon 
 after. 
 
 Post. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. Here is the incen- 
 diary dog. I'm entitled to the reward ; I'll take my oath I saw 
 him ask for the money at the bar, and then run for it. 
 
 Honeyw. Come, bring him along. Let us see him. Let him learn 
 to blush for his crimes. (Discovering his mistake.) Death ! what's 
 here ? Jarvis, Leontine, Olivia ! What can all this mean ? 
 
 Jar. Why, I'll tell you what it means : that I was an old fool, 
 and that you are my master that's all. 
 
 Honeyw. Confusion ! 
 
 Leant. Yes, sir, I find you have kept your word with me. After 
 such baseness, I wonder how you can venture to see the man you 
 have injured. 
 
 Honeyw. My dear Leontine, by my life, my honour 
 
 Leant. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not continue to aggra- 
 vate baseness by hypocrisy. I know you, sir, I know you. 
 
 Honeyw. Why, won't you hear me ! By all that's just, I knew 
 not 
 
 Leont. Hear you, sir ! to what purpose ? I now see through all 
 your low arts ; your ever complying with every opinion ; your never 
 refusing any request : your friendship's as common as a prostitute's 
 favours, and as fallacious ; all these, sir, have long been contemp- 
 tible to the world, and are now perfectly so to me. 
 
 Honeyw. Ha ! contemptible to the world ; that reaches me. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Leont. All the seeming sincerity of your professions, I now find, 
 were only allurements to betray ; and all your seeming regret for 
 their consequences, only calculated to cover the cowardice of your 
 heart. Draw, villain 1 
 
 Enter CROAKER, out of breath. 
 Croak. Where is the villain? Where is the incendiary? (Seizing
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 155 
 
 the POSTBOY.) Hold him fast, the dog : he has the gallows in his 
 face. Come, you dog, confess ; confess all, and hang yourself. 
 
 Post. Zounds ! master, what do you throttle me for ? 
 
 Croak. (Beating him.} Dog, do you resist? do you resist? 
 
 Post. Zounds ! master, I'm not he ; there's the man that we 
 thought was the rogue, and turns out to be one of the company. 
 
 Croak. How ! 
 
 Honeyw. Mr. Croaker, we have all been under a strange mistake 
 here ; I find there is nobody guilty ; it was all an error ; entirely 
 an error of our own. 
 
 Croak. And I say, sir, that you're in an error ; for there's guilt 
 and double guilt, a plot, a damned Jesuitical, pestilential plot, and 
 I must have proof of it. 
 
 Honeyw. Do but hear me. 
 
 Croak. What ! you intend to bring 'em off, I suppose ? I'll heat 
 nothing. 
 
 Honeyw. Madam, you seem at least calm enough to hear reason. 
 
 Oliv. Excuse me. 
 
 Honeyw. Good Jarvis, let me, then, explain it to you. 
 
 Jar. What signifies explanations when the thing is done ? 
 
 Honeyw. Will nobody hear me ? Was there ever such a set, so 
 blinded by passion and prejudice? (To the Postboy.) My good 
 friend, I believe you'll be surprised when I assure you 
 
 Post. Sure me nothing I'm sure of nothing but a good beating. 
 
 Croak. Come, then you, madam, if you ever hope for any favour 
 or forgiveness, tell me sincerely all you know of this affair. 
 
 Oliv. Unhappily, sir, I'm but too much the cause of your sus- 
 picions. You see before you, sir, one that, with false pretences, 
 has stepped into your family to betray it ; not your daughter 
 
 Croak. Not my daughter ! 
 
 Oliv. Not your daughter but a mean deceiver who support 
 me, I cannot 
 
 Honeyw. Help, she's going ; give her air. 
 
 Croak. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the air ; I would not 
 hurt a hair of her head, whose ever daughter she may be not so 
 bad as that neither. [Exeunt all but CROAKER.
 
 i5 6 GOLDSMITHS PLA YS. 
 
 Croak. Yes, yes, all's out ; I now see the whole affair : my son 
 is either married, or going to be so, to this lady, whom he imposed 
 upon me as his sister. Ay, certainly so ; and yet I don't find it 
 afflicts me so much as one might think. There's the advantage of 
 fretting away our misfortunes beforehand, we never feel them when 
 they come. 
 
 Enter Miss RICHLAND and SIR WILLIAM. 
 
 Sir Wil. But how do you know, madam, that my nephew intends 
 setting off from this place ? 
 
 Miss Rich. My maid assured me he was come to this inn, and 
 my own knowledge of his intending to leave the kingdom suggested 
 the rest. But what do I see ! my guardian here before us ! Who, 
 my dear sir, could have expected meeting you here ? to what acci- 
 dent do we owe this pleasure ? 
 
 Croak. To a fool, I believe. 
 
 Miss Rich. But to what purpose did you corae ? 
 
 Croak. To play the fool. 
 
 Miss Rich. But with whom ? 
 
 Croak. With greater fools than myself. 
 
 Miss Rich. Explain. 
 
 Croak. Why, Mr. Honeywood brought me here, to do nothing, 
 now I am here ; and my son is going to be married to I don't know 
 who, that is here : so now you are as wise as I am. 
 
 Miss Rich. Married ! to whom, sir ? 
 
 Croak. To Olivia, my daughter, as I took her to be ; but who 
 the devil she is, or whose daughter she is, I know no more than 
 the man in the moon. 
 
 Sir Wil. Then, sir, I can inform you ; and, though a stranger, 
 yet you shall find me a friend to your family. It will be enough, 
 at present, to assure you, that both in point of birth and fortune 
 the young lady is at least your son's equal. Being left by her father. 
 Sir James Woodville 
 
 Croak. Sir James Woodville ! What, of the west? 
 
 Sir Wil. Being left by him, I say, to the care of a mercenary 
 wretch, whose only aim was to secure her fortune to himself, she 
 \vas sent to France, under pretence of education; and there every
 
 THE GOOD-KATURED MAM. 157 
 
 art was tried to fix her for life in a convent, contrary to her inclina- 
 tions. Of this I was informed upon my arrival at Paris ; and, as 
 I had been once her father's friend, I did all in my power to frus- 
 trate her guardian's base intentions. I had even meditated to 
 rescue her from his authority, when your son stepped in with more 
 pleasing violence, gave her liberty, and you a daughter. 
 
 Croak. But I intend to have a daughter of my own choosing, 
 sir. A young lady, sir, whose fortune, by my interest with those 
 who have interest, will be double what my son has a right to expect. 
 Do you know Mr. Lofty, sir ? 
 
 Sir Wil, Yes, sir ; and know that you are deceived in him. But 
 step this way, and I'll convince you. 
 
 [CROAKER and SIR WILLIAM seem to confer. 
 Enter HONEYWOOD. 
 
 Honeyw. Obstinate man, still to persist in his outrage ! Insulted 
 by him, despised by all. I now begin to grow contemptible even 
 to myself. How have I sunk by too great an assiduity to please ! 
 How have I over-taxed all my abilities, lest the approbation of a 
 single fool should escape me ! But all is now over. I have survived 
 my reputation, my fortune, my friendships, and nothing remains 
 henceforward for me but solitude and repentance. 
 
 Miss Rich. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that you are setting off, 
 without taking leave of your friends ? The report is, that you are 
 quitting England : can it be ? 
 
 Honeyw. Yes, madam ; and though I am so unhappy as to have 
 fallen under your displeasure ; yet, thank Heaven ! I leave you to 
 happiness ; to one who loves you, and deserves your love ; to one 
 who has power to procure you affluence, and generosity to improve 
 your enjoyment of it. 
 
 Miss Rich. And are you sure, sir, that the gentleman you mean 
 is what you describe him ? 
 
 Honeyw. I have the best assurances of it his serving me. He 
 does indeed deserve the highest happiness, and that is in your 
 power to confer. As for me, weak and wavering as I have been, 
 obliged by all, and incapable of serving any, what happiness can 
 I find but in solitude? what hope, but in being forgotten?
 
 I $8 GOLDSMITH'S PL A VS. 
 
 Miss Rich. A thousand ! to live among friends that esteem you. 
 whose happiness it will be to be permitted to oblige you. 
 
 Honeyw. No, madam, my resolution is fixed. Inferiority among 
 strangers is easy ; but among those that once were equals, insup- 
 portable. Nay, to show you how far my resolution can go, I can 
 now speak with calmness of my former follies, my vanity, my 
 dissipation, my weakness. I will even confess, that among the 
 number of my other presumptions, I had the insolence to think 
 of loving you. Yes, madam, while I was pleading the passion of 
 another, my heart was tortured with its own. But it is over ; it 
 was unworthy our friendship, and let it be forgotten. 
 
 Miss Rich. You amaze me ! 
 
 Honeyw. But you'll forgive it, I know you will ; since the con' 
 fession should not have come from me even now, but to convince 
 you of the sincerity of my intention of never mentioning it more. 
 
 Miss Rich. Stay, sir, one moment Ha ! he here 
 Enter LOFTY. 
 
 Loft. Is the coast clear ? None but friends ? I have followed 
 you here with a trifling piece of intelligence; but it goes no 
 farther, things are not yet ripe for a discovery. I have spirits 
 working at a certain board ; your affair at the treasury will be 
 done in less than a thousand years. Mum ! 
 
 Miss Rich. Sooner, sir, I should hope. 
 
 Loft. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into proper hands 
 that know where to push and where to parry ; that know how the 
 land lies eh, Honeywood ? 
 
 Miss Rich. It has fallen into yours. 
 
 Loft. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, your thing is 
 done. It is done, I say that's all. I have just had assurances 
 from Lord Neverout, that the claim has been examined, and found 
 admissible. Quietus is the word, madam. 
 
 Honeyw. But how? his lordship has been at Newmarket these 
 ten days. 
 
 Loft. Indeed ! Then, Sir Gilbert Goose must have been most 
 damnably mistaken. I had it of him.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 159 
 
 Miss Rich. He ! why, Sir Gilbert and his family have been in 
 the country this month. 
 
 Loft. This month ! it must certainly be so Sir Gilbert's letter 
 did come to me from Newmarket, so that he must have met his 
 lordship there ; and so it came about. I have his letter about 
 me; I'll read it to you. (Taking out a large bundle?) That's 
 from Paoli of Corsica, that from the Marquis of Squilachi. 
 Have you a mind to see a letter from Count Poniatowski, now 
 King of Poland ? Honest Pon (Searching). O, sir, what ! are 
 you here too ? I'll tell you what, honest friend, if you have not 
 absolutely delivered my letter to Sir William Honeywood, you 
 may return it. The thing will do without him. 
 
 Sir Wil. Sir, I have delivered it ; and must inform you, it was 
 received with the most mortifying contempt. 
 
 Croak. Contempt ! Mr. Lofty, what can that mean ? 
 
 Loft. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You'll find it come 
 to something presently. 
 
 Sir Wil. Yes, sir ; I believe you'll be amazed, if after waiting 
 some time in the ante-chamber, after being surveyed with insolent 
 curiosity by the passing servants, I was at last assured, that Sir 
 William Honeywood knew no such person, and I must certainly 
 have been imposed upon. 
 
 Loft. Good ! let me die ; very good. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Croak. Now, for my life, I can't find out half the goodness of it. 
 
 Loft. You can't ? Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Croak. No, for the soul of me ! I think it was as confounded 
 a bad answer as ever was sent from one private gentleman to 
 another. 
 
 Loft. And so you can't find out the force of the message. Why, 
 I was in the house at that very time. Ha ! ha ! it was I that sent 
 that very answer to my own letter. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Croak. Indeed! How? why? 
 
 Loft. In one word, things between Sir William and me must be 
 behind the curtain. A party has many eyes. He sides with Lord 
 Buzzard, I side with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the 
 mystery.
 
 160 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Croak. And so it does, indeed ; and all my suspicions are over. 
 
 Loft. Your suspicions ! What, then, you have been suspecting, 
 you have been suspecting, have you ? Mr. Croaker, you and I 
 were friends ; we are friends no longer. Never talk to me. It's 
 over ; I say, it's over. 
 
 Croak. As I hope for your favour, I did not mean to offend. It 
 escaped me. Don't be discomposed. 
 
 Loft. Zounds ! sir, but I am discomposed, and will be discom- 
 posed. To be treated thus ! Who am I ? Was it for this I have 
 been dreaded both by ins and outs ? Have I been libelled in the 
 Gazetteer, and praised in the St. James's ? have I been chaired at 
 Wildman's, and a speaker at Merchant-Tailor's Hall ? have I had 
 my hand to addresses, and my head in the print shops ; and talk 
 to me of suspects ? 
 
 Croak. My dear sir, be pacified. What can you have but ask- 
 ing pardon ? 
 
 Loft. Sir, I will not be pacified Suspects ! Who am I ? To 
 be used thus ! Have I paid court to men in favour to serve my 
 friends ; the lords of the treasury, Sir William Honeywood, and 
 the rest of the gang, and talk to me of suspects ? Who am I, I 
 say, who am I ? 
 
 Sir Wil. Since you are so pressing for an answer, I'll tell you 
 who you are : A gentleman as well acquainted with politics as 
 with men in power ; as well acquainted with persons of fashion as 
 with modesty : with lords of the treasury as with truth ; and withal, 
 as you are with Sir William Honeywood. I am Sir William Honey- 
 wood. (Discovering his ensigns of the Bath. ) 
 
 Croak. Sir William Honeywood ! 
 
 Honeyw. Astonishment! my uncle ! (Aside.} 
 
 Loft. So then, my confounded genius has been all this time only 
 leading me up to the garret, in order to fling me out of the window. 
 
 Croak. What, Mr. Importance, and are these your works? 
 Suspect you ! You, who have been dreaded by the ins and outs ; 
 you, who have had your hand to addresses, and your head stuck 
 up in print-shops. If you were served right, you should have 
 your head stuck up in a pillory.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. r6i 
 
 Loft. Ay, stick it where you will ; for, by the Lord, it cuts but a 
 very poor figure where it sticks at present. 
 
 Sir Wil. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you now see how incapable 
 this gentleman is of serving you, and how little Miss Richland has 
 to expect from his influence. 
 
 Croak. Ay, sir, too well I see it; and I can't but say I have 
 had some boding of it these ten days. So I am resolved, since 
 my son has placed his affections on a lady of moderate fortune, to 
 be satisfied with his choice, and not run the hazard of another 
 Mr. Lofty in helping him to a better. 
 
 Sir Wil. I approve your resolution ; and here they come to 
 receive a confirmation of your pardon and consent 
 
 Enter MRS. CROAKER, JARVIS, LEONTINE, and OLIVIA. 
 
 Mrs. Croak. Where's my husband ? Come, come, lovey, you 
 must forgive them. Jarvis here has been to tell me the whole 
 affair ; and I say, you must forgive them. Our own was a stolen 
 match, you know, my dear; and we never had any reason to 
 repent of it. 
 
 Ctvak. I wish we could both say so. However, this gentleman, 
 Sir William Honeywood, has been beforehand with you in obtain- 
 ing their pardon. So, if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, 
 I think we can tack them together without crossing the Tweed for 
 it. (Joining their hands.} 
 
 Leant. How blest and unexpected ! What, what can we say to 
 such goodness ? But our future obedience shall be the best 
 reply. And as for this gentleman, to whom we owe 
 
 Sir W. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your thanks, as I have 
 here an interest that calls me. (Turning to Honeywood} Yes, 
 sir, you are surprised to see me ; and a desire of correcting your 
 follies led me hither. I saw with indignation the errors of a mind 
 that only sought applause from others; that easiness of disposition, 
 which though inclined to the right, had not courage to condemn the 
 wrong. I saw with regret those splendid errors, that still took 
 name from some neighbouring duty ; your charity, that was but 
 injustice; your benevolence, that was but weakness; and your 
 
 ii
 
 GOLDSMITH'S P2AYS. 
 
 friendship, but credulity. I saw with regret great talents and ex- 
 tensive learning only employed to add sprightliness to error, and 
 increase your perplexities. I saw your mind with a thousand 
 natural charms ; but the greatness of its beauty served only to 
 heighten my pity for its prostitution. 
 
 Honeyw. Cease to upbraid me, sir ; I have for some time but 
 too strongly felt the justice of your reproaches. But there is one 
 way still left me. Yes, sir, I have determined this very hour to 
 quit for ever a place where I have made myself the voluntary 
 slave of all, and to seek among strangers that fortitude which may 
 give strength to the mind, and marshal all its dissipated virtues. 
 Yet, ere I depart, permit me to solicit favour for this gentleman ; 
 who, notwithstanding what has happened, has laid me under the 
 most signal obligations. Mr. Lofty 
 
 Loft. Mr. Honeywood, I'm resolved upon a reformation as well 
 as you. I now begin to find that the man who first invented the 
 art of speaking truth, was a much cunninger fellow than I thought 
 him. And to prove that I design to speak truth for the future, 
 I must now assure you that you owe your late enlargement 
 to another ; as, upon my soul, I had no hand in the matter. So 
 now, if any of the company has a mind for preferment, he may 
 take my place ; I'm determined to resign. [Exit. 
 
 Honeyw. How have I been deceived ! 
 
 Sir Wit. No, sir, you have been obliged to a kinder, fairer 
 friend, for that favour to Miss Richland. Would she complete 
 our joy, and make the man she has honoured by her friendship 
 happy in her love, I should then forget all, and be as blest as the 
 welfare of my dearest kinsman can make me. 
 
 Miss Rich. After what is past, it would but be affectation to 
 pretend to indifference. Yes, I will own an attachment, which I 
 find was more than friendship. And if my entreaties cannot alter his 
 resolution to quit the country, I will even try if my hand has not 
 power to detain him. (Giving her hand.} 
 
 Honeyiv. Heavens ! how can I have deserved all this ? How 
 express my happiness, my gratitude ? A moment like this over- 
 pays an age of apprehension.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. ib 3 
 
 Croak. Well, now I see content in every face ; but heaven send 
 we be all better this day three months ! 
 
 Sir Wil. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect yourself. He 
 who seeks only for applause from without, has all his happiness 'in 
 another's keeping. 
 
 Honeyw. Yes, sir, I now too plainly perceive my errors; my 
 vanity, in attempting to please all by fearing to offend any ; my 
 meanness in approving folly lest fools should disapprove. Hence- 
 forth, therefore, it shall be my study to reserve my pity for real 
 distress ; my friendship for true merit ; and my love for her, who 
 first taught me what it is to be happy. 
 
 EPILOGUE.* 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY. 
 
 j]S puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure 
 To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure ; 
 Thus, on the stage, our playwrights still depend 
 For epilogues and prologues on some frie-nd, 
 
 Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, 
 
 And make full many a bitter pill go down. 
 
 Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, 
 
 And teased each rhyming friend to help him out. 
 
 An epilogue ! things can't go on without it ! 
 
 It could not fail, would you but set about it. 
 
 " Young man," cries one, (a bard laid up in clover.) 
 
 " Alas, young man, my writing days are over ; 
 
 Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I ; 
 
 Your brother Doctor there, perhaps, may try." 
 
 " What, I ! dear sir," the Doctor interposes : 
 
 " What, plant my thistle, sir, among his roses ! 
 
 No, no, I've other contests to maintain ; 
 
 To-night I head our troops at Warwick Lane. 
 
 * The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at Oxford, de- 
 ferred writing one himself till the very last hour. What is here offered owes 
 all its success to the graceful manner of the actress who spoke it. 
 
 ii a
 
 164 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Go ask your manager." "Who ? me ! Your pardon 
 Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden." 
 Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance, 
 Give him good words indeed, but no assistance. 
 As some unhappy wight at some new play, 
 At the pit door stands elbowing away, 
 While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, 
 He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug ; 
 His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes, 
 Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise : 
 He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grimace ; 
 But not a soul will budge to give him place. 
 Since then, unhelped, our bard must now conform 
 " To 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm," 
 Blame where you must, be candid where you can, 
 And be each critic the Good-Natured Man. 
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER- 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. 
 
 JEAR SIR, By inscribing this slight performance to you, 
 I do not mean so much to compliment you as myself. 
 It may do me some honour to inform the public that I 
 have lived many years in intimacy with you. It may 
 serve the interests of mankind also to inform them, that the greatest 
 wit may be found in a character, without impairing the most un- 
 affected piety. 
 
 I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to 
 this performance. The undertaking a Comedy, not merely senti- 
 mental, was very dangerous : and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece 
 in its various stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. r 6j 
 
 to trust it to the public ; and, though it was necessarily delayed till 
 late in the season, I have every reason to be grateful. 
 
 I am, dear Sir, 
 Your most sincere Friend and Admirer, 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 Cast of the characters at Covent Garden in 1773. 
 
 Dig-gory- - - MR. SAUNDERS. 
 WOMEN. 
 
 MEN. 
 Sir Charles Marlow 
 
 MR. GARDNER. 
 
 Young Marlow (his son) 
 
 MR. LEWIS. 
 
 Hardcastle MR. SHUTER. 
 Hastings - - - MR. DUBELLAMY. 
 Tony Lumpkin MR. QUICK. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle - MRS. GREEN. 
 Miss Hardcastle MRS. BUCKLEY. 
 Miss Neville - - MRS. KNIVETON. 
 Maid - --- Miss WILLIAMS. 
 Landlord, Servants, 6f. 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. 
 
 Enter MR. WOODWARD, dressed in black, and holding a handkerchief 
 to his eyes. 
 
 CUSE me, sirs, I pray I can't yet speak, 
 
 I'm crying now and have been all the week. 
 
 " "Pis not alone this mourning suit," good masters. 
 
 " 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 play'r, I can't squeeze out one drop : 
 I am undone, that's all shall lose my bread 
 I'd rather but that's nothing lose my head. 
 When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, 
 Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here. 
 To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, 
 Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed ! 
 Poor Ned and I are dead, to all intents ; 
 We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments ! 
 Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, 
 We now and then take down a hearty cup.
 
 166 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. 
 
 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 fixed my face and eye 
 With a sententious look that nothing means, 
 (Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes) 
 Thus I begin" All is not gold that glitters, 
 Pleasures seem sweet, but prove a glass of bitters. 
 When ignorance enters, folly is at hand : 
 Learning is better far than house and 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 hear% 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 poisonous 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. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE A Chamber in an Old-fashioned House. 
 Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and MR. HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're very particular. Is 
 there a creature in the whole country but ourselves, that does not
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 167 
 
 take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the rust a little? 
 There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour, Mrs. Grigsby, go 
 to take a month's polishing every winter. 
 
 Hard. Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation to last them 
 the whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own 
 fools at home ! In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly 
 among us, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach. Its 
 fopperies come down not only as inside passengers, but in the 
 very basket. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ay, your times were fine times indeed ; you have 
 been telling us of them for many a long year. Here we live in 
 an old rumbling mansion that looks for all the world like an inn, 
 but that we never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. 
 Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing 
 master ; and all our entertainment your old stories of Prince 
 Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such old-fashioned 
 trumpery. 
 
 Hard. And I love it. I love everything that's old : old friends, 
 old times, old manners, old books, old wines ; and I believe, 
 Dorothy (taking far hand], you'll own I have been pretty fond of 
 an old wife. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for ever at your 
 Dorothys aud your old wives. You may be a Darby, but I'll be 
 no Joan, I promise you. I'm not so old as you'd make me by 
 more than one good year. Add twenty to twenty, and make 
 money of that. 
 
 Hard. Let me see; twenty added to twenty makes just fifty 
 and seven. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. 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. 
 
 Hard. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have 
 taught him finely. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. 
 My son is not to live by his learning. I don't think a boy wants 
 much learning to spend fifteen hundred a year.
 
 168 GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. 
 
 Hard. Learning, quotha ! a mere composition of tricks and 
 mischief. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Humour, my dear ; nothing but humour. Come, 
 Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little humour. 
 
 Hard. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If burning the 
 footman's shoes, frightening the maids, and worrying the kittens 
 be humour, 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 popped 
 my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Am I to blame ? The poor boy was always too 
 sickly to do any good. A school would be his death. When he 
 comes to be a little stronger, who knows what a year or two's 
 Latin may do for him ? 
 
 Hard. Latin for him ! A cat and fiddle. No, no ; the ale- 
 house and the stable are the only schools he'll ever go to. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I 
 believe we shan't have him long among us. Anybody that looks 
 in his face may see he's consumptive. 
 
 Hard. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. He coughs sometimes. 
 
 Hard. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I'm actually afraid of his lungs. 
 
 Hard. And truly so am I; for he sometimes whoops like a 
 speaking-trumpet (TONY, hallooing behind the scents.} Oh, there 
 he goes a very consumptive figure, truly. 
 
 Enter TONY, crossing the stage. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Tony, where are you going, my charmer? Won't 
 you give papa and me a little of your company, lovee ? 
 
 Tony. I'm in haste, mother ; I cannot stay. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. You shan't venture out this raw evening, my dear ; 
 you look most shockingly. 
 
 Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me 
 down every moment. There's some fun going forward. 
 
 Hard. Ay ; the alehouse ; the old place ; I thought so. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. A low, paltry sef "f fellows.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 169 
 
 Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Muggins the excise- 
 man, Jack Slang, the horse doctor, little Aminadab that grinds the 
 music box, and Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for one night at 
 least. 
 
 Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not so much mind ; 
 but I can't abide to disappoint myself. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. (Detaining him.) You shan't go. 
 
 Tony. I will, I tell you. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I say you shan't. 
 
 Tony. We'll see which is the strongest, you or I. 
 
 [Exit, hauling her out. 
 
 Hard, (solus). Ay, there goes a pair that only spoil each 
 other. But is not the whole age in a combination to drive sense 
 and discretion out of doors ? There's my pretty darling Kate ! 
 the fashions of the times have almost infected her too. By 
 living a year or two in town, she's as fond of gauze and French 
 frippery as the best of them. 
 
 Enter Miss HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Hard. Blessings on my pretty innocence ! dressed out as usual, 
 my Kate. Goodness ! What a quantity of superfluous silk hast 
 thou got about thee, girl ! I could never teach the fools of this 
 age that the indigent world could be clothed out of the trimmings 
 of the vain. 
 
 Miss Hard. You know our agreement, sir. You allow me the 
 morning to receive and pay visits, and to dress in my own manner; 
 and in the evening I put on my housewife's dress to please you. 
 
 Hard. Well, remember I insist on the terms of our agreement ; 
 and, by-the-by, I believe I shall have occasion to try your 
 obedience this very evening. 
 
 Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I don't comprehend your meaning. 
 
 Hard. Then to be plain with you, Kate, I expect the young 
 gentleman I have chosen to be your husband from town this very 
 day. I have his r ather's letter, in which he informs me his son is 
 set out, and that he intends to follow himself shortly after.
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Miss Hard. Indeed ! I wish I had known something of this 
 before. Bless me ! how shall I behave ? It's a thousand to one 
 I shan't like him ; our meeting will be so formal, and so like a 
 thing of business, that I shall find no room for friendship or esteem. 
 
 Hard. Depend upon it, child, I never will control your choice; 
 but Mr. Marlow, whom I have pitched upon, is the son of my old 
 friend, Sir Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk so 
 often. The young gentleman has been bred a scholar, and is de- 
 signed for an employment in the service of his country. I am told 
 he's a man of an excellent understanding. 
 
 Miss Hard. Is he? 
 
 Hard. Very generous. 
 
 Miss Hard. I believe I shall like him. 
 
 Hard. Young and brave. 
 
 Miss Hard. I'm sure I shall like him. 
 
 Hard. And very handsome. 
 
 Miss Hard. My dear papa, say no more (kissing his hancT), he's 
 mine ; I'll have him. 
 
 Hard. And to crown all, Kate, he's one of the most bashful 
 and reserved young fellows in all the world. 
 
 Miss Hard. Eh ! you have frozen me to death again. That 
 word reserved has undone all the rest of his accomplishments. A 
 reserved lover, it is said, always makes a suspicious husband. 
 
 Hard. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides in a breast that 
 is not enriched with nobler virtues. It was the very feature in his 
 character that first struck me. 
 
 Miss Hard. He must have more striking features to catch me, I 
 promise you. However, if he be so young, so handsome, and so 
 everything as you mention, I believe he'll do still. I think I'll 
 have him. 
 
 Hard. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. It's more than 
 an even wager he may not have you. 
 
 Miss Hard. My dear papa, why will you mortify one so? 
 Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking my heart at his indiffer- 
 ence, I'll only break my glass for its flattery, set my cap to some 
 newer fashion, and look out for some less difficult admirer.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hard. Bravely resolved ! In the meantime, 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 Hard. (Alone). Lud, this news of papa's puts me all in a 
 flutter. Young, handsome ; these he put last ; but I put them 
 foremost. Sensible, good-natured; I like all that. But then 
 reserved and sheepish, that's much against him. Yet can't he be 
 cured of his timidity, by being taught to be proud of his wife ? 
 Yes ; and can't I ? but I vow I'm disposing of the husband, be- 
 fore I have secured the lover. 
 
 Enter Miss NEVILLE. 
 
 Miss Hard. I'm glad you're come, Neville, my dear. Tell me, 
 Constance, how do I look this evening ? Is there anything whim- 
 sical about me ? Is it one of my well-looking days, child ? am I 
 in face to-day ? 
 
 Miss Nev. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look again bless 
 me ! sure no accident has happened among the canary birds or 
 the gold fishes. Has your brother or the cat been meddling ? or 
 has the last novel been too moving ? 
 
 Miss Hard. No ; nothing of all this. I have been threatened 
 I can scarce get it out I have been threatened with a lover. 
 
 Miss Nev. And his name 
 
 Miss Hard. Is Marlow. 
 
 Miss Nev. Indeed ! 
 
 Miss Hard. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. 
 
 Miss Nev. As I live, the most intimate friend of Mr. Hastings, 
 my admirer. They are never asunder. I believe you must have 
 seen him when we lived in town. 
 
 Miss Hard. Never. 
 
 Miss Nev. He's a very singular character, I assure you. Among 
 women of reputation and virtue, he is the modestest man alive ; 
 but his acquaintance give him a very different character among 
 creatures of another stamp ; you understand me. 
 
 Miss Hard. An odd character indeed. I shall never be able 
 to manage him. What shall I do ? Pshaw ! think no more of him,
 
 172 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 but trust to occurrences for success. But how goes on your own 
 affair, my dear ? has my mother been courting you for my brother 
 Tony as usual ? 
 
 Miss Nev. I have just come from one of our agreeable tete-a- 
 tctes. She has been saying a hundred tender things, arid setting 
 off her pretty monster as the very pink of perfection. 
 
 Miss Hard, And her partiality is such, that she actually thinks 
 him so. A fortune like yours is no small temptation. Besides, as 
 she has the sole management of it, I'm not surprised to see hei 
 unwilling to let it go out of the family. 
 
 Miss Nev. A fortune like mine, which chiefly consists in jewels, 
 is no such mighty temptation. But at any rate, if my dear Hastings 
 be but constant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at last. 
 However, I let her suppose that I am in love with her son ; and 
 she never once dreams that my affections are fixed upon another. 
 Miss Hard. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost 
 love him for hating you so. 
 
 Miss Nev. It is a good-natured creature at bottom ; and I'm 
 sure would wish to see me married to anybody but himself. But 
 my aunt's bell rings for our afternoon's walk round the improve- 
 ments. Allons ! Courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical. 
 Miss Hard. " Would it were bed-time, and all were well." 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE An Alehouse Room. 
 
 Sei'eral shabby fellows with punch and tobacco. TONY at the head 
 of the table, a little higher than the rest, a mallet in his hand. 
 Omnes. Hurrea ! hurrea ! hurrea ! bravo ! 
 First Pel. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The 'squire is 
 going to knock himself down for a song. 
 Omnes. Ay, a song ! a song ! 
 
 Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon this 
 alehouse, the Three Pigeons. 
 
 SONG. 
 Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain, 
 
 With grammar, and nonsense, and learning; 
 Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, 
 Gives genus a better discernin/j.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 173 
 
 Let them brag of their heathenish gods. 
 
 Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians, 
 Their qui's, and their quse's, and their quods, 
 
 They're all but a parcel of pigeons. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, torolL 
 
 When methodist preachers come down, 
 
 A-preaching that drinking is sinful, 
 I'll wager the rascals a crown, 
 
 They always preach best with a skinful. 
 But when you come down with your pence, 
 
 For a slice of their scurvy religion, 
 I'll leave it to all men of sense, 
 
 But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, 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 a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 
 
 Omnes. Bravo ! bravo ! 
 
 First Pel. The 'squire has got spunk in him; 
 
 Second Pel. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays he never gives us 
 nothing that's low. 
 
 Third FeL O d any thing that's low, I cannot bear it. 
 
 Fourth Fel. The genteel thing is the genteel thing at any time : 
 if so be that a gentleman bees in a concatentation accordingly. 
 
 Third FeL I like the maxum of it, Master Muggins. What, 
 though I am obligated to dance a bear, a man may be a gentleman 
 for all that May this be my poison, if my bear ever dances but 
 to the very genteelest of tunes ; ' Water parted,' or ' The minuet 
 in Ariadne.' 
 
 Second FeL What a pity it is the 'squire is not come to his own ( 
 It would be well for all the publicans within ten miles round of 
 him. 
 
 Tony. Ecod ! and so it would, Master Slang ; I'd then show what 
 it was to keep choice of company. 
 
 Second FeL O, he takes after his own father for that. To be
 
 174 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. 
 
 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 pro- 
 mise you. I have been thinking of Bet Bouncer and the miller's 
 grey mare to begin with. But come, my boys, drink about and be 
 merry, for you pay no reckoning. Well, Stingo, what's the matter? 
 Enter LANDLORD. 
 
 Land. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door. 
 They have lost their way upon the forest ; and they are talking 
 something about Mr. Hardcastle. 
 
 Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentleman 
 that's coming down to court my sister. Do they seem to be Lon- 
 doners ? 
 
 Land. I believe they may. They look woundily like French- 
 men. 
 
 Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I'll set them right 
 in a twinkling. (Exit LANDLORD). Gentlemen, as they mayn't be 
 good enough company for you, step down for a moment, and I'll 
 be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. [Exeunt Mob. 
 
 Tony (alone). Father-in-law has been calling me whelp and 
 hound this half-year. Now if I pleased, I could be so revenged 
 upon the old grumbletonian ! But then I'm afraid afraid of what? 
 I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a year, and let him frighten 
 me out of that if he can. 
 
 Enter LANDLORD conducting MARLOW and HASTINGS. 
 
 Mar. What a tedious uncomfortable day have we had of it ! 
 We were told it was but forty miles across the country, and we 
 have come above threescore. 
 
 Hast. And all, Marlow, from that unaccountable reserve of 
 yours, that would not let us inquire more frequently on the way. 
 
 Mar. 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.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hast. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any 
 answer. 
 
 Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told you have been in- 
 quiring for one Mr. Hardcastle in these parts. Do you know what 
 part of the country you are in ? 
 
 Hast. Not in the least, sir, but should thank you for infor- 
 mation. 
 
 Tony. Nor the way you came ? 
 
 Hast. No, sir; but if you can inform us 
 
 Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you are 
 going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, the first thing 
 I have to inform you is, that you have lost your way. 
 
 Mar. 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 ? 
 
 Mar. That's not necessary toward directing us where we are 
 to go. 
 
 Tony. No offence ; but question for question is all fair, you 
 know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross- 
 grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face, a 
 daughter, and a pretty son ? 
 
 Hast. We have not seen the gentleman ; but he has the family 
 you mention. 
 
 Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talkative may- 
 pole ; the son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that everybody 
 is fond of? 
 
 Mar. 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-strings. 
 
 Tony. He-he-hem ! Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, 
 that you won't reach Mr. Hardcastle's house this night, I believe. 
 
 Hast. Unfortunate ! 
 
 Tony. It's a d -- d long, dark, boggy, dirty, dangerous way. 
 Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle's ! ( Winking 
 upon the LANDLORD.) Mr. Hardcastle's of Quagmire Marsh ? you 
 understand me ?
 
 I 7 6 GOLDSMITHS PLA YS. 
 
 Land. Master Hardcastle's ! lack-a-daisy, my masters, you're 
 come a deadly deal wrong ! When you came the bottom of 
 the hill, you should have crossed down Squash Lane. 
 
 Mar. Crossed down Squash Lane ! 
 
 Land. Then you were to keep straight forward, till you came to 
 four roads. 
 
 Mar. Come to where four roads meet ? 
 
 Tony. Ay ; but you must be sure to take only one of them. 
 
 Mar. 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. 
 
 Mar. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out the longitude ! 
 
 Hast. What's to be done, Marlow ? 
 
 Mar. This house promises but a poor reception ; though per- 
 haps the landlord can accommodate us. 
 
 Land. Alack, master ! we have but one spare bed in the whole 
 house. 
 
 Tony. And, to my knowledge, that's taken up by three lodgers 
 already. (After a pause, in which the rest seem disconcerted.} I have 
 it. Don't you think, Stingo, our landlady could accommodate 
 the gentlemen by the fireside, with three chairs and a bolster ? 
 
 Hast. I hate sleeping by the fireside. 
 
 Mar. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster. 
 
 Tony. You do, do you? then, let me see what if you go on 
 a mile farther, to the Buck's Head ; the old Buck's Head, on the 
 hill, one of the best inns in the whole county? 
 
 Hast. O ho ! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, 
 however. 
 
 Land. (Apart to Tony.) Sure, you ben't sending them to your 
 father's as an inn, be you ? 
 
 Tony. Mum, you fool you. Let them find that out. (To i/iem.) 
 You have only to keep on straight forward, till you come to a
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. i) 7 
 
 large old house by the road side. You'll see a pair of large horns 
 over the door. That's the sign. Drive up the yard and call 
 stoutly about you. 
 
 Hast. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants can't miss the 
 way? 
 
 Tony. No, no ; but I tell you, though, the landlord is rich, and 
 going to leave off business ; so he wants to be thought a gentle- 
 man, saving your presence, he ! he ! He'll be for giving you his 
 company ; and, ecod ! if you mind him, he'll persuade you that 
 his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of peace. 
 
 Land. A troublesome old blade, to be sure ; but he keeps as 
 good wines and beds as any man in the whole country. 
 
 Mar. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no further 
 connection. We are to turn to the right, did you say ? 
 
 Tony. No, no ; straight forward, I'll just step myself, and show 
 you a piece of the way. (To the Landlord.} Mum ! 
 
 Land. Ah ! bless your heart, for a sweet, pleasant d d 
 
 mischievous fool. \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE An Old-fashioned House. 
 Enter HARDCASTLE, followed by three or four awkward SERVANTS. 
 
 Hard. WELL, I hope you are perfect in the table exercise I 
 have been teaching you these three days. You all know your 
 posts and your places, and can show that you have been used to 
 good company, without ever stirring from home. 
 
 Omnes. Ay, ay. 
 
 Hard. When company comes, you are not to pop out and 
 stare, and then run in again, like frighted rabbits in a warren. 
 
 Omnes. No, no. 
 
 Hard. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to 
 make a show at the side-table ; and you, Roger, whom I have 
 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, 
 
 12
 
 GOLDSMITHS PL A YS. 
 
 you blockhead you. See how Diggory carries his hands. They're 
 a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter. 
 
 Dig. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my hands 
 this way, when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being 
 upon drill - 
 
 Hard. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. You must be 
 all attention to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think 
 of talking ; you must see us drink, and not think of drinking ; 
 you must see us eat, and not think of eating. 
 
 Dig. By the laws, your worship, that's perfectly unpossible. 
 Whenever Diggory sees eating going forward, ecod ! he's always 
 wishing for a mouthful himself. 
 
 Hard. Blockhead ! Is not a bellyful in the kitchen as good 
 as a bellyful in the parlour? Stay your stomach with that re- 
 flection. 
 
 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 part of the company. 
 
 Dig. Then ecod ! your worship must not tell the story of Old 
 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 ! 
 
 Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The story is a good one. Well, honest 
 Diggory, you may laugh at that but still remember to be atten- 
 tive. Suppose one of the company should call for a glass of wine, 
 how will you behave? A glass of wine, sir, if you please. (To 
 Diggory) Eh, why don't you move ? 
 
 Dig. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage till I see the 
 eatables and drinkables brought upon the table, and then I'm as 
 bauld as a lion. 
 
 Hard. What, will nobody move ? 
 
 first Serv. I'm not to leave this place. 
 
 Second Serv. I'm sure it's no place of mine. 
 
 Third Serv. Nor mine* for sartain.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 179 
 
 Dig. Wauns ! and I'm sure it canna be mine. 
 
 Hard. You numbskulls ! and so while, like your betters, you 
 are quarrelling for places, the guests must be starved. O you 
 
 dunces ! I find I must begin all over again But don't I hear 
 
 a coach drive into the yard ? To your posts, you blockheads. 
 I'll go in the meantime and give my old friend's son a hearty re- 
 ception at the gate. [Exit HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Dig. By the elevens ! my place is gone quite out of my head. 
 
 Roger, I know that my place is to be everywhere. 
 
 First Serv. Where the devil is mine ? 
 
 Second Serv. My place is to be nowhere at all ; and so I'ze go 
 about my business. 
 
 [Exeunt SERVANTS, running about, as if frightened, 
 different ways. 
 
 Enter SERVANT with candles, showing in MARLOW and HASTINGS. 
 
 Serv. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome ! This way. 
 
 Hast. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once 
 more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room and a good fire. 
 Upon my word, a very well-looking house ; antique, but creditable. 
 
 Mar. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined 
 the master by good house-keeping, it at last comes to levy contri- 
 butions as an inn. 
 
 Hast. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all 
 these fineries. I have often seen a good sideboard, or a marble 
 chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame a 
 reckoning confoundedly. 
 
 Mar. Travellers, George, must 'pay in all places ; the only 
 difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries, in bad 
 inns you are fleeced and starved. 
 
 Hast. You have lived pretty much among thef-i. 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. 
 
 Mar. 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 
 
 \2 2
 
 iSo GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. 
 
 lovely part of the creation that chiefly teach men confidence. I 
 don't know that I was ever familiarly acquainted with a single 
 modest woman, except my mother. But among females of another 
 class you know 
 
 Hast. Ay, among them you are impudent enough of all con- 
 science. 
 
 Mar. They are of us, you know. 
 
 Hast. But in the company of women of reputation I never saw 
 such an idiot, such a trembler ; you look for all the world as if 
 you wanted an opportunity of stealing out of the room. 
 
 Mar. Why, man, that's because I do want to steal out of the 
 room. Faith, I have often formed a resolution to break the ice, 
 and rattle away at any rate. But I don't know how, a single 
 glance from a pair of fine eyes has totally overset my resolution. 
 An impudent fellow may counterfeit modesty, but I'll be hanged 
 if a modest man can ever counterfeit impudence. 
 
 Hast. If you could but say half the fine things to them, that I 
 have heard you lavish upon the bar-maid of an inn, or even a 
 college bedmaker 
 
 Mar. Why, George, I can't say fine things to them ; they freeze, 
 they petrify me. They may talk of a comet, or a burning moun- 
 tain, 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. 
 
 Hast. Ha ! ha ! ha ! At this rate, man, how can you ever 
 expect to marry ? 
 
 Mar. Never ; unless, as among kings and princes, my bride 
 were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like an eastern bride- 
 groom, one were to be introduced to a wife he never saw before, 
 it might be endured. But to go through all the terrors of a formal 
 courtship, together with the episode of aunts, grandmothers, and 
 cousins, and at last to blurt out the broad staring question of, 
 " Madam, will you marry me ?" No, no ; that's a strain much 
 above me, I assure you. 
 
 Hast. I pity you. But how do you intend behaving to the 
 lady you are come down to visit at the request of your father ?
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Mar. As I behave to all other ladies. Bow very low : answer 
 yes or no to all her demands But for the rest, I don't think I 
 shall venture to look in her face till I see my father's again. 
 
 Hast. I'm surprised that one who is so warm a friend, can be 
 so cool a lover. 
 
 Mar. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my chief inducement 
 down was to be instrumental in forwarding your happiness, not 
 my own. Miss Neville loves you, the family don't know you ; as 
 my friend you are sure of a reception, and let honour do the rest. 
 
 Ifasi. 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. 
 
 Mar. 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 unprepossessing visage of mine, can never permit 
 me to soar above the reach of a milliner's 'prentice, or one of the 
 duchesses of Drury Lane. Pshaw ! this fellow here to interrupt us. 
 Enter HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Hard. 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. 
 
 Mar. (Aside.} He has got our names from the servants already. 
 (To him.) We approve your caution and hospitality, sir. (To 
 Hastings.) I have been thinking, George, of changing our travelling 
 dresses in the morning. I am grown confoundedly ashamed of 
 mine. 
 
 Hard. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this 
 house. 
 
 Hast. I fancy, Charles, you're right : the first blow is half the 
 battle. I intend Opening the campaign with the white and gold. 
 
 Hard. Mr. Marlow Mr. Hastings gentlemen pray, be under
 
 <SOLDSMlTfTS PLA 75. 
 
 no restraint in (his house. This is Liberty Hall, gentlemen. You 
 may do just as you please here. 
 
 Mar. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, 
 we may want ammunition before it is over. I think to reserve 
 the embroidery to secure a retreat. 
 
 Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in mind 
 of the Duke of Marlborough, when we went to besiege Denain. 
 He first summoned the garrison . 
 
 Mar. Don't you think the venire (Tor waistcoat will do with the 
 plain brown ? 
 
 Hard. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of 
 about five thousand men 
 
 Hast. I think not : brown and yellow mix but very poorly. 
 
 Hard. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned 
 the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men 
 
 Mar. The girls like finery. 
 
 Hard. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well 
 appointed with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. 
 Now, says the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood 
 next to him you must have heard of George Brooks I'll pawn 
 my dukedom, says he, but I take that garrison without spilling a 
 drop of blood. So 
 
 Mar. What, my good friend, if you gave us a glass of punch in 
 the meantime, it would help us to carry on the siege with vigour. 
 
 Hard. Punch, sir ! (Aside.) This is the most unaccountable 
 kind of modesty I ever met with. 
 
 Mar. 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. 
 
 Hard. Here's a cup, sir. 
 
 Mar. (Aside.) So this fellow, in his Liberty Hall, will only let 
 us have just what he pleases. 
 
 Hard. (Taking the cup.) I hope you'll find it to your mind. I 
 have prepared it with my own hands, and I believe you'll own the 
 ingredients are tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me,
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, 183 
 
 sir? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. 
 (Drinks,) 
 
 Mar. (Aside.) A very impudent fellow this ! but he's a cha- 
 racter, and I'll humour him a little. Sir, my service to you. 
 (Drinks.) 
 
 Hast. (Aside.) I see this fellow wants to give us his company, 
 and forgets that he's an innkeeper, before he has learned to be a 
 gentleman. 
 
 Mar. 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 ? 
 
 Hard. No, sir, I have long given that work over. Since our 
 betters have hit upon the expedient of electing each other, there 
 is no business " for us that sell ale." 
 
 Hast. So then you have no turn for politics, I find. 
 
 Hard. Not in the least. There was a time, indeed, I fretted 
 myself about the mistakes of government, like other people, but 
 finding myself every day grow more angry, and the government 
 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. 
 
 Hast. So that with eating above stairs, and drinking below, 
 with receiving your friends within, and amusing them without, 
 you lead a good pleasant bustling life of it. 
 
 Hard. I do stir about a great deal, that's certain. Half the 
 differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlour. 
 
 Mar. (After drinking.) And you have an argument in your cup, 
 old gentleman, better than any in Westminster Hall. 
 
 Hard. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy. 
 
 Mar. (Aside) Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an 
 innkeeper's philosophy ! 
 
 Hast. So then, like an experienced general, you attack them on 
 every quarter. If you find their reason manageable, you attack it 
 with your philosophy ; if you find they have no reason, you attack 
 them with this. Here's your health, my philosopher. (Drinks.) 
 
 Hard. Good, very good, thank you ha ! ha ! ha ! Your
 
 184 GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. 
 
 generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought 
 the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hear. 
 
 Mar. 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 ? 
 
 Hard. For supper, sir ! (Aside.) Was ever such a request made 
 to a man in his own house ! 
 
 Mar. Yes, sir, supper, sir ; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall 
 make devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you. 
 
 Hard. (Aside.) Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. 
 (To him.) Why really, sir, as for supper, I can't well tell. My 
 Dorothy and the cook-maid settle these things between them. I 
 leave these kind of things entirely to them. 
 
 Mar. You do, do you ? 
 
 Hard. Entirely. By-the-by, I believe they are in actual con- 
 sultation upon what's for supper this moment in the kitchen. 
 
 Mar. 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? 
 
 Hard. O no, sir, none in the least ; yet I don't know how ; our 
 Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very communicative upon these 
 occasions. Should we send for her, she might scold us all out of 
 the house. 
 
 Hast. Let's see your list of the larder, then. I ask it as a 
 favour. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare. 
 
 Mar. (To HARDCASTLE, who looks at them with surprised) Sir, 
 he's very right, and it's my way too. 
 
 Hard. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger, 
 bring us the bill of fare for to-night's supper : I believe it's drawn 
 out. Your manner, Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, 
 Colonel Wallop. It was a saying of his, that no man was sure of 
 his supper till he had eaten it. 
 
 Re-enter ROGER. 
 Hast. (Aside.) All upon the high rope ! His uncle a colonel !
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 185 
 
 we shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of peace. But 
 let's hear the bill of fare. 
 
 Mar. (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 corpora- 
 tion of Bedford, to eat up such a supper ? Two or three little 
 things, clean and comfortable, will do. 
 
 Hast. But let's hear it. 
 
 Mar. (Reading.) " For the first course at the top, a pig, and 
 pruin sauce." 
 
 Hast. Damn your pig, I say. 
 
 Mar. And damn your pruin sauce, say I. 
 
 Hard. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig with 
 pruin sauce is very good eating. 
 
 Mar. " At the bottom a calf's tongue and brains." 
 
 Hast. Let your brains be knocked out, my good sir, I don't 
 like them. 
 
 Mar. Or you may clap them on a plate by themselves. 
 
 Hard. (Aside.) Their impudence confounds me. (To them.) 
 Gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations you please. 
 Is there anything else you wish to retrench or alter, gentlemen ? 
 
 Mar. Item. " A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and sausages, a Floren- 
 tine, a shaking pudding, and a dish of tiff taff taffety cream." 
 
 Hast. Confound your made dishes ; I shall be as much at a 
 loss in this house as at a green and yellow dinner at the French 
 ambassador's table. I'm for plain eating. 
 
 Hard. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing you like, but 
 if there be anything you have a particular fancy to 
 
 Mar. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any 
 one part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. 
 So much for supper. And now to see that our beds are aired, and 
 properly taken care of. 
 
 Hard. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not stir 
 a step. 
 
 Mar. Leave that to you ! I protest, sir, you must excuse me, 
 I always look to these things myself.
 
 i86 GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. 
 
 Hard. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself easy on. that 
 head. 
 
 Mar. You see I'm resolved on it. (Aside.) A very trouble- 
 some fellow this, as I ever met with. 
 
 Hard. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you. (Aside.) 
 This may be modern modesty, but I never saw anything look so 
 like old-fashioned impudence. 
 
 [Exeunt MARLOW and HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Hast. (Alone.) So I find this fellow's civilities begin to grow 
 troublesome. But who can be angry at those assiduities which 
 are meant to please him ? Ha ! what do I see ? Miss Neville, 
 by all that's happy ! 
 
 Enter Miss NEVILLE. 
 
 Miss Nev. My dear Hastings ! To what unexpected good 
 fortune, to what accident, am I to ascribe this happy meeting ? 
 
 Hast. Rather let me ask the same question, as I could never 
 have hoped to meet my dearest Constance at an inn. 
 
 Miss Nev. An inn ! sure you mistake : my aunt, my guardian, 
 lives here. What could induce you to think this house an inn ? 
 
 Hast. 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 Nev. Certainly it must be one of my hopeful cousin's 
 tricks, of whom you have heard me talk so often ha ! ha 1 ha ! 
 
 Hast. He whom your aunt intends for you ? he of whom I have 
 such just apprehensions ? 
 
 Miss Nev. You have nothing to fear from him, I assure you. 
 You'd adore him if you knew how heartily he despises me. My 
 aunt knows it too, and has undertaken to court me for him, and 
 actually begins to think she has made a conquest. 
 
 Hast. Thou dear dissembler ! You must know, my Constance, 
 I have just seized this happy opportunity of my friend's visit here 
 to get admittance into the family. The horses that carried us 
 down are now fatigued with their journey, but they'll soon be 
 refreshed ; and then, if my dearest girl will trust in her faithful
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 185 
 
 Hastings, we shall soon be landed in France, where even among 
 slaves the laws of marriage are respected. 
 
 Miss Nev, I have often told you, that though ready to obey 
 you, I yet should leave my little fortune behind with reluctance. 
 The greatest part of it was left me by my uncle, the India director, 
 and chiefly consists in jewels. I have been for some time per- 
 suading my aunt to let me wear them. I fancy I'm very near 
 succeeding. The instant thef are put into my possession, you 
 shall find me ready to make them and myself yours. 
 
 Hast. Perish the baubles ! Your person is all I desire. In the 
 meantime, my friend Marlow must not be let into his mistake. I 
 know the strange reserve of his temper is such, that if abruptly 
 informed of it, he would instantly quit the house before our plan 
 was ripe for execution. 
 
 Miss Nev. But how shall we keep him in the deception? Miss 
 Hardcastle is just returned from walking ; what if we still con- 
 tinue to deceive him ? This, this way [ They confer. 
 
 Enter MARLOW. 
 
 Mar. The assiduities of these good people tease me beyond 
 bearing. My host seems to think it ill manners to leave me 
 alone, and so he 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 ? 
 
 Hast. My dear Charles ! Let me congratulate you ! The most 
 fortunate accident ! Who do you think is just alighted ? 
 
 Mar. Cannot guess. 
 
 Hast. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle and Miss Neville. 
 Give me leave to introduce Miss Constance Neville to your 
 acquaintance. Happening to dine in the neighbourhood, they 
 called on their return to take fresh horses here. Miss Hardcastle 
 has just stepped into the next room, and will be back in an instant. 
 Wasn't it lucky ? eh ! 
 
 Mar. (Aside.} I have been mortified enough of all conscience, 
 and here comes something to complete my embarrassment. 
 
 Hast. Well, but wasn't it the most fortunate thing in the world ?
 
 r88 GOLDSMITH'S PL A YS. 
 
 Mar. Oh ! yes. Very fortunate a most joyful encounter. But 
 our dresses, George, you know, are in disorder what if we should 
 postpone the happiness till to-morrow ? To-morrow at her own 
 house. It will be every bit as convenient, and rather more respect- 
 ful. To-morrow let it be. [Offering to go. 
 
 Miss Nev. By no means, sir. Your ceremony will displease her. 
 The disorder of your dress will show the ardour of your impatience. 
 Besides, she knows you are in the house, and will permit you to 
 see her. 
 
 Mar. Oh ! the devil ! how shall I support it ? Hem ! hem ! 
 Hastings, you must not go. You are to assist me, you know. I 
 shall be confoundedly ridiculous. Yet, hang it ! I'll take courage. 
 Hem! 
 
 Hast. Pshaw, man! it's but the first plunge, and all's over. She's 
 but a woaan, you know. 
 
 Mar. And of all women, she that I dread most to encounter. 
 Enter Miss HARDCASTLE, as returned from walking. 
 
 Hcst. {Introducing them.} Miss Hardcastle, Mr. Marlow. I'm 
 proud of bringing two persons of such merit together, that only 
 want to know, to esteem each other. 
 
 Miss Hard. (Aside} Now for meeting my modest gentleman 
 with a demure face, and quite in his own manner. (After a pause, 
 in which he appears very uneasy and disconcerted} I'm glad of your 
 safe arrival, sir. I'm told you had some accidents by the way. 
 
 Mar. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some. Yes, madam, 
 a good many accidents, but should be sorry madam or rather 
 glad of any accidents that are so agreeably concluded. Hem ! 
 
 Hast. (To him.) You never spoke better in your whole life. 
 Keep it up, and I'll insure you the victory. 
 
 Miss Hard. I'm afraid you flatter, sir. You that have seen so 
 much of the finest company, can find little entertainment in an ob- 
 scure corner of the country. 
 
 Mar. (Gathering courage.) I have lived, indeed, in the world, 
 madam ; but I have kept very little company. I have been but an 
 observer upon life, madam, while others were enjoying it. 
 
 Miss Nev. But that, I am told, is the way to enjoy it at last.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hast. (To him.} Cicero never spoke better. Once more and you 
 are confirmed in assurance for ever. 
 
 Mar. (To him.} Hem ! stand by me, then, and when I'm down, 
 throw in a word or two to set me up again. 
 
 Miss Hard. An observer, like you, upon life were, I fear, disa- 
 greeably employed, since you must have had much more to censure 
 than to approve. 
 
 Mar. Pardon me, madam. I was always willing to be amused. 
 The folly of most people is rather an object of mirth than uneasiness. 
 
 Hast. (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 embarrass the interview. 
 
 Mar. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We like your company ol 
 all things. (To him.} Zounds ! George, sure you won't go ? how 
 can you leave us ? 
 
 Hast. Our presence will but spoil conversation, so we'll retire to 
 the next room. (To him.) You don't consider, man, that we are to 
 manage a little tete-a-tete of our own. [Exeunt. 
 
 Miss Hard. (After a pause.) But you have not been wholly an 
 observer, I presume, sir; the ladies, I should hope, have employed 
 some part of your addresses. 
 
 Mar. (Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon me, madam, I I I 
 as yet have studied only to deserve them. 
 
 Miss Hard. And that, some say, is the very worst way to obtain 
 them. 
 
 Mar. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to converse only with the 
 more grave and sensible part of the sex But I'm afraid I grow 
 tiresome. 
 
 Miss Hard. Not at all, sir ; there is nothing I like so much as 
 grave conversation myself; I could hear it for ever. Indeed, I 
 have often been surprised how a man of sentiment could ever ad- 
 mire those light airy pleasures, where nothing reaches the heart. 
 
 Mar. It's a disease of the mind, madam. In the variety 
 
 of tastes there mutt be some who, wanting a Telish rfor um
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Miss Hard. I understand you, sir. There must be some who, 
 wanting a relish for refined pleasures, pretend to despise what they 
 are incapable of tasting. 
 
 Mar. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better expressed. And 
 I can't help observing - a - 
 
 Miss Hard. (Aside.} Who could ever suppose this fellow impu- 
 dent upon some occasions ! (To him.} You were going to observe, 
 sir - 
 
 Mar. I was observing, madam I protest, madam, I forget whal 
 I was going to observe. 
 
 Miss Hard. (Aside.} I vow and so do I. (To him.} You wer& 
 observing, sir, that in this age of hypocrisy something about hy- 
 pocrisy, sir. 
 
 Mar. Yes, madam. In this age of hypocrisy there are few who, 
 upon strict inquiry, do a a a - 
 
 Miss Hard. I understand you perfectly, sir. 
 
 Mar. (Aside.} Egad ! and that's more than I do myself. 
 
 Miss Hard. You mean that in this hypocritical age there are few 
 that do not condemn in public what they practise in private, and 
 think they pay every debt to virtue when they praise it. 
 
 Mar. True, madam; those who have most virtue in their mouths 
 have least of it in their bosoms. But I'm sure I tire you, madam. 
 
 Miss Hard. Not in the least, sir ; there's something so agree- 
 able and spirited in your manner, such life and force pray, sir, 
 go on. 
 
 Mar. Yes, madam, I was saying - that there are some occa- 
 sions when a total want of courage, madam, destroys all the: - 
 and puts us - upon a a a - 
 
 Miss Hard. I agree with you entirely ; a want of courage upon 
 some occasions assumes the appearance of ignorance, and betrays 
 us when we most want to excel. I beg you'll proceed. 
 
 Mar. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, madam But I see Miss 
 Neville expecting us in the next room. I would not intrude for 
 the world. 
 
 Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I never was more agreeably entertained 
 in all my life. Pray go on.
 
 Tony. What do you follow me for, Cousin Con ? I wonder you 're not 
 ashamed to be so very engaging. p. 191
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. igi 
 
 Mar. Yes, madam, I was But she beckons us to join her. 
 
 Madam, shall I do myself the honour to attend you ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Well, then, I'll follow. 
 
 Mar. (Aside.) This pretty smooth dialogue has done for me. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Miss Hard. (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 bashful- 
 ness, is pretty well, too. He has good sense, but then so buried 
 in his fears, that it fatigues one more than ignorance. If I could 
 teach him a little confidence, it would be doing somebody that I 
 know of a piece of service. But who is that somebody ? That, 
 faith, is a question I can scarce answer. [Exit. 
 
 Enter TONY and Miss NEVILLE, followed by MRS. HARDCASTLE 
 and HASTINGS. 
 
 Tony. What do you follow me for, Cousin Con ? I wonder you're 
 not ashamed to be so very engaging. 
 
 Miss Nev. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one's own relations, 
 and not be to blame. 
 
 Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation you want to make 
 me, though ; but it won't do. I tell you, Cousin Con, it won't do ; 
 so I beg you'll keep your distance, I want no nearer relationship. 
 [She follows, coquetting him to the back Scene. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well ! I vow, Mr. Hastings, you are very entertain- 
 ing. There is nothing in the world I love to talk of so much as 
 London, and the fashions, though I was never there myself. 
 
 Hast. Never there ! You amaze me ! From your air and man- 
 ner, I concluded you had been bred all your life either at Ranelagh, 
 St. James's, or Tower Wharf. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Oh ! sir, you're only pleased to say so. We country 
 persons can have no manner at all. I'm in love with the town, and 
 that serves to raise me above some of our neighbouring rustics ; 
 but who can have a manner that has never seen the 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^
 
 192 GOLDSMITH'S PL A K? 
 
 and have all the fashions, as they come out, in a letter from the two 
 Miss Rickets of Crooked Lane. Pray, how do you like this head, 
 Mr. Hastings? 
 
 Hast. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon my word, madam. 
 Your friseur is a Frenchman, I suppose ? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I protest, I dressed it myself from a print in the 
 " Ladies' Memorandum-book " for the last year. 
 
 Hast. Indeed ! Such a head in a side-box at the play-house 
 would draw as many gazers as my Lady Mayoress at a city ball. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I vow, since inoculation began, there is no such 
 thing to be seen as a plain woman, so one must dress a little par- 
 ticular, or one may escape in the crowd. 
 
 Hast. But that can never be your case, madam, in any dress. 
 
 [Bowing. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Yet, what signifies my dressing when I have such a 
 piece of antiquity by my side as Mr. Hardcastle? all I can say will 
 never argue down a single button from his clothes. I have often 
 wanted him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and where he was 
 bald to plaster it over, like my Lord Pately, with powder. 
 
 Hast. You are right, madam ; for, as among the ladies there are 
 none ugly, so among the men there are none old. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. But what do you think his answer was ? Why, with 
 his usual Gothic vivacity, he said I only wanted him to throw off 
 his wig, to convert it into a tete for my own wearing. 
 
 Hast. Intolerable ! At your age you may wear what you please, 
 and it must become you. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you take to be the 
 most fashionable age about town ? 
 
 Hast. Some time ago, forty was all the mode ; but I'm told the 
 ladies mean to bring up fifty for the ensuing winter. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Seriously. Then I shall be too young for the fashion. 
 
 Hast. No lady now begins to put on jewels till she's past forty. 
 For instance, miss there, in a polite circle, would be considered as 
 a child, as a mere maker of samplers. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. And yet Mrs. Niece thinks herself as much a 
 woman, and is as fond of jewels, as the oldest of us all.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hast. Your niece, is she? And that young gentleman, a 
 brother of yours, I should presume ? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. My son, sir. They are contracted to each other. 
 Observe their little sports. They fall in and out ten times a-day, 
 as if they were man and wife already. (To them.'] Well, Tony, 
 child, what soft things are you saying to your cousin Constance 
 this evening ? 
 
 Tony. I have been saying no soft things ; but that it's very hard 
 to be followed about so. Ecod ! I've not a place in the house 
 now that's left to myself, but the stable. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Never mind him, Con, my dear ; he's in another 
 story behind your back. 
 
 Miss Nev. There's something generous in my cousin's manner. 
 He falls out before faces to be forgiven in private. 
 
 Tony. That's a d - d confounded crack. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ah ! he's a sly one. Don't you think they're like 
 each other about the mouth, Mr. Hastings ? The Blenkinsop 
 mouth to a T. They're of a size too. Back to back, my pretties, 
 that Mr. Hastings may see you. Come, Tony. 
 
 Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell you. (Measuring.} 
 
 Miss Nev. O lud ! he has almost cracked my head. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. 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. Hard. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that I'm to get for the 
 pains I have taken in your education ? I that have rocked you 
 in your cradle, and fed that pretty mouth with a spoon! Did 
 not I work that waistcoat to make you genteel ? Did not I 
 prescribe for you every day, and weep while the receipt was 
 operating ? 
 
 . Tony. Ecod ! you had reason to weep, for you have been dosing 
 me ever since I was born. I have gone through every receipt in 
 the Complete 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. 
 
 3
 
 194 GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Wasn't it all for your good, viper ? Wasn't it all 
 for your good ? 
 
 Tony. I wish you would let me and my good alone, then. 
 Snubbing this way when I'm in spirits. If I'm to have any good, 
 let it come of itself ; not to keep dinging it, dinging it into one so. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. That's false ; I never see you when you're in spirits. 
 No, Tony, you then go to the alehouse or kennel. I'm never to 
 be delighted with your agreeable wild notes, unfeeling monster ! 
 
 Tony. Ecod! mamma, your own notes are the wildest of the 
 two. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Was ever the like ? But I see he wants to break 
 my heart ; I see he does. 
 
 Hast. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the young gentleman 
 a little. I'm certain I can persuade him to his duty. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well, I must retire. Come, Constance, my love. 
 
 You see, Mr. Hastings, the wretchedness of my situation : was 
 
 ever poor woman so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, 
 
 undutiful boy ? [Exeunt MRS. HARDCASTLE and Miss NEVILLE. 
 
 HASTINGS and TONY. 
 
 Tony. (Singing.) 
 
 " There was a young man riding by, 
 And fain would have his will. 
 
 Rang do didlo dee." 
 
 Don't mind her. Let her cry. It's the comfort of her heart. I 
 have seen her and sister cry over a book for an hour together ; 
 and they said they liked the book the better the more it made 
 them cry. 
 
 Hast. Then you're no friend to the ladies, I find, my pretty 
 young gentleman ? 
 
 Tony. That's as I find 'um. 
 
 Hast. Not to her of your mother's choosing, I dare answer ? 
 And yet she appears to me a pretty, well-tempered girl. 
 
 Tony. That's because you don't know her so well as I. Ecod! 
 I know every inch about her ; and there's not a more bitter 
 cantankerous toad in all Christendom. 
 
 Hast. (Aside.) Pretty encouragement this for a lover !
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 193 
 
 Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. She has as 
 many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a colt the first day's 
 breaking. 
 
 Hast. To me she appears sensible and silent. 
 
 Tony. Ay, before company. But when she's with her play- 
 mates, she's as loud as a hog in a gate. 
 
 Hast. But there is a meek modesty about her that charms me. 
 
 Tony. Yes, but curb her never so little, she kicks up, and you're 
 flung in the ditch. 
 
 Hast. Well, bflt you must allow her a little beauty. Yes, you 
 must allow her some beauty. 
 
 Tony. Bandbox ! She's all a made-up thing, mun. Ah ! could 
 you but see Bet Bouncer of these parts, you might then talk of 
 beauty. Ecod ! she has two eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as 
 broad and red as a pulpit cushion. She'd make two of she. 
 
 Hast. Well, what say you to a friend that would take this bittei 
 bargain off your hands ? 
 
 Tony. Anan ! 
 
 Hast. Would you thank him that would take Miss Neville, and 
 leave you to happiness and your dear Betsy ? 
 
 Tony. Ay; but where is there such a friend, for who would take 
 her? 
 
 Hast. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll engage to whip her 
 off to France, and you shall 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 maybe get you a part of her fortin beside in 
 jewels that you little dream of. 
 
 Hast. My dear 'squire, this looks like a lad of spirit. 
 
 Tony. Come along, then, and you shall see more of my spirit 
 before you have done with me. (Singing.} 
 
 1 We are the boys 
 That fear no noise 
 Where the thundering cannons roar.' 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 132
 
 196 GOLDSMITHS PLAYS. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Enter HARDCASTLE, alone. 
 
 Hard. What could my old friend Sir Charles mean by recom- 
 mending his son as the modestest young man in town ? To me 
 he appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with 
 a tongue. He; has taken possession of the easy-chair by the 
 fireside already. He took off his boots in the parlour, and 
 desired 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 HARDCASTLE, plainly dressed. 
 
 Hard. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed your dress, as 1 
 bid you ; and yet, I believe, there was no great occasion. 
 
 Miss Hard. I find such a pleasure, sir, in obeying your com- 
 mands, that I take care to observe them without ever debating 
 their propriety. 
 
 Hard. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you some cause, par- 
 ticularly when I recommended my modest gentleman to you as a 
 lover to-day. 
 
 Miss Hard. You taught me to expect something extraordinary, 
 and I find the original exceeds the description. 
 
 Hard. I was never so surprised in my life ! He has quite con- 
 founded all my faculties ! 
 
 Miss Hard. I never saw anything like it : and a man of the 
 world too ! 
 
 Hard. Ay, he learned it all abroad what a fool was I, to think 
 a young man could learn modesty by travelling. He might as 
 soon learn wit at a masquerade. 
 
 Miss Hard. It seems all natural to him. 
 
 Hard. A good deal assisted by bad company and a French 
 dancing-master. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sure you mistake, papa ! A French dancing-master 
 could never have taught him that timid look that awkward 
 address that bashful manner. 
 
 Hard. Whose look ? whose manner, child ?
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 197 
 
 Miss Hard. Mr. Marlow's : his mauvaise honte, his timidity 
 struck me at the first sight. 
 
 Hard. Then your first sight deceived you ; for I think him one 
 of the most brazen first sights that ever astonished my senses. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sure, sir, you rally ! I never saw any one so 
 modest. 
 
 Hard. And can you be serious ? I never saw such a bouncing, 
 swaggering puppy since I was born. Bully Dawson was but a 
 fool to him. 
 
 Miss Hard. Surprising ! He met me with a respectful bow, a 
 stammering voice, and a look fixed on the ground. 
 
 Hard. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly air, and a fami- 
 liarity that made my blood freeze again. 
 
 Miss Hard. He treated me with diffidence and respect ; cen- 
 sured the manners of the age ; admired the prudence of girls that 
 never laughed ; tired me with apologies for being tiresome ; then 
 left the room with a bow, and "Madam, I would not for the world 
 detain you." 
 
 Hard, He spoke to me as if he knew me all his life before ; 
 asked twenty questions, and never waited for an answer ; inter- 
 rupted my best remarks with some silly pun ; and when I was in 
 my best story of the Duke of Maryborough and Prince Eugene, he 
 asked if I had not a good hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, he 
 asked your father if he was a maker of punch ! 
 
 Miss Hard. One of us must certainly be mistaken. 
 
 Hard. If he be what he has shown himself, I'm determined he 
 shall never have my consent. 
 
 Miss Hard. And if he be the sullen thing I take him, he shall 
 never have mine. 
 
 Hard. In one thing then we are agreed to reject him. 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes ; but upon conditions. For if you should find 
 him less impudent, and I more presuming ; if you find him more 
 respectful, and I more importunate I don't know the fellow is 
 well enough for a man Certainly we don't meet many such at a 
 horse-race in the country. 
 
 Hard. If we should find him so -But that's impossible. The
 
 I 9 S GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. 
 
 first appearance has done my business. I'm seldom deceived in 
 that. 
 
 Miss Hard. And yet there may be many good qualities under 
 that first appearance. 
 
 Hard. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's outside to her taste, she 
 then sets about guessing the rest of his furniture. With her a 
 smooth face stands for good sense, and a genteel figure for every 
 virtue. 
 
 Miss Hard. I hope, sir, a conversation begun with a compli- 
 ment to my good sense, won't end with a sneer at my under- 
 standing ? 
 
 Hard. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. Brazen can find 
 the art of reconciling contradictions, he may please us both, 
 perhaps. 
 
 Miss Hard. And as one of us must be mistaken, what if we go 
 to make farther discoveries ? 
 
 Hard. Agreed. But depend on't, I'm in the right. 
 
 Miss Hard. And depend on't, I'm not much in the wrong. 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 Enter TONY, running in with a casket. 
 
 Tony. Ecod ! I have got them. Here they are. My cousin 
 Con's necklaces, bobs and all. My mother shan't cheat the poor 
 souls out of their fortin neither. Oh ! my genus, is that you ? 
 
 Enter HASTINGS. 
 
 Hast. My dear friend, how have you managed with your mother ? 
 I hope you have amused her with pretending love for your cousin, 
 and that you are willing to be reconciled at last ? Our horses 
 will be refreshed in a short time, and we shall soon be ready to 
 set off. 
 
 Tony. And here's something to bear your charges by the way 
 (giving the casket) ; your sweetheart's jewels. Keep them ; and 
 hang those, I say, that would rob you of one of them. 
 
 Hast. But how have you procured them from your mother ? 
 
 Tony. Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no fibs. I procured 
 them by the rule of thumb. If I had not a key to every drawer
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. igg 
 
 in 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. 
 
 Hast. Thousands do it every day. But to be plain with you, 
 Miss Neville is endeavouring to procure them from her aunt this 
 very instant If she succeeds, it will be the most delicate way at 
 least of obtaining them. 
 
 Tony. Well, keep them, till yoj 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. 
 
 Hast. But I dread the effects of her resentment, when she finds 
 she has lost them. 
 
 Tony. Never you mind her resentment, leave me to manage 
 that I don't value her resentment the bounce of a cracker. 
 Zounds ! here they are. Morrice ! prance ! \Exit HASTINGS. 
 TONY, MRS. HARDCASTLE, and Miss NEVILLE. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. Such a girl 
 as you want jewels ! It will be time enough for jewels, my dear, 
 twenty years hence, when your beauty begins to want repairs. 
 
 Miss Nev. But what will repair beauty at forty, will certainly 
 improve it at twenty, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Yours, my dear, can admit of none. That natural 
 blush is beyond a thousand ornaments. Besides, child, jewels are 
 quite out at present. Don't you see half the ladies of our ac- 
 quaintance, my Lady Kill-daylight, and Mrs. Crump, and the rest 
 of them, carry their jewels to town, and bring nothing but paste 
 and marcasites back ? 
 
 Miss Nev. But who knows, madam, but somebody that shall be 
 nameless would like me best with all my little finery about me ? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Consult your glass, my dear, and then see if with 
 such a pair of eyes you want any better sparklers. What do you 
 think, Tony, my dear ? does your cousin Con want any jewels in 
 your eyes to set off her beauty ? 
 
 Tony. That's as hereafter may be. 
 
 Miss Nev. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would oblige me. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. A parcel of old-fashioned rose-and-table cut things. 
 They would make you look like the Court of King Solomon at a
 
 GOLDSttZTlPS PLA YS. 
 
 puppet-show. Besides, I believe I can't readily come at them. 
 They may be missing for aught I know to the contrary. 
 
 Tony, (Apart to MRS. HARDCASTLE.) Then why don't you tell 
 her so at once, as she's so longing for them ? Tell her they're 
 lost. It's the only way to quiet her. Say they're lost, and call 
 me to bear witness. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. (Apart to Tony.) You know, my dear, I'm only 
 keeping them for you. So if I say they're gone, you'll bear me 
 witness, will you ? He ! he ! he ! 
 
 Tony. Never fear me. Ecod ! I'll say I saw them taken out 
 with my own eyes. 
 
 Miss Nev. I desire them but for a day, madam. Just to be 
 permitted to show them as relics, and then they may be locked up 
 again. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. To be plain with you, my dear Constance, if I 
 could find them you should have them. They're missing, I assure 
 you. Lost, for aught I know ; but we must have patience wherever 
 they are. 
 
 Miss Nev. 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. Hard. Don't be alarmed, Constance. If they be lost, I 
 must restore an equivalent. But my son knows they are missing, 
 and not to be found. 
 
 Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are missing, and not 
 to be found ; I'll take my oath on't. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. You must learn resignation, my dear ; for though 
 we lost our fortune, yet we should not lose our patience. See me, 
 how calm I am. 
 
 Miss Nev. Ay, people are generally calm at the misfortunes of 
 others. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Now I wonder a girl of your good sense should 
 waste a thought upon such trumpery. We shall soon find them ; 
 and in the meantime you shall make use of my garnets till your 
 jewels be found. 
 
 Miss Neii. I detest garnets.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 20! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. The most becoming things in the world to set off 
 a clear complexion. You have often seen how well they look 
 upon me : you shall have them. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Nev. I dislike them of all things. You shan't stir. Was 
 ever anything so provoking, to mislay my own jewels and force 
 me to wear her trumpery ? 
 
 Tony. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the garnets, take what 
 you can get. The jewels are your own already. I have stolen 
 them out of her bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your 
 spark, he'll tell you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her. 
 
 Miss Nev. My dear cousin ! 
 
 Tony. Vanish. She's here, and has missed them already. 
 \Exit Miss NEVILLE.] Zounds ! how she fidgets and spits about 
 like a Catherine wheel. 
 
 Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. 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. Hard. 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. Hard. 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 wit- 
 ness, you know ; call me to bear witness. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I tell you, Tony, by all that's precious, the jewels 
 are gone, and I shall be ruined for ever. 
 
 Tony. Sure I know they are gone, and I'm to say so. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. My dearest Tony, but hear me. They're gone, I 
 say. 
 
 Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to laugh ha!i ha! 
 I know who took them well enough ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a blockhead, that can't tell the
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. 
 
 difference between jest and earnest ? I tell you I'm not in jest, 
 booby. 
 
 Tony. That's right, that's right ; you must be in a bitter passion, 
 and then nobody will suspect either of us. I'll bear witness that 
 they are gone. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a cross-grained brute, that 
 won't hear me ? Can you bear witness that you're no better than a 
 fool ? Was ever poor woman so beset with fools on one hand, and 
 thieves on the other? 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Bear witness again, you blockhead you, and I'll 
 turn you out of the room directly. My poor niece, what will be- 
 come of her ! Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed 
 my distress ? 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Do you insult me, monster ? I'll teach you to 
 vex your mother, I will. 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. (He rum off, she follow* 
 him.) 
 
 Enter Miss HARDCASTLE and MAID. 
 
 Miss Hard. What an unaccountable creature is that brother of 
 mine, to send them to the house as an inn ha ! ha ! I don't 
 wonder at his impudence. 
 
 Maid. But what is more, madam, the young gentleman, as you 
 passed by in your present dress, asked me if you were the barmaid. 
 He mistook you for the barmaid, madam. 
 
 Miss Hard. Did he ? Then as I live I'm resolved to keep up 
 the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, how do you like my present 
 dress ? Don't you think I look something like Cherry in the 
 Beaux's Stratagem? 
 
 Maid. It's the dress, madam, that every lady wears in the 
 country, but when she visits or receives company. 
 
 Miss Hard. And are you sure he does not remember my face 
 or person ? 
 
 Maid. Certain of it. 
 
 Miss Hard. I vow I thought so ; for though we spoke ior some
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 203 
 
 time together, yet his fears were such that he never once looked 
 up during the interview. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would 
 have kept him from seeing me. 
 
 Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him in this mis- 
 take? 
 
 Miss Hard. In the first place, I shall be seen, and that is no 
 small advantage to a girl who brings her face to market. Then I 
 shall perhaps make an acquaintance, and that's no small victory 
 gained over one who never addresses any but the wildest of our 
 sex. But my chief aim is to take my gentleman off his guard, 
 and, like an invisible champion of romance, examine the giant's 
 force before I offer to combat. 
 
 Maid. But are you sure you can act your part, and disguise 
 your voice so that he may mistake that, as he has already mis- 
 taken your person ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Never fear me. I think I have got the true bar 
 cant Did your honour call ? Attend the Lion there. Pipes and 
 tobacco for the Angel. The Lamb has been outrageous this haH 
 hour. 
 
 Maid. It will do, madam. But he's here. [Exit MAID. 
 
 Enter MARLOW. 
 
 Mar. What a bawling in every part of the house. I have scarce 
 a moment's repose. If I go to the best room, there I find my 
 host and his story; if I fly to the gallery, there we have my 
 hostess with her courtesy down to the ground. I have at last got 
 a moment to myself, and now for recollections. ( Walks and 
 muses.) 
 
 Miss Hard. Did you call, sir ? Did your honour call ? 
 
 Mar. (Musing.) As for Miss Hardcastle, she's too grave and 
 sentimental for me. 
 
 Miss Hard. Did your honour call ? (She still places herself 'before- 
 him, he turning away.) 
 
 Mar. No, child (musing). Besides, from the glimpse I had of 
 her, I think she squints. 
 
 Miss Hard. I'm sure, sir, I heard the bell ring. 
 
 Mar. No, no (musing). I have pleased my father, however,
 
 204 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. 
 
 by coming down, and I'll to-morrow please myself by returning. 
 (Taking out his tablets and perusing.) 
 
 Miss Hard. Perhaps the other gentleman called, sir ? 
 
 Mar. I tell you no. 
 
 Miss Hard. I should be glad to know, sir. We have such a 
 parcel of servants ! 
 
 Mar. No, ao, I tell you (looks full in her face). Yes, child, I 
 think I did call. I wanted I wanted I vow, child, you are 
 vastly handsome. 
 
 Miss Hard. O la, sir, you'll make one ashamed. 
 
 Mar. Never saw a more sprightly malicious eye. Yes, yes, 
 my dear, I did call. Have you got any of your a what d'ye 
 call it in the house ? 
 
 Miss Hard. No, sir, we have been out of that these ten days. 
 
 Mar. One may call in this house, I find, to very little purpose. 
 Suppose I should call for a taste, just by way of trial, of the 
 nectar of your lips ; perhaps I might be disappointed in that too. 
 
 Miss Hard. Nectar ! nectar ! That's a liquor there's no call 
 for in these parts. French I suppose. We keep no French wines 
 here, sir. 
 
 Mar. Of true English growth, I assure you. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then it's odd I should not know it. We brew all 
 sorts of wines in this house, and I have lived here these eighteen 
 years. 
 
 Mar. Eighteen years ! Why one would think, child, you kept 
 the bar before you was born. How old are you ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Oh ! sir, I must not tell my age. They say women 
 and rnusic should never be dated. 
 
 Mar. To guess at this distance, you can't be much above forty. 
 (Approaching.') Yet nearer I don't think so much. (Approaching.} 
 By coming close to some women, they look younger still ; but 
 when we come very close indeed (Attempting to kiss her.) 
 
 Miss Hard. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One would think 
 you wanted to know one's age as they do horses, by mark of 
 mouth. 
 
 Mar. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill If you keep
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 205 
 
 me at this distance, how is it possible you and I can ever be 
 acquainted ? 
 
 Miss Hard. And who wants to be acquainted with you ? I 
 want no such acquaintance, not I. I'm sure you do not treat 
 Miss Hardcastle that was here a while ago in this obstropalous 
 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 was 
 before a Justice of Peace. 
 
 Mar. (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, me ! 
 
 Miss Hard. Oh ! then, sir, you are a favourite, I find, among the 
 ladies ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And yet, hang me, I 
 don't see what they find in me to follow. At the ladies' club in 
 .own 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 Hard. Hold, sir, you are introducing me to your club, not 
 to yourself. And you're so great a favourite there, you say ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, my dear. There's Mrs. Mantrap, Lady Betty Black- 
 leg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. Langhorns, old Miss Biddy 
 Buckskin, and your humble servant, keep up the spirit of the 
 place. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then it is a very merry place, I suppose ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, as merry as cards, supper, wine, and old women "jan 
 make us. 
 
 Miss Hard. And their agreeable Rattle ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mar. (Aside.) Egad ! I don't quite like this chit. She looks 
 knowing, methinks. You laugh, child ? 
 
 Miss Hard. I can't but laugh to think what time they all have 
 for minding their work or their family. 
 
 Mar. (Aside.) All's well; she don't laugh at me. (To her) 
 Do you ever work, child ?
 
 2o6 GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. 
 
 Miss Hard. Ay, sure. There's not a screen or a quilt in the 
 whole house but what can bear witness to that. 
 
 Mar. Odso ! then you must show me your embroidery. I 
 embroider and draw patterns myself a little. If you want a judge 
 of your work, you must apply to me. (Seizing her hand.) 
 
 Miss Hard. Ay, but the colours do not look well by candle- 
 light. You shall see all in the morning. (Struggling.) 
 
 Mar. And why not now, my angel ? Such beauty fires beyond 
 the power of resistance. Pshaw ! the father here ! My old luck 
 I never nicked seven that I did not throw ames-ace three times* 
 following. \Exit MARLOW. 
 
 Enter HARDCASTLE, who stands in surprise. 
 
 Hard. So, madam. So I find this is your modest lover. This 
 is your humble admirer, that kept his eyes fixed on the ground, 
 and only adored at humble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not 
 ashamed to deceive your father so ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Never trust me, dear papa, but he's still the modest 
 man I first took him for ; you'll be convinced of it as well as I. 
 
 Hard. By the hand of my body, I believe his impudence is in- 
 fectious ! Didn't I see him seize your hand ? Didn't I see him 
 haul you about like a milkmaid ? And now you talk of his respect 
 and his modesty, forsooth ! 
 
 Miss Hard. But if I shortly convince you of his modesty, that 
 he has only the faults that will pass off with time, and the virtues 
 that will improve with age, I hope you'll forgive him. 
 
 Hard. The girl would actually make one run mad ! I tell you, 
 I'll not be convinced. I am convinced. He has scarce been 
 three hours in the house, and he has already encroached on all 
 my prerogatives. You may like his impudence, and call it 
 modesty: but my son-in-law, madam, must have very different 
 qualifications. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sir, I ask but this night to convince you. 
 
 Hard. You shall not have half the time, for I have thoughts 
 of turning him out this very hour. 
 
 * Ames-ace or ambs-ace is two aces thrown at (he same time on two dice.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 207 
 
 Miss Hard. Give me that hour, then, and I hope to satisfy 
 you. 
 
 Hard. Well, an hour let it be then. But I'll have no trifling 
 with your father. All fair and open, do you mind me ? 
 
 Miss Hard. I hope, sir, you have ever found that I considered 
 your commands as my pride ; for your kindness is such, that my 
 duty as yet has been inclination. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 Enter HASTINGS and Miss NEVILLE. 
 
 Hast. You surprise me ! Sir Charles Marlow expected here this 
 night ! Where have you had your information ? 
 
 Miss JVev. You may depend upon it. I just saw his letter to 
 Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells him he intends setting out a few 
 hours after his son. 
 
 Hast. Then, my Constance, all must be completed before he 
 arrives. He knows me ; and should he find me here, would 
 discover my name, and perhaps my designs, to the rest of the 
 family. 
 
 Miss Nev. The jewels, I hope, are safe ? 
 
 Hast. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Marlow, who keeps the 
 keys of our baggage. In the meantime I'll go to prepare matters 
 for our elopement. I have had the 'squire's promise of a fresh 
 pair of horses ; and if I should not see him again, will write him 
 further directions. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Nev. Well ! success attend you. In the meantime I'll go 
 amuse my aunt with the old pretence of a violent passion for my 
 cousin. [Exit. 
 
 Enter MARLOW, followed by a SERVANT. 
 
 Mar. 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 ? 
 
 Serv. Yes, your honour.
 
 ao8 GOLDSM'TTirS PLA VS. 
 
 Mar. She said she'd keep it safe, did she ? 
 
 Serv. Yes, she said she'd keep it safe enough ; she asked me 
 how I came by it ? and she said she had a great mind to make 
 me give an account of myself. [Exit SERVANT. 
 
 Mar. Ha ! ha ! ha ! They're safe, however. What an un- 
 accountable set of beings have we got amongst ! This little bar- 
 maid though runs in my head most strangely, and drives out the 
 absurdities of all the rest of the family. She's mine, she must be 
 mine, or I'm greatly mistaken. 
 
 Enter HASTINGS. 
 
 Hast. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell her that I intended to 
 prepare at the bottom of the garden. Marlow here, and in spirits 
 too! 
 
 Mar. Give me joy, George ! Crown me, shadow me with 
 laurels ! Well, George, after all, we modest fellows don't want 
 for success among the women. 
 
 Hast. Some women, you mean. But what success has your 
 honour's modesty been crowned with now, that it grows so inso- 
 lent upon us ? 
 
 Mar. Didn't you see the tempting, brisk, lovely, little thing, 
 that runs about the house with a bunch of keys to its girdle ? 
 
 Hast. Well, and what then? 
 
 Mar. She's mine, you rogue you. Such fire, such motion, 
 such eyes, such lips but, egad ! she would not let me kiss them 
 though. 
 
 Hast. But are you su'r-e, so very sure of her? 
 
 Mar. Why, man, she talked of showing me her work above 
 stairs, and I am to improve the pattern. 
 
 Hast. But how can you, Charles, go about to rob a woman of 
 her honour ? 
 
 Mar. Pshaw ! pshaw ! We all know the honour of the barmaid 
 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. 
 
 Hast. I believe the girl has virtue. 
 
 Mar. And if she has, I should be the last man in the world 
 that would attempt to corrupt it.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 209 
 
 Hast. You have taken care, I hope, of the casket I sent you to 
 lock up ? It's in safety ? 
 
 Mar. 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 ! numskull ! I have taken better precau 
 tions for you than you did for yourself I have 
 
 Hast. What? 
 
 Mar. I have sent it to the landlady to keep for you. 
 
 Hast. To the landlady ! 
 
 Mar. The landlady. 
 
 Hast. You did? 
 
 Mar. I did. She's to be answerable for its forthcoming, you 
 know. 
 
 Hast. Yes, she'll bring it forth with a witness. 
 
 Mar. Wasn't I right ? I believe you'll allow that I acted pru- 
 dently upon this occasion. 
 
 Hast. (Aside.) He must not see my uneasiness. 
 
 Mar. You seem a little disconcerted though, methinks. Sure 
 nothing has happened ? 
 
 Hast. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits in all my life. 
 And so you left it with the landlady, who, no doubt, very readily 
 undertook the charge. 
 
 Mar. 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 ! 
 
 Hast. He ! he ! he ! They're safe, however ? 
 
 Mar. As a guinea in a miser's purse. 
 
 Hast. (Aside.) So now all hopes of fortune are at an end, and 
 we must set off without it. (To him.) Well, Charles, I'll leave you 
 to your meditations on the pretty barmaid, and he ! he ! he ! 
 may you be as successful for yourself, as you have been for me. 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 Mar. Thank ye, George : I ask no more. Ha ! ha ! ha 1 
 Enter HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Hard. 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 ;
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. 
 
 and yet, from my respect for his father, I'll be calm. (To him.} Mr. 
 Marlow, your servant. I'm your very humble servant. (Bowing low.} 
 
 Mar. Sir, your humble servant (Aside.} What's to be the won- 
 der now ? 
 
 Hard. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, sir, that no man alive 
 ought to be more welcome than your father's son, sir. I hope you 
 think so ? 
 
 Mar. I do, from my soul, sir. I don't want much entreaty. I 
 generally make my father's son welcome wherever he goes. 
 
 Hard. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. But though I say 
 nothing of your own conduct, that of your servants is insufferable. 
 Their manner of drinking is setting a very bad example in this 
 house, I assure you. 
 
 Mar. 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 I did not drink myself, they should make 
 up for my deficiencies below. 
 
 Hard. Then they had your orders for what they do ? I'm 
 satisfied ! 
 
 Mar. They had, I assure you. You shall hear from one of 
 themselves. 
 
 Enter SERVANT, drunk. 
 
 Mar. You, Jeremy ! come forward, sirrah ! What were my 
 orders ? Were you not told to drink freely, and call for what you 
 thought fit, for the good of the house ? 
 
 Hard. (Aside.} I begin to lose my patience. 
 
 Jeremy. Please your honour, liberty and Fleet Street for ever ! 
 Though I'm but a servant, I'm as good as another man. I'll drink 
 
 for no man before supper, sir, d me ! Good liquor will sit upon 
 
 a good supper, but a good supper will not sit upon hiccup 
 
 upon my conscience, sir. 
 
 Mar. 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.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hard. 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 I desire that 
 you and your drunken pack may leave my house directly. 
 
 Mar. Leave your house . Sure you jest, my good friend ! 
 
 What ! when I'm doing what I can to please you ! 
 
 Hard. I tell you, sir, you don't please me ; so I desire you'll 
 leave my house. 
 
 Mar. Sure you cannot be serious ? at this time of night, and 
 such a night ? You only mean to banter me. 
 
 Hard. I tell you, sir, I'm serious ! and now that my passions are 
 roused, I say this house is mine, sir ; this house is mine, and I 
 command you to leave it directly. 
 
 Mar. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A puddle in a storm. I shan't stir a step, 
 I assure you. (In a serious tone.} This your house, fellow! It's my 
 house. This is my house. Mine while I choose to stay. What 
 right have you to bid me leave this house, sir ? I never met with 
 such impudence, curse me ; never in my whole life before. 
 
 Hard. Nor I, confound me if ever I did. To come to my house, 
 to call for what he likes, to turn me out of my own chair, to insult 
 the family, to order his servants to get drunk, and then to tell me, 
 " This house is mine, sir." By all that's impudent it makes me 
 laugh. Ha! ha! 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. 
 
 Mar. Bring me your bill, sir; bring me your bill, and let's make 
 no more words about it. 
 
 Hard. There are a set of prints, too. What think you of the 
 " Rake's Progress " for your own apartment ? 
 
 Mar. Bring me your bill, I say ; and I'll leave you and your in- 
 fernal house directly. 
 
 Hard. Then there's a mahogany table that you may see your 
 own face in. 
 
 Mar. My bill, I say. 
 
 142
 
 GOLDSMITH'S FLA YS. 
 
 Hard. I had forgot the great chair for your own particular 
 slumbers, after a hearty meal. 
 
 Mar. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, and let's hear no more 
 on't. 
 
 Hard. Young man, young man, from your father's letter to me, 
 I was taught to expect a well-bred modest man as a visitor here, 
 but now I find him no better than a coxcomb and a bully ; but he 
 will be down here presently, and shall hear more of it [Exit. 
 
 Mar. How's this ? Sure I have not mistaken the house. Every- 
 thing looks like an inn ; the servants cry " Coming " the atten- 
 dance is awkward ; the barmaid, too, to attend us. But she's 
 here, and will further inform me. Whither so fast, child ? A word 
 with you. 
 
 Enter Miss HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Miss Hard. Let it be short, then. I'm in a hurry. (Aside.) I 
 believe he begins to find out his mistake. But it's too soon quite 
 to undeceive him. 
 
 Mar. Pray, child, answer me one question. What are you, and 
 what may your business in this house be ? 
 
 Miss Hard. A relation of the family, sir. 
 
 Mar. What, a poor relation ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes, sir, a poor relation, appointed to keep the 
 keys, and to see that the guests want nothing in my power to give 
 them. 
 
 Mar. That is, you act as barmaid of this inn. 
 
 Miss Hard. Inn ! O la what brought that in your head r 
 
 One of the best families in the county keep an inn Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 old Mr. Hardcastle's house an inn ! 
 
 Mar. Mr. Hardcastle's house ! Is this Mr. Hardcastle's house, 
 child? 
 
 Miss Hard. Ay, sure. Whose else should it be ? 
 
 Mar. So then, all's out, and I have been damnably imposed on. 
 Oh, confound my stupid head, I shall be laughed at over the whole 
 town. I shall be stuck up in caricatura in all the print-shops. The 
 Dullissimo-Maccaroni. To mistake this house of all others for an 
 inn, and my father's old friend for an innkeeper ! What a swagger
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 213 
 
 ing puppy must he take me for? What a silly puppy do I find my- 
 self! There, again, may I be hanged, my dear, but I mistook you 
 for the barmaid. 
 
 Miss Hard. Dear me ! dear me ! I'm sure there's nothing in my 
 behaviour to put me upon a level with one of that stamp. 
 
 Mar. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in for a list of 
 blunders, and could not help making you a subscriber. My stu- 
 pidity saw everything the wrong way. I mistook your assiduity 
 for assurance, and your simplicity for allurement. But it's over 
 This house I no more show my face in. 
 
 Miss Hard. I hope, sir, I have done nothing to disoblige you. 
 I'm sure I should be sorry to affront any gentleman who has been 
 so polite, and said so many civil things to me. I'm sure I should 
 be sorry (pretending to cry) if he left the family upon my account. 
 I'm sure I should be sorry people said anything amiss, since I have 
 no fortune but my character. 
 
 Mar. (Aside.} By Heaven ! she weeps. This is the first mark 
 of tenderness I ever had from a modest woman, and it touches me. 
 (To her.} Excuse me, my lovely girl : you are the only part of the 
 family I leave with reluctance. But to be plain with you, the 
 difference of our birth, fortune, and education, makes an honour- 
 able connection impossible ; and I can never harbour a thought of 
 seducing simplicity that trusted in my honour, of bringing ruin upon 
 one whose only fault was being too lovely. 
 
 Miss Hard. (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. 
 
 Mar. And why now, my pretty simplicity ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Because it puts me at a distance from one, that, if 
 I had a thousand pounds, I would give it all to. 
 
 Mar. (Aside.) This simplicity bewitches me, so that if I stay, 
 I'm undone. I must make one bold effort and leave her. (To 
 her.) Your partiality in my favour, my dear, touches me most sen- 
 sibly ; and were I to live for myself alone, I could easily fix my
 
 214 GOLDSMITHS PLA YS. 
 
 choice. But I owe too much to the opinion of the world, too much 
 to the authority of a father ; so that I can scarcely speak it it 
 affects me Fare-well. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Hard. I never knew half his merit till now. He shall not 
 
 go, if I have power or art to detain him. I'll still preserve the 
 
 character in which I stooped to conquer, but will undeceive my papa, 
 
 who perhaps may laugh him out of his resolution. [Exit. 
 
 Enter TONY and Miss NEVILLE. 
 
 Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next time. I have 
 done my duty. She has got the jewels again, that's a sure thing ; 
 but she believes it was all a mistake of the servants. 
 
 Miss Nev. But, my 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 d d bad things. 
 
 But what can I do ? I have got you a pair of horses that will fly 
 like Whistle-jacket ; and I'm sure you can't say but I have courted 
 you nicely before her face. Here she comes, we must court a bit 
 or two more, for fear she should suspect us. (They retire and seem 
 to fondle.) 
 
 Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to be sure. But rny 
 son tells me it was all a mistake of the servants. I shan't be easy, 
 however, till they are fairly married, and then let her keep her own 
 fortune. But what do I see ? fondling together, as I'm alive. I 
 never saw Tony so sprightly before. Ah ! have I caught you, my 
 pretty doves ? What, billing, exchanging stolen glances and broken 
 murmurs ? Ah ! 
 
 Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little now and then 
 to be sure. But there's no love lost between us. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the flame, only to 
 make it burn brighter. 
 
 Miss Nev. Cousin Tony promises to give us more of his company 
 at home. Indeed, he shan't leave us any more. It won't leave us, 
 Cousin Tony, will it ?
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 215 
 
 Tony. Oh! it's a pretty u eature. No, I'd sooner leave my horse 
 in a pound, than leave you when you smile upon one so. Your 
 laugh makes you so becoming. 
 
 Miss Nev. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help admiring that 
 natural humour, that pleasant, broad, red, thoughtless {patting his 
 cheek) ah ! it's a bold face. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Pretty innocence ! 
 
 Tony. I'm sure I always loved Cousin Con's hazel eyes, and her 
 pretty long fingers, that she twists this way and that over the haspi- 
 colls, like a parcel of bobbins. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ah ! he would charm the bird from the tree, I was 
 never so happy before. My boy takes after his father, poor Mr. 
 Lumpkin, exactly. The jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours in- 
 continently. You shall have them. Isn't he a sweet boy, my dear? 
 You shall be married to-morrow, and we'll put off the rest of his 
 education, like Dr. Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter opportunity. 
 Enter DIGGORY. 
 
 Dig. Where's the 'squire ? I have got a letter for your worship. 
 
 Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my letters first. 
 
 Dig. I had orders to deliver it into your own hands. 
 
 Tony. Who does it come from ? 
 
 Dig. Your worship mun ask that o* the letter itself. 
 
 Tony. I could wish to know though (turning the letter and gazing 
 on it}. 
 
 Miss Nev. (Aside.} Undone ! undone ! A letter to him from 
 Hastings. I know the hand. If my aunt sees it, we are ruined for 
 ever. I'll keep her employed a little if I can. (To MRS. HARD- 
 CASTLE.) 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 d d 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 know 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
 
 216 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 buzz. That's hard, very hard ; for the inside of the letter is 
 
 always the cream of the correspondence. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Very well, very well. And so, my 
 son was too hard for the philosopher. 
 
 Miss Nev. Yes, madam ; but you must hear the rest, madam. A 
 little more this way, or he may hear us. You'll hear how he puzzled 
 him again. 
 
 Mrs Hard. He seems strangely puzzled now himself, methinks. 
 
 Tony. (Still gazing.} A d d 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. Hard. What's that, my dear? can I give you any assist- 
 ance ? 
 
 Miss Nev. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody reads a cramp 
 hand better than I (Twitching the letter from him). Do you know 
 who it is from ? 
 
 Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger the feeder. 
 
 Miss Nev. Ay, so it is (pretending to read). Dear 'Squire, hoping 
 that you're in health, as I am at present. The gentlemen of the 
 Shake-bag club has cut the gentlemen of the Goose-green quite 
 out of feather. The odds um odd battle um long fighting 
 um here, here, it's all about cocks and fighting ; it's of no con- 
 sequence ; here, put it up, put it up. ( Thrusting the crumpled letter 
 upon him.} 
 
 Tony. But I tell you, miss, it's of all the consequence in the 
 world. I would not lose the rest of it for a guinea. Here, mother, 
 do you make it out. Of no consequence ! (Giving MRS. HARD- 
 CASTLE the letter.) 
 
 Mrs. Hard. How's this ! (reads) " Dear 'Squire, I'm now wait- 
 ing 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. 
 1 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.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 217 
 
 Miss Nev. 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. Hard. (Courtesying very low.} Fine spoken, madam ; you 
 are most miraculously polite and engaging, and quite the very pink 
 of courtesy and circumspection, madam. (Changing her tone.} And 
 you, you great ill-fashioned oaf, with scarce sense enough to keep 
 your mouth shut : were you, too, joined against me? But I'll de- 
 feat 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 dis- 
 appoint 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 on the way. Here, 
 Thomas, Roger, Diggory ! I'll show you that I wish you better 
 than you do yourselves. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Nev. So now I'm completely ruined. 
 
 Tony. Ay, that's a sure thing. 
 
 Miss Nev. What better could be expected from being con- 
 nected with such a stupid fool, and after all the nods and signs I 
 made him ? 
 
 Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own cleverness, and not 
 my stupidity, that did your business. You were so nice and so 
 busy with your Shake-bags and Goose-greens, that I thought you 
 could never be making believe. 
 
 Enter HASTINGS. 
 
 Hast. So, sir, I find by my servant that you have shown my 
 letter, and betrayed us. Was this well done, young gentleman? 
 
 Tony. Here's another. Ask miss there, who betrayed you ? 
 Ecod, it was her doing, not mine. 
 
 Enter MARLOW. 
 
 Mar. So I have been finely used here among you. Rendered 
 contemptible, driven into ill manners, despised, insulted, laughed at. 
 
 Tony. Here's another. We shall have all Bedlam broke loose 
 presently.
 
 218 GOLDSMITHS PL A VS. 
 
 Miss Nev. And there, sir, is the gentleman to whom we all owe 
 every obligation. 
 
 Mar. What can I say to him? a mere boy, an idiot, whose 
 ignorance and age are a protection. 
 
 Hast. A poor contemptible booby, that would but disgrace 
 correction. 
 
 Miss Nev. Yet with cunning and malice enough to make him- 
 self merry with all our embarrassments. 
 
 Hast. An insensible cub. 
 
 Mar. Replete with tricks and mischief. 
 
 Tony. Baw 1 I'll fight you both one after the other with 
 
 baskets. 
 
 Mar. As for him, he's below resentment. But your conduct, 
 Mr. Hastings, requires an explanation. You knew of my mistakes, 
 yet would not undeceive me. 
 
 Hast. Tortured as I am with my own disappointments, is this 
 a time for explanations ? It is not friendly, Mr. Marlow. 
 
 Mar. But, Sir 
 
 Miss Nev. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your mistake, till it 
 -vas too late to undeceive you. Be pacified. 
 
 Enter SERVANT. 
 
 Serv. My mistress desires you'll get ready immediately, madam. 
 The horses are putting to. Your hat and things are in the next 
 room. We are to go thirty miles before morning. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Miss Nev. Well, well, I'll come presently. 
 
 Mar. (To HASTINGS.) Was it well done, sir, to assist in render- 
 ing me ridiculous ? To hang me out for the scorn of all my ac- 
 quaintance? Depend upon it, sir, I shall expect an explanation. 
 
 Hast. 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 Nev. Mr. Hastings ! Mr. Marlow ! Why will you increase 
 my distress by this groundless dispute ? I implore, I entreat 
 
 you 
 
 Enter SERVANT. 
 
 Serv. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is impatient 
 
 [Exit Servant.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 219 
 
 Miss Nev. I come. Pray be pacified. If I leave you thus, I 
 shall die with apprehension. 
 
 Enter SERVANT. 
 
 Serv. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. The horses are 
 waiting. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Miss Nev. O, Mr. Marlow, if you knew what a scene of con- 
 straint and ill-nature lies before me, I am sure it would convert 
 your resentment into pity. 
 
 Mar. I'm so distracted with a variety of passions that" I don't 
 know what to do. Forgive me, madam. George, forgive me. 
 You know my hasty temper, and should not exasperate it. 
 
 Hast. The torture of my situation is my only excuse. 
 
 Miss Nev. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have that esteem for 
 me that I think, that I am sure you have, your constancy for three 
 years will but increase the happiness of our future connection. 
 If 
 
 Mrs. Hard. (Within.) Miss Neville. Constance, why Con^ 
 stance, I say. 
 
 Miss Nev. I'm coming. Well, constancy, remember, constancy 
 is the word. [Exit. 
 
 Hast. My heart ! how can I support this ? To be so near 
 happiness, and such happiness! 
 
 Mar. (To Tony.} You see now, young gentleman, the effects of 
 your folly. What might be amusement to you is here disappoint 
 meat, 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. V. 
 
 Enter HASTINGS and SERVANT. 
 Hast. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville drive off, you say?
 
 GOLDSMITHS PLA YS. 
 
 'Scrv. Yes, your honour. They went off in a post-coach, and 
 the young 'squire went on horseback. They're thirty miles off by 
 this time. 
 
 Hast. Then all my hopes are over. 
 
 Sen>. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He and the old 
 gentleman of the house have been laughing at Mr. Marlow's mis- 
 take this half hour. They are coming this way. 
 
 Hast. Then I must not be seen. So now to my fruitless 
 appointment at the bottom of the garden. This is about the 
 time. [Exit. 
 
 Enter SIR CHARLES and HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The peremptory tone in which he sent 
 forth his sublime commands ! 
 
 Sir Char. And the reserve with which I suppose he treated all 
 your advances. 
 
 Hard. And yet he might have seen something in me above a 
 common innkeeper, too. 
 
 Sir Char. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an uncommon 
 innkeeper ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hard. Well, I'm in too good spirits to think of anything but 
 joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union of our families will make 
 our personal friendships hereditary; and though my daughter's 
 fortune is but small 
 
 Sir Char. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune to me? My 
 SOD is possessed of more than a competence already, and can 
 want nothing but a good and virtuous girl to share his happiness 
 and increase it. If they like each other, as you say they do 
 
 Hard. If, man ! I tell you they do like each other. My 
 daughter as good as told me so. 
 
 Sir Char. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, you know. 
 
 Hard. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest manner my- 
 self; and here he comes to put you out of your i/s, I warrant him. 
 
 Enter MARLOW. 
 
 Mar. I come, sir, once more to ask pardon for my strange 
 conduct. I can scarce reflect on my insolence without confusion.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hard. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too gravely. An hour 
 or two's laughing with my daughter will set all to rights again. 
 She'll never like you the worse for it. 
 
 Mar. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation. 
 
 Hard. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. Marlow ; if I am not 
 deceived, you have something more than approbation thereabouts. 
 You take me ? 
 
 Mar. Really, sir, I have not that happiness. 
 
 Hard. Come, boy, I'm an old fellow, and know what's what as 
 well as you that are younger. I know what has passed between 
 you ; but mum. 
 
 Mar. Sure, sir, nothing has passed 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 passed upon all 
 the rest of the family ? 
 
 Hard. Impudence ! No, I don't say that not quite impudence 
 though girls like to be played with and rumpled a little too some- 
 times. But she has told no tales, I assure you. 
 
 Mar. I never gave her the slightest cause. 
 
 Hard. Well, well, I like modesty in its place well enough. But 
 this is over-acting, young gentleman. You may be open. Your 
 father and I will like you the better for it. 
 
 Mar. May I die, sir, if I ever 
 
 Hard. I tell you, she don't dislike you ; and as I'm sure you 
 like her 
 
 Mar. Dear sir I protest, sir 
 
 Hard. I see no reason why you should not be joined as fast as 
 the parson can tie you. 
 
 Mar. But hear me, sir 
 
 Hard. Your father approves the match, I admire it; every 
 moment's delay will be doing mischief, so 
 
 Mar. But why won't you hear me ? By all that's just and true, 
 I never gave Miss Hardcastle the slightest mark of my attach- 
 ment, or even the most distant hint to suspect me of affection. 
 We had but one interview, and that was formal, modest, and un- 
 interesting.
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. 
 
 Hard. (Aside,} This fellow's formal, modest impudence is 
 beyond bearing. 
 
 Sir Char. And you never grasped her hand, or made any pro- 
 testations ? 
 
 Mar. As heaven is my witness, I came down in obedience to 
 your commands ; I saw the lady without emotion, and parted 
 without reluctance. I hope you'll exact no further proofs of my 
 duty, nor prevent me from leaving a house in which I suffer so 
 many mortifications. [Exit. 
 
 Sir Char. I'm astonished at the air of sincerity with which he 
 parted. 
 
 Hard. And I'm astonished at the deliberate intrepidity of his 
 assurance. 
 
 Sir Char. I dare pledge my life and honour upon his truth. 
 
 Hard. Here comes my daughter, and I would stake my happi- 
 ness upon her veracity. 
 
 Enter Miss HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Hard. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us sincerely and 
 without reserve : has Mr. Marlow made you any profession of 
 love or affection ? 
 
 Miss Hard. The question is very abrupt, sir ! But since you 
 require unreserved sincerity, I think he has. 
 
 Hard. (To SIR CHARLES.) You see. 
 
 Sir Char. And pray, madam, have you and my son had more 
 than one interview ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes, sir, several. 
 
 Hard. (To SIR CHARLES). You see. 
 
 Sir Char. But did he profess any attachment ? 
 
 Miss Hard. A lasting one. 
 
 Sir Char. Did he talk of love ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Much, sir. 
 
 Sir Char. Amazing ! And all this formally ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Formally. 
 
 Hard. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied. 
 
 Sir Char. And how did he behave, madam ?
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Miss Hard. As most professed admirers do : said some civil 
 things of my face ; talked much of his want of merit, and the 
 greatness of mine; mentioned his heart, gave a short tragedy 
 speech, and ended with pretended rapture. 
 
 Sir Char. Now I'm perfectly convinced indeed. I know his 
 conversation among women to be modest and submissive. This 
 forward, canting, ranting manner by no means describes him ; and, 
 I am confident, he never sat for the picture. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then what, sir, if I should convince you to your 
 face of my sincerity ? If you and my papa, in about half an hour, 
 will place yourselves behind that screen, you shall hear him declare 
 his passion to me in person. 
 
 Sir Char. Agreed. And if I find him what you describe, all 
 my happiness in him must have an end. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Hard. And if you don't find him what I describe I fear 
 rny happiness must never have a beginning. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene changes to the back of the Garden. 
 Enter HASTINGS. 
 
 Hast. What an idiot am I to wait here for a fellow who pro- 
 bably takes a delight in mortifying me. He never intended to be 
 punctual, and I'll wait no longer. What do I see ? It is he ! and 
 perhaps with news of my Constance. 
 
 Enter TONY, booted and spattered. 
 
 Hast. My honest 'squire ! I now find you a man of your word. 
 This looks like friendship. 
 
 Tony. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend you have in the 
 world, if you knew but all. This riding by night, by-the-by, is 
 cursedly tiresome. It has shook me worse than the basket of a 
 stage-coach. 
 
 Hast. But how ? where did you leave your fellow-travellers f 
 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 *orty miles after a fox than ten with such varmint. 
 
 Hast. Well, but where have you left the ladies ? I die with im- 
 patience.
 
 224 GOLDSMITPTS PLA VS. 
 
 Tony. Left them ! Why, where should I leave them but where 
 I found them ? 
 
 Hast. This is a riddle. 
 
 Tony, Riddle me this, then. What's that goes round the house, 
 and round the house, and never touches the house ? 
 
 Hast. I'm still astray. 
 
 Tony. Why, that's it, mun. I have led them astray. By jingo, 
 there's not a pond or a slough within five miles of the place but 
 they can tell the taste of. 
 
 Hast. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I understand : you took them in a round, 
 while they supposed themselves going forward, and so you have 
 at last brought them home again. 
 
 Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down Feather-bed 
 Lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. I then rattled them 
 crack over the stones of Up-and-down Hill. I then introduced 
 them to the gibbett on Heavy-tree Heath : and from that, with a 
 circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at the 
 bottom of the garden. 
 
 Hast. But no accident, I hope. 
 
 Tony. No, no, only mother is confoundedly frightened. She 
 thinks herself forty miles off. She's sick of the journey ; and the 
 cattle can scarcely crawl. So if your own horses be ready, you 
 may whip off with cousin, and I'll be bound that no soul here 
 can budge a foot to follow you. 
 
 Hast. My dear friend, how can I be grateful ! 
 
 Tony. Ay, now it's dear friend, noble 'squire. Just now it was 
 
 all idiot, cub, and run me through. D n 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 then I should 
 be dead, and you might go kiss the hangman. 
 
 Hast. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten to relieve Miss 
 Neville : if you keep the old lady employed, I promise to take 
 care of the young one. 
 
 [Exit HASTINGS. 
 
 Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. Vanish ! She's got 
 from the pond, and draggled up to the waist like a mermaid.
 
 SHE STOOfS TO CONQUER, 225 
 
 Enter Mrs. HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Oh, Tony, I'm killed ! Shook ! Battered to death ! 
 I shall never survive it. That last jolt, that laid us against the 
 quickset hedge, has done my business. 
 
 Tony. Alack, mamma, it was all your own fault. You would 
 be for running away by night, without knowing one inch of the 
 way. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I wish we were at home again. I never met so 
 many accidents in so short a journey. Drenched in the mud, 
 overturned in a ditch, stuck fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly, 
 and at last to lose our way. Whereabout do you think we are, 
 Tony? 
 
 Tony. By my guess we should come upon Crack-skull Common, 
 about forty miles from home. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. O lud ! O lud ! The most notorious spot in all 
 the country. We only want a robbery to make a complete night 
 on't. 
 
 Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma, don't be afraid. Two of the 
 five that kept here are hanged, and the other three may not find 
 us. Don't be afraid. Is that a man that's galloping behind us ? 
 No, it's only a tree. Don't be afraid. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. The fright will certainly kill me. 
 
 Tony. Do you see anything like a black hat moving behind 
 the thicket ? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Oh, death ! 
 
 Tony. No : it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, mamma ; don't 
 be afraid. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man coming towards 
 us. Ah ! I'm sure on't. If he perceives us we are undone. 
 
 Tony. (Aside.) Father-in-law, by all that's unlucky, come to 
 take one of his night walks. (To her.) Ah ! it's a highwayman, 
 with pistols as long as my arm. A d d ill-looking fellow. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Good Heaven defend us ! He approaches. 
 
 Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave me to 
 manage him. If there be any danger, I'll cough and cry hem. 
 
 15
 
 226 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. 
 
 When I cough, be sure to keep close. (MRS. HARDCASTLE hides 
 behind a tree in the back Scene.) 
 
 Enter HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Hard. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of people in want of 
 help. 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. Hard. (From behind.') Ah, death ! I find there's danger. 
 
 Hard. Forty miles in three hours ; sure that's too much, my 
 youngster. 
 
 Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make short journeys, as 
 they say. Hem. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. (From behind) Sure he'll do the dear boy no harm. 
 
 Hard. But I heard a voice here; I should be glad to know 
 from whence it came. 
 
 Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I was saying that 
 forty miles in four hours was very good going. Hem. As to be 
 sure it was. Hem. I have got a sort of cold by being out in the 
 air. We'll go in, if you please. Hem. 
 
 Hard. But if you talked to yourself, you did not answer your- 
 self. I'm certain I heard two voices, and am resolved (raising his 
 voice) to find the other out. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. (From behind.) Oh ! he's coming to find me out. 
 Oh! 
 
 Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you ? Hem. I'll lay 
 clown my life for the truth hem I'll tell you all, sir. (Detaining 
 him.) 
 
 Hard. I tell you I will not be detained. I insist on seeing. 
 It's in vain to expect I'll believe you. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. (Running forward from behind.} 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. 
 
 Hard. My wife, as I'm a Christian. From whence can she 
 come? or what does she mean? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. (Kneeling.} Take compassion on us, good Mr.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 227 
 
 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. 
 
 Hard. I believe the woman's out of her senses. What, Dorothy, 
 don't you know me ? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive ! My fears blinded 
 me. But who, my dear, could have expected to meet you here in 
 this frightful place, so far from home ? What has brought you to 
 follow us ? 
 
 Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your wits? So far 
 from home, when you are within forty yards of your own door ! 
 (To him.} This is one of your old tricks, you graceless rogue you! 
 (To her.} Don't you know the gate and the mulberry-tree ? and 
 don't you remember the horse-pond, my dear ? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Yes, I shall remember the horse-pond as long as I 
 live ; I have caught my death in it. (To TONY.) And is it to you, 
 you graceless varlet, I owe all this 1 I'll teach you to abuse your 
 mother, I will. 
 
 Tony. Ecod ! mother, all the parish says you have spoiled me, 
 and so you may take the fruits on't. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I'll spoil you, I will. 
 
 \Follows him off the stage. Exit. 
 
 Hard. There's morality, however, in his reply. \Exit. 
 
 Enter HASTINGS and Miss NEVILLE. 
 
 Hast. My dear Constance, why will you deliberate thus ? If we 
 delay a moment, all is lost for ever. Pluck up a little resolution, 
 and we shall soon be out of the reach of her malignity. 
 
 Miss Nev. I find it impossible. My spirits are so sunk with the 
 agitations I have suffered, that I am unable to face any new 
 danger. Two or three years' patience will at last crown us with 
 happiness. 
 
 Hast. Such a tedious delay is worse than inconstancy. Let us- 
 fly, my charmer. Let us date our happiness from this very 
 moment. Perish fortune ! Love and content will increase what 
 we possess beyond a monarch's revenue. Let me prevail ! 
 
 Miss Nev. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence once more comes 
 
 15-*
 
 228 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. 
 
 to ray relief, and I will obey its dictates. In the moment of pas- 
 sion, fortune may be despised, but it ever produces a lasting 
 repentance. I'm resolved to apply to Mr. Hardcastle's compassion 
 and justice for redress. 
 
 Hast. But though he had the will, he has not the power to 
 relieve you. 
 
 Miss Nev. But he has influence, and upon that I am resolved 
 to rely. 
 
 Hast. I have no hopes. But since you persist, I must reluct- 
 antly obey you. \Exennt. 
 
 Scene changes. 
 Enter SIR CHARLES and Miss HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Sir Char. 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 Hard. I am proud of your approbation ; and to show I 
 merit it, if you place yourselves as I directed, you shall hear his 
 explicit declaration. But he comes. 
 
 Sir Char. I'll to your father, and keep him to the appointment. 
 
 \Exit SIR CHARLES. 
 Enter MARLOW. 
 
 Mar, Though prepared for setting out, I come once more to 
 take leave ; nor did I, till this moment, know the pain I feel in 
 the separation. 
 
 Miss Hard. (In her own natural manner?) I believe these 
 sufferings cannot be very great, sir, which you can so easily re- 
 move. A day or two longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, 
 by showing the little value of what you now think proper to regret. 
 
 Mar. (Aside.} This girl every moment improves upon me. (To 
 her.} It must not be, madam, I have already trifled too long with 
 my heart. My very pride begins to submit to my passion. The 
 disparity of education and fortune, the anger of a parent, and the 
 contempt of my equals, begin to lose their weight ; and nothing 
 can restore me to myself but this painful effort of resolution. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then go, sir : I'll urge nothing more to detain you. 
 Though my family be as good as hers you came down to visit, and
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 229 
 
 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, from behind. 
 
 Sir Char. Here, behind this screen. 
 
 Hard. Ay, ay ; make no noise. I'll engage my Kate covers 
 him with confusion at last. 
 
 Mar. By heavens! 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 plainness, 
 now appears refined simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, 
 now strikes me as the result of courageous innocence and con- 
 scious virtue. 
 
 Sir Char. What can it mean ? He amazes me ! 
 
 Hard. I told you how it would be. Hush ! 
 
 Mar. I am now determined to stay, madam, and I have too 
 good an opinion of my father's discernment, when he sees you, 
 to doubt his approbation. 
 
 Miss Hard. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, cannot detain you. 
 Do you think I could suffer a connection in which there is the 
 smallest room for repentance ? Do you think I would take the 
 mean advantage of a transient passion to load you with confusion ? 
 Do you think I could ever relish that happiness which was ac- 
 quired by lessening yours ? 
 
 Mar. By all that's good, I can have no happiness but what's 
 in your power to grant me ! Nor shall I ever feel repentance but 
 in not having seen your merits before. I will stay even contrary 
 to your wishes ; and though you should persist to shun me, I will 
 make my respectful assiduities atone for the levity of my past 
 conduct. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sir, I must entreat you'll desist As our acquaint- 
 ance began, so let it end, in indifference. I might have given an
 
 230 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. 
 
 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 con- 
 fident addresses of a secure admirer ? 
 
 Mar. (Kneeling.) Does this look like security ? Does this look 
 like confidence ? No, madam, every moment that shows me your 
 merit, only serves to increase my diffidence and confusion. Here 
 let me continue 
 
 Sir Char. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how hast 
 thou deceived me ! Is this your indifference, your uninteresting 
 conversation ? 
 
 Hard. Your cold contempt j your formal interview ! What have 
 you to say now? 
 
 Mar. That I'm all amazement ! What can it mean ? 
 
 Hard. It means that you can say and unsay things at pleasure, 
 That you can address a lady in private, and deny it in public ; 
 that you have one story for us, and another for my daughter. 
 
 Mar. Daughter ! This lady your daughter ? 
 
 Hard. Yes, sir, my only daughter : my Kate ; whose else 
 should she be? 
 
 Mar. Oh, the devil ! 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes, sir, that very identical tall squinting lady you 
 were pleased to take me for (courtcsying) ; she that you addressed 
 as the mild, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold 
 forward agreeable Rattle of the ladies' club. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mar. Zounds ! there's no bearing this ; it's worse than death ! 
 
 Miss Hard. In which of your characters, sir, will you give us 
 leave to address you ? As the faltering gentleman, with looks on 
 the ground, that speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy; or 
 the loud confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, 
 and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morning ? Ha ! 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Mar. Oh, curse on my noisy head ! I never attempted to be 
 impudent yet, that I was not taken down ! I must be gone. 
 
 Hard. By the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it 
 was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 231 
 
 stir, I tell you. I know she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive 
 him, Kate ? We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. 
 
 [ They retire, she tormenting him, to the. back Scene, 
 Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and TONY. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. So, so, they're gone off. Let them go, I care not, 
 
 Hard. Who gone? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr. Hastings, 
 from town. He who came down with our modest visitor here. 
 
 Sir Char. Who, my honest George Hastings ? As worthy a fellow 
 as lives, and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice. 
 
 Hard. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm proud of the con- 
 nection. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not 
 taken her fortune ; that remains in this family to console us for 
 her loss. 
 
 Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary ? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. 
 
 Hard. But you know if your son, when of age, refuses to marry 
 his cousin, her whole fortune is then at her own disposal. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ay, but he's not of age, and she has not thought 
 proper to wait for his refusal. 
 
 Enter HASTINGS and Miss NEVILLE. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. (Aside.} What, returned so soon ! I begin not 
 to like it. 
 
 Hast. (To HARDCASTLE.) For my late attempt to fly off with 
 your niece, let my present confusion be my punishment. We are 
 now come back, to appeal from your justice to your humanity. 
 By her father's consent I first paid her my addresses, and our 
 passions were first founded in duty. 
 
 Miss Nev. Since his death, I have been obliged to stoop to 
 dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an hour of levity, I was 
 ready even to give up my fortune to secure my choice. But I'm 
 now recovered from the delusion, and hope from your tenderness 
 what is denied me from a nearer connection. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Pshaw, pshaw ! this is all but the whining end of a 
 modern novel.
 
 GOLDSMITHS PLAYS. 
 
 Hard. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're come back to reclaim 
 their due. Come hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's 
 hand whom I now offer you ? 
 
 Tony. What signifies my refusing ? You know I can't refuse 
 her till I'm of age, father. 
 
 Hard. While I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely to 
 conduce to your improvement, I concurred with your mother's 
 desire to keep it secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong 
 use, I must now declare you have been of age these three months. 
 
 Tony. Of age ! Am I of age, father ? 
 
 Hard. Above three months. 
 
 Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my liberty. 
 (Taking Miss NEVILLE'S hand.} Witness all men by these pre- 
 sents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, esquire, of BLANK place, refuse 
 you, ConsUmtia 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 own man again. 
 
 Sir Char. Oh, brave 'squire \ 
 
 Hast. My worthy friend I 
 
 Mrs. Haid. My undutiful offspring ! 
 
 Mar. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sincerely. And 
 could I prevail upon my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, I 
 should be the happiest man alive if you would return me the 
 favour. 
 
 Hast. (To Miss HARDCASTLE.) Come, madam, you are now 
 driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances. I knosv 
 you like him, I'm sure he loves you, and you must and shall 
 have him. 
 
 Hard. (Joining their hands.) And I say so too. And, Mr. 
 Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't 
 believe you'll ever repent your bargain. So now to supper. To- 
 morrow we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us, and 
 the mistakes of the night shall be crowned with a merry 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. 
 
 \Exennt omnes.
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 HERE are a hundred faults in this thing, and a hundred 
 things might be said to prove them beauties : but it is 
 needless. A book may be amusing with numerous 
 errors, or it may be very dull without a single absurdity. The 
 hero of this piece unites in himself the three greatest characters 
 upon earth ; he is a priest, a husbandman, and the father of a 
 family. He is drawn as ready to teach and ready to obey ; as 
 simple in affluence and majestic in adversity. In this age of 
 opulence and refinement how can such a character please ? Such 
 as are fond of high life will turn with disdain from the simplicity 
 of his country fireside ; such as mistake ribaldry for humour will 
 find no wit in his harmless conversation ; and such as have been 
 taught to deride religion will laugh at one whose chief stores of 
 comfort are drawn from futurity. 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
 
 THE 
 
 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD, IN WHICH 
 A KINDRED LIKENESS PREVAILS AS WELL OF MINDS AS OF 
 PERSONS. 
 
 WAS ever of opinion, that the honest man who 
 married and brought up a large family, did 
 more service than he who continued single, and 
 only talked of population. From this motive, I 
 had scarce taken orders a year before I began to think 
 seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife as she did her 
 wedding-gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but such 
 qualities as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a 
 good-natured notable woman ; and as for breeding, there 
 were few country ladies who could show more. She could 
 read any English book without much spelling ; but for pick-
 
 236 THE VICAR OF WAPCEFIELD. 
 
 ling, preserving, and cookery, none could excel her. She 
 prided herself also upon being an excellent contriver in 
 housekeepingj though I could never find that we grew 
 richer with all her contrivances. 
 
 However, we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness 
 increased as we grew old. There was in fact nothing that 
 could make us angry with the world or each other. We 
 had an elegant house, situate in a fine country, and a good 
 neighbourhood. The year was spent in moral or rural 
 amusements ; in visiting our rich neighbours, and relieving 
 such as were poor. We had no revolutions to fear, nor 
 fatigues to undergo ; all our adventures were by the fire- 
 side, and all our migrations from the blue bed to the 
 brown. 
 
 As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or 
 stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry wine, for which we 
 had great reputation : and I profess, with the veracity of 
 an historian, that I never knew one of them find fault with 
 it. Our cousins, too, even to the fortieth remove, all re- 
 membered their affinity, without any help from the heralds' 
 office, and came very frequently to see us. Some of them 
 did us no great honour by these claims of kindred ; as we 
 had the blind, the maimed, and the halt amongst the 
 number. However, my wife always insisted that, as they 
 were the same flesh and blood, they should sit with us at 
 the same table. So that, if we had not very rich, we 
 generally had very happy, friends about us : for this remark 
 will hold good through life, that the poorer the guest, the 
 better pleased he ever is with being treated : and as some
 
 DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY. 23? 
 
 men gaze with admiration at the colours of a tulip, or the 
 wing of a butterfly, so I was by nature an admirer of happy 
 human faces. However, when any one of our relations was 
 found to be a person of very bad character, a troublesome 
 guest, or one we desired to get rid of, upon his leaving my 
 house, I ever took care to lend him a riding-coat, or a pair 
 of boots, or sometimes a horse of small value, and I always 
 had the satisfaction of rinding he never came back to return 
 them. By this the house was cleared of such as we did not 
 like ; but never was the family of Wakefield known to turn 
 the traveller, or the poor dependent, out of doors. 
 
 Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness ; 
 not but that we sometimes had those little rubs which Pro- 
 vidence sends to enhance the value of its favours. My 
 orchard was often robbed by schoolboys, and my wife's 
 custards plundered by the cats or the children. The 
 Squire would sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic 
 parts of my sermon, or his lady return my wife's civilities 
 at church with a mutilated courtesy. But we soon got 
 over the uneasiness caused by such accidents, and usually 
 in three or four days began to wonder how they vexed us. 
 
 My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were 
 educated without softness, so they were at once well-formed 
 and healthy ; my sons hardy and active, my daughters 
 beautiful and blooming. When I stood in the midst of the 
 little circle, which promised to be the supports of my 
 declining age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story 
 of Count Abensberg, who, in Henry II.'s progress through 
 Germany, while other courtiers came with their treasures,
 
 2 3 8 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 brought his thirty-two children, and presented them to his 
 sovereign as the most valuable offering he had to bestow. 
 In this manner, though I had but six, I considered them 
 as a very valuable present made to my country, and conse- 
 quently looked upon it as my debtor. Our eldest son was 
 named George, after his uncle, who left us ten thousand 
 pounds. Our second child, a girl, I intended to call after 
 her aunt Grissel ; but my wife, who, during her pregnancy, 
 had been reading romances, insisted upon her being called 
 Olivia. In less than another year we had another daughter, 
 and now I was determined that Grissel should be her name ; 
 but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand godmother, the 
 girl was, by her directions, called Sophia ; so that we had 
 two romantic names in the family : but I solemnly protest 
 I had no hand in it. Moses was our next, and after an 
 interval of twelve years we had two sons more. 
 
 It would be fruitless to deny my exultation when I saw 
 my little ones about me ; but the vanity and the satisfaction 
 of my wife were even greater than mine. When our visitors 
 would say, " Well, upon my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have 
 the finest children in the whole country." " Ay, neigjibour," 
 she would answer, " they are as heaven made them, hand- 
 some enough, if they be good enough ; for handsome is 
 that handsome does." And then she would bid the girls 
 hold up their heads ; who, to conceal nothing, were cer- 
 tainly very handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling a cir- 
 cumstance with me, that I should scarce have remembered 
 to mention it, had it not been a general topic of conver- 
 sation in the country. Olivia now about eighteen, had that
 
 DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY. 239 
 
 luxuriancy of beauty \vith which painters generally draw 
 Hebe; open, sprightly, and commanding. Sophia's fea- 
 tures were not so striking at first ; but often did more 
 certain execution ; for they were soft, modest, and alluring. 
 The one vanquished by a single blow, the other by efforts 
 successfully repeated. 
 
 The temper of a woman is generally formed from the 
 turn of her features, at least it was so with my daughters. 
 Olivia wished for many lovers, Sophia to secure one. 
 Olivia was often affected from too great a desire to please. 
 Sophia even repressed excellence from her fears to offend 
 The one entertained me with her vivacity when I was gay, 
 the other with her sense when I was serious. But these 
 qualities were never carried to excess in either, and I have 
 often seen them exchange characters for a whole day 
 together. A suit of mourning has transformed my coquette 
 into a prude, and a new set of ribands has given her 
 younger sister more than natural vivacity. My eldest son, 
 George, was bred at Oxford, as I intended him for one of 
 the learned professions. My second boy, Moses, whom I 
 designed for business, received a sort of miscellaneous 
 education at home. But it is needless to attempt de- 
 scribing the particular characters of young people that had 
 seen but very little of the world. In short, a family like- 
 ness prevailed through all ; and, properly speaking, they 
 had but one character, that of being all equally generous, 
 credulous, simple, and inoffensive.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 FAMILY MISFORTUNES. THE LOSS OF FORTUNE ONLY SERVES TO 
 INCREASE THE PRIDE OF THE WORTHY. 
 
 |HE temporal concerns of our family were chiefly 
 committed to my wife's management ; as to 
 the spiritual, I took them entirely under my 
 own direction. The profits of my living, which 
 amounted to but thirty-five pounds a year, I made over to 
 the orphans and widows of the clergy of our diocese ; for, 
 having a sufficient fortune of my own, I was careless of tem- 
 poralities, and felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty with- 
 out reward. I also set a resolution of keeping no curate, 
 and of being acquainted with every man in the parish, ex- 
 horting the married men to temperance, and the bachelors 
 to matrimony ; so that in a few years it was a common say- 
 ing, that there were three strange wants at Wakefield, a 
 parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, and ale- 
 houses wanting customers. 
 
 Matrimony was always one of my favourite topics, and I 
 wrote several sermons to prove its happiness : but there was 
 a peculiar tenet which T made a point of supporting : for I
 
 FAMILY MISFORl^UNES. 
 
 241 
 
 maintained with Whiston, that it was unlawful for a priest 
 of the church of England, after the death of his first wife, 
 to take a second, or, to express it in one word, I valued 
 myself upon being a strict monogamist. 
 
 I was early initiated into this important dispute, on which 
 so many laborious volumes have been written. I published 
 some tracts upon the subject myself, which, as they never 
 sold, I have the consolation of thinking are read only by 
 the happy few. Some of my friends called this my weak 
 side ; but alas ! they had not like me made it a subject of 
 long contemplation. The more I reflected upon it, the 
 more important it appeared ; I even went a step beyond 
 Whiston in displaying my principles : as he had engraven 
 upon his wife's tomb that she was the only wife of William 
 Whiston ; so I wrote a similar epitaph for my wife, though 
 still living, in which I extolled her prudence, economy, and 
 obedience, till death ; and having got it copied fair, with an 
 elegant frame, it was placed over the chimney-piece, where 
 it answered several very useful purposes. It admonished 
 my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity to her ; it in- 
 spired her with a passion for fame, and constantly put her 
 in mind of her end. 
 
 It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often re- 
 commended, that my eldest son, just upon leaving college, 
 fixed his affections upon the daughter of a neighbouring 
 clergyman, who was a dignitary in the church, and in cir- 
 cumstances to give her a large fortune ; but fortune was 
 her smallest accomplishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was 
 
 allowed by all (except my two daughters) to be completely 
 
 16
 
 242 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 pretty. Her youth, health, and innocence were still height- 
 ened by a complexion so transparent, and such a happy 
 sensibility of look, as even age could not gaze on with in- 
 difference. As Mr. Wilmot knew that I could make a very 
 handsome settlement on my son, he was not averse to the 
 match ; so both families lived together in all that harmony 
 which generally precedes an expected alliance. Being con- 
 vinced by experience that the days of courtship are the 
 most happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen 
 the period ; and the various amusements which the young 
 couple every day shared in each other's company, seemed 
 to increase their passion. We were generally awaked in 
 the morning by music, and on fine days rode a-hunting. 
 The hours between breakfast and dinner the ladies devoted 
 to dress and study : they usually read a page, and then 
 gazed at themselves in the glass, which even philosophers 
 might own often presented the page of greatest beauty. 
 
 At dinner my wife took the lead ; for, as she always 
 insisted upon carving everything herself, it being her 
 mother's way, she gave us upon these occasions the his- 
 tory of every dish. When we had dined, to prevent the 
 ladies leaving us, I generally ordered the table to be re- 
 moved ; and sometimes, with the music-master's assistance, 
 the girls would give us a very agreeable concert. Walking 
 out, drinking tea, country-dances, and forfeits, shortened 
 the rest of the day, without the assistance of cards, as 1 
 hated all manner of gaming, except backgammon, at which 
 my old friend and I sometimes took a twopenny hit. Nor 
 can I here pass over an ominous circumstance that hap-
 
 FA MIL Y MISFOR TUNES. 
 
 pened the last time we played together ; I only wanted to 
 fling a quartre, and yet I threw deuce-ace five times 
 running. 
 
 Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at last it 
 was thought convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the 
 young couple, who seemed earnestly to desire it. During 
 the preparations for the wedding, I need not describe the 
 busy importance of my wife, nor the sly looks of my 
 daughters ; in fact, my attention was fixed on another 
 object, the completing a tract which I intended shortly to 
 publish in defence of my favourite principle. As I looked 
 upon this as a master-piece, both for argument and style, I 
 could not in the pride of my heart avoid showing it to my 
 old friend Mr. Wilmot, as I made no doubt of receiving his 
 approbation ; but not till too late I discovered that he was 
 most violently attached to the contrary opinion, and with 
 good reason ; for he was at that time actually courting a 
 fourth wife. This, as may be expected, produced a dispute 
 attended with some acrimony, which threatened to inter- 
 rupt our intended alliance ; but on the day before that 
 appointed for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the sub- 
 ject at large. 
 
 It was managed with proper spirit on both sides ; he 
 asserted that I was heterodox, I retorted the charge : he 
 replied, and I rejoined. In the mean time, while the con- 
 troversy was hottest, I was called out by one of my rela- 
 tions, who, with a face of concern, advised me to give up 
 the dispute, at least till my son's wedding was over. 
 "How!" cried I, "relinquish the cause of truth, and let
 
 244 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 him be a husband, already driven to the very verge of 
 absurdity ? You might as well advise me to give up my 
 fortune as my argument." " Your fortune," returned my 
 friend, " I am now sorry to inform you, is almost nothing. 
 The merchant in town, in whose hands your money was 
 lodged, has gone off, to avoid a statute of bankruptcy, and 
 is thought not to have left a shilling in the pound. I was 
 unwilling to shock you or the family with the account till 
 after the wedding : but now it may serve to moderate your 
 warmth in the argument ; for, I suppose, your own prudence 
 will enforce the necessity of dissembling, at least till your 
 son has the young lady's fortune secure." " Well," re- 
 turned I, " if what you tell me be true, and if I am to be a 
 beggar, it shall never make me a rascal, or induce me to 
 disavow my principles. I'll go this moment and inform the 
 company of my circumstances ; and as for the argument, I 
 even here retract my former concessions in the old gentle- 
 man's favour, nor will I allow him now to be a husband in 
 any sense of the expression." 
 
 It would be endless to describe the different sensations 
 of both families when I divulged the news of our misfor- 
 tune ; but what others felt was slight to what the lovers 
 appeared to endure. Mr. Wilmot, who seemed before suf- 
 ficiently inclined to break off the match, was by this blow 
 soon determined ; one virtue he had in perfection, which 
 was prudence, too often the only one that is left us at 
 seventy-two.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A MIGRATION. THE FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES OF OUR LIVES ARE 
 GENERALLY FOUND AT LAST TO BE OF OUR OWN PROCURING. 
 
 HE only hope of our family now was, that the 
 report of our misfortune might be malicious or 
 premature : but a letter from my agent in town 
 soon came with a confirmation of every par- 
 ticular. The loss of fortune to myself alone would have 
 been trifling ; the only uneasiness I felt was for my family, 
 who were to be humbled, without an education to render 
 them callous to contempt. 
 
 Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to re- 
 strain their affliction ; for premature consolation is but the 
 remembrancer of sorrow. During this interval, my thoughts 
 were employed on some future means of supporting them ; 
 and at last a small cure of fifteen pounds a year was offered 
 me in a distant neighbourhood, where I could still enjoy 
 my principles without molestation. 
 
 With this proposal I joyfully closed, having determined 
 to increase my salary by managing a little farm. 
 
 Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get
 
 246 THE VICAR OF WAKEZIELD. 
 
 together the wrecks of my fortune : and all debts collected 
 and paid, out of fourteen thousand pounds we had but four 
 hundred remaining. My chief attention therefore was now 
 to bring down the pride of my family to their circum- 
 stances ; for I well knew that aspiring beggary is wretched- 
 ness itself. 
 
 " You cannot be ignorant, my children," cried I, " that 
 no prudence of ours could have prevented our late 
 misfortune ; but prudence may do much in disappointing 
 its effects. We are now poor, my fondlings, and wisdom 
 bids us to conform to our humble situation. Let us then, 
 without repining, give up those splendours with which num- 
 bers are wretched, and seek in humbler circumstances that 
 peace with which all may be happy. The poor live plea- 
 santly without our help, why then should not we learn to 
 live without theirs ? No, my children, let us from this 
 moment give up all pretensions to gentility ; we have still 
 enough left for happiness if we are wise, and let us draw 
 upon content for the deficiencies of fortune." 
 
 As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to 
 send him to town, where his abilities might contribute to 
 our support and his own. The separation of friends and 
 families is, perhaps, one of the most distressful circum- 
 stances attendant on penury. The day soon arrived on 
 which we were to disperse for the first time. My son, after 
 taking leave of his mother and the rest, who mingled their 
 tears with their kisses, came to ask a blessing from me. 
 This I gave him from my heart, and which, added to five 
 guineas, was all the patrimony I had now to bestow.
 
 A MIGRATION. 24? 
 
 " You are going, my boy," cried I, " to London on foot, in 
 the manner Hooker, your great ancestor, travelled there 
 before you. Take from me the same horse that was given 
 him by the good Bishop Jewel, this staff, and take this 
 book too, it will be your comfort on the way : these two 
 lines in it are worth a million, ' I have been young, and now 
 am old ; yet never saw I the righteous man forsaken, or his 
 seed begging their bread.' Let this be your consolation as 
 you travel on. Go, my boy ; whatever be thy fortune let 
 me see thee once a year ; still keep a good heart, and fare- 
 well." As he was possessed of integrity and honour, I was 
 under no apprehensions from throwing him naked into the 
 amphitheatre of life ; for I knew he would act a good part 
 whether vanquished or victorious. 
 
 His departure only prepared the way for our own, which 
 arrived a few days afterwards. The leaving a neighbourhood 
 in which we had enjoyed so many hours of tranquillity, 
 was not without a tear which scarce fortitude itself could 
 suppress. Besides, a journey of seventy miles to a family 
 that had hitherto never been above ten from home, filled 
 us with apprehension, and the cries of the poor, who fol- 
 lowed us for some miles, contributed to increase it. The 
 first day's journey brought us in safety within thirty miles 
 of our future retreat, and we put up for the night at an 
 obscure inn in a village by the way. When we were shown 
 a room, I desired the landlord, in my usual way, to let us 
 have his company, with which he complied, as what he 
 drank would increase the bill next morning. He knew, 
 however, the whole neighbourhood to which I was removing,
 
 248 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 particularly Squire Thornhill, who was to be my landlord, 
 and who lived within a few miles of the place. This gentle- 
 man he described as one who desired to know little more of 
 the world than its pleasures, being particularly remarkable 
 for his attachment to the fair sex. He observed that no 
 virtue was able to resist his arts and assiduity, and that there 
 was scarce a farmer's daughter within ten miles round but 
 what had found him successful and faithless. Though this 
 account gave me some pain, it had a very different effect 
 upon my daughters, whose features seemed to brighten with 
 the expectation of an approaching triumph ; nor was my 
 wife less pleased and confident of their allurements and 
 virtue. While our thoughts were thus employed, the 
 hostess entered the room to inform her husband, that the 
 strange gentleman, who had been two days in the house, 
 wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his reckon- 
 ing. " Want money !" replied the host, " that must be im- 
 possible ; for it was no later than yesterday he paid three 
 guineas to our beadle to spare an old broken soldier that 
 was to be whipped through the town for dog-stealing." 
 The hostess, however, still persisting in her first assertion, 
 he was preparing to leave the room, swearing that he would 
 be satisfied one way or another, when I begged the land- 
 lord would introduce me to a stranger of so much charity as 
 he described. With this he complied, showing in a gentle- 
 man who seemed to be about thirty, dressed in clothes that 
 once were laced. His person was well-formed, and his face 
 marked with the lines of thinking. He had something 
 short and dry in his addresp, and seemed not to understand
 
 A MIGRATION: 
 
 ceremony, or to despise it. Upon the landlord's leaving 
 the room, I could not avoid expressing my concern to 
 the stranger at seeing a gentleman in such circumstances, 
 and offered my purse to satisfy the present demand. " I 
 take it with all my heart, sir," replied he, " and am glad 
 that a late oversight in giving what money I had about 
 me, has shown me that there are still some men like you. 
 I must, however, previously entreat being informed of the 
 name and residence of my benefactor, in order to repay 
 him as soon as possible." In this I satisfied him fully, not 
 only mentioning my name and late misfortune, but the 
 place to which I was going to remove. " This," cried he, 
 " happens still more lucky than I hoped for, as I am going 
 the same way myself, having been detained here two days 
 by the floods, which, I hope, by to-morrow will be found 
 passable." I testified the pleasure I should have in his 
 company, and, my wife and daughters joining in entreaty, he 
 was prevailed upon to stay supper. The stranger's conver- 
 sation, which was at once pleasing and instructive, induced 
 me to wish for a continuance of it ; but it was now high 
 time to retire and take refreshment against the fatigues of 
 the following day. 
 
 The next morning we all set forward together ; my 
 family on horseback, while Mr. Burchell, our new com- 
 panion, walked along the foot-path by the road-side, ob- 
 serving, with a smile, that, as we were ill-mounted, he would 
 be too generous to attempt leaving us behind. As the 
 floods were not yet subsided, we were obliged to hire a 
 guide, who trotted on before, Mr. Burchell and I bringing
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 up the rear. We lightened the fatigues of the road with 
 philosophical disputes, which he seemed to understand per- 
 fectly. But what surprised me most was, that though he 
 was a money-borrower, he defended his opinions with as 
 much obstinacy as if he had been my patron. He now and 
 then also informed me to whom the different seats belonged 
 that lay in our view as we travelled the road. " That," 
 cried he, pointing to a very magnificent house which stood 
 at some distance, " belongs to Mr. Thornhill, a young 
 gentleman who enjoys a large fortune, though entirely 
 dependent on the will of his uncle, Sir William Thornhill ; 
 a gentleman, who, content with a little himself, permits his 
 nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town." 
 "What!" cried I, "is my young landlord then the nephew 
 of a man whose virtues, generosity, and singularities, are so 
 universally known ? I have heard Sir William Thornhill 
 represented as one of the most generous, yet whimsical 
 men in the kingdom ; a man of consummate benevolence." 
 " Something, perhaps, too much so," replied Mr. Burchell ; 
 " at least he carried benevolence to an excess when young ; 
 for his passions were then strong, and as they all were 
 upon the side of virtue, they led it up to a romantic extreme. 
 He early began to aim at the qualifications of the soldier 
 and the scholar ; was soon distinguished in the army, 
 and had some reputation among men of learning. Adula- 
 tion ever follows the ambitious, for such alone receive 
 most pleasure from flattery. He was surrounded with 
 crowds, who showed him only one side of their character ; 
 so that he began to lose a regard for private interest in
 
 A MIGRATION. 
 
 universal sympathy. He loved all mankind ; for fortune 
 prevented him from knowing that they were rascals. 
 Physicians tell us of a disorder in which the whole body is 
 so exquisitely sensible, that the slightest touch gives pain ; 
 what some have thus suffered in their persons, this gentle- 
 man felt in his mind. The slightest distress, whether real 
 or fictitious, touched him to the quick, and his soul laboured 
 under a sickly sensibility of the miseries of others. Thus 
 disposed to relieve, it will be easily conjectured, he found 
 numbers disposed to solicit : his profusions began to impair 
 his fortune, but not his good-nature ; that, indeed, was seen 
 to increase as the other seemed to decay ; he grew improvi- 
 dent as he grew poor ; and though he talked like a man of 
 sense, his actions were those of a fool. Still, however, 
 being surrounded with importunity, and no longer able to 
 satisfy every request that was made him, instead of money 
 he gave promises. They were all he had to bestow, and 
 he had not resolution enough to give any man pain by a 
 denial. By this he drew round him crowds of dependents, 
 whom he was sure to disappoint, yet wished to relieve. 
 These hung upon him for a time, and left him with merited 
 reproaches and contempt But in proportion as he became 
 contemptible to others, he became despicable to himself. 
 His mind had leaned upon their adulation, and that 
 support taken away, he could find no pleasure in the 
 applause of his heart, which he had never learned to rever- 
 ence. The world now began to wear a different aspect ; 
 the flattery of his friends began to dwindle into simple 
 approbation. Approbation soon took the more friendly
 
 252 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 form of advice, and advice when rejected produced their 
 reproaches. He now therefore found that such friends as 
 benefits had gathered round him, were little estimable ; he 
 now found that a man's own heart must be ever given to 
 
 gain that of another. I now found, that that 1 
 
 forget what I was going to observe : in short, sir, he 
 resolved to respect himself, and laid down a plan of restor- 
 ing his falling fortune. For this purpose, in his own whim- 
 sical manner, he travelled through Europe on foot; and 
 now, though he has scarce attained the age of thirty, his 
 circumstances are more affluent than ever. At present, his 
 bounties are more rational and moderate than before ; but 
 he still preserves the character of a humourist, and finds 
 most pleasure in eccentric virtues." 
 
 My attention was so much taken up by Mr. Burchell's 
 account, that I scarce looked forward as we went along, 
 till we were alarmed by the cries of my family, when turn- 
 ing, I perceived my youngest daughter if^the midst of a 
 rapid stream, thrown from her horse, and struggling with 
 the torrent. She had sunk twice, nor was it in my power 
 to disengage myself in time to bring her relief. My sensa- 
 tions were even too violent to permit my attempting her 
 rescue ; she must have certainly perished had not my com- 
 panion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to her 
 relief, and, with some difficulty, brought her in safety to 
 the opposite shore. By taking the current a little further 
 up, the rest of the family got safely over ; where we had an 
 opportunity of joining our acknowledgments to hers. Her 
 gratitude may be more readily imagined than described :
 
 MIGRA TION. 
 
 she thanked her deliverer more with looks than words, and 
 continued to lean upon his arm, as if still willing to receive 
 assistance. My wife also hoped one day to have the plea- 
 sure of returning his kindness at her own house. Thus, 
 after we were refreshed at the next inn, and had dined 
 together, as Mr. Burchell was going to a different part of 
 the country, he took leave, and we pursued our journey : 
 my wife observing as he went, that she liked him extremely, 
 and protesting, that if he had birth and fortune to entitle 
 him to match into such a family as ours, she knew no man 
 she would sooner fix upon. I could not but smile to hear 
 her talk in this lofty strain ; but I was never much dis- 
 pleased with those harmless delusions that tend to make us 
 more happy.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A PROOF THAT EVEN THE HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAY GRANT HAP- 
 PINESS, WHICH DEPENDS NOT ON CIRCUMSTANCES, BUT CON- 
 STITUTION. 
 
 | HE place of our retreat was in a little neighbour- 
 hood, consisting of farmers, who tilled their own 
 grounds, and were equal strangers to opulence 
 and poverty. As they had almost all the con- 
 veniences of life within themselves, they seldom visited 
 towns or cities in search of superfluity. Remote from the 
 polite, they still retained the primaeval simplicity of man- 
 ners ; and frugal by habit, they scarcely knew that temper- 
 ance was a virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on 
 days of labour ; but observed festivals as intervals of idle- 
 ness and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol, sent 
 true-love knots on Valentine morning, eat pancakes on 
 Shrove-tide, showed their wit on the first of April, and 
 religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being ap- 
 prised of our approach, the whole neighbourhood came out 
 to meet their minister, dressed in their fine clothes, and 
 preceded by a pipe and tabor : a feast also was provided
 
 THE HUMBLEST FOR TUNE MA Y GRANT HAPPINESS. 255 
 
 for our reception, at which we sate cheerfully down : and 
 what the conversation wanted in wit, was made up in 
 laughter. 
 
 Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping 
 hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a 
 prattling river before : on one side a meadow, on the other 
 a green. My farm consisted of about twenty acres of ex- 
 cellent land, having given a hundred pounds for my pre- 
 decessor's goodwill. Nothing could exceed the neatness of 
 my little enclosures : the elms and hedge-rows appeared 
 with inexpressible beauty. My house consisted of but one 
 story, and was covered with thatch, which gave it an air of 
 great snugness ; the walls on the inside were nicely white- 
 washed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with 
 pictures of their own designing. Though the same room 
 served us for parlour and kitchen, that only made it the 
 warmer. Besides, as it was kept with the utmost neatness, 
 the dishes, plates, and coppers, being well scoured, and all 
 disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agree- 
 ably relieved, and did not want rich furniture. There 
 were three other apartments, one for my wife and me, an- 
 other for our two daughters, within our own, and the third, 
 with two beds, for the rest of the children. 
 
 The little republic to which I gave laws, was regulated in 
 the following manner : by sun-rise we all assembled in our 
 common apartment ; the fire being previously kindled by 
 the servant. After we had saluted each other with proper 
 ceremony, for I always thought fit to keep up some me- 
 chanical forms of good breeding, without which freedom ever
 
 256 THE VICAR OF WAKEFTELD. 
 
 destroys friendship, we all bent in gratitude to that Being 
 who gave us another day. This duty being performed, my 
 son and I went to pursue our usual industry abroad, while 
 my wife and my daughters employed themselves in provid- 
 ing breakfast, which was always ready at a certain time. I 
 allowed half an hour for this meal, and an hour for dinner ; 
 which time was taken up in innocent mirth between my 
 wife and daughters, and in philosophical arguments between 
 my son and me. 
 
 As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labours 
 after it was gone down, but returned home to the expect- 
 ing family ; where smiling looks, a neat hearth, and pleas- 
 ant fire, were prepared for our reception. Nor were we 
 without guests : sometimes Farmer Flamborough, our talk- 
 ative neighbour, and often the blind piper, would pay us a 
 visit, and taste our gooseberry wine; for the making of 
 which we had lost neither the receipt nor the reputation. 
 These harmless people had several ways of being good 
 company : for while one played the other would sing some 
 soothing ballad, Johnny Armstrong's last good night, or 
 the cruelty of Barbara Allen. The night was concluded 
 in the manner we began the morning, my youngest boys 
 being appointed to read the lessons of the day, and he that 
 read the loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have a half- 
 penny on Sunday to put into the poor's box. 
 
 When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, which 
 all my sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How well so- 
 ever I fancied my lectures against pride had conquered the 
 vanity of my daughters ; yet I still found them secretly
 
 THE HUMBLEST FOR TUNE MA Y GRANT HAPPINESS. 257 
 
 attached to all their former finery : they still loved laces, 
 ribands, bugles, and catgut ; my wife herself retained a 
 passion for her crimson paduasoy, because I formerly hap- 
 pened to say it became her. 
 
 The first Sunday, in particular, their behaviour served to 
 mortify me : I had desired my girls the preceding night to 
 be dressed early the next day ; for I always loved to be at 
 church a good while before the rest of the congregation. 
 They punctually obeyed my directions ; but when we were 
 to assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came my 
 wife and daughters, dressed out in all their former splen- 
 dour : their hair plastered up with pomatum, their faces 
 patched to taste, their trains bundled up into a heap behind, 
 and rustling at every motion. I could not help smiling at 
 their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from whom I 
 expected more discretion. In this exigence, therefore, my 
 only resource was to order my son, with an important air, 
 to call our coach. The girls were amazed at the command 
 but I repeated it with more solemnity than before. 
 " Surely, my dear, you jest," cried my wife, " we can walk 
 it perfectly well : we want no coach to carry us now." 
 " You mistake, child," returned I, " we do want a coach ; 
 for if we walk to church in this trim, the very children of 
 the parish will hoot after us." "Indeed," replied my wife, 
 " I always imagined that my Charles was fond of seeing his 
 children neat and handsome about him." " You may be 
 as neat as you please," interrupted I, " and I shall love you 
 the better for it ; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. 
 These rurHings, and pinkings, and patchings, will onlv make
 
 258 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 us hated by all the wives of our neighbours. No, my 
 children," continued I, more gravely, " those gowns may be 
 altered into something of a plainer cut ; for finery is very 
 unbecoming in us, who want the means of decency. I do 
 not know whether such flouncing and shredding is becom- 
 ing even in the rich, if we consider, upon a moderate calcu- 
 lation, that the nakedness of the indigent world may be 
 clothed from the trimmings of the vain." 
 
 This remonstrance had the proper effect ; they went with 
 great 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.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A NEW AND GREAT ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED. WHAT WE PLACE 
 MOST HOPES UPON, GENERALLY PROVES MOST FATAL. 
 
 |T a small distance from the house my predecessor 
 had made a seat, overshaded by a hedge of 
 hawthorn and honeysuckle. Here, when the 
 weather was fine and our labour soon finished' 
 we usually sat together, to enjoy an extensive landscape, in 
 the calm of the evening. Here, too, we drank tea which 
 was now become an occasional banquet ; and as we had it 
 but seldom, it diffused a new joy, the preparation for it 
 being made with no small share of bustle and ceremony. 
 On these occasions our two little ones always read for us, 
 and they were regularly served after we had done. Some- 
 times, to give a variety to our amusements, the girls sung 
 to the guitar ; and while they thus formed a little concert, 
 my wife and I would stroll down the sloping field, that was 
 embellished with blue-bells and centaury, talk of our chil- 
 dren with rapture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both 
 health and harmony. 
 
 In this manner we began to find that every situation in
 
 THE VrCAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 life may bring its own peculiar pleasures : every morning 
 waked us to a repetition of toil ; but the evening repaid it 
 with vacant hilarity. 
 
 It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holiday (for 
 I kept such as intervals of relaxation from labour), that I 
 had drawn out my family to our usual place of amusement, 
 and our young musicians began their usual concert. As 
 we were thus engaged we saw a stag bound nimbly by, 
 within about twenty paces of where we were sitting, and by 
 its panting it seemed pressed by the hunters. We had not 
 much time to reflect upon the poor animal's distress, when 
 we perceived the dogs and horsemen come sweeping along 
 at some distance behind, and making the very path it had 
 taken. I was instantly for returning in with my family ; 
 but either curiosity or surprise, or some more hidden mo- 
 tive, held my wife and daughters to their seats. The hunts 
 man, who rode foremost, passed us with great swiftness 
 followed by four or five persons more, who seemed in 
 equal haste. At last, a young gentleman of a more genteel 
 appearance than the rest, came forward, and while regard- 
 ing us, instead of pursuing the chase, stopped short, and 
 giving his horse to a servant who attended, approached us 
 with a careless superior air. He seemed to want no intro- 
 duction, but was going to salute my daughters as one 
 certain of a kind reception ; but they had early learned the 
 lesson of looking presumption out of countenance. Upon 
 which he let us know his name was Thornhill, and that he 
 was owner of the estate that lay for some extent round us. 
 He again therefore offered to salute the. female part of the
 
 A NEW ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED. 261 
 
 family ; and such was the power of fortune and fine clothes, 
 that he found no second repulse. As his address, though 
 confident, was easy, we soon became more familiar ; and 
 perceiving musical instruments lying near, he begged to be 
 favoured with a song. As I did not approve of such dis- 
 proportioned acquaintances, I winked upon my daughters 
 in order to prevent their compliance ; but my hint was 
 counteracted by one from their mother ; so that, with a 
 cheerful air, they gave us a favourite song of Dryden's. 
 Mr. Thornhill seemed highly delighted with their perform- 
 ance and choice, and then took up the guitar himself. He 
 played but very indifferently ; however, my eldest daughter 
 repaid his former applause with interest, and assured him 
 that his tones were louder than even those of her master. 
 At this compliment he bowed, which she returned with a 
 courtesy. He praised her taste, and she commended his 
 understanding : an age could not have made them better 
 acquainted. While the fond mother, too, equally happy, 
 insisted upon our landlord's stepping in, and taking a glass 
 of her gooseberry. The whole family seemed earnest to 
 please him : my girls attempted to entertain him with topics 
 they thought most modern, while Moses, on the contrary, 
 gave him a question or two from the ancients, for which he 
 had the satisfaction of being laughed at ; my little ones 
 were no less busy, and fondly stuck close to the stranger. 
 All my endeavours could scarcely keep their dirty fingers 
 from handling and tarnishing the lace on his clothes, and 
 lifting up the flaps of his pocket-holes, to see what was 
 there. At the approach of evening he took leave ; but not
 
 262 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 till he had requested permission to renew his visit, which, 
 as he was our landlord, we most readily agreed to. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council on the 
 conduct of the day. She was of opinion, that it was a most 
 fortunate hit ; for that she had known even stranger things 
 at last brought to bear. She hoped again to see the day 
 in which we might hold up our heads with the best of them ; 
 and concluded, she protested she could see no reason why 
 the two Miss Wrinklers should marry great fortunes, and 
 her children get none. As this last argument was directed 
 to me, I protested I could see no reason for it either, nor 
 why Mrs. Simpkins got the ten thousand pounds prize in 
 the lottery, and we sate down with a blank. " I protest, 
 Charles," cried my wife, " this is the way you always damp 
 my girls and me when we are in spirits. Tell me, Sophia, 
 my dear, what do you think of our new visitor ? Don't you 
 think he seemed to be good-natured ?" " Immensely so, 
 indeed, mamma," replied she. " I think he has a great 
 deal to say upon everything, and is never at a loss : and 
 the more trifling the subject, the more he has to say." 
 "Yes," cried Olivia, "he is well enough for a man; 
 but for my part, I don't much like him, he is so extremely 
 impudent and familiar ; but on the guitar he is shocking." 
 These last two speeches I interpreted by contraries. I 
 found by this, that Sophia internally despised as much as 
 Olivia secretly admired him. "Whatever may be your 
 opinions of him, my children," oried I, " to confess a truth, 
 he has not prepossessed me in his favour. Disproportioned 
 friendships ever terminate in disgust ; and I thought, not-
 
 A NEW ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED. 263 
 
 withstanding all his ease, that he seemed perfectly sensible 
 of the distance between us. Let us keep to companions of 
 our own rank. There is no character more contemptible 
 than a man that is a fortune-hunter; and I can see no 
 reason why fortune-hunting women should not be con- 
 temptible too. Thus, at best, we shall be contemptible if his 
 views be honourable ; but if they be otherwise ! I should 
 shudder but to think of that ! It is true I have no appre- 
 hension from the conduct of my children, but I think there 
 are some from his character." I would have proceeded, but 
 for the interruption of a servant from the squire, who, with 
 his compliments, sent us a side of venison, and a promise 
 to dine with us some days after. This well-timed present 
 pleaded more powerfully in his favour, than anything I had 
 to say could obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied 
 with just having pointed out danger, and leaving it to their 
 own discretion to avoid it. That virtue which requires to 
 be ever guarded, is scarcely worth the sentinel.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRE-SIDE. 
 
 |S we carried on the former dispute with some 
 degree of warmth, in order to accommodate 
 matters, it was universally agreed, that we 
 should have a part of the venison for supper, 
 and the girls undertook the task with alacrity. " I am 
 sorry," cried I, " that we have no neighbour or stranger to 
 take part in this good cheer : feasts of this kind acquire a 
 double relish from hospitality." " Bless me," cried my wife, 
 " here comes our good friend Mr. Burchell, that saved our 
 Sophia, and that run you down fairly in the argument." 
 " Confute me in argument, child !" cried I. " You mistake 
 there, my dear. I believe there are but few that can do 
 that : I never dispute your abilities at making a goose-pie, 
 and I beg you'll leave argument to me." As I spoke, poor 
 Mr. Burchell entered the house, and was welcomed by the 
 family, who shook him heartily by the hand, while little 
 Dick officiously reached him a chair. 
 
 I was pleased with the poor man's friendship for two 
 reasons : because I knew that he wanted mine, and I knew
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRE-SIDE. 26$ 
 
 him to be friendly as far as he was able. He was known 
 in our neighbourhood by the character of the poor gentle- 
 man that would do no good when he was young, though he 
 was not yet thirty. He would at intervals talk with great 
 good sense ; but in general he was fondest of the company 
 of children, whom he used to call harmless little men. He 
 was famous, I found, for singing them ballads, and telling 
 them stories ; and seldom went out without something in 
 his pockets for them, a piece of gingerbread or a halfpenny 
 whistle. He generally came for a few days into our neigh- 
 bourhood once a year, and lived upon the neighbours' hospi- 
 tality. He sat down to supper among us, and my wife 
 was not sparing of her gooseberry wine. The tale x went 
 round ; he sung us old songs, and gave the children the 
 story of the Buck of Beverland, with the history of Patient 
 Grizzel,the adventures of Catskin, and then Fair Rosamond's 
 Bower. Our cock, which always crew at eleven, now told 
 us it was time for repose ; but an unforeseen difficulty 
 started about lodging the stranger : all our beds were already 
 taken up, and it was too late to send him to the next ale- 
 house. In this dilemma, little Dick offered him his part of 
 the bed, if his brother Moses would let him lie with him. 
 " And I," cries Bill, " will give Mr. Burchell my part, if my 
 sisters will take me to theirs." " Well done, my good 
 children," cried I ; " hospitality is one of the first Christian 
 duties. The beast retires to his shelter, and the bird flies 
 to his nest ; but helpless man can only find refuge from his 
 fellow-creature. The greatest stranger in this world was He 
 that came to save it. He never had a house, as if willing
 
 266 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 to see what hospitality was left remaining amongst u: 
 Deborah, my dear," cried I, to my wife, "'give those boy 
 a lump of sugar each, and let Dick's be the largest, becaus 
 he spoke first." 
 
 In the morning early I called out my whole family t 
 help at saving an after growth of hay, and our gues 
 offering his assistance, he was accepted among the numbei 
 Our labours went on lightly, we turned the swath to th 
 wind. I went foremost, and the rest followed in du 
 succession. I could not avoid, however, observing th 
 assiduity of Mr. Burchell in assisting my daughter Sophi 
 in her part of the task. When he had finished his own, h 
 would join in hers and enter into a close conversation : bu 
 I had too good an opinion of Sophia's understanding, an< 
 was too well convinced of her ambition, to be under an; 
 uneasiness from a man of broken fortune. When we wen 
 finished for the day, Mr. Burchell was invited as on th< 
 night before ; but he refused, as he was to lie that night a 
 a neighbour's to whose child he was carrying a whistle 
 When gone, our conversation at supper turned upon ou 
 late unfortunate guest. " What a strong instance," said I 
 "is that poor man of the miseries attending a youth o 
 levity and extravagance. He by no means wants sense 
 which only serves to aggravate his former folly. Poor for 
 lorn creature, where are now the revellers, the flatterers tha' 
 he could once inspire and command ? Gone, perhaps, tc 
 attend the bagnio pander, grown rich by his extravagance 
 They once praised him, and now they applaud the pander 
 their former raptures at his wit are now converted into sar-
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRESIDE, 267 
 
 casms at his folly : he is poor, and perhaps deserves 
 poverty ; for he has neither the ambition to be independent, 
 nor the skill to be useful." Prompted perhaps by some 
 secret reasons, I delivered this observation with too much 
 acrimony, which my Sophia gently reproved. "Whatso- 
 ever his former conduct may have been, papa, his circum- 
 stances should exempt him from censure now. His present 
 indigence is a sufficient punishment for former folly ; and I 
 have heard my papa himself say, that we should never 
 strike one unnecessary blow at a victim over whom Provi- 
 dence holds the scourge of its resentment." "You are 
 right, Sophy," cried my son Moses, " and one of the 
 ancients finely represents so malicious a conduct, by the 
 attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas, whose skin, the fable 
 tells us, had been wholly stripped off by another. Besides, 
 I don't know if this poor man's situation be so bad as my 
 father would represent it. We are not to judge of the feelings 
 of others by what we might feel if in their place. However 
 dark the habitation of the mole to our eyes, yet the animal 
 itself finds the apartment sufficiently lightsome. And to 
 confess a truth, this man's mind seems fitted to his station ; 
 for I never heard any one more sprightly than he was to- 
 day, when he conversed with you." This was said without 
 the least design ; however, it excited a blush, which she 
 strove to cover by an affected laugh, assuring him, that she 
 scarcely took any notice of what he said to her ; but that 
 she believed he might once have been a very fine gentleman. 
 The readiness with which she undertook to vindicate herself,
 
 S 68 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 and her blushing, were symptoms I did not internally 
 approve : but I repressed my suspicions. 
 
 As we expected our landlord the next day, my wife went 
 to make the venison pasty; Moses sat reading, while I 
 taught the little ones ; my daughters seemed equally busy 
 with the rest ; and I observed them for a good while cook- 
 ing something over the fire. I at first supposed they were 
 assisting their mother ; but little Dick informed me in a 
 whisper, that they were making a wash for the face. 
 Washes of all kinds I had a natural antipathy to ; for I 
 knew that instead of mending the complexion they spoiled 
 it. I therefore approached my chair by slow degrees to the 
 fire, and grasping the poker, as if it wanted mending, seem- 
 ingly by accident, overturned the whole composition, and 
 it was too late to begin another.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A TOWN WIT DESCRIBED. THE DULLEST FELLOWS MAY LEARN TO 
 BE COMICAL FOR A NIGHT OR TWO. 
 
 |HEN the morning arrived on which we were to 
 entertain our young landlord, it may be easily 
 supposed what provisions were exhausted to 
 make an appearance. It may be also con- 
 jectured that my wife and daughters expanded their 
 gayest plumage upon this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came 
 with a couple of friends, his chaplain and feeder. The 
 servants, who were numerous, he politely ordered to the 
 next alehouse : but my wife, in the triumph of her heart, 
 insisted on entertaining them all ; for which, by the bye, 
 our family was pinched for three weeks after. As Mr. 
 Burchell had hinted to us the day before, that he was 
 making some proposal of marriage to Miss Wilmot, my 
 son George's former mistress, this a good deal damped the 
 heartiness of his reception : but accident, in some measure, 
 relieved our embarrassment ; for one of the company hap- 
 pening to mention her name, Mr! Thornhill observed with 
 an oath, that he never knew anything more absurd than
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 calling such a fright a beauty : " For strike me ugly," con- 
 tinued he, "if I should not find as much pleasure in 
 choosing my mistress by the information of a lamp under 
 the clock of St. Dunstan's." At this he laughed, and so 
 did we : the jests of the rich are ever successful. Olivia 
 too could not avoid whispering loud enough to be heard, 
 that he had an infinite fund of humour. 
 
 After dinner, I began with my usual toast, the Church ; 
 for this I was thanked by the chaplain, as he said the 
 Church was the only mistress of his affections. " Come, tell 
 us honestly, Frank," said the squire, with his usual arch- 
 ness, " suppose the Church, your present mistress, dressed in 
 lawn sleeves, on the one hand, and Miss Sophia, with no lawn 
 about her, on the other, which would you be for ?" " For 
 both, to be sure," cried the chaplain. " Right, Frank," 
 cried the squire ; " for may this glass suffocate me but a 
 fine girl is worth all the priestcraft in the creation. For 
 what are tithes and tricks but an imposition, all a con- 
 founded imposture, and I can prove it." "I wish you 
 would," cried my son Moses, " and I think," continued he, 
 "that I should be able to answer you." "Very well, sir," 
 cried the squire, who immediately smoked him, and winked 
 on the rest of the company, to prepare us for the sport, 
 "if you are for a cool argument upon the subject, I am 
 ready to accept the challenge. And first, whether are you 
 for managing it, analogically or dialogically ?" "I am for 
 managing it rationally," cried Moses, quite happy at being 
 permitted to dispute. ""Good again," cried the squire, 
 " and firstly of the first. I hope you'll not deny that what-
 
 A TOWN WIT DESCRIBED. 
 
 271 
 
 ever is, is. If you don't grant me that, I can go no 
 further." " Why," returned Moses, " I think I may grant 
 that, and make the best of it." " I hope too," returned the 
 other, " you'll grant that a part is less than the whole." " I 
 grant that too," cried Moses, "it is but just and reasonable." 
 " I hope," cried the squire, " you'll not deny, that the three 
 angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones." " Nothing 
 can be plainer," returned the other, and looked round him 
 with his usual importance "Very well," cried the squire, 
 speaking very quick, "the premises being thus settled, I 
 proceed to observe, that the concatenation of self-existences, 
 proceeding in a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally produce 
 a problematical dialogism, which in some measure proves 
 that the essence of spirituality may be referred to the 
 second predicable." " Hold, hold," cried the other, " I 
 deny that : do you think I can thus tamely submit to such 
 heterodox doctrines?" "What," replied the squire, as if 
 in a passion, " not submit ? Answer me one plain question : 
 Do you think Aristotle right when he says, that relatives 
 are related?" "Undoubtedly," replied the other. "If so 
 then," cried the squire, "answer me directly to what I 
 propose : Whether do you judge the analytical investigation 
 of the first part of my enthymem deficient secundum quoad, 
 or qtwad minus, and give me your reasons, I say, directly." 
 " I protest," cried Moses, " I don't rightly comprehend the 
 force of your reasoning ; but if it be reduced to one single 
 proposition, I fancy it may then have an answer." " O, 
 sir," cried the squire, " I am your most humble servant, 
 I find you want me to furnish you with arguments and in-
 
 272 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 tellect too. No, sir, there I protest you are too hard for 
 me." This effectually raised the laugh against poor Moses, 
 who sat the only dismal figure in a group of merry faces : 
 nor did he offer a single syllable more during the whole 
 entertainment. 
 
 But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a very 
 different effect upon Olivia, who mistook it for humour, 
 though but a mere act of the memory. She thought him 
 therefore a very fine gentleman ; and such as consider what 
 powerful ingredients a good figure, fine clothes, and fortune, 
 are in that character, will easily forgive her. Mr. Thornhill, 
 notwithstanding his real ignorance, talked with ease, and 
 could expatiate upon the common topics of conversation 
 with fluency. It is not surprising then that such talents 
 should win the affections of a girl, who by education was 
 taught to value an appearance in herself, and consequently 
 to set a value upon it in another. 
 
 Upon his departure, we again entered into a debate upon 
 the merits of our young landlord. As he directed his looks 
 and conversation to Olivia, it was no longer doubted but 
 that she was the object that induced him to be our visitor. 
 Nor did she seem to be much displeased at the innocent 
 raillery of her brother and sister upon this occasion. Even 
 Deborah herself seemed to share the glory of the day, and 
 exulted in her daughter's victory as if it were her own. 
 " And now, my dear," cried she to me, " I'll fairly own, 
 that it was I that instructed my girls to encourage our 
 landlord's addresses. I had always some ambition, and 
 you now see that I was right ; for who knows how this may
 
 A TOWN WIT DESCRIBED. 
 
 273 
 
 end?" "Aye, who knows that indeed!" answered I, with 
 a groan : " for my part I don't much like it ; and I could 
 have been better pleased with one that was poor and 
 honest, than this fine gentleman, with his fortune and 
 infidelity ; for depend on't, if he be what I suspect him, no 
 free-thinker shall ever have a child of mine." 
 
 " Sure, father," cried Moses, " you are too severe in this ; 
 for Heaven will never arraign him for what he thinks, but 
 for what he does. Every man has a thousand vicious 
 thoughts, which arise without his power to suppress, 
 Thinking freely of religion may be involuntary with this 
 gentleman : so that allowing his sentiments to be wrong, 
 yet as he is purely passive in his assent, he is no more to be 
 blamed for his errors, than the governor of a city without 
 walls for the shelter he is obliged to afford an invading 
 enemy." 
 
 " True, my son, cried I ; " but, if the governor invites 
 the enemy there, he is justly culpable. And such is always 
 the case with those who embrace error. The vice does not 
 lie in assenting to the proofs they see ; but in being blind 
 to many of the proofs that offer. So that, though our 
 erroneous opinions be involuntary when formed, yet as we 
 have been wilfully corrupt, or very negligent in forming 
 them, we deserve punishment for our vice, or contempt for 
 our folly." 
 
 My wife now kept up the conversation, though not the 
 argument : she observed, that several very prudent men of 
 our acquaintance were free-thinkers, and made very good 
 
 husbands ; and she knew some sensible girls that had skill 
 
 18
 
 274 THE VJ.CAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 enough to make converts of their spouses: "And who 
 knows, my dear," continued she, "what Olivia may be able 
 to do. The girl has a great deal to say upon every subject, 
 and to my knowledge is very well skilled in controversy." 
 
 "Why, my dear, what controversy can she have read ?" 
 cried I. " It does not occur to me that I ever put such 
 books into her hands : you certainly over- rate 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 
 Robinson Crusoe and Friday the savage, and I am now 
 employed in reading the controversy in Religious Court- 
 ship." "Very well," cried I, "that's a good girl, I find you 
 are perfectly qualified for making converts, and so go help 
 your mother to make the gooseberry-pie."
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 AN AMOUR, WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FORTUNE, YET MAY BE 
 PRODUCTIVE OF MUCH GOOD. 
 
 !HE next morning we were again visited by Mr. 
 Burchell, though I began, for certain reasons, to 
 be displeased with the frequency of his return ; 
 but I could not refuse him my company and 
 my fireside. It is true his labour more than requited his 
 entertainment ; for he wrought amongst us with vigour, and 
 either in the meadow or at the hay-rick put himself fore- 
 most. Besides, he had always something amusing to say 
 that lessened our toil, and was at once so out of the way, 
 and yet so sensible, that I loved, laughed at, and pitied 
 him. My only dislike arose from an attachment he dis- 
 covered to my daughter: he would, in a jesting manner, 
 call her his little mistress, and when he bought each of the 
 girls a set of ribands, hers was the finest. I know not how, 
 but he every day seemed to become more amiable, his wit 
 to improve, and his simplicity to assume the superior airs 
 of wisdom. 
 
 Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or rather re- 
 
 18 2
 
 276 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 clined, round a temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the 
 hay, while Mr. Burchell gave cheerfulness to the feast. 
 To heighten our satisfaction, two blackbirds answered each 
 other from opposite hedges, the familiar red-breast came 
 and picked the crumbs from our hands, and eveiy sound 
 seemed but the echo of tranquillity. " I never sit thus," 
 says Sophia, " but I think of the two lovers so sweetly 
 described by Mr. Gay, who were struck dead in each other's 
 arms. There is something so pathetic in the description, 
 that I have read it a hundred times with new rapture." 
 "In my opinion," cried my son, "the finest strokes in 
 that description are much below those in the 'Acis and 
 Galatea' of Ovid. The Roman poet understands the use of 
 contrast better, and upon that figure, artfully managed, all 
 strength in the pathetic depends." "It is remarkable," 
 cried Mr. Burchell, " that both the poets you mention have 
 equally contributed to introduce a false taste into their re- 
 spective countries, by loading all their lines with epithet. 
 Men of little genius found them most easily imitated in 
 their defects, and English poetry, like that in the latter em- 
 pire of Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of 
 luxuriant images, without plot or connection ; a string of 
 epithets that improve the sound, without carrying on the 
 sense. But, perhaps, madam, while I thus reprehend others, 
 you'll think it just that I should give them an opportunity 
 to retaliate, and indeed I have made this remark only to 
 have an opportunity of introducing to the company a 
 ballad, which, whatever be its other defects, is, I think, at 
 least free from those I have mentioned."
 
 AN AMOUR. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 l TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, 
 
 And guide my lonely way, 
 To where yon taper cheers the vale, 
 With hospitable ray. 
 
 jt For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
 
 With fainting steps and slow ; 
 Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
 Seem length'ning as I go." 
 
 ' Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, 
 " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
 For yonder faithless phantom flies 
 To lure thee to thy doom. 
 
 Here to the houseless child of want 
 
 My door is open still : 
 And though my portion is but scant, 
 I give it with good will. 
 
 Then turn to-night, and freely share 
 Whate'er my cell bestows ; 
 
 My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
 My blessing and repose. 
 
 ' No flocks that range the valley free, 
 
 To slaughter I condemn ; 
 Taught by that Power that pities me, 
 I learn to pity them : 
 
 ' But from the mountain's grassy side 
 
 A guiltless feast I bring ; 
 A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 ; Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego : 
 
 All earth-born cares are wrong; 
 Man wants but little here below, 
 Nor wants that little long. "
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 
 
 His gentle accents fell : 
 The modest stranger lowly bends, 
 
 And follows to the cell. 
 
 Far in a wilderness obscure 
 
 The lonely mansion lay, 
 A refuge to the neighb'ring poor 
 
 And strangers led astray. 
 
 No stores beneath its humble thatch 
 
 Required a master's care ; 
 The wicket, opening with a latch, 
 
 Received the harmless pair. 
 
 And now when busy crowds retire 
 
 To take their evening rest, 
 The Hermit trimmed his little fire, 
 
 And cheered his pensive guest : 
 
 And spread his vegetable store, 
 And gaily pressed, and smiled ; 
 
 And, skilled in legendary lore, 
 The lingering hours beguiled. 
 
 Around in sympathetic mirth 
 
 Its tricks the kitten tries, 
 The cricket chirrups in 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 answ'ring care opprest : 
 : And whence, unhappy youth, " he cried, 
 " The sorrows of thy breast ? 
 
 1 From better habitations spurned, 
 
 Reluctant dost thou rove? 
 Or grieve for friendship unretumed 
 Or unregarded love
 
 AN AMOUR. 279 
 
 " Alas ! the joys that fortune brings, 
 
 Are trifling and decay ; 
 And those who priz-e 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 ? 
 
 '* And love is still an emptier sound, 
 
 The modem fair-one's jest : 
 
 On earth unseen, or only found 
 
 To warm the turtle's nest. 
 
 " For shame, fond youth ! thy sorrows hush, 
 
 And spurn the sex," he said ; 
 
 But while he spoke, a rising blush 
 
 His love-lorn guest betray 'd. 
 
 Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, 
 
 Swift mantling to the view ; 
 Like colours o'er the morning skies, 
 
 As bright, as transient too. 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast, 
 
 Alternate spread alarms : 
 The lovely stranger stands confest, 
 
 A maid in all her charms. 
 
 And, " Ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 
 
 A wretch forlorn," she cried ; 
 
 14 Whose feet unhallowed 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. 
 
 u My father lived beside the Tyne, 
 
 A wealthy lord was he : 
 And all his wealth was marked as mines, 
 He had but only me.
 
 2&> THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 ** To win me from his tender aims, 
 
 Unnumbered suitors came ; 
 
 vviM) praised me for iiii|Mitffn 
 
 And felt or feigned a flame. 
 
 a. mercenary crowd 
 
 With richest proffers strore ; 
 Amo^st the rest young Ed win bowed, 
 But never talked of lore, 
 
 " In humble, simplest habit dad, 
 No wealth nor power bad he ; 
 Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
 But these were all to me. 
 
 "The blossom opening to die day, 
 The dews of Heaven refined, 
 Could naught of parity display 
 To emulate his mind. 
 
 u The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
 With charms inconstant shine : 
 Then- charms were his, bat woe to me, 
 Their constancy was mine. 
 
 * For stfll I tried each fickle art, 
 
 " Importmucte 2nd vain j 
 And while his passion touched my h^art, 
 I triumphed in his pain. 
 
 " Till quite dejected with my scorn, 
 
 He left me to my pride ; 
 
 And sought a solitude forlorn, 
 
 In secret, where he died. 
 
 u Bat mine the sorrow, mine die fault, 
 
 And weU my life shaH pay ; 
 TO seek the solitude he sought, 
 And stretch me where he lay. 
 
 ** And there, forlorn, despairing, hid 
 
 111 lay me down and die ; 
 Twas so for me that Edwin did, 
 And BO for him will L"
 
 AN AMOUR. 281 
 
 u Forbid it, Heaven !" the Hermit cried, 
 
 And clasped her to his breast : 
 The wondering fair one turned to chide, 
 Twas Edwin's self that pressed 
 
 " Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 
 My charmer, turn to see 
 Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 
 Restored to love and thee. 
 
 u Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 
 
 And every care resign : 
 And shall we never, never part, 
 My life, my all that's mine ? 
 
 " No, never from this hour to part, 
 
 Well live and love so true ; 
 The sigh that rends thy constant heart, 
 Shall break thine Edwin's too." 
 
 While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an 
 air of tenderness with her approbation. But our tranquillity 
 was soon disturbed by the report of a gun just by us, and 
 immediately after a man was seen bursting through the 
 hedge, to take up the game he had killed. This sportsman 
 was the Squire's chaplain, who had shot one of the black- 
 birds that so agreeably entertained us. So loud a report, 
 and so near, startled my daughters ; and I could perceive 
 that Sophia in the fright had thrown herself into Mr. Bur- 
 chell's arms for protection. The gentleman came up, and 
 asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirming that he was 
 ignorant of our being so near. He therefore sat down by 
 my youngest daughter, and, sportsman-like, offered her 
 what he had killed that morning. She was going to refuse, 
 but a private look from her mother soon induced her to 
 correct the mistake, and accept his present, though with
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 some reluctance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride in 
 a whisper, observing that Sophy had made a conquest of the 
 chaplain, as well as her sister had of the Squire. I sus- 
 pected however, with more probability, that her affections 
 were placed upon a different object. The chaplain's errand 
 was to inform us, that Mr. Thornhill had provided music 
 and refreshments, and intended that night giving the young 
 ladies a ball by moonlight, on the grass-plot before our 
 door. " Nor can I deny," continued he, " but I have an 
 interest in being first to deliver this message, as I expect 
 for my reward to be honoured with Miss Sophy's hand as a 
 partner." To this my girl replied, that she should have no 
 objection, if she could do it with honour. " But here," con- 
 tinued she, "is a gentleman," looking at Mr. Burchell, "who 
 has been my companion in the task for the day, and it is 
 fit he should share in its amusement." Mr. Burchell re- 
 turned a compliment for her intentions ; but resigned her 
 up to the chaplain, adding that he was to go that night five 
 miles, being invited to a harvest supper. His refusal 
 appeared to me a little extraordinary, nor could I conceive 
 how so sensible a girl as my youngest could thus prefer a 
 man of broken fortunes to one whose expectations were 
 much greater. But as men are most capable of distinguish- 
 ing merit in women, so the ladies often form the truest 
 judgments of us. The two sexes seem placed as spies upon 
 each other, and are furnished with different abilities, adapted 
 for mutual inspection.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 TWO LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED. SUPERIOR 
 FINERY EVER SEEMS TO CONFER SUPERIOR BREEDING. 
 
 JR. BURCHELL had scarcely taken leave, and 
 Sophia consented to dance with the chaplain, 
 when my little ones came running out to tell us 
 that the Squire was come, with a crowd of com- 
 pany. Upon our return, we found our landlord, with a 
 couple of under-gentlemen and two young ladies richly 
 dressed, whom he introduced as women of very great dis- 
 tinction and fashion from town. We happened not to have 
 chairs enough for the whole company ; but Mr. Thornhill 
 immediately proposed that every gentleman should sit in 
 a lady's lap. This I positively objected to, notwithstanding 
 a look of disapprobation from my wife. Moses was there- 
 fore despatched to borrow a couple of chairs ; and as we 
 were in want of ladies to make up a set at country dances, 
 the two gentlemen went with him in quest of a couple of 
 partners. Chairs and partners were soon provided. The 
 gentlemen returned with my neighbour Flamborough's 
 rosy daughters, flaunting with red top-knots; but an
 
 284 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 unlucky circumstance was not adverted to ; though the 
 Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned the very best dancers in 
 the parish, and understood the jig and the round-about to 
 perfection, yet they were totally unacquainted with country- 
 dances. This at first discomposed us ; however, after a 
 little shoving and dragging, they at last went merrily on. 
 Our music consisted of two fiddles, with a pipe and tabor. 
 The moon shone bright; Mr. Thornhill and my eldest daugh- 
 ter led up the ball, to the great delight of the spectators ; 
 for the neighbours, hearing what was going forward, came 
 flocking about us. My girl moved with so much grace and 
 vivacity, that my wife could not avoid discovering the pride 
 of her heart by assuring me, that though the little chit did 
 it so cleverly, all the steps were stolen from herself. The 
 ladies of the town strove hard to be equally easy, but without 
 success. They swam, sprawled, languished, and frisked ; 
 but all would not do ; the gazers indeed owned that it was 
 fine; but neighbour Flamborough observed, that Miss Livy's 
 feet seemed as pat to the music as its echo. After the 
 dance had continued about an hour, the two ladies, who 
 were apprehensive of catching cold, moved to break up the 
 ball. One of them, I thought, expressed her sentiments 
 upon this occasion in a very coarse manner, when she ob- 
 served that by the living jingo she was all of a muck of 
 sweat. Upon our return to the house, we found a very 
 elegant cold supper, which Mr. Thornhill had ordered 
 to be brought with him. The conversation at this time 
 was more reserved than before. The two ladies threw 
 my girls quite in the shade ; for they would talk of
 
 LADIES OF DISTINCTION INTRODUCED. 28$ 
 
 nothing but high life, and high-lived company ; with other 
 fashionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shakespear, and 
 the musical glasses. 'Tis true they once or twice mortified 
 us sensibly by slipping out an oath ; but that appeared to 
 me as the surest symptom of their distinction (though I am 
 since informed that swearing is perfectly unfashionable). 
 Their finery, however, threw a veil over any grossness in 
 their conversation. My daughters seemed to regard their 
 superior accomplishments with envy; and whatever appeared 
 amiss was ascribed to tip-top quality breeding. But the 
 condescension of the ladies was still superior to their other 
 accomplishments. One of them observed, that had Miss 
 Olivia seen a little more of the world, it would greatly 
 improve her. To which the other added, that a single 
 winter in town would make her little Sophia quite another 
 thing. My wife warmly assented to both ; adding, that 
 there was nothing she more ardently wished than to give 
 her girls a single winter's polishing. To this I could not 
 help replying, that their breeding was already superior to 
 their fortune ; and that greater refinement would only 
 serve to make their poverty ridiculous, and give them a 
 taste for pleasures they had no right to possess. "And 
 what pleasures," cried Mr. Thornhill, "do they not deserve 
 to possess, who have so much in their power to bestow ? 
 As for my part," continued he, " my fortune is pretty large ; 
 love, liberty, and pleasure, are my maxims ; but, curse me, 
 if a settlement of half my estate could give my charming 
 Olivia pleasure, it should be hers ; and the only favour I 
 would ask in return would be to add myself to the benefit."
 
 286 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 I was not such a stranger to the world as to be ignorant 
 that this was the fashionable cant to disguise the insolence 
 of the basest proposal ; but I made an effort to suppress my 
 resentment. "Sir," cried I, "the family which you now 
 condescend to favour with your company has been bred with 
 as nice a sense of honour as you. Any attempt to injure 
 that may be attended with very dangerous consequences. 
 Honour, sir, is our only possession at present, and of that 
 last treasure we must be particularly careful." I was soon 
 sorry for the warmth with which I had spoken this, when 
 the young gentleman, grasping my hand, swore he com- 
 mended my spirit, though he disapproved my suspicions. 
 " As to your present hint," continued he, " I protest nothing 
 was farther from my heart than such a thought. No, by 
 all that's tempting, the virtue that will stand a regular 
 siege was never to my taste ; for all my amours are carried 
 by a coup de main." 
 
 The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of the rest, 
 seemed highly displeased with this last stroke of freedom, 
 and began a very discreet and serious dialogue upon virtue : 
 in this my wife, the chaplain, and I, soon joined ; and the 
 Squire himself was at last brought to confess a sense of 
 sorrow for his former excesses. We talked of the pleasures 
 of temperance, and of the sunshine in the mind unpolluted 
 with guilt. I was so well pleased, that my little ones were 
 kept up beyond the usual time to be edified by so much 
 good conversation. Mr. Thornhill even went beyond me, 
 and demanded if I had any objection to giving prayers. 
 I joyfully embraced the proposal, and in this manner the
 
 LADIES OF DISTINCTION INTRODUCED. 387 
 
 night was passed in a most comfortable way, till at length 
 the company began to think of returning. The ladies seemed 
 very unwilling to part with my daughters ; for whom they 
 had conceived a particular affection, and joined in a request 
 to have the pleasure of their company home. The Squire 
 seconded the proposal, and my wife added her entreaties ; 
 the girls too looked upon me as if they wished to go. In 
 this perplexity I made two or three excuses, which my 
 daughters as readily removed ; so that at last I was obliged 
 to give a peremptory refusal ; for which we had nothing but 
 sullen looks and short answers the whcle day ensuing.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE FAMILY ENDEAVOUR TO COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS. THE 
 MISERIES OF THE POOR WHEN THEY ATTEMPT TO APPEAR 
 ABOVE THEIR CIRCUMSTANCES. 
 
 NOW began to find that all my long and painful 
 lectures upon temperance, simplicity, and con- 
 tentment, were entirely disregarded. The dis- 
 tinctions lately paid us by our betters awakened 
 that pride which I had laid asleep, but not removed. Our 
 windows again, as formerly, were filled with washes for the 
 neck and face. The sun was dreaded as an enemy to the 
 skin without doors, and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion 
 within. My wife observed, that rising too early would hurt 
 her daughter's eyes, that working after dinner would redden 
 their noses, and she convinced me that the hands never 
 looked so white as when they did nothing. Instead there- 
 fore of finishing George's shirts, we now had them new 
 modelling their old gauzes, or flourishing upon catgut. The 
 poor Miss Flamboroughs, their former gay companions, 
 were cast off as mean acquaintance, and the whole conver-
 
 THE FAMILY AND THEIR BETTERS. 
 
 sation ran upon high life and high-lived company, with 
 pictures, taste, Shakespear, and the musical glasses. 
 
 But we could have borne all this, had not a fortune- 
 telling gipsy come to raise us into perfect sublimity. The 
 tawny sibyl no sooner appeared, than my girls came running 
 to me for a shilling apiece to cross her hand with silver. 
 To say the truth, I was tired of being always wise, and 
 could not help gratifying their request, because I loved to 
 see them happy. I gave each of them a shilling ; though, 
 for the honour of the family, it must be observed, that they 
 never went without money themselves, as my wife always 
 generously let them have a guinea each, to keep in their 
 pockets ; but with strict injunctions never to change it. 
 After they had been closeted up with the fortune-teller for 
 some time, I knew by their looks, upon their returning, that 
 they had been promised something great. "Well, my girls, 
 how have you sped ? Tell me, Livy, has the fortune-teller 
 given thee a penny-worth?" "I protest, papa," says the 
 girl, " I believe she deals with somebody that's not right ; 
 for she positively declared, that I am to be married to a 
 squire in less than a twelvemonth!" "Well, now, Sophy 
 my child," said I, " and what sort of a husband are you to 
 have ?" '" Sir," replied she, " I am to have a lord soon after 
 my sister has married the squire." "How," cried I, "is 
 that all you are to have for your two shillings ! Only a 
 lord and a squire for two shillings ! You fools, I could 
 have promised you a prince and a nabob for half the 
 money." 
 
 This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with very 
 19
 
 THE VICAR 01< WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 serious effects : we now began to think ourselves designed 
 by the stars to something exalted, and already anticipated 
 our future grandeur. 
 
 It has been a thousand times observed, and I must 
 observe it once more, that the hours we pass with happy 
 prospects in view are more pleasing than those crowned 
 with fruition. In the first case we cook the dish to our own 
 appetite ; in the latter, nature cooks it for us. It is impos- 
 sible to repeat the train of agreeable reveries we called up 
 for our entertainment. We looked upon our fortunes as 
 once more rising ; and as the whole parish asserted that the 
 squire was in love with my daughter, she was actually so 
 with him ; for they persuaded her into the passion. In 
 this agreeable interval, my wife had the most lucky dream 
 in the world, which she took care to tell us every morning, 
 with great solemnity and exactness. It was one night a 
 coffin and cross-bones, the sign of an approaching wedding : 
 at another time she imagined her daughters' pockets filled 
 with farthings, a certain sign they would shortly be stuffed 
 with gold. The girls themselves had their omens. They 
 felt strange kisses on their lips ; they saw rings in the 
 candle, purses bounced from the fire, and true-love knots 
 lurked in the bottom of every tea-cup. 
 
 Toward the end of the week we received a card from 
 the town ladies ; in which, with their compliments, they 
 hoped to see all our family at church the Sunday following. 
 All Saturday morning I could perceive, in consequence of 
 this, my wife and daughters in close conference together, 
 and now and then glancing at me with looks that betrayed
 
 THE FAMILY AND THEIR BETTERS. zgi 
 
 a latent plot To be sincere, I had strong suspicions that 
 some absurd proposal was preparing for appearing with 
 splendour the next day. In the evening they began their 
 operations in a very regular manner, and my wife undertook 
 to conduct the siege. After tea, when I seemed in spirits, 
 she began thus " I fancy, Charles, my dear, we shall have 
 a great deal of good company at our church to-morrow." 
 " Perhaps we may, my dear," returned I ; " though you 
 need be under no uneasiness about that, you shall have a 
 sermon whether there be or not." " That is what I ex- 
 pect," returned she : "but I think, my dear, we ought to 
 appear there as decently as possible, for who knows what 
 may happen ?" " Your precautions," replied I, " are highly 
 commendable. A decent behaviour and appearance in 
 church is what charms me. We should be devout and 
 humble, cheerful and serene." "Yes," cried she, "I know 
 that ; but I mean we should go there in as proper a manner 
 as possible; not altogether like the scrubs about us." 
 " You are quite right, my dear," returned I, " and I was 
 going to make the very same proposal. The proper manner 
 of going is, to go there as early as possible, to have time 
 for meditation before the service begins." " Pooh, Charles," 
 interrupted she, "all that is very true: but not what I 
 would be at. I mean we should go there genteelly. You 
 know the church is two miles off, and I protest I don't like 
 to see my daughters trudging up to their pew all blowzed 
 and red with walking, and looking for all the world as if 
 they had been winners at a smock -race. Now, my dear, my 
 
 proposal is this : there are our two plough-horses, the colt 
 
 19 2
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 that has been in our family these nine years, and his com- 
 panion, Blackberry, that has scarcely done an earthly thing 
 for this month past. They are both grown fat and lazy. 
 Why should they not do something as well as we ? And 
 let me tell you, when Moses has trimmed them a little, they 
 will cut a very tolerable figure." 
 
 To this proposal I objected, that walking would be twenty 
 times more genteel than such a paltry conveyance, as 
 Blackberry was wall-eyed, and the coat wanted a tail : that 
 they had never been broken to the rein ; but had a hundred 
 vicious tricks ; and that we had but one saddle and pillion 
 in the whole house. All these objections, however, were 
 overruled : so that I was obliged to comply. The next 
 morning I perceived them not a little busy in collecting 
 such materials as might be necessary for the expedition ; 
 but as I found it would be a business of time, I walked on 
 to the church before, and they promised speedily to follow. 
 I waited near an hour in the reading-desk for their arrival ; 
 but not finding them come as expected, I was obliged to 
 begin, and went through the service not without some 
 uneasiness at finding them absent. This was increased 
 when all was finished, and no appearance of the family. I 
 therefore walked back by the horse-way, which was five 
 miles round, though the footway was but two, and when I 
 got about half way home perceived the procession marching 
 slowly forward towards the church ; my son, my wife and 
 the two little ones exalted upon one horse, and my two 
 daughters on the other. I demanded the cause of their 
 delay ; but I soon found by their looks they had met with
 
 THE FAMILY AKD THEIR BETTERS. 293 
 
 a thousand misfortunes on the road. The horses had at 
 first refused to move from the door, till Mr. Burchell was 
 kind enough to beat them forward for about two hundred 
 yards with his cudgel. Next, the straps of my wife's pillion 
 broke down, and they were obliged to stop to repair them 
 before they could proceed. After that one of the horses 
 took it into his head to stand still, and neither blows nor 
 entreaties could prevail with him to proceed. He was just 
 recovering from this dismal situation when I found them ; 
 but perceiving everything safe, I own their present mortifi- 
 cation did not much displease me, as it would give me 
 many opportunities of future triumph, and teach my 
 daughters more humility.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE FAMILY STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR HEADS. 
 
 ICHAELMAS Eve happening on the next day, 
 we were invited to burn nuts and play tricks at 
 neighbour Flamborough's. Our late mortifica- 
 tions had humbled us a little, or it is probable 
 we might have rejected such an invitation with contempt : 
 however, we suffered ourselves to be happy. Our honest 
 neighbour's goose and dumplings were fine, and the lamb's 
 wool, even in the opinion of my wife, who was a connoisseur, 
 was excellent. It is true, his manner of telling stories was 
 not quite so well. They were very long, and very dull, and 
 all about himself, and we had laughed at them ten times 
 before : however, we were kind enough to laugh at them 
 once more. 
 
 Mr. Burchell, who was one of the party, was always fond 
 of seeing some innocent amusement going forward, and set 
 the boys and girls to blind man's buff. My wife too was 
 persuaded to join in the diversion, and it gave me pleasure 
 to think she was not yet too old. In the mean time, my 
 neighbour and I looked on, laughed at every feat, and
 
 THE FAMILY STILL HOLD UP THEIR HEADS. 295 
 
 praised our own dexterity when we were young. Hot 
 cockles succeeded next, questions and commands followed 
 that, and last of all, they sat down to hunt the slipper. 
 As every person may not be acquainted with this primeval 
 pastime, it may be necessary to observe, that the company 
 in this play plant themselves in a ring upon the ground, all 
 except one, who stands in the middle, whose business it is 
 to catch a shoe, which the company shove about under their 
 hams from one to another, something like a weaver's shuttle. 
 As it is impossible, in this case, for the lady who is up to 
 face all the company at once, the great beauty of the play 
 lies in hitting her a thump with the heel of the shoe on 
 that side least capable of making defence. It was in this 
 manner that my eldest daughter was hemmed in, and 
 thumped about, all blowzed, in spirits, and bawling for fair 
 play, with a voice that might deafen a ballad-singer, 
 when, confusion on confusion, who should enter the 
 room but our two great acquaintances from town, Lady 
 Blarney and Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs ! 
 Description would but beggar, therefore it is unnecessary 
 to describe this new mortification. Death ! To be seen 
 by ladies of such high breeding in such vulgar attitudes ! 
 Nothing better could ensue from such a vulgar play of Mr. 
 Flamborough's proposing. We seemed struck to the ground 
 for some time, as if actually petrified with amazement. 
 
 The two ladies had been at our house to see us, and find- 
 ing us from home, came after us hither, as they were uneasy 
 to know what accident could have kept us from church the 
 day before. Olivia undertook to be our prolocutor, and
 
 296 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 delivered the whole in a summary way, only saying, " We 
 were thrown from our horses." At which account the 
 ladies were greatly concerned ; but being told the family 
 received no hurt, they were extremely glad ; but being 
 informed that we were almost killed by the fright, they 
 were vastly sorry ; but hearing that we had a very good 
 night, they were extremely glad again. Nothing could 
 exceed their complaisance to my daughters ; their profes- 
 sions the last evening were warm, but now they were 
 ardent. They protested a desire of a more lasting acquaint- 
 ance. Lady Blarney was particularly attached to Olivia ; 
 Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs (I love to give 
 the whole name) took a greater fancy to her sister. They 
 supported the conversation between themselves, while my 
 daughters sat silent, admiring their exalted breeding. 
 But as every reader, however beggarly himself, is fond of 
 high-lived dialogues, with anecdotes of lords, ladies, and 
 knights of the garter, I must beg leave to give him the 
 concluding part of the conversation. 
 
 " All that I know of the matter," cried Miss Skeggs, " is 
 this, that it may be true, or it may not be true : but this I 
 can assure your ladyship, that the whole rout was in 
 amaze ; his lordship turned all manner of colours, my lady 
 fell into a swoon, but Sir Tomkyn, drawing his sword, swore 
 he was hers to the last drop of his blood." 
 
 " Well," replied our peeress, " this I can say, that the 
 duchess never told me a syllable of the matter, and I 
 believe her Grace would keep nothing a secret from me. 
 This you may depend upon as a fact, that the next morning
 
 THE FAMILY STILL HOLD UP THEIR HEADS. 297 
 
 my lord duke cried out three times to his valet de chambre, 
 ' Jernigan, Jernigan, Jernigan, bring me my garters.' " 
 
 But previously I should have mentioned the very impolite 
 behaviour of Mr. Burchell, who, during this discourse, sat 
 with his face turned to the fire, and at the conclusion of 
 every sentence would cry out, " Fudge !" an expression 
 which displeased us all, and in some measure damped the 
 rising spirit of the conversation. 
 
 " Besides, my dear Skeggs," continued our peeress, 
 " there is nothing of this in the copy of verses that Dr. 
 Burdock made upon the occasion." " Fudge !" 
 
 "I am surprised at that," cried Miss Skeggs; "for he 
 seldom leaves any thing out, as he writes only for his own 
 amusement. But can your ladyship favour me with a sight 
 of them ?" " Fudge !" 
 
 " My dear creature," replied our peeress, " do you think 
 I carry such things about me ? Though they are very fine 
 to be sure, and I think myself something of a judge ; at 
 least I know what pleases myself. Indeed I was ever an 
 admirer of all Dr. Burdock's little pieces ; for except 
 what he does, and our dear countess at Hanover-square, 
 there's nothing comes out but the most lowest stuff in 
 nature ; not a bit of high life among them." " Fudge !" 
 
 " Your ladyship should except," says the other, "your own 
 things in the Lady's Magazine. I hope you'll say there's 
 nothing low-lived there ? But I suppose we are to have no 
 more from that quarter ?" " Fudge 1" 
 
 " Why, my dear," says the lady, " you know my readei 
 and companion has left me, to be married to Captain
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 Roach, and as my poor eyes won't suffer me to write myself, 
 I have been for some time looking out for another. A 
 proper person is no easy matter to find, and to be sure 
 thirty pounds a year is a small stipend for a well-bred girl 
 of character, that can read, write, and behave in company ; 
 as for the chits about town, there is no bearing them about 
 one." " Fudge !" 
 
 " That I know," cried Miss Skeggs, " by experience. 
 For of the three companions I had this last half year, one 
 of them refused to do plain work an hour in the day, 
 another thought twenty-five guineas a year too small a. 
 salary, and I was obliged to send away the third, because I 
 suspected an intrigue with the chaplain. Virtue, my dear 
 Lady Blarney, virtue is worth any price ; but where is that 
 to be found?" "Fudge!" 
 
 My wife had been for a long time all attention to this 
 discourse ; but was particularly struck with the latter part 
 of it Thirty pounds and twenty-five guineas a year made 
 fifty-six pounds five shillings English money, all which was 
 in a manner going a-begging, and might easily be secured 
 in the family. She for a moment studied my looks for 
 approbation ; and, to own a truth, I was of opinion that 
 two such places would fit our two daughters exactly. Be- 
 sides, if the squire had any real affection for my eldest 
 daughter, this would be the way to make her every way 
 qualified for her fortune. My wife therefore was resolved 
 lhat we should not be deprived of such advantages for 
 want of assurance, and undertook to harangue for the 
 family. " I hope," cried she, " your ladyships will pardon 
 my present presumption. It is true we have no right to
 
 THE FAMILY STILL HOLD UP THEIR HEADS. 299 
 
 pretend to such favours ; but yet it is natural for me to 
 wish putting my children forward in the world. And I will' 
 be bold to say my two girls have had a pretty good educa- 
 tion and capacity, at least, the country can't show better. 
 They read, write, and cast accounts ; they understand 
 their needle, broad-stitch, cross and change, and all manner 
 of plain-work ; they can pink, point, and frill ; and know 
 something of music ; they can do up small clothes, and work 
 upon catgut ; my eldest can cut paper, and my youngest 
 has a very pretty manner of telling fortunes upon the 
 cards." " Fudge !" 
 
 When she had delivered this pretty piece of eloquence, 
 the two ladies looked at each other a few minutes in silence, 
 with an air of doubt and importance. At last, Miss Carolina 
 Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs condescended to observe, that 
 the young ladies, from the opinion she could form of them 
 from so slight an acquaintance, seemed very fit for such 
 employments ; " but a thing of this kind, madam," cried she, 
 addressing my spouse, "requires a thorough examination 
 into characters, and a more perfect knowledge of each other. 
 Not, madam," continued she, " that I in the least suspect the 
 young ladies' virtue, prudence, and discretion : but there is 
 a form in these things, madam, there is a form." " Fudge." 
 
 My wife approved her suspicions very much, observing, 
 that she was very apt to be suspicious herself ; but referred 
 her to all the neighbours for a character : but this our 
 peeress declined as unnecessary, alleging that her cousin 
 ThornhiH's recommendation would be sufficient, and upon 
 this we rested our petition.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 FORTUNE SEEMS RESOLVED TO HUMBLE THE FAMILY OF WAKE- 
 FIELD. MORTIFICATIONS ARE OFTEN MORE PAINFUL THAN REAL 
 CALAMITIES. 
 
 [HEN we returned home, the night was dedi- 
 cated to schemes of future conquest. Deborah 
 exerted much sagacity in conjecturing which of 
 the two girls was likely to have the best place, 
 and most opportunities of seeing good company. The 
 only obstacle to our preferment was in obtaining the 
 squire's recommendation ; but he had already shown us too 
 many instances of his friendship to doubt of it now. Even 
 in bed my wife kept up the usual theme : " Well, faith, my 
 dear Charles, between ourselves, I think we have made an 
 excellent day's work of it." " Pretty well," cried I, not 
 knowing what to say. " What, only pretty well ?" returned 
 she. " I think it is very well. Suppose the girls should 
 come to make acquaintances of taste in town. This I am 
 assured of, that London is the only place in the world for 
 all manner of husbands. Besides, my dear, stranger things 
 happen every day : and as ladies of quality are so taken 
 with my daughters, what will not men of quality be ! Entrt
 
 FORTUNE HUMBLES THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD. 361 
 
 notis, I protest I like my Lady Blarney vastly, so very 
 obliging. However, Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia 
 Skeggs has my warm heart. But yet, when they came to 
 talk of places in town, you saw at once how I nailed them. 
 Tell me, my dear, don't you think I did for my children 
 there?" "Ay," returned I, not knowing well what to 
 think of the matter, " heaven grant they may be both the 
 better for it this day three months !" This was one of 
 those observations I 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 un- 
 fortunate ensued, then it might be looked upon as a 
 prophecy. All this conversation, however, was only pre- 
 paratory to another scheme, and indeed I dreaded as much. 
 This was nothing less than that, as we were now to hold up 
 our heads a little higher in the world, it would be proper to 
 sell the colt, which was grown old, at a neighbouring fair, 
 and buy us a horse that would carry single or double upon 
 an occasion, and make a pretty appearance at church or 
 upon a visit. This at first I opposed stoutly ; but it was as 
 stoutly defended. However, as I weakened, my anta- 
 gonist gained strength, till at last it was resolved to part 
 with him. 
 
 As the fair happened on the following day, I had inten- 
 tions of going myself; but my wife persuaded me that I 
 had got a cold, and nothing could prevail upon her to per- 
 mit me from home. "No, my dear," said she, "our son 
 Moses is a discreet boy, and can buy and sell to very good 
 advantage; you know all our great bargains are of his
 
 THE VICAR OF W'AKEFIELO. 
 
 purchasing. He always stands out and higgles, and actually 
 tires them till he gets a bargain." 
 
 As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I was 
 willing enough to entrust him with this commission ; and 
 the next morning I perceived his sisters mighty busy in 
 fitting out Moses for the fair ; trimming his hair, brushing 
 his buckles, and cocking his hat with pins. The business 
 of the toilet being over, we had at last the satisfaction of 
 seeing him mounted upon the colt, with a deal box before 
 him to bring home groceries in. He had on a coat made 
 of that cloth they call thunder and lightning, which, though 
 jrown too short, was much too good to be thrown away. 
 His waistcoat was of a gosling green, and his sisters had tied 
 his hair with a broad black riband. We all followed him 
 several paces from the door, bawling after him " Good luck ! 
 good luck!" till we could see him no longer. 
 
 He was scarce gone, when Mr. Thornhill's butler came to 
 congratulate us upon our good fortune, saying, that he 
 overheard his young master mention our names with great 
 commendation. 
 
 Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. Another 
 footman from the same family followed, with a card for my 
 daughters, importing that the two ladies had received such 
 pleasing accounts from Mr. Thornhill of us all, that, after a 
 few previous inquiries, they hoped to be perfectly satisfied. 
 
 " Ay," cried my wife, " I now see it is no easy matter to 
 get into the families of the great ; but when one once gets in, 
 then, as Moses says, one may go to sleep." To this piece 
 of humour, for she intended it for wit, my daughters
 
 FOR TUNE HUMBLES THE FAMIL Y OF WAKEFIELD. &>$ 
 
 assented with a loud laugh of pleasure. In short, such was 
 her satisfaction at this message, that she actually put her hano 
 in her pocket, and gave the messenger sevenpence halfpenny. 
 This was to be our visiting-day. The next that came 
 was Mr. Burchell, who had been at the fair. He brought 
 my little ones a pennyworth of gingerbread each, which my 
 wife undertook to keep for them, and give them by littles 
 at a time. He brought my daughters also a couple of 
 boxes, in which they might keep wafers, snuff, patches, or 
 even money, when they got it. My wife was usually fond 
 of a weazel skin purse, as being the most lucky ; but this 
 by the bye. We had still a regard for Mr. Burchell, though 
 his late rude behaviour was in some measure displeasing ; 
 nor could we now avoid communicating our happiness to 
 him, and asking his advice ; although we seldom followed 
 advice, we were all ready enough to ask it. When he read 
 the note from the two ladies, he shook his head, and 
 observed, that an affair of this sort demanded the utmost 
 circumspection. This air of diffidence highly displeased 
 my wife. " I never doubted, sir," cried she, " your readi- 
 ness to be against my daughters and me. You have more 
 circumspection than is wanted. However, I fancy when we 
 come to ask advice, we shall apply to persons who seem to 
 have made use of it themselves." "Whatever my own 
 conduct may have been, madam," replied he, " is not the 
 present question ; though as I have made no use of advice 
 myself, I should in conscience give it to those that will." 
 As I was apprehensive this answer might draw on a re- 
 partee, making up by abuse what it wanted in wit, I
 
 304 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELb. 
 
 changed the subject, by seeming to wonder what could 
 keep our son so long at the fair, as it was now almost night- 
 fall. " Never mind our son," cried my wife ; " depend upon 
 it, he knows what he is about. I'll warrant we'll never see 
 him sell his hen on a rainy day. I have seen him buy such 
 bargains as would amaze one. I'll tell you a good story 
 about that, that will make you split your sides with laugh- 
 ing. But as I live, yonder comes Moses, without a horse, 
 and the box at his back." 
 
 As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating 
 under the deal box, which he had strapped round his 
 shoulders like a pedlar. " Welcome, welcome, Moses ; well, 
 my boy, what have you brought us from the fair?" "1 
 have brought you myself," cried Moses, with a sly look, and 
 resting the box on the dresser. "Ay, Moses," cried my 
 wife, " that we know, but where is the horse ? " " I have 
 sold him," cried Moses, "for three pounds five shillings and 
 two-pence." " Well done, my good boy," returned she, " I 
 knew you would touch them off. Between ourselves, three 
 pounds five shillings and two-pence is no bad day's work. 
 Come, let us have it then." "I have brought back nc 
 money," cried Moses again, " I have laid it all out in a 
 bargain, and here it is," pulling out a bundle from his 
 breast : " here they are : a gross of green spectacles, with 
 silver rims and shagreen cases." " A gross of green spec- 
 tacles !" repeated my wife, in a faint voice. "And you have 
 parted with the colt, and brought us back nothing but a 
 gross of green paltry spectacles !" "Dear mother," cried 
 the boy, " why won't you listen to reason ? I had them a
 
 FOR TUNE HUMBLES THE FA MIL Y OF WA KEFIELD. 3<>5 
 
 dead bargain, or I should not have bought them. The 
 silver rims alone will sell for double the money." "A fig 
 for the silver rims ! " cried my wife in a passion : " I dare 
 swear they won't sell for above half the money at the rate 
 of broken silver, five shillings an ounce." "You need be 
 under no uneasiness," cried I, " about selling the rims : for 
 they are not worth sixpence, for I perceive they are only 
 copper varnished over." "What," cried my wife, "not 
 silver, the rims not silver !" " No," cried I, " no more silver 
 than your saucepan." " And so," returned she, " we have 
 parted with the colt, and have only got a gross of green spec- 
 tacles with copper rims and shagreen cases ! A murrain 
 take such trumpery! The blockhead has been imposed 
 upon, and should have known his company better." "There 
 my dear," cried I, "you are wrong, he should not have 
 known them at all." " Marry, hang the idiot," returned 
 she, "to bring me such stuff! if I had them I would throw 
 them on the fire." " There again you are wrong, my dear," 
 cried I ; " for though they be copper, we will keep them 
 by us, as copper spectacles, you know, are better than 
 nothing." 
 
 By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He 
 now saw that he had indeed been imposed upon by a 
 prowling sharper, who, observing his figure, had marked 
 him for an easy prey. I therefore asked the circumstances 
 of his deception. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked 
 the fair in search of another. A reverend-looking man 
 brought him to a tent, under pretence of having one to sell. 
 " Here," continued Moses, "we met another man, very well
 
 } o6 THU VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 dressed, who desired to borrow twenty pounds upon these, 
 saying, that he wanted money, and would dispose of them 
 for a third of the value. The first gentleman, who pre- 
 tended to be my friend, whispered me to buy them, and 
 cautioned me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent for 
 Mr. Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely as they 
 did me, and so at last we were persuaded to buy the two 
 gross between us."
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MR. BURCHELL IS FOUND TO BE AN ENEMY ; FOR HE HAS THE 
 CONFIDENCE TO GIVE DISAGREEABLE ADVICE. 
 
 'UR family had now made several attempts to be 
 fine ; but some unforeseen disaster demolished 
 each as soon as projected. I endeavoured to 
 take the advantage of every disappointment, to 
 improve their good sense in proportion as they were frus- 
 trated in ambition. " You see, my children," cried I, " how 
 little is to be got by attempts to impose upon the world, in 
 coping with our betters. Such as are poor, and will asso- 
 ciate with none but the rich, are hated by those they avoid, 
 and despised by those they follow. Unequal combinations 
 are always disadvantageous to the weaker side : the rich 
 having the pleasure, and the poor the inconveniences that 
 result from them. But come, Dick, my boy and repeat 
 the fable you were reading to-day, for the good of the 
 company." 
 
 " Once upon a time," cried the child, " a Giant and 
 
 Dwarf were friends, and kept together. They made a 
 
 bargain that they would never forsake each other, but go
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 seek adventures. The first battle they fought was with two 
 Saracens, and the Dwarf, who was very courageous, dealt 
 one of the champions a most angry blow. It did the 
 Saracen very little injury, who, lifting up his sword, fairly 
 struck off the poor Dwarfs arm. He was now in a woeful 
 plight ; but the Giant coming to his assistance, in a short 
 time left the two Saracens dead on the plain, and the Dwarf 
 cut off the dead man's head out of spite. They then 
 travelled on to another adventure. This was against three 
 bloody-minded Satyrs, who were carrying away a damsel 
 in distress. The Dwarf was not quite so fierce now as 
 before ; but for all that, struck the first blow, which was 
 returned by another, that knocked out his eye ; but the 
 Giant was soon up with them, and had they not fled, would 
 certainly have killed them every one. They were all very 
 joyful for this victory, and the damsel who was relieved, fell 
 in love with the Giant, and married him. They now 
 travelled far, and farther than I can tell, till they met with 
 a company of robbers. The Giant, for the first time, was 
 foremost now ; but the Dwarf was not far behind. The 
 battle was stout and long. Wherever the Giant came, all 
 fell before him ; but the Dwarf had like to have been killed 
 more than once. At last the victory declared for the two 
 adventurers ; but the Dwarf lost his leg. The Dwarf had 
 now lost an arm, a leg, and an eye, while the Giant was 
 without a single wound. Upon which he cried out to his 
 little companion, ' My little hero, this is glorious sport ; let 
 us get one victory more, and then we shall have honour for 
 ever.' ' No,' cries the Dwarf, who was by this time grown
 
 MR. BUKCf/ELL IS FOUND TO B AN ENEMY. 30$ 
 
 wiser, 'no, I declare off; I'll fight no more ; for I find in 
 every battle that you get all the honour and rewards, but 
 all the blows fall upon me.' " 
 
 I was going to moralize upon this fable, when our atten- 
 tion was called off to a warm dispute between my wife and 
 Mr. Burchell, upon my daughters' intended expedition to 
 town. My wife very strenuously insisted upon the advantages 
 that would result from it. Mr. Burchell, on the contrary, dis- 
 suaded her with great ardour, and I stood neuter. His 
 present dissuasions seemed but the second part of those 
 which were received with so ill a grace in the morning. 
 The dispute grew high, while poor Deborah, instead of 
 reasoning stronger, talked louder, and at last was obliged 
 to take shelter from a defeat in clamour. The conclusion 
 of her harangue, however, was highly displeasing to us 
 all: she knew, she said, of some who had their secret 
 reasons for what they advised ; but, for her part, she wished 
 such to stay away from her house for the future. 
 " Madam," cried Burchell, with looks of great composure, 
 which tended to inflame her the more, "as for secret 
 reasons, you are right : I have secret reasons, which I for- 
 bear to mention, because you are not able to answer those 
 of which I make no secret : but I find my visits here are 
 become troublesome : I'll take my leave therefore now, and 
 perhaps come once more to take a final farewell when I am 
 quitting the country." Thus saying, he took up his hat, 
 nor could the attempts of Sophia, whose looks seemed to 
 upbraid his precipitancy, prevent his going. 
 
 When gone, we all regarded each other for some minutes
 
 310 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELt). 
 
 with confusion. My wife, who knew herself to be the 
 cause, strove to hide her concern with a forced smile, and 
 an air of assurance, which I was willing to reprove : 
 " How, woman," cried I to her, " is it thus we treat 
 strangers ? Is it thus we return their kindness ? Be assured, 
 my dear, that these were the harshest words, and to me the 
 most unpleasing, that ever escaped your lips !" " Why 
 would he provoke me then ?" replied she ; " but I know the 
 motives of his advice perfectly well. He would prevent 
 my girls from going to town, that he may have the pleasure 
 of my youngest daughter's company here at home. But 
 whatever happens, she shall choose better company than 
 such low-lived fellows as he." " Low-lived, my dear, do 
 you call him ?" cried I ; "it is very possible we may mis- 
 take this man's character, for he seems upon some occasions 
 the most finished gentleman I ever knew. Tell me, Sophia, 
 my girl, has he ever given you any secret instances of his 
 attachment ?" " His conversation with me, sir," replied my 
 daughter, "has ever been sensible, modest, and pleasing. 
 As to aught else no, never. Once, indeed, I remember to 
 have heard him say he never knew a woman who could 
 find merit in a man that seemed poor." " Such, my dear," 
 cried I, " is the common cant of all the unfortunate or idle. 
 But I hope you have been taught to judge properly of such 
 men, and that it would be even madness to expect 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."
 
 MR. BURCHELL LS fOUND TO BE AN ENEMY. 311 
 
 What Sophia's reflections were upon this occasion I 
 cannot pretend to determine ; but I was not displeased at 
 the bottom, that we were rid of a guest from whom I had 
 much to fear. Our breach of hospitality went to my con- 
 science a little ; but I quickly silenced that monitor by two 
 or three specious reasons, which served to satisfy and re- 
 concile me to myself. The pain which conscience gives the 
 man who has already done wrong, is soon got over. Con- 
 science is a coward ; and those faults it has not strength 
 enough to prevent, it seldom has justice enough to accuse.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 FRESH MORTIFICATIONS, OR A DEMONSTRATION THAT SEEMING 
 CALAMITIES MAY BE REAL BLESSINGS. 
 
 [HE journey of my daughters to town was now 
 resolved upon, Mr. Thornhill having kindly 
 promised to inspect their conduct himself, and 
 inform us by letter of their behaviour. But it 
 was thought indispensably necessary that their appearance 
 should equal the greatness of their expectations, which 
 could not be done without expense. We debated, there- 
 fore, in full council, what were the easiest methods of rais- 
 ing money, or, more properly speaking, what we could most 
 conveniently sell. The deliberation was soon finished : it 
 was found that our remaining horse was utterly useless for 
 the plough, without his companion, and equally unfit for the 
 road, as wanting an eye : it was therefore determined that 
 we should dispose of him, for the purposes above-mentioned, 
 at the neighbouring fair, and, to prevent imposition, that I 
 should go with him myself. Though this was one of the 
 first mercantile transactions of my life, yet I had no doubt 
 about acquitting myself with reputation. The opinion a
 
 SEEMItfG CALAMITIES MA Y BE REAL BLESSINGS. 313 
 
 man forms of his own prudence is measured by that of the 
 company he keeps ; and as mine was mostly in the family 
 way, I had conceived no unfavourable sentiments of my 
 worldly wisdom. My wife, however, next morning, at part- 
 ing, after I had got some paces from the door, called me 
 back, to advise me, in a whisper, to have all my eyes about 
 me. 
 
 I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the fair, put 
 my horse through all his paces ; but for some time had no 
 bidders. At last a chapman approached, and, after he had 
 for a good while examined the horse round, finding him 
 blind of one eye, he would have nothing to say to him. A 
 second came up, but observing he had a spavin, declared he 
 would not take him for the driving home. A third per- 
 ceived he had a windgall, and would bid no money. A 
 fourth knew by his eye that he had the botts. A fifth 
 wondered what a plague I could do at the fair with a blind, 
 spavined, galled hack, that was only fit to be cut up for a 
 dog-kennel. By this time I began to have a most hearty 
 contempt for the poor animal myself, and was almost 
 ashamed at the approach of every customer ; for though I 
 did not entirely believe all the fellows told me, yet I re- 
 flected that the number of witnesses was a strong presump- 
 tion they were right, and St. Gregory, upon good works, 
 professes himself to be of the same opinion. 
 
 I was in this mortifying situation, when a brother clergy- 
 man, an old acquaintance, who had also business at the 
 fair, came up, and shaking me by the hand, proposed 
 adjourning to a public-house and taking a glass of whatever
 
 314 THE VICAR OF WAKEFlELb 
 
 we could get. I readily closed with the offer, and entering 
 an ale-house, we were shown into a little back room, where 
 there was only a venerable old man, who sat wholly intent 
 over a large book, which he was reading. I never in my 
 life saw a figure that prepossessed me more favourably. 
 His locks of silver grey venerably shaded his temples, and 
 his green old age seemed to be the result of health and 
 benevolence. However, his presence did not interrupt our 
 conversation. My friend and I discoursed on the various 
 turns of fortune we had met : the Whistonian controversy, 
 my last pamphlet, the archdeacon's reply, and the hard 
 measure that was dealt me. But our attention was in a 
 short time taken off by the appearance of a youth, who, 
 entering the room, respectfully said something softly to the 
 old stranger. " Make no apologies, my child," said the old 
 man. " To do good ; is a duty we owe to all our fellow- 
 creatures : take this, I wish it were more ; but five pounds 
 will relieve your distress, and you are welcome." The 
 modest youth shed tears of gratitude, and yet his gratitude 
 was scarcely equal to mine. I could have hugged the good 
 old man in my arms, his benevolence pleased me so. He 
 continued to read, and we resumed our conversation, until 
 my companion, after some time, recollecting that he had 
 business to transact in the fair, promised to be soon back ; 
 adding, that he always desired to have as much of Dr. 
 Primrose's company as possible. The old gentleman, hear- 
 ing my name mentioned, seemed to look at me with atten- 
 tion for some time, and when my friend was gone, most 
 respectfully demanded if I was any way related to the great
 
 SEEMING CALAMITIES MA Y BE REAL BLESSINGS. 
 
 Primrose, that courageous monogamist, who had been the 
 bulwark of the church. 
 
 Never did my heart feel sincerer rapture than at that 
 moment. " Sir," cried I, " the applause of so good a 
 man, as I am sure you are, adds to that happiness in my 
 breast which your benevolence has already excited. You 
 behold before you, sir, that Dr. Primrose, the monogamist, 
 whom you have been pleased to call great. You here see 
 that unfortunate divine, who has so long, and it would ill 
 become me to say successfully, fought against the deutero- 
 gamy of the age." " Sir," cried the stranger, struck with 
 awe, " I fear I have been too familiar ; but you'll forgive 
 my curiosity, sir : I beg pardon." " Sir," cried I, grasping 
 his hand, " you are so far from displeasing me by your 
 familiarity, that I must beg you'll accept my friendship as 
 you already have my esteem." " Then with gratitude I 
 accept the offer," cried he, squeezing me by the hand, 
 "thou glorious pillar of unshaken orthodoxy; and do I 
 
 behold " I here interrupted what he was going to say ; 
 
 for though as an author I could digest no small share of 
 flattery, yet now my modesty would permit no more. 
 However, no lovers in romance ever cemented a more 
 instantaneous friendship. We talked upon several sub- 
 jects ; at first I thought him rather devout than learned, 
 and began to think he despised all human doctrines as 
 dross. Yet this no way lessened him in my esteem ; for I 
 had for some time begun privately to harbour such an 
 opinion myself; I therefore took an occasion to observe, that 
 the world in general began to be blamably indifferent as
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEPIEtb. 
 
 to doctrinal matters, and followed human speculations too 
 much " Ay, sir," replied he, as if he had reserved all his 
 learning to that moment ; " ay, sir, the world is in its 
 dotage, and yet the cosmogony or creation of the world 
 has puzzled philosophers of all ages. What a medley of 
 opinions have they not broached upon the creation of the 
 world ! Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus 
 Lucanus have all attempted it in vain. The latter has these 
 words, Anarchon ara kai atelutaion to pan, which imply that 
 all things have neither beginning nor end. Manetho also, who 
 lived about the time of Nebuchadon-Asser Asser being a 
 Syriac word usually applied as a surname to the kings of 
 that country, as Teglat Phael-Asser, Nabon-Asser he, I 
 say, formed a conjecture equally absurd : for as we usually 
 say, ek to biblion kubernetes, which implies that books will 
 never teach the world ; so he attempted to investigate. 
 But, sir, I ask pardon, I am straying from the question." 
 That he actually was ; nor could I for my life see how the 
 creation of the world had anything to do with the business 
 I was talking of ; but it was sufficient to show me that he 
 was a man of letters, and I now reverenced him the more. 
 I was resolved therefore to bring him to the touch-stone ; 
 but he was too mild and too gentle to contend for victory. 
 Whenever I made any observation that looked like a 
 challenge to controversy, he would smile, shake his head, 
 and say nothing; by which I understood he could say 
 much if he thought proper. The subject therefore insen- 
 sibly changed from the business of antiquity to that which 
 brought us to the fair ; mine, I told him, was to sell a
 
 SEEMING CALAMITIES MAY BE REAL BLESSINGS. 31? 
 
 horse, and, very luckily indeed, his was to buy one for one of 
 his tenants. My horse was soon produced, and in fine we 
 struck a bargain. Nothing now remained but to pay me, 
 and he accordingly pulled out a thirty-pound note, and bid 
 me change it Not being in a capacity of complying with 
 this demand, he ordered his footman to be called up, who 
 made his appearance in a very genteel livery. " Here, 
 Abraham," cried he, "go and get gold for this ; you'll do it 
 at neighbour Jackson's, or anywhere." While the fellow 
 was gone, he entertained me with a pathetic harangue on 
 the great scarcity of silver, which I undertook to improve, 
 by deploring also the great scarcity of gold ; so that by the 
 time Abraham returned, we had both agreed that money 
 was never so hard to be come at as now. Abraham 
 returned to inform us, that he had been over the whole fair, 
 and could not get change, though he had offered half a 
 crown for doing it. This was a very great disappointment 
 to us all ; but the old gentleman having paused a little, 
 asked me if I knew one Solomon Flamborough, in my part 
 of the country : upon replying that he was my next-door 
 neighbour, " If that be the case then," returned he, " I 
 believe we shall deal. You shall have a draft upon him, 
 payable at sight ; and let me tell you he is as warm a man 
 as any within five miles round him. Honest Solomon and 
 I have been acquainted for many years together. I re- 
 member I always beat him at three jumps ; but he could 
 hop on one leg farther than I." A draft upon my neigh- 
 bour was to me the same as money ; for I was sufficiently 
 convinced of his ability: the draft was signed and put
 
 318 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 into my hands, and Mr. Jenkinson, the old gentleman, his 
 man Abraham, and my horse, old Blackberry, trotted off 
 very well pleased with each other. 
 
 After a short interval, being left to reflection, I began to 
 recollect that I had done wrong in taking a draft from a 
 stranger, and so prudently resolved upon following the pur- 
 chaser, and having back my horse. But this was now too 
 late : I therefore made directly homewards, resolving to get 
 the draft changed into money at my friend's as fast as 
 possible. I found my honest neighbour smoking his pipe 
 at his own door ; and informing him that I had a small bill 
 upon him, he read it twice over. " You can read the name, 
 I suppose," cried I, " Ephraim Jenkinson ?" " Yes," re- 
 turned he, " the name is written plain enough, and I know 
 the gentleman too, the greatest rascal under the canopy of 
 heaven. This is the very same rogue who sold us the 
 spectacles. Was he not a venerable- looking man, with 
 grey hair, and no flaps to his pccket-holes ? And did he 
 not talk a long string of learning about Greek, and cos- 
 mogony, and the world ?" To this I replied with a groan. 
 "Ay," continued he, " he has but that one piece of learning 
 in the world, and he always talks rt whenever he finds a 
 scholar in company ; but I know the rogue, and will catch 
 him yet." 
 
 Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my greatest 
 struggle was to come, in facing my wife and daughters. 
 No truant was ever more afraid of returning to school, there 
 to behold the master's visage, than I was of going home. 
 I was determined, however, to anticipate their fury, by first 
 falling into a passion myself.
 
 SEEMING CALAMITIES MAY BE REAL BLESSINGS. 319 
 
 But, alas ! upon entering, I found the family no way dis- 
 posed for battle. My wife and girls were all in tears, Mr. 
 Thornhill having been there that day to inform them that 
 their journey to town was entirely over. The two ladies, 
 having heard reports of us from some malicious person 
 about us, were that day set out for London. He could 
 neither discover the tendency nor the author of these ; but 
 whatever they might be, or whoever might have broached 
 them, he continued to assure our family of his friendship 
 and protection. I found, therefore, that they bore my dis- 
 appointment with great resignation, as it was eclipsed in the 
 greatness of their own. But what perplexed us most was 
 to think who could be so base as to asperse the character 
 of a family so harmless as ours, too humble to excite envy, 
 and too inoffensive to create disgust.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ALL MR. BURCHELL'S VILLANY AT ONCE DETECTED. THE FOLLY 
 OF BEING OVER-WISE. 
 
 [HAT evening, and a part of the following day, 
 was employed in fruitless attempts to discover 
 our enemies ; scarce a family in the neighbour- 
 hood but incurred our suspicions, and each of 
 us had reasons for our opinion best known to ourselves. 
 As we were in this perplexity, one of our little boys, who 
 had been playing abroad, brought in a letter-case, which he 
 found on the green. It was quickly known to belong to 
 Mr. Burchell, with whom it had been seen ; and, upon 
 examination, contained some hints upon different subjects ; 
 but what particularly engaged our attention was a sealed 
 note, superscribed, " The copy of a letter to be sent to the 
 ladies at Thornhill Castle." It instantly occurred that he 
 was the base informer, and we deliberated whether the note 
 should not be broken open. I was against it ; but Sophia, 
 who said she was sure that of all men he would be the last 
 to be guilty of so much baseness, insisted upon its being
 
 MR. BURCHELL'S VJLLANY DETECTED. 321 
 
 read. In this she was seconded by the rest of the family, 
 and, at their joint solicitation, I read as follows : 
 
 " LADIES, 
 
 " The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to the person 
 from whom this comes : one at least the friend of innocence, 
 and ready to prevent its being seduced. I am informed, 
 for a truth, that you have some intention of bringing two 
 young ladies to town, whom I have some knowledge of, 
 under the character of companions. As I would neither 
 have simplicity imposed upon, nor virtue contaminated, I 
 must offer it as my opinion, that the impropriety of such a 
 step will be attended with dangerous consequences. It has 
 never been my way to treat the infamous or the lewd with 
 severity ; nor should I now have taken this method of 
 explaining myself, or reproving folly, did it not aim at 
 guilt. Take, therefore, the admonition of a friend, and 
 seriously reflect on the consequences of introducing infamy 
 and vice into retreats where peace and innocence have 
 hitherto resided." 
 
 Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed indeed 
 something applicable to both sides in this letter, and its 
 censures might as well be referred to those to whom it was 
 written as to us ; but the malicious meaning was obvious, 
 and we went no farther. My wife had scarce patience to 
 hear me to the end, but railed at the writer with unre 
 strained resentment. Olivia was equally severe, and 
 Sophia seemed perfectly amazed at his baseness. As for
 
 322 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 my part, it appeared to me one of the vilest instances of 
 unprovoked ingratitude I had ever met with. Nor could I 
 account for it in any other manner than by imputing it to his 
 desire of detaining my youngest daughter in the country, 
 to have the more frequent opportunities of an interview. 
 In this manner we all sat ruminating upon schemes of 
 vengeance, when our other little boy came running in to tell 
 us that Mr. Burchell was approaching at the other end of the 
 field. It is easier to conceive than describe the complicated 
 sensations which are felt from the pain of a recent injury, 
 and the pleasure of approaching vengeance. Though our 
 intentions were only to upbraid him with his ingratitude, 
 yet it was resolved to do it in a manner that would be per- 
 fectly cutting. For this purpose we agreed to meet him 
 with our usual smiles, to chat in the beginning with more 
 than ordinary kindness, to amuse him a little ; and then in 
 the midst of the flattering calm to burst upon him like an 
 earthquake, and overwhelm him with the sense of his own 
 baseness. This being resolved upon, my wife undertook 
 to manage the business herself, as she really had some 
 talents for such an undertaking. We saw him approach ; 
 he entered, drew a chair, and sat down. " A fine day, Mr. 
 Burchell." " A very fine day, doctor ; though I fancy we 
 shall have some rain by the shooting of my corns." " The 
 shooting of your horns," cried my wife in a loud fit of 
 laughter, and then asked pardon for being fond of a joke. 
 " Dear madam," replied he, " I pardon you with all my 
 heart, for I protest I should not have thought it a joke had 
 you not told me." " Perhaps not, sir," cried my wife,
 
 MR. BURCHELL'S VILLANY DETECTED. &$ 
 
 winking at us, " and yet I dare say you can tell us ho\v 
 many jokes go to an ounce." "I fancy, madam," returned 
 Mr. Burchell, "you have been reading a jest-book this 
 morning that ounce of jokes is so very good a conceit : 
 and yet, madam, I had rather see half an ounce of under- 
 standing." " I believe you might," cried my wife, still 
 smiling at us, though the laugh was against her ; " and yet 
 I have seen some men pretend to understanding that have 
 very little."- 1 " And no doubt," replied her antagonist, 
 " you have known ladies set up for wits that had none." I 
 quickly began to find that my wife was likely to gain but 
 little at this business ; so I resolved to treat him in a style 
 of more severity myself. " Both wit and understanding," 
 cried I, "are trifles without integrity: it is that which 
 gives value to every character : the ignorant peasant, with- 
 out fault, is greater than the philosopher with many ; for 
 what is genius or courage without a heart ? 
 
 ' An honest man's the noblest work of God.' " 
 
 " I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope," returned 
 Mr. Burchell, "as very unworthy a man of genius, and a base 
 desertion of his own superiority. As the reputation of 
 books is raised, not by their freedom from defect, but the 
 greatness of their beauties ; so should that of men be 
 prized, not from their exemption from fault, but the size of 
 those virtues they are possessed of. The scholar may want 
 prudence, the statesman may have pride, and the champion 
 ferocity : but shall we prefer to these the low mechanic, 
 who laboriously plMs on through life without censure or
 
 324 THE VICAR OF WAREFIELD. 
 
 applause ? We might as well prefer the tame, correct 
 paintings of the Flemish school, to the erroneous but 
 sublime animations of the Roman pencil." 
 
 " Sir," replied I, " your present observation is just, when 
 there are shining virtues and minute defects ; but when it 
 appears that great vices are opposed in the same mind to as 
 extraordinary virtues, such a character deserves contempt." 
 
 " Perhaps," cried he, " there may be some such monsters 
 as you describe, of great vices joined to great virtues ; yet, 
 in my progress through life, I never yet found one instance 
 of their existence : on the contrary, I have ever perceived, 
 that where the mind was capacious the affections were 
 good. And, indeed, Providence seems kindly our friend in 
 this particular, thus to debilitate the understanding where 
 the heart is corrupt, and diminish the power where there is 
 the will to do mischief. This rule seems to extend even to 
 other animals ; the little vermin race are ever treacherous, 
 cruel, and cowardly ; whilst those endowed with strength 
 and power are generous, brave, and gentle." 
 
 " These observations sound well," returned I, " and yet 
 it would be easy this moment to point out a man," and I 
 fixed my eye steadfastly upon him, " whose head and heart 
 form a most detestable contrast. Ay, sir," continued I, 
 raising my voice, "and I am glad to have this opportunity 
 of detecting him in the midst of his fancied security. Do 
 you know this, sir this pocket-book ?" " Yes, sir," re- 
 turned he, with a face of impenetrable assurance ; " that 
 pocket-book is mine, and I am glad you have found it." 
 " And do you know," cried I, " this letter ? Nay, never
 
 MR. BURCHELVS VILLANY DETECTED. 325 
 
 falter, man, but look me full in the face ; I say, do you 
 know this letter?" "That letter?" replied he; "yes, it 
 was I that wrote that letter." " And how could you," said 
 I, "so basely, so ungratefully presume to write this letter?" 
 "And how came you," replied he, with looks of un- 
 paralleled effrontery, " so basely to presume to break open 
 this letter ? Don't you know, now, I could hang you all 
 for this ? All that I have to do is to swear at the next 
 justice's that you have been guilty of breaking open the 
 lock of my pocket-book, and so hang you all up at this door." 
 This piece of unexpected insolence raised me to such a pitch, 
 that I could scarce govern my passion. " Ungrateful 
 wretch ! begone, and no longer pollute my dwelling with 
 thy baseness. Begone, and never let me see thee again. 
 Go from my door : and the only punishment I wish thee is 
 an alarmed conscience, which will be a sufficient tor- 
 mentor !" So saying, I threw him his pocket-book, which 
 he took up with a smile ; and, shutting the clasps with the 
 utmost composure, left us quite astonished at the serenity 
 of his assurance. My wife was particularly enraged that 
 nothing could make him angry, or make him seem ashamed 
 of his villanies. " My dear," cried I, willing to calm those 
 passions that had been raised too high among us, " we are 
 not to be surprised that bad men want shame ; they only 
 blush at being detected in doing good, but glory in their 
 vices. Guilt and Shame, says the allegory, were at first com- 
 panions, and in the beginning of their journey inseparably 
 kept together. But their union was soon found to be dis- 
 agreeable and inconvenient to both. Guilt gave Shame
 
 326 THE VICAR OF WAKEFTRLD, 
 
 frequent uneasiness, and Shame often betrayed the secret 
 conspiracies of Guilt. After long disagreement, therefore, 
 they at length consented to part for ever. Guilt boldly 
 walked forward alone, to overtake Fate, that went before in 
 the shape of an executioner ; but Shame, being naturally 
 timorous, returned back to keep company with Virtue, 
 which, in the beginning of their journey, they had left 
 behind. Thus, my children, after men have travelled 
 through a few stages in vice, Shame forsakes them, and 
 returns back to wait upon the few virtues they have still 
 remaining."
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE FAMILY USE ART, WHICH IS OPPOSED BY STILL GREATER, 
 
 [JH ATEVER might have been Sophia's sensations, 
 the rest of the family were easily consoled for 
 Mr. Burchell's absence by the company of our 
 landlord, whose visits now became more frequent 
 and longer. Though he had been disappointed in procur- 
 ing my daughters the amusements of town, as he designed, 
 he took every opportunity of supplying them with those 
 little recreations which our retirement would admit of. He 
 usually came in the morning, and while my son and I 
 followed our occupations abroad, he sat with the family at 
 home, and amused them by describing town, with every 
 part of which he was particularly acquainted. He could 
 repeat all the observations that were retailed in the atmo- 
 sphere of the play-houses, and had all the good things of the 
 high wits by rote long before they made their way into the 
 jest-books. The intervals between conversation were 
 employed in teaching my daughters piquet, or sometimes 
 in setting my two little ones to box, to make them sharp, 
 as he called it : but the h;yoes of having him for a son-in
 
 328 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 law in some measure blinded us to all his imperfections. It 
 must be owned that my wife laid a thousand schemes to 
 entrap him ; or, to speak it more tenderly, used every art 
 to magnify the merit of her daughter. If the cakes at tea 
 eat short and crisp, they were made by Olivia ; if the goose- 
 berry wine was well knit, the gooseberries were of her 
 gathering ; it was her fingers which gave the pickles their 
 peculiar green ; and in the composition of a pudding, it was 
 her judgment that mixed the ingredients. Then the poor 
 woman would sometimes tell the squire, that she thought 
 him and Olivia extremely of a size, and would bid both 
 stand up to see which was tallest. These instances of 
 cunning, which she thought impenetrable, yet which every- 
 body saw through, were very pleasing to our benefactor, 
 who gave every day some new proofs of his passion, which, 
 though they had not risen to proposals of marriage, yet we 
 thought fell but little short of it ; and his slowness was 
 attributed sometimes to native bashfulness, and sometimes 
 to his fear of offending his uncle. An occurrence, however, 
 which happened soon after, put it beyond a doubt that he 
 designed to become one of our family ; my wife even re- 
 garded it as an absolute promise. 
 
 My wife and daughters happening to return a visit at 
 neighbour Flamborough's, found that family had lately got 
 their pictures drawn by a limner, who travelled the country, 
 and took likenesses for fifteen shillings a head. As this 
 family and ours had long a sort of rivalry in point of taste, 
 our spirit took the alarm at this stolen march upon us, and 
 notwithstanding all I could say and I said much it was
 
 THE FAMILY USE ART, 329 
 
 resolved that we should have our pictures done too. Having 
 therefore, engaged the limner (for what could I do ?), our 
 next deliberation was* to show the superiority of our taste 
 in the attitudes. As for our neighbour's family, there were 
 seven of them, and they were drawn with seven oranges, a 
 thing quite out of taste, no variety in life, no composition in 
 the world. We desired to have something in a brighter 
 style, and, after many debates, at length came to an unani- 
 mous resolution of being drawn together in one large 
 historical family piece. This would be cheaper, since one 
 frame would serve for all, and it would be infinitely more 
 genteel; for all families of any taste were now drawn in the 
 same manner. As we did not immediately recollect an 
 historical subject to hit us, we were contented each with 
 being drawn as independent historical figures. My wife 
 desired to be represented as Venus, and the painter was 
 requested not to be too frugal of his diamonds in her 
 stomacher and hair. Her two little ones were to be as 
 Cupids by her side ; while I, in my gown and band, was 
 to present her with my books on the Whistonian controversy. 
 Olivia would be drawn as an Amazon, sitting upon a bank of 
 flowers, dressed in a green Joseph, richly laced with gold, 
 and a whip in her hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, 
 with as many sheep as the painter could put in for nothing; 
 and Moses was to be dressed out with a hat and white 
 feather. Our taste so much pleased the squire, that he in- 
 sisted on being put in as one of the family, in the character 
 of Alexander the Great, at Olivia's feet. This was con- 
 sidered by us all as an indication of his desire, to be intro-
 
 330 THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 
 
 duced into the family, nor could we refuse his request. The 
 painter was therefore set to work, and as he wrought with 
 assiduity and expedition, in less than four days the whole 
 was completed. The piece was large, and it must be owned 
 he did not spare his colours ; for which my wife gave him 
 great encomiums. We were all perfectly satisfied with his 
 performance ; but an unfortunate circumstance, which had 
 not occurred till the picture was finished, now struck us with 
 dismay. It was so very large that we had no place in the 
 house where to fix it. How we all came to disregard so 
 material a point is inconceivable ; but certain it is, we had 
 been all greatly remiss. This picture, therefore, instead of 
 gratifying our vanity, as we hoped, leaned, in a most mor- 
 tifying manner, against the kitchen wall, where the canvas 
 was stretched and painted, much too large to be got through 
 any of the doors, and the jest of all our neighbours. One 
 compared it to Robinson Crusoe's long-boat, too large to 
 be removed ; another thought it more resembled a reel in a 
 bottle ; some wondered how it could be got out ; but still 
 more were amazed how it ever got in. 
 
 But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effectually 
 raised more malicious suggestions in many. The squire's 
 portrait being found united with ours, was an honour too 
 great to escape envy. Scandalous whispers began to circu- 
 late at our expense, and our tranquillity was continually 
 disturbed by persons who came as friends to tell us what 
 was said of us by enemies. These reports were always 
 resented with becoming spirit ; but scandal ever improves 
 by opposition.
 
 THE FAMILY USE ART. 331 
 
 We once again, therefore, entered into consultation upon 
 obviating the malice of our enemies, and at last came to a 
 resolution which had too much cunning to give me entire 
 satisfaction. It was this : as our principal object was to 
 discover the honour of Mr. ThornhiU's addresses, my wife 
 undertook to sound him, by pretending to ask his advice in 
 the choice of a husband for her eldest daughter : if this 
 was not found sufficient to induce him to a declaration, it 
 was then resolved to terrify him with a rival. To this last 
 step, however, I would by no means give my consent, till 
 Olivia gave me the most solemn assurances that she would 
 marry the person provided to rival him upon this occasion, 
 if he did not prevent it by taking her himself. Such was 
 the scheme laid, which, though I did not strenuously 
 oppose, I did not entirely approve. 
 
 The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill came to see 
 us, my girls took care to be out of the way, in order to give 
 their mamma an opportunity of putting her scheme in 
 execution ; but they only retired to the next room, from 
 whence they could overhear the whole conversation. My 
 wife artfully introduced it by observing that one of the Miss 
 Flamboroughs was likely to have a very good match of it 
 in Mr. Spanker. To this the squire assenting, she proceeded 
 to remark that they who had warm fortunes were always 
 sure of getting good husbands. " But heaven help," con- 
 tinued she, "the girls who have none! What signifies beauty, 
 Mr. Thornhill ? or what signifies all the virtues and all the 
 qualifications in the world, in this age of self-interest ? It 
 is not, What is she ? but What has she ? is all the cry."
 
 332 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 "Madam," returned he, "I highly approve the justice a 
 well as the novelty of your remarks ; and if I were a kinj 
 it should be otherwise : it should then indeed be fine time 
 for the girls without fortunes: our two young ladies shouL 
 be the first for whom I would provide." 
 
 " Ah, sir," returned my wife, " you are pleased to b 
 facetious; but I wish I were a queen, and then I kno^ 
 where my eldest daughter should look for a husbanc 
 But now that you put it into my head, seriously, M 
 Thornhill, can't you recommend me a proper husband fc 
 her ? She is now nineteen years old, well grown, and we 
 educated ; and, in my humble opinion, does not want fc 
 parts." 
 
 " Madam," replied he, " if I were to choose, I would fin 
 out a person possessed of every accomplishment that ca 
 make an angel happy ; one with prudence, fortune, tast< 
 and sincerity : such, madam, would be, in my opinion, th 
 proper husband." " Ay, sir," said she ; " but do you knoi 
 of any such person?" "No, madam," returned he, "it i 
 impossible to know any person that deserves to be he 
 husband : she's too great a treasure for one man's posses 
 sion : she's a goddess : upon my soul, I speak what I thinl 
 she's an angel." " Ah, Mr. Thornhill, you only flatter m 
 poor girl ; but we have been thinking of marrying her t 
 one of your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and wh 
 wants a manager : you know whom I mean Farm* 
 Williams ; a warm man, Mr. Thornhill, able to give he 
 good bread, and who has several times made her pn 
 posals ;" which was actually the case. " But, sir," conclude
 
 THE FAMILY USE ART. 333 
 
 she, " I should be glad to have your approbation of our 
 choice." " How, madam !" replied he, " my approbation ? 
 my approbation of such a choice ? Never ! What ! sacri- 
 fice so much beauty, and sense, and goodness to a creature 
 insensible of the blessing ? Excuse me I can never 
 approve of such a piece of injustice ; and I have my 
 reasons." " Indeed, sir," cried Deborah, " if you have your 
 reasons, that's another affair ; but I should be glad to know 
 those reasons." "Excuse me, madam," returned he, "they 
 lie too deep for discovery," laying his hand upon his bosom ; 
 '* they remain buried, riveted here." 
 
 After he was gone, upon a general consultation, we could 
 not tell what to make of these fine sentiments. Olivia con- 
 sidered them as instances of the most exalted passion, but 
 I was not quite so sanguine ; it seemed to me pretty plain 
 that they had more of love than matrimony in them ; yet, 
 whatever they might portend, it was resolved to prose- 
 cute the scheme of Farmer Williams, who, from my 
 daughter's first appearance in the country, had paid her his 
 addresses.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 SCARCELY ANY VIRTUE FOUND TO RESIST THE POWER OF LONG 
 AND PLEASING TEMPTATION. 
 
 JS I only studied my child's real happiness, the 
 assiduity of Mr. Williams pleased me, as he was 
 in easy circumstances, prudent, and sincere. It 
 required but very little encouragement to re- 
 vive his former passion ; so that in an evening or two he 
 and Mr. Thornhill met at our house, and surveyed each 
 other for some time with looks of anger ; but Williams 
 owed his landlord no rent, and little regarded his indigna- 
 tion. Olivia, on her side, acted the coquette to perfection, 
 if that might be called acting which was her real character, 
 pretending to lavish all her tenderness on her new lover. 
 Mr. Thornhill appeared quite dejected at this preference 
 and, with a pensive air, took leave ; though I own it puzzled 
 me to find him in so much pain as he appeared to be, when 
 he had it in his power so easily to remove the cause, by 
 declaring an honourable passion. But whatever uneasiness
 
 VIRTUE NOT FOUND TO RESIST TEMPTATION. $35 
 
 he seemed to endure, it could easily be perceived that 
 Olivia's anguish was much greater. After any of these 
 interviews with her lovers, of which there were several, she 
 usually retired to solitude, and there indulged her grief. It 
 was in such a situation I found her one evening, after she 
 had been for some time supporting a fictitious gaiety. 
 "You now see, my child," said I, "that your confidence in 
 Mr. Thornhill's passion was all a dream : he permits the 
 rivalry of another, every way his inferior, though he knows 
 it lies in his power to secure you to himself by a candid 
 declaration." "Yes, papa," returned she, "but he has his 
 reasons for this delay ; I know he has. The sincerity of 
 his looks and words convinces me of his real esteem. A 
 short time, I hope, will discover the generosity of his senti- 
 ments, and convince you that my opinion of him has been 
 more just than yours." "Olivia, my darling," returned I, 
 " every scheme that has been hitherto pursued to compel 
 him to a declaration has been proposed and planned by 
 yourself, nor can you in the least say that I have con- 
 strained you ; but you must not suppose, my dear, that I 
 will ever be instrumental in suffering his honest rival to be 
 the dupe of your ill-placed passion. Whatever time you 
 require to bring your fancied admirer to an explanation 
 shall be granted ; but at the expiration of that term, if he 
 is still regardless, I must absolutely insist that honest Mr. 
 Williams shall be rewarded for his fidelity : the character 
 which I have hitherto supported in life demands this from 
 me ; and my tenderness as a parent shall never influence 
 my integrity as a man. Name, then, your day ; let it be
 
 336 THE VICAR OF WAKEFlELD. 
 
 as distant as you think propei ; and in the meantime take 
 care to let Mr. Thornhill know the exact time on which I 
 design delivering you up to another. If he really loves 
 you, his own good sense will readily suggest that there is 
 but one method alone to prevent his losing you for ever." 
 This proposal, which she could not avoid considering as 
 perfectly just, was readily agreed to. She again renewed 
 her most positive promise of marrying Mr. Williams, in 
 case of the other's insensibility ; and at the next oppor- 
 tunity, in Mr. Thornhill's presence, that day month was 
 fixed upon for her nuptials with his rival. 
 
 Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr, 
 Thornhill's anxiety ; but what Olivia really felt gave me 
 some uneasiness. In this struggle between prudence and 
 passion her vivacity quite forsook her, and every oppor- 
 tunity of solitude was sought, and spent in tears. One 
 week passed away, but Mr. Thornhill made no efforts tc 
 restrain her nuptials. The succeeding week he was still 
 assiduous, but not more open. On the third he discon- 
 tinued his visits entirely ; and instead of my daughtei 
 testifying any impatience, as I expected, she seemed tc 
 retain a pensive tranquillity, which I looked upon as 
 resignation. For my own part, I was now sincerely pleased 
 with thinking that my child was going to be secured in s 
 continuance of competence and peace, and frequently 
 applauded her resolution in preferring happiness to osten- 
 tation. 
 
 It was within about four days of her intended nuptials
 
 VIRTUE NOT FOUND TO RESIST TEMPTATION. 337 
 
 that my little family, at night, were gathered round a 
 charming fire, telling stories of the past, and laying 
 schemes for the future ; busied in forming a thousand pro- 
 jects, and laughing at whatever folly came uppermost. 
 " Well, Moses," cried I, " we shall soon, my boy, have a 
 wedding in the family. What is your opinion of matters 
 and things in general ?" " My opinion, father, is that all 
 things go on very well ; and I was just now thinking that 
 when sister Livy is married to Farmer Williams, we shall 
 then have the loan of his cider-press and brewing-tubs for 
 nothing." " That we shall, Moses," cried I, " and he will 
 sing us ' Death and the Lady,' to raise our spirits, into the 
 bargain." " He has taught that song to our Dick," cried 
 Moses ; " and I think he goes through it very prettily." 
 " Does he so ?" cried I ; " then let us have it. Where is 
 little Dick? let him up with it boldly." " My brother 
 Dick," cried Bill, my youngest, "is just gone out with 
 sister Livy ; but Mr. Williams has taught me two songs, 
 and I'll sing them for you, papa. Which song do you 
 choose ' The Dying Swan,' or the ' Elegy on the Death 
 of a Mad Dog ?' " " The Elegy, child, by all means," 
 said I ; " I never heard that yet ; and, Deborah, my life, 
 grief, you know, is dry ; let us have a bottle of the best 
 gooseberry wine to keep up our spirits. I have wept so 
 much at all sorts of elegies of late, that, without an 
 enlivening glass, I am sure this will overcome me ; and 
 Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrum in with the boy a 
 little." 
 
 22
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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. 
 
 1 A kind and gentle heart he had, 
 
 To comfort friends and foes ; 
 
 The naked every day he clad, 
 
 When he put on his clothes. 
 
 1 And in that town a dog was found, 
 
 As many dogs there be, 
 Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, 
 And curs of low degree. 
 
 4 This dog and man at first were friends j 
 
 But when a pique began, 
 The dog, to gain some private ends, 
 Went mad, and bit the man. 
 
 1 Around from all the neighbouring streets 
 
 The wondering neighbours ran, 
 And swore the dog had lost its wits 
 To bite so good a man. 
 
 * The wound it seemed 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 showed the rogues they lied 
 The man recovered of the bite, 
 The dog it was that died. "
 
 VIRTUE NOT FOUND 70 RESIST TEMPTATION. 339 
 
 " A very good boy, Bill, upon my word ; and an elegy 
 that may truly be called tragical. Come, my children, 
 here's Bill's health, and may he one day be a bishop !" 
 
 "With all my heart," cries my wife; "and if he but 
 preaches as well as he sings, I make no doubt of him. 
 The most of his family, by the mother's side, could sing a 
 good song ; it was a common saying, in our country, that 
 the family of the Blenkinsopps could never look straight 
 before them ; nor the Hugginsons blow out a candle ; that 
 there were none of the Grograms but could sing a song, or 
 of the Marjorams but could tell a story." " However that 
 be," cried I, " the most vulgar ballad of all generally 
 pleases me better than the fine modern odes, and things 
 that petrify us in a single stanza : productions that we at 
 once detest and praise. Put the glass to your brother, 
 Moses. The great fault of these elegiasts is that they are 
 in despair for griefs that give the sensible part of mankind 
 very little pain. A lady loses her muff, her fan, or her 
 lapdog, and so the silly poet runs home to versify the 
 disaster." 
 
 " That may be the mode," cried Moses, " in sublimer 
 composition ; but the Ranelagh songs that come down to 
 us are perfectly familiar, and all cast in the same mould. 
 Colin meets Dolly, and they hold a dialogue together ; he 
 gives her a fairing to put in her hair, and she presents him 
 with a nosegay ; and then they go together to churcK, 
 where they give good advice to young nymphs and swains 
 to get married as fast as they can." 
 
 " And very good advice, too," cried I ; " and I am told
 
 340 THE VICAR OF WAKE FIELD. 
 
 there is not a place in the world where advice can be given 
 with so much propriety as there ; for, as it persuades us to 
 marry, it also furnishes us with a wife ; and surely that 
 must be an excellent market, my boy, where we are told 
 what we want, and supplied with it when wanting." 
 
 " Yes, sir," returned Moses, " and I know but of two 
 such markets for wives in Europe Ranelagh in England, 
 and Fontarabia in Spain. The Spanish market is open 
 once a year, but our English wives are saleable every 
 night." 
 
 " You are right, my boy," cried his mother ; " old Eng- 
 land is the only place in the world for husbands to get 
 wives." " And for wives to manage their husbands," inter- 
 rupted I. " It is a proverb abroad that if a bridge were 
 built across the sea, all the ladies of the Continent would 
 come over to take pattern from ours : for there are no such 
 wives in Europe as our own. But let us have one bottle 
 more, Deborah, my life ! and, Moses, give us a good song. 
 What thanks do we not owe to Heaven for thus bestowing 
 tranquillity, health, and competence ! I think myself hap- 
 pier now than the greatest monarch upon earth. He has 
 no such fireside, nor such pleasant faces about it. Yes, 
 Deborah, we are now growing old ; but the evening of our 
 life is likely to be happy. We are descended from an- 
 cestors that knew no stain, and we shall leave a good and 
 virtuous race of children behind us. While we live they 
 will be our support and our pleasure here, and when we 
 die they will transmit our honour untainted to posterity. 
 Come, my son, we wait for a song : let us have a, ch<?7us.
 
 VIRTUE NOT FOUND TO RESIST TEMPTATION. 341 
 
 But where is my darling Olivia? That little cherub's 
 voice is always sweetest in the concert." Just as I spoke, 
 Dick came running in "O papa, papa, she is gone 
 from us she is gone from us; my sister Livy is gone 
 from us for ever !" " Gone, child ?" " Yes ; she is gone 
 off with two gentlemen in a post-chaise ; and one of them 
 kissed her, and said he would die for her ; and she cried 
 very much, and was for coming back ; but he persuaded 
 her again, and she went into the chaise, and said, 'Oh, 
 what will my poor papa do when he knows I am undone ?' " 
 " Now, then," cried I, " my children, go and be miser- 
 able ; for we shall never enjoy one hour more. And O 
 may Heaven's everlasting fury light upon him and his! 
 Thus to rob me of my child ! And sure it will for taking 
 back my sweet innocent that I was leading up to heaven ! 
 Such sincerity as my child was possessed of ! " But all our 
 earthly happiness is now over. Go, my children, go and be 
 miserable and infamous for my heart is broken within 
 me." "Father," cried my son, "is this your fortitude ?" 
 "Fortitude, child ? Yes, he shall see I have fortitude: 
 bring me my pistols I'll pursue the traitor while he is 
 on earth, I'll pursue him ! Old as I am, he shall find I can 
 sting him yet the villain the perfidious villain !" I had 
 by this time reached down my pistols, when my poor wife, 
 whose passions were not so strong as mine, cau^t me in 
 her arms. " My dearest, dearest husband," cried she, " the 
 Bible is the only weapon that is fit for your old hands now. 
 Open that, my love, and read our anguish into patience, 
 for she has vilely deceived us." " Indeed, sir," resumed
 
 34* THE VICAR OF WAKEF1EL&. 
 
 my son, after a pause, " your rage is too violent and un- 
 becoming. You should be my mother's comforter, and 
 you increase her pain. It ill suited you and your reverend 
 character thus to curse your greatest enemy ; you should 
 not have cursed him, villain as he is." " I did not curse 
 him, child, did I ?" " Indeed, sir, you did ; you cursed 
 him twice." " Then may Heaven forgive me and him, if I 
 did. And now, my son, I see it was more than human 
 benevolence that first taught us to bless our enemies. 
 Blessed be His holy name for all the good He has given, 
 and for all He has taken away. But it is not it is not a 
 small distress that can wring tears from these old eyes, 
 that have not wept for so many years. My child ! to undo 
 my darling ! May confusion seize Heaven forgive me ; 
 what am I about to say ? You may remember, my love, 
 how good she was, and how charming ; till this very 
 moment all her care was to make us happy. Had she but 
 died ! But she is gone, the honour of our family is con- 
 taminated ; and I must look out for happiness in other 
 worlds than here. But, my child, you saw them go off; 
 perhaps he forced her away. If he forced her, she may 
 yet be innocent." "Ah, no, sir," cried the child ; "he only 
 kissed her and called her his angel, and she wept very 
 much, and leaned upon his arm, and they drove off very 
 fast." " She is an ungrateful creature," cried my wife, who 
 could scarce speak for weeping, " to use us thus : she never 
 had the least constraint put upon her affections. The vile 
 strumpet has basely deserted her parents, without any pro- 
 vocation : thus to bring your grey hairs to the grave ! and 
 I must shortly follow."
 
 VIRTUE NOT POV2W TO JLESIST TEMPTATION. 343 
 
 In this manner that night, the first of our real misfortunes, 
 was spent in the bitterness of complaint and ill-supported 
 sallies of enthusiasm. I determined, however, to find out 
 our betrayer, wherever he was, and reproach his baseness. 
 The next morning we missed our wretched child at break- 
 fast, where she used to give life and cheerfulness to us all. 
 My wife, as before, attempted to ease her heart by re- 
 proaches. " Never," cried she, " shall that vilest stain of 
 our family again darken these harmless doors. I will never 
 call her daughter more. No ! let the strumpet live with 
 her vile seducer : she may bring us to shame, but she shall 
 never more deceive us." 
 
 " Wife," said I, " do not talk thus hardly ; my detestation 
 of her guilt is as great as yours ; but ever shall this house 
 and this heart be open to a poor, returning, repentant 
 sinner. The sooner she returns from her transgression, the 
 more welcome shall she be to me. For the first time, the 
 very best may err : art may persuade, and novelty spread 
 out its charm. The first fault is the child of simplicity, but 
 every other the offspring of guilt. Yes, the wretched crea- 
 ture shall be welcome to this heart and this house, though 
 stained with ten thousand vices. I will again hearken to 
 the music of her voice, again will I hang fondly on her 
 bosom, if I find but repentance there. My son, bring 
 hither my Bible and my staff; I will pursue her, wherever 
 she is ; and though I cannot save her from shame, I may 
 prevent the continuance of her iniquity."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE PURSUIT OF A FATHER TO RECLAIM A LOST CHILD TO VIRTUE 
 
 CHOUGH the child could not describe the gentle- 
 man's person who handed his sister into the 
 post-chaise, yet my suspicions fell entirely upon 
 our young landlord, whose character for such 
 intrigues was but too well known : I therefore directed my 
 steps towards Thornhill Castle, resolving to upbraid him, 
 and, if possible, to bring back my daughter ; but before I 
 had reached his seat I was met by one of my parishioners, 
 who said he saw a young lady resembling my daughter, in 
 a post-chaise with a gentleman, who, by the description, I 
 could only guess to be Mr. Burchell ; and that they drove 
 very fast. This information, however, did by no means 
 satisfy me ; I therefore went to the young squire's, and, 
 though it was yet early, insisted on seeing him immediately. 
 He soon appeared with the most open, familiar air, and 
 seemed perfectly amazed at my daughter's elopement, pro- 
 testing upon his honour that he was quite a stranger to 
 it. I now, therefore, condemned my former suspicions, and 
 could turn them only on Mr. Burchell, who, I recollected,
 
 RECLAIMING A LOST CHILD TO VIRTUE. 345 
 
 had of late several private conferences with her ; but the 
 appearance of another witness left me no room to doubt of 
 his villainy, who averred that he and my daughter were 
 actually gone towards the Wells, about thirty miles off, 
 where there was a great deal of company. Being driven to 
 that state of mind in which we are more ready to act pre- 
 cipitately than to reason right, I never debated with myself 
 whether these accounts might not have been given by 
 persons purposely placed in my way to mislead me, but 
 resolved to pursue my daughter and her fancied deluder 
 thither. I walked along with earnestness, and inquired of 
 several by the way ; but received no accounts, till, entering 
 the town, I was met by a person on horseback, whom I 
 remembered to have seen at the squire's, and he assured 
 me that if I followed them to the races, which were but 
 thirty miles farther, I might defend upon overtaking them ; 
 for he had seen them dance there the night before, and the 
 whole assembly seemed charmed with my daughter's per- 
 formance. Early the next day I walked forward to the 
 races, and about four in the afternoon I came upon the 
 course. The company made a very brilliant appearance, 
 all earnestly employed in one pursuit that of pleasure : 
 how different from mine, that of reclaiming a lost child to 
 virtue ! I thought I perceived Mr. Burchell at some dis- 
 tance from me ; but, as he dreaded an interview, upon my 
 approaching him he mixed among a crowd, and I saw him 
 no more. 
 
 I now reflected that it would be to no purpose to continue 
 my pursuit farther, and resolved to return home to an inno-
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 cent family, who wanted my assistance : but the agitations 
 of my mind, and the fatigues I had undergone, threw me 
 into a fever, the symptoms of which I perceived before I 
 came off the course. This was another unexpected stroke, 
 as I was more than seventy miles distant from home : how- 
 ever, I retired to a little alehouse by the roadside ; and in 
 this place, the usual retreat of indigence and frugality, I laid 
 me down, patiently to wait the issue of my disorder. I 
 languished here for near three weeks ; but at last my con- 
 stitution prevailed, though I was unprovided with money to 
 defray the expenses of my entertainment. It is possible 
 the anxiety from this last circumstance alone might have 
 brought on a relapse, had I not been supplied by a traveller 
 who stopped to take a cursory refreshment. This person 
 was no other than the philanthropic bookseller in St. Paul's 
 Churchyard, who had written so many little books for 
 children ; he called himself their friend ; but he was the 
 friend of all mankind. He was no sooner alighted but he 
 was in haste to be gone ; for he was ever on business of the 
 utmost importance, and was at that time actually compiling 
 materials for the history of one Mr. Thomas Trip. I im- 
 mediately recollected this good-natured man's red pimpled 
 face ; for he had published for me against the deutoroga- 
 mists of the age ; and from him I borrowed a few pieces to 
 be paid at my return. Leaving the inn, therefore, as I was 
 yet but weak, I resolved to return home by easy journeys 
 of ten miles a day. 
 
 My health and usual tranquillity were almost restored, 
 and I now condemned that pride which had made me
 
 RECLAIMING A LOST CHILD TO VIRTUE. 34? 
 
 refractory to the hand of correction. Man little knows what 
 calamities are beyond his patience to bear till he tries them. 
 As, in ascending the heights of ambition, which look bright 
 from below, every step we rise shows us some new and 
 gloomy prospect of hidden disappointment ; so, in our 
 descent from the summits of pleasure, though the vale of 
 misery below may appear at first dark and gloomy, yet 
 the busy mind, still attentive to its own amusement, finds, 
 as we descend, something to flatter and to please. Still, as 
 we approach, the darkest objects appear to brighten, and 
 the mental eye becomes adapted to its gloomy situation. 
 
 I now proceeded forward, and had walked about two 
 hours, when I perceived what appeared at a distance like a 
 waggon, which I was resolved to overtake ; but, when I 
 came up with it, found it to be a strolling company's cart, 
 that was carrying their scenes and other theatrical furniture 
 to the next village, where they were to exhibit. 
 
 The cart was attended only by the person who drove it, 
 and one of the company ; as the rest of the players were to 
 follow the ensuing day. " Good company upon the road," 
 says the proverb, " is the shortest cut ;" I therefore entered 
 into conversation with the poor player ; and, as I once had 
 some theatrical powers myself, I descanted on such topics 
 with my usual freedom ; but as I was but little acquainted 
 with the present state of the stage, I demanded who were 
 the presenc theatrical writers in vogue, who the Drydens 
 and Otways of the day. " I fancy, sir," cried the player, 
 "few of our modern dramatists would think themselves 
 much honoured by being compared to the writers you
 
 348 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 mention : Dryden's and Rowe's manner, sir, are quite out of 
 fashion : our taste has gone back a whole century : Fletcher, 
 Ben Jonson, and all the plays of Shakspere, are the only 
 things that go down." " How !" cried I : "is it possible 
 the present age can be pleased with that antiquated dialect, 
 that obsolete humour, those overcharged characters, which 
 abound in the works you mention ?" " Sir," returned my 
 companion, "the public thinks nothing about dialect, or 
 humour, or character, for that is none of their business ; 
 they only go to be amused, and find themselves happy 
 when they can enjoy a pantomime under the sanction of 
 Jonson 's or Shakspere's name." "So then, I suppose," 
 cried I, " that our modern dramatists are rather imitators of 
 Shakspere than nature." "To say the truth," returned my 
 companion, " I don't know that they imitate anything at 
 all ; nor, indeed, does the public require it of them : it is 
 not the composition of the piece, but the number of starts 
 and attitudes that may be introduced, that elicits applause. 
 I have known a piece, w&h not one jest in the whole, 
 shrugged into popularity : and another saved by the poet 
 throwing in a fit of the gripes. No, sir, the works of Con- 
 greve and Farquhar have too much wit in them for the 
 present taste ; our modern dialect is much more natural." 
 
 By this time the equipage of the strolling company was 
 arrived at the village, which, it seems, had been apprised of 
 our approach, and was come out to gaze at us ; for my 
 companion observed that strollers always have more spec- 
 tators without doors than within. I did not consider the 
 impropriety of my being in such company till I saw a mob
 
 RECLAIMING A LOST CHILD TO VIRTUE. 349 
 
 gather about me: I therefore took shelter, as fast as 
 possible, in the first alehouse that offered ; and being 
 shown into the common room, was accosted by a very well- 
 dressed gentleman, who demanded whether I was the real 
 chaplain of the company, or whether it was only to be my 
 masquerade character in the play. Upon my informing 
 him of the truth, and that I did not belong in any sort to 
 the company, he was condescending enough to desire me 
 and the player to partake in a bowl of punch, over which 
 he discussed modern politics with great earnestness and 
 interest. I set him down in my mind for nothing less than 
 a parliament man at least ; but was almost confirmed in 
 my conjecture when, upon asking what there was in the 
 house for supper, he insisted that the player and I should 
 sup with him at his house ; with which request, after some 
 entreaties, we were prevailed on to comply.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE DESCRIPTION OF A PERSON DISCONTENTED WITH THE PRE- 
 SENT GOVERNMENT, AND APPREHENSIVE OF THE LOSS OF OUR 
 LIBERTIES. 
 
 HHE house where we were to be entertained 
 lying at a small distance from the village, our 
 inviter observed that, as the coach was not 
 ready, he would conduct us on foot, and 
 we soon arrived at one of the most magnificent mansions 
 I had seen in that part of the country, The apartment 
 into which we were shown was perfectly elegant and modern. 
 He went to give orders for supper, while the player, with a 
 wink, observed that we were perfectly in luck. Our enter- 
 tainer soon returned, an elegant supper was brought in, 
 two or three ladies in an easy dishabille were introduced, 
 and the conversation began with some sprightliness. Poli 
 tics, however, was the subject on which our entertainer 
 chiefly expatiated ; for he asserted that liberty was at 
 once his boast and his terror. After the cloth was removed 
 he asked me if I had seen the last Monitor; to which 
 replying in the negative, " What, nor the Auditor, J
 
 DISCONTENTED WITH THE GOVERNMENT. tfi 
 
 suppose ?" cried he. " Neither, sir," returned I. " That's 
 strange, very strange," replied my entertainer ; " now 
 I read all the politics that come out the Daily, the Public, 
 the Ledger, the Chronicle, the London Evening, the 
 Whitehall Evening, the seventeen Magazines, and the two 
 Reviews ; and, though they hate each other, I love them 
 all. Liberty, sir, liberty is the Briton's boast ; and, by 
 all my coal mines in Cornwall, I reverence its guardians. 
 " Then it is to be hoped," cried I, " you reverence the 
 king." "Yes," returned my entertainer, "when he does 
 what we would have him ; but if he goes on as he has 
 done of late, I'll never trouble myself more with his 
 matters. I say nothing: I think only I could have 
 directed some things better. I don't think there has been 
 a sufficient number of advisers ; he should advise with 
 every person willing to give him advice, and then we 
 should have things done in another guess manner." 
 
 "I wish," cried I, "that such intruding advisers were 
 fixed in the pillory. It should be the duty of honest men 
 to assist the weaker side of our constitution ; that sacred 
 power, that has for some years been every day declining, 
 and losing its due share of influence in the state. But 
 these ignorants still continue the cry of liberty ; and if 
 they have any weight, basely throw it into the subsiding 
 scale." 
 
 " How!" cried one of the ladies ; "do I live to see one 
 so base, so sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, and 
 a defender of tyrants ; liberty, that sacred gift of Heaven, 
 that glorious privilege of Britons ?"
 
 352 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 " Can it be possible," cried our entertainer, " that there 
 should be any found, at present, advocates for slavery ? 
 Any who are for meanly giving up the privileges of 
 Britons ? Can any, sir, be so abject ?" 
 
 " No, sir," replied I, " I am for liberty, that attribute of 
 gods! Glorious liberty! that theme of modern declama- 
 tion. I would have all men kings : I would be a king 
 myself. We have all naturally an equal right to the 
 throne ; we are all originally equal. This is my opinion, 
 and was once the opinion of a set of honest men, who are 
 called levellers. They tried to erect themselves into a 
 community, where all should be equally free. But, alas ! 
 it would never answer ; for there were some among them 
 stronger, and some more cunning than others, and these 
 became masters of the rest; for as sure as your groom 
 rides your horses, because he is a cunninger animal than 
 they, so surely will the animal that is cunninger or stronger 
 than he, sit upon his shoulders in turn. Since, then, it is 
 entailed upon humanity to submit, and some are born to 
 command and others to obey, the question is, as there 
 must be tyrants, whether it is better to have them in the 
 same house with us, or in the same village, or still farther 
 off in the metropolis ? Now, sir, for my own part, as I 
 naturally hate the face of a tyrant, the farther off he is 
 removed from me the better pleased am I. The generality 
 of mankind also are of my way of thinking, and have 
 unanimously created one king, whose election at once 
 diminishes the number of tyrants, and puts tyranny at the 
 greatest distance from the greatest number of people.
 
 DISCONTENTED WITH THE GOVERNMENT. 353 
 
 Now the great, who were tyrants themselves before the 
 election of one tyrant, are naturally averse to a power 
 raised over them, and whose weight must ever lean heaviest 
 on the subordinate orders. It is the interest of the great, 
 therefore, to diminish kingly power as much as possible ; 
 because, whatever they take from that is naturally restored 
 to themselves ; and all they have to do in the state is 
 to undermine the single tyrant, by which they resume 
 their primeval authority. Now the state may be so cir- 
 cumstanced, or its laws may be so disposed, or its men 
 of opulence so minded, as all to conspire in carrying on 
 this business of undermining monarchy ; for, in the first 
 place, if the circumstances of our state be such as to favour 
 the accumulation of wealth, and make the opulent still 
 more rich, this will increase their ambition. An accumu- 
 lation of wealth, however, must necessarily be the con- 
 sequence when, as at present, more riches flow in from 
 external commerce than arise from internal industry; for 
 external commerce can only be managed to advantage by 
 the rich, and they have also at the same time all the 
 emoluments arising from internal industry ; so that the 
 rich, with us, have two sources of wealth, whereas the poor 
 have but one. For this reason, wealth in all commercial 
 states is found to accumulate ; and all such have hitherto 
 in time become aristocratical. Again, the very laws also 
 of the country may contribute to the accumulation of 
 wealth ; as when, by their means, the natural ties that bind 
 the rich and poor together are broken, and it is ordained 
 
 that the rich shall only marry with the rich ; or when the 
 
 23
 
 3S4 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 learned are held unqualified to serve their country as 
 counsellors, merely from a defect of opulence, and wealth 
 is thus made the object of a wise man's ambition : by 
 these means I say, and such means as these, riches will 
 accumulate. Now, the possessor of accumulated wealth, 
 when furnished with the necessaries and pleasures of life, 
 has no other method to employ the superfluity of his 
 fortune but in purchasing power ; that is, differently speak- 
 ing, in making dependants by purchasing the liberty of the 
 needy or the venal of men, who are willing to bear the 
 mortification of contiguous tyranny for bread. Thus, each 
 very opulent man generally gathers round him a circle of 
 the poorest of the people ; and the polity abounding in 
 accumulated wealth may be compared to a Cartesian 
 system, each orb with a vortex of its own. Those, how- 
 ever, who are willing to move in a great man's vortex are 
 only such as must be slaves, the rabble of mankind, whose 
 souls and whose education are adapted to servitude, and 
 who know nothing of liberty except the name. But there 
 must still be a large number of the people without the 
 sphere of the opulent man's influence, namely, that order 
 of men which subsists between the very rich and the very 
 rabble ; those men who are possessed of too large fortunes 
 to submit to the neighbouring man in power, and yet are 
 too poor to set up for tyranny themselves. In this middle 
 order of mankind are generally to be found all the arts, 
 wisdom, and virtues of society : this order alone is known 
 to be the true preserver of freedom, and may be called the 
 people. Now it may happen that this middle order of
 
 DISCONTENTED WITH THE GOVERNMENT. 355 
 
 mankind may lose all its influence in a state, and its voice 
 be in a manner drowned in that of the rabble ; for if the 
 fortune sufficient for qualifying a person at present to give 
 his voice in state affairs be ten times less than was judged 
 sufficient upon forming the constitution, it is evident that 
 greater numbers of the rabble will thus be introduced into 
 the political system, and they, ever moving in the vortex 
 of the great, will follow where greatness shall direct. In 
 such a state, therefore, all that the middle order has left is 
 to preserve the prerogative and privileges of the one 
 principal governor with the most sacred circumspection ; 
 for he divides the power of the rich, and calls off the great 
 from falling with tenfold weight on the middle order placed 
 beneath them. The middle order may be compared to a 
 town, of which the opulent are forming the siege, and of 
 which the governor from without is hastening the relief. 
 While the besiegers are in dread of an enemy over them, 
 it is but natural to offer the townsmen the most specious 
 terms, to flatter them with sounds, and amuse them with 
 privileges ; but if they once defeat the governor from 
 behind, the walls of the town will be but a small defence 
 to its inhabitants. What they may then expect may be 
 seen by turning our eyes to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, 
 where the law governs the poor, and the rich govern the 
 law. I am then for, and would die for, monarchy, sacred 
 monarchy ; for if there be anything sacred amongst men 
 it must be the anointed sovereign of his people ; and every 
 diminution oi his power, in war or peace, is an infringe- 
 ment upon the real liberties of the subject. The sounds of
 
 356 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 liberty, patriotism, and Britons, have already done much ; 
 it is to be hoped that the true sons of freedom will prevent 
 their ever doing more. I have known many of these pre- 
 tended champions for liberty in my time, yet do I not 
 remember one that was not in his heart and in his family a 
 tyrant." 
 
 My warmth, I found, had lengthened this harangue be- 
 yond the rules of good breeding ; but the impatience of 
 my entertainer, who often strove to interrupt it, could be 
 restrained no longer. "What!" cried he; "then I have 
 been all this while entertaining a Jesuit in parson's clothes! 
 but, by all the coal mines of Cornwall, out he shall pack, if 
 my name be Wilkinson." I now found I had gone too far, 
 and asked pardon for the warmth with which I had spoken. 
 "Pardon?" returned he in a fury; "I think such principles 
 demand ten thousand pardons. What ! give up liberty, 
 property, and, as the Gazetteer says, lie down to be saddled 
 with wooden shoes ! Sir, I insist upon your marching out 
 of this house immediately, to prevent worse consequences. 
 Sir, I insist upon it." I was going to repeat my remon- 
 strances ; but just then we heard a footman's rap at the 
 door, and the two ladies cried out, " As sure as death, 
 tkere is our master and mistress come home!" It seems 
 my entertainer was all this while only the butler, who in 
 his master's absence had a mind to cut a figure, and be for 
 a while the gentleman himself; and, to say the truth, he 
 talked politics as wall as most country gentlemen do. But 
 nothing could now exceed my confusion upon seeing the 
 gentleman and his lady enter ; nor was their surprise, at
 
 DISCONTENTED WITH THE GOVERNMENT. 357 
 
 finding such company and good cheer, less than ours. 
 "Gentlemen!" cried the real master of the house to me 
 and my companion, " my wife and I are your most humble 
 servants ; but I protest this is so unexpected a favour, that 
 we almost sink under the obligation." However unex- 
 pected our company might be to them, theirs, I am sure, 
 was still more so to us ; and I was struck dumb with the 
 apprehensions of my own absurdity, when whom should I 
 next see enter the room but my dear Miss Arabella 
 Wilmot, who was formerly designed to be married to my 
 son George, but whose match was broken off, as already 
 related. As soon as she saw me she flew to my arms with 
 the utmost joy. " My dear sir," cried she, "to what happy 
 accident is it that we owe so unexpected a visit ? I am 
 sure my uncle and aunt will be in raptures when they 
 find they have got the good Doctor Primrose for their 
 guest." Upon hearing my name, the old gentleman and 
 lady very politely stepped up, and welcomed me with most 
 cordial hospitality ; nor could they forbear smiling on 
 being informed of the nature of my present visit : but the 
 unfortunate butler, whom they at first seemed disposed to 
 turn away, was, at my intercession, forgiven. 
 
 Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, 
 now insisted upon having the pleasure of my stay for some 
 days ; and as their niece, my charming pupil, whose mind 
 in some measure had been formed under my own instruc- 
 tions, joined in their entreaties, I complied. That night 
 I was shown to a magnificent chamber; and the next 
 morning early Miss Wilmot desired to walk with me in the
 
 358 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 garden, which was decorated in the modern manner. After 
 some time spent in pointing out the beauties of the place, 
 she inquired, with seeming unconcern, when last I had 
 heard from my son George. " Alas ! madam," cried I, " he 
 has now been near three years absent, without ever writing 
 to his friends or me. Where he is 1 know not ; perhaps I 
 shall never see him or happiness more. No, my dear 
 madam, we shall never more see such pleasing hours as 
 were once spent by our fireside at Wakefield. My little 
 family are now dispersing very fast ; and poverty has 
 brought not only want, but infamy upon us." The good- 
 natured girl let fall a tear at this account ; but, as I saw 
 her possessed of too much sensibility, I forbore a more 
 minute detail of our sufferings. It was, however, some con- 
 solation to me to find that time had made no alteration 
 in her affections, and that she had rejected several offers 
 that had been made her since our leaving her part of the 
 country. She led me round all the extensive improve- 
 ments of the place, pointing to the several walks and 
 arbours, and at the same time catching from every object a 
 hint for some new question relative to my son. In this 
 manner we spent the forenoon, till the bell summoned us 
 to dinner, where we found the manager of the strolling 
 company that I mentioned before, who was come to dis- 
 pose of tickets for the " Fair Penitent," which was to be 
 acted that evening; the part of Horatio by a young 
 gentleman who had never appeared on any stage. He 
 seemed to be very warm in the praise of the new per- 
 former, and averred that he never saw any one who bid so
 
 DISCONTENTED WITH THE GOVERNMENT. 359 
 
 fair for excellence. Acting, he observed, was not learned 
 in a day. "But this gentleman," continued he, " seems* 
 born to tread the stage : his voice, his figure, and attitudes 
 are all admirable. We caught him up accidentally in our 
 journey down." This account in some measure excited our 
 curiosity, and, at the entreaty of the ladies, I was prevailed 
 upon to accompany them to the playhouse, which was no 
 other than a barn. As the company with which I went 
 was incontestibly the chief of the place, we were received 
 with the greatest respect, and placed in the front seat of ' 
 the theatre ; where we sat for some time, with no small 
 impatience, to see Horatio make his appearance. The new 
 performer advanced at last ; and let parents think of my 
 sensations by their own, when I found it was my unfortu- 
 nate son ! He was going to begin ; when, turning his eyes 
 upon the audience, he perceived Miss Wilmot and me, and 
 stood at once speechless and immoveable. 
 
 The actors behind the scenes, who ascribed this pause to 
 his natural timidity, attempted to encourage him ; but 
 instead of going on, he burst into a flood of tears, and retired 
 off the stage. I do not know what were my feelings on this 
 occasion, for they succeeded with too much rapidity for 
 description ; but I was soon awaked from this disagreeable 
 reverie by Miss Wilmot, who, pale, and with a trembling 
 voice, desired me to conduct her back to her uncle's. When 
 we got home, Mr. Arnold, who was as yet a stranger to our 
 extraordinary behaviour, being informed that the new per- 
 former was my son, sent his coach and an invitation for 
 him ; and as he persisted in his refusal to appear again upon
 
 360 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 the stage, the players put another in his place, and we soon 
 had him with us. Mr. Arnold gave him the kindest recep- 
 tion, and I received him with my usual transport, for I could 
 never counterfeit a false resentment. Miss Wilmot's recep- 
 tion was mixed with seeming neglect, and yet I could per- 
 ceive she acted a studied part. The tumult in her mind 
 seemed not yet abated : she said twenty giddy things that 
 looked like joy, and then laughed loud at her own want of 
 meaning. At intervals she would take a sly peep at the 
 glass, as if happy in the consciousness of irresistible beauty ; 
 and often would ask questions, without giving any manner 
 of attention to the answers.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND, PURSUING NOVELTY, 
 BUT LOSING CONTENT. 
 
 JFTER we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely 
 offered to send a couple of her footmen for my 
 son's baggage, which he at first seemed to 
 decline ; but, upon her pressing the request, he 
 was obliged to inform her that a stick and a wallet were 
 all the moveable things upon this earth which he could 
 boast of. "Why, ay, my son," cried I, "you left me but 
 poor ; and poor, I find, you are come back : and yet, I 
 make no doubt, you have seen a great deal of the world." 
 " Yes, sir," replied my son ; " but travelling after For- 
 tune is not the way to secure her ; and, indeed, of late, I 
 have desisted from the pursuit." " I fancy, sir," cried Mrs. 
 Arnold, " that the account of your adventures would be 
 amusing : the first part of them I have often heard from 
 my niece ; but could the company prevail for the rest, it 
 would be an additional obligation." " Madam," replied my 
 son, " I promise you the pleasure you have in hearing will 
 not be half so great as my vanity in repeating them ; and
 
 362 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 yet in the whole narrative I can scarcely promise you one 
 adventure, as my account is rather of what I saw than 
 what I did. The first misfortune of my life, which you all 
 know, was great ; but though it distressed, it could not 
 sink me. No person ever had a better knack at hoping 
 than I. The less kind I found Fortune at one time, the 
 more I expected from her at another ; and being now at 
 the bottom of her wheel, every new revolution might lift, 
 but could not depress me : I proceeded, therefore, towards 
 London in a fine morning, no way uneasy about to- 
 morrow, but cheerful as the birds that carolled by the 
 road ; and comforted myself with reflecting that London 
 was the mart where abilities of every kind were sure of 
 meeting distinction and reward. 
 
 " Upon my arrival in town, sir, my first care was to 
 deliver your letter of recommendation to our cousin, who 
 was himself in little better circumstances than I. My first 
 scheme, you know, sir, was to be usher at an academy, and 
 I asked his advice on the affair. Our cousin received the 
 proposal with a true sardonic grin. ' Ay,' cried he, ' this is 
 indeed a very pretty career that has been chalked out for 
 you. I have been an usher to a boarding school myself ; 
 and may I die by an anodyne necklace, but I had rather 
 be an under-turnkey in Newgate. I was up early and 
 late; I was browbeat by the master, hated for my ugly 
 face by the mistress, worried by the boys within, and never 
 permitted to stir out to meet civility abroad. But are you 
 sure you are fit for a school ? Let me examine you a little. 
 Have you been bred apprentice to the business ?' ' No.'
 
 THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND. 363 
 
 ' Then you won't do for a school. Can you dress the boys' 
 hair ?' ' No.' ' Then you won't do for a school. Have 
 you had the small-pox ?' ' No.' ' Then you won't do for 
 a school. Can you lie three in a bed ?' ' No.' ' Then 
 you will never do for a school. Have you got a good 
 stomach ?' ' Yes.' ' Then you will by no means do for a 
 school. No, sir ; if you are for a genteel, easy profession, 
 bind yourself seven years as an apprentice to turn a cutler's 
 wheel ; but avoid a school by any means. Yet come,' 
 continued he, ' I see you are a lad of spirit, and some learn- 
 ing : what do you think of commencing author like me ? 
 You have read in books, no doubt, of men of genius 
 starving at the trade ; at present I'll show you forty very 
 dull fellows about town that live by it in opulence : all 
 honest, jog-trot men, who go on smoothly and dully, and 
 write history and politics, and are praised : men, sir, who, 
 had they been bred cobblers, would all their lives have 
 only mended shoes, but never made them.' 
 
 "Finding that there was no great degree of gentility 
 affixed to the character of an usher, I resolved to accept 
 his proposal ; and having the highest respect for literature, 
 hailed the antiqua mater of Grub Street with reverence. I 
 thought it my glory to pursue a track which Dryden and 
 Otway trod before me : I considered the goddess of this 
 region as the parent of excellence ; and, however an inter- 
 course with the world might give us good sense, the povertj 
 she entailed I supposed to be the nurse of genius. Big 
 with these reflections, I sat down ; and finding that the 
 best things remained to be said on the wrong side, I re-
 
 364 TH E VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 solved to write a book that should be wholly new : I there- 
 fore dressed up three paradoxes with some ingenuity ; they 
 were false, indeed, but they were new. The jewels of truth 
 have been so often imported by others, that nothing was 
 left for me to import, but some splendid things, that at a 
 distance looked every bit as well. Witness, you powers, 
 what fancied importance sat perched upon my quill while I 
 was writing ! The whole learned world, I made no doubt, 
 would rise to oppose my systems ; but then I was prepared 
 to oppose the whole learned world. Like the porcupine, I 
 sat self-collected, with a quill pointed against every 
 opposer." 
 
 " Well said, my boy," cried I. " And what subject did 
 you treat upon ? I hope you did not pass over the im- 
 portance of monogamy ? But I interrupt ; go on. You 
 published your parodoxes : well, and what did the learned 
 world say to your paradoxes ?" 
 
 " Sir," replied my son, " the learned world said nothing 
 to my paradoxes ; nothing at all, sir. Every man of them 
 was employed in praising his friends and himself, or con- 
 demning his enemies ; and, unfortunately, as I had neither, 
 I suffered the cruellest mortification neglect. 
 
 " As I was meditating one day, in a coffee-house, on the 
 fate of my paradoxes, a little man, happening to enter the 
 room, placed himself in the box before me ; and after 
 some preliminary discourse, finding me to be a scholar, 
 drew out a bundle of proposals, begging me to subscribe to 
 a new edition he was going to give the world of Propertius, 
 with notes. This demand necessarily produced a reply
 
 THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND. 365 
 
 that I had no money ; and that concession led him to 
 inquire into the nature of my expectations. Finding that 
 my expectations were just as great as my purse, ' I see,' 
 cried he, 'you are unacquainted with the town: I'll teach 
 you a part of it Look at these proposals ; upon these 
 very proposals I have subsisted very comfortably for twelve 
 years. The moment a nobleman returns from his travels, 
 a Creolian arrives from Jamaica, or a dowager from her 
 country seat, I strike for a subscription. I first besiege 
 their hearts with flattery, and then pour in my proposals at 
 the breach. If they subscribe readily the first time, I 
 renew my request to beg a dedication fee : if they let me 
 lave that, I smite them once more for engraving their coat- 
 Df-arms at the top. Thus,' continued he, ' I live by vanity, 
 and laugh at it. But, between ourselves, I am now too well 
 known. I should be glad to borrow your face a bit A 
 nobleman of distinction has just returned from Italy : my 
 face is familiar to his porter ; but if you bring this copy of 
 verses, my life for it, you succeed, and we divide the 
 spoil.' " 
 
 " Bless us, George," cried I ; " and is this the employment 
 of poets now ? Do men of their exalted talents thus stoop 
 to beggary ? Can they so far disgrace their calling as to 
 make a vile traffic of praise for bread ?" 
 
 " Oh no, sir," returned he ; "a true poet can never be so 
 base ; for wherever there is genius there is pride. The 
 creatures I now describe are only beggars in rhyme. The 
 real poet as he braves every hardship for fame, so is he
 
 .,66 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 equally a coward to contempt ; and none but those who 
 are unworthy protection condescend to solicit it. 
 
 " Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, 
 and yet a fortune too humble to hazard a second attempt 
 for fame, I was now obliged to take a middle course, and 
 write for bread ; but I was unqualified for a profession where 
 mere industry alone was to insure success. I could not. 
 suppress my lurking passion for applause ; but usually con- 
 sumed that time in efforts after excellence which takes up 
 but little room, when it should have been more advan- 
 tageously employed in the diffusive productions of fruitful 
 mediocrity ; my little piece would therefore come forth in 
 the midst of periodical publications, unnoticed and un- 
 known. The public were more importantly employed than 
 to observe the easy simplicity of my style, or the harmony 
 of my periods. Sheet after sheet was thrown off to 
 oblivion. My essays were buried among the essays upon 
 liberty, Eastern tales, and cures for the bite of a mad dog ; 
 while Philautus, Philalethes, Phileleutheros, and Philan- 
 thropes, all wrote better, because they wrote faster than I. 
 
 "Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but dis- 
 appointed authors like myself, who praised, deplored, and 
 despised each other. The satisfaction we found in every 
 celebrated writer's attempts was inversely as their merits. 
 I found that no genius in another could please me : my 
 unfortunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of 
 comfort. I could neither read nor write with satisfaction ; 
 for excellence in another was my aversion, and writing was 
 my trade.
 
 THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND. 367 
 
 " 111 the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was one 
 day sitting on a bench in St. James's Park, a young gentle- 
 man of distinction, who had been my intimate acquaint- 
 ance at the university, approached me. We saluted each 
 other with some hesitation, he almost ashamed of being 
 known to one who made so shabby an appearance, and I 
 afraid of a repulse. But my suspicions soon vanished, for 
 Ned Thornhill was at the bottom a very good-natured 
 fellow." 
 
 " What did you say, George," interrupted I : " Thorn- 
 hill ! was not that his name ? It can certainly be no 
 other than my landlord." 
 
 " Bless me !" cried Mrs. Arnold, " is Mr. Thornhill so 
 near a neighbour of yours ? He has long been a friend in 
 our family, and we expect a visit from him shortly." 
 
 " My friend's first care," continued my son, " was to altei 
 my appearance by a very fine suit of his own clothes, and 
 then I was admitted to his table upon the footing of half 
 friend, half underling. My business was to attend him at 
 auctions, to put him in spirits when he sat for his picture, 
 to take the left hand in his chariot when not filled by 
 another, and to assist at tattering a kip, as the phrase was, 
 when he had a mind for a frolic. Besides this, I had 
 twenty other little employments in the family. I was to 
 do many small things without bidding ; to carry the cork- 
 screw ; to stand godfather to all the butler's children ; to 
 sing when I was bid ; to be never out of humour ; always 
 to be humble ; and, if I could, to be very happy. 
 
 "In this honourable post, however, I was not without a
 
 368 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 rival. A captain of marines, who was formed for the place 
 by nature, opposed me in my patron's affections. His 
 mother had been laundress to a man of quality, and thus 
 he early acquired a taste for pimping and pedigree. As 
 this gentleman made it the study of his life to be acquainted 
 with lords, though he was dismissed from several for his 
 stupidity, yet he found many of them, who were as dull as 
 himself, that permitted his assiduities. As flattery was his 
 trade, he practised it with the easiest address imaginable ; 
 but it came awkward and stiff from me ; and as every day 
 my patron's desire of flattery increased, so every hour, 
 being better acquainted with his defects, I became more 
 unwilling to give it. Thus I was once more fairly going to 
 give up the field to the captain, when my friend found 
 occasion for my assistance. This was nothing less than to 
 fight a duel for him with a gentleman, whose sister it was 
 pretended he had used ill : I readily complied with his 
 request ; and though I see you are displeased at my con- 
 duct, yet, as it was a debt indispensably due to friendship, 
 I could not refuse. I undertook the affair, disarmed my 
 antagonist, and soon after had the pleasure of finding that 
 the lady was only a woman of the town, and the fellow her 
 bully, and a sharper. This piece of service was repaid 
 with the warmest professions of gratitude ; but as my 
 friend was to leave town in a few days, he knew no other 
 method of serving me but by recommending me to his 
 uncle, Sir William Thornhill, and another nobleman of 
 great distinction, who enjoyed a post under Government. 
 When he was gone, my first care was to cany his recom-
 
 THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND. 369 
 
 mandatory letter to his uncle a man whose character for 
 every virtue was universal, yet just. I was received by his 
 servants with the most hospitable smiles ; for the looks of 
 the domestics ever transmit their master's benevolence. 
 Being shown into a grand apartment, where Sir William 
 soon came to me, I delivered my message and letter, which 
 he read, and, after pausing some minutes ' Pray, sir,' cried 
 he, ' inform me what you have done for my kinsman to 
 deserve this warm recommendation. But I suppose, sir, I 
 guess your merits ; you have fought for him ; and so you 
 would expect a reward from me for being the instrument 
 of his vices. I wish, sincerely wish, that my present refusal 
 may be some punishment for your guilt, but still more, 
 that it may be some inducement to your repentance.' The 
 severity of this rebuke I bore patiently, because I knew it 
 was just. My whole expectations now, therefore, lay in 
 my letter to the great man. As the aoors of the nobility 
 are almost ever beset with beggars, all ready to thrust in 
 some sly petition,. I found it no easy matter to gain admit- 
 tance. However, after bribing the servants with half my 
 worldly fortune, I was at last shown into a spacious apart- 
 ment, my letter being previously sent up for his lordship's 
 inspection. During this anxious interval I had full time to 
 look around me. Everything was grand, and of happy 
 contrivance ; the paintings, the furniture, the gildings, 
 petrified me with awe, and raised my idea of the owner. 
 Ah ! thought I to myself, how very great must the pos- 
 sessor of all these things be, who carries in his head the 
 business of the state, and whose house displays half the 
 
 24
 
 37 THE VICAR OF WAh'EFIELD. 
 
 wealth of a kingdom ! sure his genius must be unfathom- 
 able ! During these awful reflections I heard a step come 
 heavily forward. Ah, this is the great man himself ! No, 
 it was only a chambermaid. Another foot was heard 
 soon after. This must be he ! No, it was only the great 
 man's valet-de-chambre. At last his lordship actually 
 made his appearance. ' Are you,' cried he, ' the bearer of 
 this here letter ?' I answered with a bow. * I learn by 
 this,' continued he, 'as how that ' But just at that 
 instant a servant delivered him a card ; and without taking 
 farther notice, he went out of the room, and left me to 
 digest my own happiness at leisure. I saw no more of 
 him, till told by a footman that his lordship was going to 
 his coach at the door. Down I immediately followed, and 
 joined my voice to that of three or four more, who came 
 like me to petition for favours. His lordship, however, 
 went too fast for us, and was gaining his chariot door with 
 large strides, when I hallooed out to know if I was to have 
 any reply. He was by this time got in, and muttered an 
 answer, half of which I only heard the other half was lost 
 in the rattling of his chariot-wheels. I stood for some time 
 with my neck stretched out, in the posture of one that was 
 listening to catch the glorious sounds, till, looking round, 
 me, I found myself alone at his lordship's gate. 
 
 " My patience," continued my son, " was now quite ex- 
 hausted. Stung with the thousand indignities I had met 
 with, I was willing to cast myself away, and only wanted 
 the gulf to receive me. I regarded myself as one of those 
 vile things that Nature designed should be thrown by into
 
 THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND. 371 
 
 her lumber-room, there to perish in obscurity. I had still, 
 however, half a guinea left, and of that I thought Fortune 
 herself should not deprive me ; but in order to be sure of 
 this, I was resolved to go instantly and spend it while I 
 had it, and then trust to occurrences for the rest. As I 
 was going along with this resolution, it happened that Mr. 
 Crispe's office seemed invitingly open to give me a welcome 
 reception. In this office Mr. Crispe kindly offers all his 
 majesty's subjects a generous promise of 30 a year, for 
 which promise all they give in return is their liberty for 
 life, and permission to let him transport them to America 
 as slaves. I was happy at finding a place where I could 
 lose my fears in desperation, and entered this cell (for it 
 had the appearance of one) with the devotion of a monastic. 
 Here I found a number of poor creatures, all in circum- 
 stances like myself, expecting the arrival of Mr. Crispe, 
 presenting a true epitome of English impatience. Each 
 untractable soul at variance with fortune wreaked her 
 injuries on their own hearts ; but Mr. Crispe at last came 
 down, and all our murmurs were hushed. He deigned to 
 regard me with an air of peculiar approbation ; and indeed 
 he was the first man who, for a month past, talked to me 
 with smiles. After a few questions he found I was fit for 
 everything in the world. He paused awhile upon the 
 properest means of providing for me; and, slapping his 
 forehead, as if he had found it, assured me that there was 
 at that time an embassy talked of from the synod of 
 Pennsylvania to the Chickasaw Indians, and that he would 
 use his interests to get me made secretary. I knew in my
 
 372 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 own heart the fellow lied, and yet his promise gave me 
 pleasure, there was something so magnificent in the sound. 
 I fairly, therefore, divided my half-guinea, one half of 
 which went to be added to his thirty thousand pounds, and 
 with the other half I resolved to go to the next tavern to 
 be there more happy than he. 
 
 "As I was going out with that resolution, I was met 
 at the door by the captain of a ship, with whom I had 
 formerly some little acquaintance, and he agreed to be 
 my companion over a bowl of punch. As I never chose to 
 make a secret of my circumstances, he assured me that I 
 was on the very point of ruin, in listening to the office- 
 keeper's promises ; for that he only designed to sell me to 
 the plantations. ' But,' continued he, ' I fancy you might, 
 by a much shorter voyage, be very easily put into a genteel 
 way of bread. Take my advice. My ship sails to-morrow 
 for Amsterdam : what if you go in her as a passenger ? 
 The moment you land, all you have to do is to teach the 
 Dutchmen English, and I warrant you'll get pupils and 
 money enough. I suppose you understand English,' added 
 he, ' by this time, or the deuce is in it.' I confidently 
 assured him of that ; but expressed a doubt whether the 
 Dutch would be willing to learn English. He affirmed, 
 with an oath, that they were fond of it to distraction ; and 
 upon that affirmation I agreed with his proposal, and 
 embarked the next day to teach the Dutch English in 
 Holland. The wind was fair, and our voyage short ; and 
 after having paid my passage with half my moveables I 
 found myself fallen as from the skies, a stranger in one of
 
 THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND. 373 
 
 the principal streets of Amsterdam. In this situation I 
 was unwilling to let any time pass unemployed in teaching. 
 I addressed myself, therefore, to two or three of those I 
 met, whose appearance seemed most promising; but it 
 was impossible to make ourselves mutually understood. It 
 was not till this very moment that I recollected that, in 
 order to teach Dutchmen English, it was necessary that 
 they should first teach me Dutch. How I came to over- 
 look so obvious an objection is to me amazing ; but certain 
 it is I overlooked it. 
 
 " This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts of 
 fairly shipping back to England again ; but, dropping into 
 company with an Irish student, who was returning from 
 Louvain, our conversation turning upon topics of literature 
 (for, by the way, it may be observed that I always forgot 
 the meanness of my circumstances when I could converse 
 on such subjects), from him I learned that there were not 
 two men in his whole university who understood Greek. 
 This amazed me: I instantly resolved to travel to 
 Louvain, and there live by teaching Greek ; and in this 
 design I was heartened by my brother student, who 
 threw out some hints that a fortune might be got 
 by it. 
 
 "I set boldly forward the next morning. Every day 
 lessened the burden of my moveables, like ^Esop and his 
 basket of bread ; for I paid for my lodgings to the Dutch 
 as I travelled on. When I came to Louvain I was resolved 
 not to go sneaking to the lower professors, but openly 
 tendered my talents to the principal himself. I went, had
 
 374 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 admittance, and offered him my service as a master of the 
 Greek language, which I had been told was a desideratum 
 in his university. The principal seemed at first to doubt 
 my abilities ; but of these I offered to convince him, by 
 turning a part of any Greek author he should fix upon into 
 Latin. Finding me perfectly earnest in my proposal, he 
 addressed me thus : ' You see me, young man : I never 
 learned Greek, and I don't find that I ever missed it. 
 I have had a doctor's cap and gown without Greek; I 
 have ten thousand florins a year without Greek ; I eat 
 heartily without Greek ; and, in short,' continued he, 
 ' as I don't know Greek, I do not believe there is any good 
 in it.' 
 
 " I was now too far from home to think of returning, 
 so I resolved to go forward. I had some knowledge of 
 music, with a tolerable voice : I now turned what was 
 once my amusement into a present means of subsistence. 
 I passed among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and 
 among such of the French as were poor enough to be very 
 merry ; for I ever found them sprightly in proportion to 
 their wants. Whenever I approached a peasant's house 
 towards nightfall I played one of my most merry tunes, 
 and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence 
 for the next day. I once or twice attempted to play for 
 people of fashion ; but they always thought my perform- 
 ance odious, and never rewarded me even with a trifle. 
 This was to me the more extraordinary, as, whenever I 
 used in better days to play for company, when playing 
 was my amusement, my music never failed to throw them
 
 THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND. 375 
 
 into raptures, and the ladies especially ; but as it was now 
 my only means, it was received with contempt ; a proof 
 how ready the world is to underrate those talents by which 
 a man is supported. 
 
 " In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no design 
 but just to look about me, and then go forward. The 
 people of Paris are much fonder of strangers that have 
 money than of those who have wit : as I could not boast 
 much of either, I was no great favourite. After walking 
 about the town four or five days, and seeing the out- 
 sides of the best houses, I was preparing to leave this 
 retreat of venal hospitality ; when, passing through one 
 of the principal streets, whom should I meet but our 
 cousin, to whom you first recommended me ! This meet- 
 ing was very agreeable to me, and I believe not displeasing 
 to him. He inquired into the nature of my journey to 
 Paris ; and informed me of his own business there, which 
 was to collect pictures, medals, intaglios, and antiques of 
 all kinds, for a gentleman in London, who had just stepped 
 into taste and a large fortune. I was the more surprised 
 at seeing our cousin pitched upon for this office, as he him- 
 self had often assured me he knew nothing of the matter. 
 Upon asking how he had been taught the art of a cognoscente 
 so very suddenly, he assured me that nothing was more 
 easy : the whole secret consisted in a strict adherence to two 
 rules the one, always to observe that the picture might 
 have been better if the painter had taken more pains ; 
 and the other, to praise the works of Pietro Perugino. 
 ' But,' says he, ' as I once taught you how to be an author
 
 37 6 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 m London, I'll now undertake to instruct you in the art of 
 picture-buying in Paris.' 
 
 "With this proposal I very readily closed, as it was 
 living, and now all my ambition was to live. I went, 
 therefore, to his lodgings, improving my dress by his 
 assistance; and, after some time, accompanied him to 
 auctions of pictures, where the English gentry were ex- 
 pected to be purchasers. I was not a little surprised with 
 his intimacy with people of the best fashion, who referred 
 themselves to his judgment upon every picture or medal, 
 as an unerring standard of taste. He made very good use 
 of my assistance upon these occasions ; for, when asked his 
 opinion, he would gravely take me aside, and ask mine, 
 shrug, look wise, return, and assure the company that he 
 could give no opinion upon an affair of so much import- 
 ance. 
 
 " Yet there was sometimes an occasion for a more sup- 
 ported assurance. I remember to have seen him, after 
 giving his opinion that the colouring of a picture was not 
 mellow enough, very deliberately take a brush with brown 
 varnish, that was accidentally by, and rub it over the piece 
 with great composure before all the company, and then ask 
 if he had not improved the tints. 
 
 " When he had finished his commission in Paris, he left 
 me strongly recommended to several men of distinction, 
 as a person very proper for a travelling tutor ; and after 
 some time I was employed in that capacity by a gentleman 
 who brought his ward to Paris, in order to set him forward 
 on his tour through Europe. I was to be the young gentle-
 
 THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND. 3ft 
 
 man's governor, but with a proviso that he should always 
 govern himself. My pupil, in fact, understood the art of 
 guiding in money concerns much better than I. He was 
 heir to a fortune of about two hundred thousand pounds, 
 left him by an uncle in the West Indies ; and his guardians, 
 to qualify him for the management of it, had bound him 
 apprentice to an attorney. Thus avarice was his prevailing 
 passion : all his questions on the road where, How much 
 money might be saved ? which was the least expensive 
 course of travelling? whether anything could be bought 
 that would turn to account when disposed of again in 
 London ? 
 
 " Such curiosities on the way as could be seen for 
 nothing he was ready enough to look at ; but if the sight 
 of them was to be paid for, he usually asserted that he had 
 been told they were not worth seeing. He never paid a 
 bill, that he would not observe how amazingly expensive 
 travelling was ; and all this though he was not yet twenty- 
 one. When arrived at Leghorn, as we took a walk to look 
 at the port and shipping, he inquired the expense of the 
 passage by sea home to England. This he was informed 
 was but a trifle compared to his returning by land : he 
 was therefore unable to withstand the temptation ; so, 
 paying me the small part of my salary that was due, he 
 took leave, and embarked, with only one attendant, for 
 London. 
 
 " I now, therefore, was left once more upon the world at 
 large ; but then it was a thing I was used to. However, 
 my skill in music could avail me nothing in a country
 
 378 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 where every peasant was a better musician than I ; but by 
 this time I had acquired another talent, which answered 
 my purpose as well, and this was a skill in disputation. In 
 all the foreign universities and convents there are, upon 
 certain days, philosophical theses maintained against every 
 adventitious disputant ; for which, if the champion opposes 
 with any dexterity, he can claim a gratuity in money, a 
 dinner, and a bed for one night. In this manner, there- 
 fore, I fought my way towards England ; walked along 
 from city to city; examined mankind more nearly; and, if 
 I may so express it, saw both sides of the picture. My 
 remarks, however, are but few: I found that monarchy 
 was the best government for the poor to live in, and 
 commonwealths for the rich : I found that riches in general 
 were in every country another name for freedom ; and that 
 no man is so fond of liberty himself as not to be desirous 
 of subjecting the will of some individuals in society to 
 his own. 
 
 " Upon my arrival in England I resolved to pay my 
 respects first to you, and then to enlist as a volunteer in 
 the first expedition that was going forward ; but, on my 
 journey down, my resolutions were changed by meeting an 
 old acquaintance, who I found belonged to a company of 
 comedians, that were going to make a summer campaign 
 in the country. The company seemed not much to dis- 
 approve of me for an associate. They all, however, 
 apprised me of the importance of the task at which I 
 aimed ; that the public was a many-headed monster, and 
 that only such as had very good heads could please it ;
 
 THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND. 379 
 
 that acting was not to be learned in a day ; and that, 
 without some traditional shrugs, which had been on the 
 stage, and only on the stage, these hundred years, I could 
 never pretend to please. The next difficulty was in fitting 
 me with parts, as almost every character was in keeping. 
 I was driven for some time from one character to another, 
 till at last Horatio was fixed upon, which the presence 
 of the present company has happily hindered me from 
 acting."
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP AMONG THE VICIOUS, 
 WHICH IS COEVAL ONLY WITH MUTUAL SATISFACTION. 
 
 |,Y son's account was too long to be delivered at 
 once ; the first part of it was begun that night, 
 and he was concluding the rest after dinner the 
 next day, when the appearance of Mr. Thorn- 
 hill's equipage at the door seemed to make a pause in the 
 general satisfaction. 
 
 The butler, who was now become my friend in the 
 family, informed me, with a whisper, that the squire had 
 already made some overtures to Miss Wilmot, and that 
 her aunt and uncle seemed highly to approve the match. 
 Upon Mr. Thornhill's entering, he seemed, at seeing my 
 son and me, to start back ; but I readily imputed that to 
 surprise, and not displeasure. However, upon our ad- 
 vancing to salute him, he returned our greeting with the 
 most apparent candour ; and, after a short time, his 
 presence seemed only to increase the general good 
 humour.
 
 FRIENDSHIP AMONG THE VICIOUS. 381 
 
 After tea he called me aside to inquire after my 
 daughter ; but upon my informing him that my inquiry 
 was unsuccessful, he seemed greatly surprised ; adding that 
 he had been since frequently at my house, in order to com- 
 fort the rest of the family, whom he left perfectly well. 
 He then asked if I had communicated her misfortune to 
 Miss Wilmot, or my son ; and upon my replying that I 
 had not told them as yet, he greatly approved my pru- 
 dence and precaution, desiring me by all means to keep it 
 a secret ; " for at best," cried he, " it is but divulging 
 one's own infamy ; and perhaps Miss Livy may not be so 
 guilty as we all imagine." We were here interrupted by a 
 servant, who came to ask the squire in to stand up at 
 country dances ; so that he left me quite pleased with the 
 interest he seemed to take in my concerns. His addresses, 
 however, to Miss Wilmot were too obvious to be mistaken ; 
 and yet she seemed not perfectly pleased, but bore them 
 rather in compliance to the will of her aunt than from real 
 inclination. I had even the satisfaction to see her lavish 
 some kind looks upon my unfortunate son, which the 
 other could neither extort by his fortune nor assiduity. 
 Mr. Thornhill's seeming composure, however, not a little 
 surprised ^ me. We had now continued here a week, at 
 the pressing instances of Mr. Arnold ; but each day, the 
 more tenderness Miss Wilmot showed my son, Mr. Thorn- 
 hill's friendship seemed proportionably to increase for 
 him. 
 
 He had formerly made us the most kind assurances of 
 using his interest to serve the family ; bnt now his gene-
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 rosity was not confined to promises alone. The morning I 
 designed for my departure, Mr. Thornhill came to me, with 
 looks of real pleasure, to inform me of a piece of service 
 he had done for his friend George. This was nothing less 
 than his having procured him an ensign's commission in 
 one of the regiments that were going to the West Indies, 
 for which he had promised but one hundred pounds, his 
 interest being sufficient to get an abatement of the other 
 two : " As for this trifling piece of service," continued the 
 young gentleman, " I desire no other reward but the plea- 
 sure of having served my friend ; and as for the hundred 
 pounds to be paid, if you are unable to raise it yourselves, 
 I will advance it, and you shall repay me at your leisure." 
 This was a favour we wanted words to express our sense of: 
 I readily, therefore, gave my bond for the money, and tes- 
 tified as much gratitude as if I never intended to pay. 
 
 George was to depart for town the next day, to secure 
 l:is commission in pursuance of his generous patron's 
 directions, who judged it highly expedient to use despatch, 
 lest, in the meantime, another should step in with more 
 advantageous proposals. The next morning, therefore, 
 our young soldier was early prepared for his departure, 
 and seemed the only person among us that was not 
 affected by it. Neither the fatigues and dangers he was 
 going to encounter, nor the friends and mistress (for Miss 
 Wilmot actually loved him) he was leaving behind, any 
 way damped his spirits. After he had taken leave of the 
 rest of the company, I gave him all that I had my 
 blessing. " And now, my boy," cried I, " thou art going
 
 FRIENDSHIP AMONG THE VICIOUS. 383 
 
 to fight for thy country : remember how thy brave grand- 
 father fought for his sacred king, when loyalty among 
 Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, and imitate him in all 
 but his misfortunes if it was a misfortune to die with 
 Lord Falkland. Go, my boy; and if you fall, though 
 distant, exposed, and unwept by those that love you, the 
 most precious tears are those with which Heaven bedews 
 the unburied head of a soldier." 
 
 The next morning I took leave of the good family that 
 had been kind enough to entertain me so long, not without 
 several expressions of gratitude to Mr. Thornhill for his 
 late bounty. I left them in the enjoyment of all that 
 happiness which affluence and good breeding procure, and 
 returned towards home, despairing of ever finding my 
 daughter more, but sending a sigh to Heaven to spare and 
 forgive her. I was now come within about twenty miles of 
 home, having hired a horse to carry me, as I was yet but 
 weak ; and comforted myself with the hopes of soon seeing 
 all I held dearest upon earth. But the night coming on, I 
 put up at a little public-house by the roadside, and asked 
 for the landlord's company over a pint of wine. We sat 
 beside his kitchen fire, which was the best room in the 
 house, and chatted on politics and the news of the country. 
 We happened, among other topics, to talk of young squire 
 Thornhill, who, the host assured me, was hated as much as 
 his uncle, Sir William, who sometimes came down to the 
 country, was loved. He went on to observe that he made 
 it his whole study to betray the daughters of such as 
 received him to their houses, and after a fortnight or three
 
 384 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 weeks' possession, turned them out unrewarded and aban- 
 doned to the world. As we continued our discourse in 
 this manner, his wife, who had been out to get change, 
 returned, and perceiving that her husband was enjoying a 
 pleasure in which she was not a sharer, she asked him in 
 an angry tone what he did there; to which he only 
 replied in an ironical way, by drinking her health. "Mr. 
 Symonds," cried she, "you use me very ill, and I'll bear it 
 no longer. Here three parts of the business is left for me 
 to do, and the fourth left unfinished, while you do nothing 
 but soak with the guests all day long ; whereas, if a spoon- 
 ful of liquor were to cure me of a fever, I never touch a 
 drop." I now found what she would be at, and imme- 
 diately poured out a glass, which she received with a 
 courtesy, and drinking towards my good health, "Sir," 
 resumed she, " it is not so much for the value of the liquor 
 I am angry, but one cannot help it when the house is 
 going out of the windows. If the customers or guests are 
 to be dunned, all the burden lies upon my back ; he'd as 
 lief eat that glass as budge after them himself. There, 
 now, above stairs we have a young woman who has come 
 to take up her lodgings here, and I don't believe she has 
 got any money, by her over-civility. I am certain she is 
 very slow of payment, and I wish she were put in mind of 
 it." " What signifies minding her ?" cried the host ; " if 
 she be slow, she is sure." " I don't know that," replied the 
 wife ; " but I know that I am sure she has been here a 
 fortnight, and we have not yet seen the cross of her 
 money."" I suppose, my dear," cried he, " we shall have
 
 FRIENDSHIP AMONG THE VICIOUS. 38$ 
 
 it all in a lump." " In a lump ?" cried the other : " I hope 
 we may get it any way ; and that I am resolved we will 
 this very night, or out she tramps, bag and baggage." 
 " Consider, my dear," cried the husband, " she is a gentle- 
 woman, and deserves more respect." " As for the matter 
 of that," returned the hostess, "gentle or simple, out she 
 shall pack with a sussarara. Gentry may be good things 
 where they take ; but for my part I never saw much good 
 of them at the sign of the Harrow." Thus saying, she ran 
 up a narrow flight of stairs that went from the kitchen to a 
 room overhead, and I soon perceived, by the loudness of 
 her voice and the bitterness of her reproaches, that no 
 money was to be had from her lodger. I could hear the 
 remonstrances very distinctly : " Out, I say, pack out this 
 moment ! tramp, thou infamous strumpet, or I'll give thee 
 a mark thou won't be the better for these three months. 
 What ! you trumpery, to come and take up an honest 
 house, without cross or coin to bless yourself with ! Come 
 along, I say." " Oh, dear madam," cried the stranger, 
 " pity me, pity a poor abandoned creature for one night, 
 and death will soon do the rest." I instantly knew the 
 voice of my poor ruined child, Olivia. I flew to her rescue, 
 while the woman was dragging her along by the hair, and 
 I caught the dear forlorn wretch in my arms. " Welcome, 
 any way welcome, my dearest lost one, my treasure, to 
 your poor old father's bosom. Though the vicious forsake 
 thee, there is yet one in the world that will never forsake 
 thee ; though thou hast ten thousand crimes to answer for, 
 he will forgive them all." "O my own dear " for minutes 
 
 25
 
 386 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 she could say no more, " my own dearest, good papa ! 
 Could angels be kinder ? How do I deserve so much ? 
 The villain, I hate him ; and myself to be a reproach to so 
 much goodness. You can't forgive me ; I know you 
 cannot." "Yes, my child, from my heart I do forgive 
 thee : only repent, and we both shall yet be happy. We 
 shall see many pleasant days yet, my Olivia." " Ah ! 
 never, sir, never. The rest of my wretched life must be 
 infamy abroad and shame at home. But, alas ! papa, you 
 look much paler than you used to do. Could such a thing as 
 I am give you so much uneasiness ? Surely you have too 
 much wisdom to take the miseries of my guilt upon your- 
 self!" "Our wisdom, young woman " replied I. 
 
 " Ah, why so cold a name, papa ?" cried she : " this is the 
 first time you ever called me by so cold a name." " I ask 
 pardon, my darling," returned I ; " but I was going to 
 observe wisdom makes but a slow defence against trouble, 
 though at last a sure one." 
 
 The landlady now returned, to know if we did not 
 choose a more genteel apartment ; to which assenting, we 
 were shown to a room where we could converse more freely. 
 After we had talked ourselves into some degree of tran- 
 quillity, I could not avoid desiring some account of the 
 gradations that led to her present wretched situation 
 "That villain, sir," said she, "from the first day of oui 
 meeting, made me honourable, though private pro- 
 posals." 
 
 "Villain indeed," cried I ; "and yet it in some measure 
 surprises me how a person of Mr. Burchell's good sense and
 
 FRIENDSHIP AMONG THE VICIOUS. 387 
 
 seeming honour could be guilty of such deliberate base- 
 ness, and thus step into a family to undo it." 
 
 " My dear papa," returned my daughter, " you labour 
 under a strange mistake. Mr. Burchell never attempted 
 to deceive me : instead of that, he took every opportunity 
 of privately admonishing me against the artifices of Mr. 
 Thornhill, who, I now find, was even worse than he repre- 
 sented him." " Mr. Thornhill !" interrupted I ; " can it 
 be ?" " Yes, sir," returned she ; " it was Mr. Thornhill 
 who seduced me, who employed the two ladies, as he 
 called them, but who, in fact, were abandoned women of 
 the town, without breeding or pity, to decoy us up to 
 London. Their artifices, you may remember, would have 
 certainly succeeded but for Mr. Burchell's letter, who 
 directed those reproaches at them, which we all applied to 
 ourselves. How he came to have so much influence as 
 to defeat their intentions still remains a secret to me ; but 
 I am convinced he was ever our warmest, sincerest friend." 
 
 " You amaze me, my dear," cried I ; " but now I find 
 my first suspicions of Mr. ThornhilFs baseness were too 
 well grounded : but he can triumph in security, for he 
 is rich and we are poor. But tell me, my child ; sure it 
 was no small temptation that could thus obliterate all 
 the impressions of such an education, and so virtuous a 
 disposition, as thine !" 
 
 " Indeed, sir," replied she, " he owes all his triumph to 
 the desire I had of making him, and not myself, happy. 
 I knew that the ceremony of our marriage, which was 
 privately performed by a Popish priest, was no way
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKE FIELD. 
 
 binding, and that I had nothing to trust to but his 
 honour." 
 
 " What !" interrupted I, " and were you indeed married 
 by a priest in orders ?" 
 
 " Indeed, sir, we were," replied she, " though we were 
 both sworn to conceal his name." 
 
 " Why, then, my child, come to my arms again ; and now 
 you are a thousand times more welcome than before; 
 for you are his wife to all intents and purposes ; nor can 
 all the laws of man, though written upon tables of ada- 
 mant, lessen the force of that sacred connexion." 
 
 " Alas ! papa," replied she, "you are but little acquainted 
 with his villanies : he has been married already, by the 
 same priest, to six or eight wives more, whom, like me, he 
 has deceived and abandoned." 
 
 " Has he so ?" cried I ; " then we must hang the priest, 
 and you shall inform against him to-morrow." 
 
 " But, sir," returned she, " will that be right, when I am 
 sworn to secrecy ?" 
 
 "My dear," I replied, "if you have made such a 
 promise, I cannot, nor will I, tempt you to break it. 
 Even though it may benefit the public, you must not 
 inform against him. In all human institutions a smaller 
 evil is allowed to procure a greater good ; as, in politics, 
 a province may be given away to secure a kingdom ; in 
 medicine, a limb may be lopped off to preserve the body ; 
 but in religion the law is written, and inflexible, never to 
 do evil. And this law, my child, is right ; for otherwise, 
 if we commit a smaller evil to procure a greater good,
 
 FRIENDSHIP AMONG THE vicious. 389 
 
 certain guilt, would be thus incurred, in expectation of 
 contingent advantage, and though the advantage should 
 certainly follow, yet the interval between commission and 
 advantage, which is allowed to be guilty, may be that in 
 which we are called away to answer for the things we have 
 done, and the volume of human actions is closed for ever. 
 But I interrupt you, my dear : go on." 
 
 " The very next morning," continued she, " I found 
 what little expectation I was to have from his sincerity. 
 That very morning he introduced me to two unhappy 
 women more, whom, like me, he had deceived, but who 
 lived in contented prostitution. I loved him too tenderly 
 to bear such rivals in his affections, and strove to forget 
 my infamy in a tumult of pleasures. With this view I 
 danced, dressed, and talked ; but still was unhappy. The 
 gentlemen who visited there told me every moment of the 
 power of my charms, and this only contributed to increase 
 my melancholy, as I had thrown all their power quite 
 away. Thus each day I grew more pensive, and he more 
 insolent, till at last the monster had the assurance to offer 
 me to a young baronet of his acquaintance. Need I 
 describe, sir, how his ingratitude stung me ? My answer 
 to this proposal was almost madness. I desired to part. 
 As I was going he offered me a purse ; but I flung it at 
 him with indignation, and burst from him in a rage, that 
 for a while kept me insensible of the miseries of my situ- 
 ation ; but I soon looked round me, and saw myself a vile, 
 abject, guilty thing, without one friend in the world to 
 apply to.
 
 390 THE VICAR OP 
 
 " Just in that interval, a stage-coach happening to pass 
 by, I took a place, it being my only aim to be driven 
 at a distance from a wretch I despised and detested. 
 I was set down here, where, since my arrival, my own 
 anxiety and this woman's unkindness have been my only 
 companions. The hours of pleasure that I have passed 
 with my mamma and sister now grow painful to me : their 
 sorrows are much ; but mine are greater than theirs, for 
 mine are mixed with guilt and infamy." 
 
 " Have patience, my child," cried I, "and I hope things 
 will yet be better. Take some repose to-night, and to- 
 morrow I'll carry you home to your mother and the rest 
 of the family, from whom you will receive a kind recep- 
 tion. Poor woman ! this has gone to her heart ; but she 
 loves you still, Olivia, and will forget it."
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 OFFENCES ARE EASILY PARDONED WHERE THERE IS LOVE AT 
 BOTTOM. 
 
 I HE next morning I took my daughter behind 
 me, and set out on my return home. As we 
 travelled along, I strove by every persuasion 
 to calm her sorrows and fears, and to arm her 
 with resolution to bear the presence of her offended mother. 
 I took every opportunity, from the prospect of a fine 
 country through which we passed, to observe how much 
 kinder Heaven was to us than we to each other ; and that 
 the misfortunes of nature's making were but very few. 
 I assured her that she should never perceive any change 
 in my affections ; and that during my life, which yet might 
 be long, she might depend upon a guardian and an in- 
 structor. I armed her against the censure of the world ; 
 showed her that books were sweet, unreproaching com- 
 panions to the miserable ; and that, if they could not 
 bring us to enjoy life, they would at least teach us to 
 endure it
 
 392 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that 
 night at the inn by the way, within about five miles from 
 my house ; and as I was willing to prepare my family for 
 my daughter's reception, I determined to leave her that 
 night at the inn, and to return for her, accompanied by my 
 daughter Sophia, early the next morning. It was night 
 before we reached our appointed stage ; however, after 
 seeing her provided with a decent apartment, and having 
 ordered the hostess to prepare proper refreshments, I 
 kissed her, and proceeded towards home. And now my 
 heart caught new sensations of pleasure the nearer I 
 approached that peaceful mansion : as a bird that had 
 been frightened from its nest, my affections outwent my 
 haste, and hovered round my little fireside with all the 
 rapture of expectation. I called up the many fond things 
 I had to say, and anticipated the welcome 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 
 waned apace ; the labourers of the day were all retired to 
 rest ; the lights were out in every cottage ; no sounds were 
 heard but of the shrilling cock and the deep-mouthed 
 watch-dog at hollow distance. I approached my little 
 abode of pleasure, and before I was within a furlong 
 of the place our honest mastiff came running to wel- 
 come me. 
 
 It was now near midnight that I came to knock at my 
 door. All was still and silent. My heart dilated with 
 unutterable happiness ; when, to my amazement, I saw the 
 house bursting out into a blaze of fire, and every aperture
 
 OFFENCES EAS1L Y PARDONED. 39$ 
 
 red with conflagration. I gave a loud convulsive outcry, 
 and fell upon the pavement insensible. This alarmed my 
 son, who had till this been asleep; and he, perceiving the 
 flame, instantly awaked my wife and daughter : and all 
 running out, naked and wild with apprehension, recalled 
 me to life with their anguish : but it was only to objects oi 
 new terror, for the flames had by this time caught the 
 roof of our dwelling, part after part continuing to fall in, 
 while the family stood with silent agony looking on, as 
 if they enjoyed the blaze. I gazed upon them and upon 
 it by turns, and then looked round me for my two little 
 ones ; but they were not to be seen. " O misery ! where," 
 cried I, " where are my little ones ?" " They are burnt 
 to death in the flames," said my wife, calmly, " and I will 
 die with them." 
 
 That moment I heard the cry of the babes within, who 
 were just awaked by the fire, and nothing could have 
 stopped me. " Where, where are my children ?" cried I, 
 rushing through the flames, and bursting the door of the 
 chamber in which they were confined : " where are my 
 little ones ?" " Here, dear papa, here we are !" cried they 
 together, while the flames were just catching the bed 
 where they lay. I caught them both in my arms, and 
 conveyed them through the fire as fast as possible, while 
 just as I was going out the roof sunk in. " Now," cried I, 
 holding up my children, " now let the flames burn on, and 
 all my possessions perish ; here they are ; I have saved 
 my treasures : here, my dearest, here are our treasures, 
 ind we shall be happy." We kissed our little darlings a
 
 394 THE VICAR Of WAKEFlEtb. 
 
 thousand times : they clasped us round the neck, and 
 seemed to share our transports ; while their mother laughed 
 and wept by turns. 
 
 I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and after 
 some time began to perceive that my arm to the shoulder 
 was scorched in a terrible manner ; it was therefore out 
 of my power to give my son any assistance, either in 
 attempting to save our goods, or preventing the flames 
 spreading to our corn. By this time the neighbours were 
 alarmed, and came running to our assistance ; but all 
 they could do was to stand, like us, spectators of the 
 calamity. My goods, among which were the notes I had 
 reserved for my daughters' fortunes, were entirely con- 
 sumed, except a box with some papers, that stood in the 
 kitchen, and two or three things more of little consequence, 
 which my son brought away in the beginning. The 
 neighbours contributed, however, what they could to 
 lighten our distress : they brought us clothes, and fur- 
 nished one of our outhouses with kitchen utensils ; so that 
 by daylight we had another, though a wretched dwelling, 
 to retire to. My honest next neighbour and his children 
 were not the least assiduous in providing us with every- 
 thing necessary, and offering whatever consolation untutored 
 benevolence could suggest. 
 
 When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity to 
 know the cause of my long stay began to take place. 
 Having, therefore, informed them of every particular, I 
 proceeded to prepare them for the reception of our lost 
 one ; and though we had nothing but wretchedness now
 
 OFFENCES EASILV PARDONED. 395 
 
 to impart, I was willing to procure her a welcome to what 
 we had. This task would have been more difficult but foi 
 our own recent calamity, which had humbled my wife's 
 pride, and blunted it by more poignant afflictions. Being 
 unable to go for my poor child myself, as my arm grew 
 very painful, I sent my son and daughter, who soon 
 returned, supporting the wretched delinquent, who had not 
 the courage to look up at her mother, whom no instruc- 
 tions of mine could persuade to a perfect reconciliation ; 
 for women have a much stronger sense of female error than 
 men. 
 
 " Ah, madam ! " cried her mother, " this is but a poor 
 place you are come to after so much finery. My daughter 
 Sophy and I can afford .but little entertainment to persons 
 who have kept company only with people of distinction. 
 Yes, Miss Livy, your poor father and I have suffered 
 very much of late ; but I hope Heaven will forgive you." 
 
 During this reception the unhappy victim stood pale 
 and trembling, unable to weep or to reply : but I could 
 not continue a silent spectator of her distress ; wherefore, 
 assuming a degree of severity in my voice and manner, 
 which was ever followed with instant submission, " I 
 entreat, woman, that my words may now be marked 
 once for all : I have here brought you back a poor 
 deluded wanderer : her return to duty demands the revival 
 of our tenderness. The real hardships of life are now 
 coming fast upon us ; let us not, therefore, increase them 
 by dissensions among each other. If we live harmoniously 
 together we may yet be contented, as there are enough
 
 THE VICA& OF WAKEMEL&. 
 
 of us to shut out the censuring world, and keep each 
 other in countenance. The kindness of Heaven is pro- 
 mised to the penitent, and let ours be directed by the 
 example. Heaven, we are assured, is much more pleased 
 to view a penitent sinner than ninety-nine persons who 
 have supported a course of undeviating rectitude : and this 
 is right ; for that single effort, by which we stop short in 
 the down-hill path of perdition, is of itself a greater exer- 
 tion of virtue than a hundred acts of justice"
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 NONE BUT THE GUILTY CAN BE LONG AND COMPLETELY 
 MISERABLE. 
 
 JOME assiduity was now required to make our 
 present abode as convenient as possible, and 
 we were soon again qualified to enjoy our 
 former serenity. Being disabled myself from 
 assisting my son in our usual occupations, I read to my 
 family from the few books that were saved, and particu- 
 larly from such as, by amusing the imagination, contributed 
 to ease the heart. Our good neighbours, too, came every 
 day with the kindest condolence, and fixed a time in which 
 they were all to assist in repairing my former dwelling. 
 Honest Farmer Williams was not last among these visitors, 
 but heartily offered his friendship: he would even have 
 renewed his addresses to my daughter, but she rejected 
 them in such a manner as totally repressed his future 
 solicitations. Her grief seemed formed for continuing, 
 and she was the only person in our little society that a 
 week did not restore to cheerfulness. She now lost that
 
 398 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 unblushing innocence, which once taught her to respecl 
 herself, and to seek pleasure by pleasing. Anxiety had 
 now taken strong possession of her mind ; her beauty 
 began to be impaired with her constitution, and neglect 
 still more contributed to diminish it. Every tender 
 epithet bestowed on her sister brought a pang to her heart 
 and a tear to her eye ; and as one vice, though cured, ever 
 plants others where it has been, so her former guilt, though 
 driven out by repentance, left jealousy and envy behind. 
 I strove a thousand ways to lessen her care, and even 
 forgot my own pain in a concern for hers, collecting such 
 amusing passages of history as a strong memory and some 
 reading could suggest. " Our happiness, my dear," I 
 would say, " is in the power of One who can bring it about 
 in a thousand unforeseen ways, that mock our foresight 
 If example be necessary to prove this, I'll give you a story, 
 my child, told us by a grave though sometimes romancing 
 historian. 
 
 "Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan 
 nobleman of the first quality, and found herself a widow 
 and a mother at the age of fifteen. As she stood one day 
 caressing her infant son in the open window of an apart- 
 ment which hung over the river Volturna, the child, with a 
 sudden spring, leaped from her arms into the flood below, 
 and disappeared in a moment. The mother, struck with 
 instant surprise, and making an effort to save him, plunged 
 in after ; but far from being able to assist the infant, she 
 herself with great difficulty escaped to the opposite shore, 
 just when some French soldiers were plundering the
 
 NONE BUT THE GUILTY CAN LONG BE MISERABLE. 399 
 
 country on that side, who immediately made her their 
 prisoner. 
 
 " As the war was then carried on between the French 
 and Italians with the utmost inhumanity, they were going 
 at once to perpetrate those two extremes suggested by 
 appetite and cruelty. This base resolution, however, was 
 opposed by a young officer, who, though his retreat 
 required the utmost expedition, placed her behind him, 
 and brought her in safety to his native city. Her beauty 
 at first caught his eye; her merit, soon after, his heart: 
 they were married ; he rose to the highest posts ; they 
 lived long together, and were happy. But the felicity 
 of a soldier can never be called permanent: after an 
 interval of several years, the troops which he commanded 
 having met with a repulse, he was obliged to take shelter 
 in the city where he had lived with his wife. Here they 
 suffered a siege, and the city at length was taken. Few 
 histories can produce more various instances of cruelty 
 than those which the French and Italians at that time 
 exercised upon each other. It was resolved by the victors 
 upon this occasion to put all the French prisoners to 
 death ; but particularly the husband of the unfortunate 
 Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in protracting 
 the siege. Their determinations were, in general, exe- 
 cuted almost as soon as resolved upon. The captive 
 soldier was led forth, and the executioner, with his sword, 
 stood ready, while the spectators, in gloomy silence, 
 awaited the fatal blow, which was only suspended till the 
 general, who presided as judge, should give the signal. It
 
 400 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 was in this interval of anguish and expectation that 
 Matilda came to take her last farewell of her husband 
 and deliverer, deploring her wretched situation and the 
 cruelty of fate, that had saved her from perishing by a 
 premature death in the river Volturna to be the spectator 
 of still greater calamities. The general, who was a young 
 man, was struck with surprise at her beauty, and pity at 
 her distress ; but with still stronger emotions when he 
 heard her mention her former dangers. He was her son, 
 the infant for whom she had encountered so much danger : 
 he acknowledged her at once as his mother, and fell at her 
 feet. The rest may be easily supposed : the captive was 
 set free: and all the happiness that love, friendship, and 
 duty could confer on earth, were united." 
 
 In this manner I would attempt to amuse my daughter : 
 but she listened with divided attention, for her own mis- 
 fortunes engrossed all the pity she once had for those 
 of another, and nothing gave her ease. In company she 
 dreaded contempt ; and in solitude she only found anxiety. 
 Such was the colour of her wretchedness, when we received 
 certain information that Mr. Thornhill was going to be 
 married to Miss Wilmot, for whom I always suspected hs 
 had a real passion, though he took every opportunity before 
 me to express his contempt both of her person and 
 fortune. This news served only to increase poor Olivia's 
 affliction ; for such a flagrant breach of fidelity was more 
 than her courage could support. I was resolved, however, 
 to get more certain information, and to defeat, if possible, 
 the completion of his designs, by sending my son to old
 
 NONE BUT THE GUILTY CAN LONG BE MISERABLE. 4i 
 
 Wilmot's, with instructions to know the truth of the report, 
 and to deliver Miss Wilmot a letter, intimating Mr. Thorn- 
 hill's conduct in my family. My son went, in pursuance of 
 my directions, and in three days returned, assuring us 
 of the truth of the account : but that he had found it im- 
 possible to deliver the letter, which he was therefore 
 obliged to leave, as Mr. Thornhill and Miss Wilmot were 
 visiting round the country. They were to be married, 
 he said, in a few days, having appeared together at church, 
 the Sunday before he was there, in great splendour, the 
 bride attended by six young ladies, and he by as many 
 gentlemen. Their approaching nuptials filled the whole 
 country with rejoicing, and they usually rode out together 
 in the grandest equipage that had been in the country 
 for many years. All the friends of both families, he said, 
 were there, particularly the squire's uncle, Sir William, 
 who bore so good a character. He added, that nothing 
 but mirth and feasting were going forward ; that all 
 the country praised the young bride's beauty, and the 
 bridegroom's fine person ; and that they were immensely 
 fond of each other : concluding, that he could not help 
 thinking Mr. Thornhill one of the most happy men in 
 the world. 
 
 " Why, let him, if he can," returned I ; " but, my son, 
 observe this bed of straw and unsheltering roof; these 
 mouldering walls and humid floor; my wretched body, 
 thus disabled by fire, and my children weeping around 
 me for bread : you have come home, my child, to all this ; 
 yet here, even here, you see a man that would not for a
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 thousand worlds exchange situations. Oh, my children, 
 if you could but learn to commune with your own hearts, 
 and know what noble company you can make them, you 
 would little regard the elegance and splendour of the 
 worthless. Almost all men have been taught to call life 
 a passage, and themselves the travellers. The similitude 
 still may be improved, when we observe that the good are 
 joyful and serene, like travellers that are going towards 
 home : the wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers 
 that are going into exile." 
 
 My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered by 
 this new disaster, interrupted what I had farther to observe. 
 I bade her mother support her, and after a short time she 
 recovered. She appeared from that time more calm, and 
 I imagined had gained a new degree of resolution ; but 
 appearances deceived me, for her tranquillity was the 
 languor of overwrought resentment. A supply of pro- 
 visions, charitably sent us by my kind parishioners, seemed 
 to diffuse new cheerfulness among the rest of my family : 
 nor was I displeasd at seeing them once more sprightly, 
 and at ease. It would have been unjust to damp their 
 satisfactions, merely to condole with resolute melancholy, 
 or to burden them with a sadness they did not feel. Thus, 
 once more, the tale went round, and a song was demanded, 
 and cheerfulness condescended to hover round our little 
 habitation.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 FRESH CALAMITIES. 
 
 |HE next morning the sun arose with peculiar 
 warmth for the season, so that we agreed to 
 breakfast together on the honeysuckle bank ; 
 where, while we sat, my youngest daughter, at 
 my request, joined her voice to the concert on the trees 
 about us. It was in this place my poor Olivia first met 
 her seducer, and every object served to recall her sadness ; 
 but that melancholy which is excited by objects of pleasure, 
 or inspired by sounds of harmony, soothes the heart instead 
 of corroding it. Her mother, too, upon this occasion felt a 
 pleasing distress, and wept, and loved her daughter as 
 before. 
 
 "Do, my pretty Olivia," cried she, "let us have that 
 little melancholy air your papa was so fond of; your 
 sister Sophy has already obliged us. Do, child ; it will 
 please your old father." She complied, in a manner so 
 exquisitely pathetic as moved me : 
 
 When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
 And finds, too late, that men betray,
 
 404 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 What charm can soothe her melancholy ? 
 What art can wash her guilt away ? 
 
 The only art her guilt to cover, 
 
 To hide her shame from every eye, 
 To give repentance to her lover, 
 
 And wring his bosom, is to die. 
 
 As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an 
 interruption in her voice, from sorrow, gave peculiar soft- 
 ness, the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's equipage at a 
 distance alarmed us all, but particularly increased the 
 uneasiness of my eldest daughter, who, desirous of shunning 
 her betrayer, returned to the house with her sister. In a 
 few minutes he was alighted from his chariot, and making 
 up to the place where I was still sitting, inquired after my 
 health with his usual air of familiarity. "Sir," replied I, 
 " your present assurance only serves to aggravate the base- 
 ness of your character ; and there was a time when I would 
 have chastised your insolence for presuming thus to appear 
 before me : but now you are safe ; for age has cooled my 
 passions, and my calling restrains them." 
 
 " I vow, my dear sir," returned he, " I am amazed at all 
 this, nor can I understand what it means. I hope you do 
 not think your daughter's late excursion with me had any- 
 thing criminal in it" 
 
 " Go," cried I ; " thou art a wretch, a poor, pitiful wretch, 
 and every way a liar ; but your meanness secures you from 
 my anger. Yet, sir, I am descended from a family that 
 would not have borne this. And so, thou vile thing, to
 
 FRESH CALAMITIES. 405 
 
 gratify a momentary passion, thou hast made one poor 
 creature wretched for life, and polluted a family that had 
 nothing but honour for their portion." 
 
 " If she or you," returned he, " are resolved to be miser- 
 able, I cannot help it : but you may still be happy ; and 
 whatever opinion you may have formed of me, you shall 
 ever find me ready to contribute to it. We can marry her 
 to another in a short time ; and, what is more, she may 
 keep her lover beside ; for, I protest, I shall ever continue 
 to have a true regard for her." 
 
 I found all my passions alarmed at this new degrading 
 proposal ; for though the mind may often be calm under 
 great injuries, little villany can at any time get within the 
 soul, and sting it into rage. "Avoid my sight, thou 
 reptile," cried I ; " nor continue to insult me with thy 
 presence. Were my brave son at home he would not 
 suffer this ; but I am old and disabled, and every way 
 undone." 
 
 " I find," cried he, " you are bent upon obliging me to 
 talk in a harsher manner than I intended ; but as I have 
 shown you what may be hoped from my friendship, it 
 may not be improper to represent what may be the conse- 
 quence of my resentment. My attorney, to whom your 
 late bond has been transferred, threatens hard ; nor do I 
 know how to prevent the course of justice, except by pay- 
 ing the money myself; which, as I have been at some 
 expenses lately, previous to my intended marriage, is not 
 so easy to be done. And then my steward talks of driving 
 for the rent : it is certain he knows his duty, for I never
 
 406 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 trouble myself with affairs of that nature. Yet still I could 
 wish to serve you, and even to have you and your 
 daughter present at my marriage, which is shortly to be 
 solemnized with Miss Wilmot : it is even the request of 
 my charming Arabella herself, whom I hope you will not 
 refuse." 
 
 " Mr. Thornhill," replied I, " hear me once for all : as to 
 your marriage with any but my daughter, that I never will 
 consent to ; and though your friendship could raise me 
 to a throne, or your resentment sink me to the grave, 
 yet would I despise both. Thou hast once woefully, 
 irreparably deceived me : I reposed my heart upon 
 thine honour, and have found its baseness. Never more, 
 therefore, expect friendship from me. Go, and possess 
 what fortune has given thee beauty, riches, health, and 
 pleasure : go, and leave me to want, infamy, disease, and 
 sorrow ; yet, humbled as I am, shall my heart still vindi- 
 cate its dignity ; and though thou hast my forgiveness, 
 thou shalt ever have my contempt." 
 
 " If so," returned he, " depend upon it you shall feel the 
 effects of this insolence, and we shall shortly see which is 
 the fittest object of scorn you or I." Upon which, he 
 departed abruptly. 
 
 My wife and son, who were present at this interview, 
 seemed terrified with apprehension ; my daughters also, 
 finding that he was gone, came out to be informed of the 
 result of our conference; which, when known, alarmed 
 them not less than the rest. But as to myself, I disregarded 
 the utmost stretch of his malevolence ; he had already
 
 FRESH CALAMITIES. 407 
 
 struck the blow, and I now stood prepared to repel every 
 new effort, like one of those instruments used in the art of 
 war, which, however thrown, still presents a point to receive 
 the enemy. 
 
 We soon, however, found that he had not threatened in 
 vain ; for the very next morning his steward came to 
 demand my annual rent, which, by the train of accidents 
 already related, I was unable to pay. The consequence of 
 my incapacity was his driving my cattle that evening, and 
 their being appraised and sold the next day for less than 
 half their value. My wife and children now, therefore, 
 entreated me to comply upon any terms, rather than incur 
 certain destruction : they even begged of me to admit 
 his visits once more, and used all their little eloquence 
 to paint the calamities I was going to endure ; the terrors 
 of a prison in so rigorous a season as the present, with 
 the danger that threatened my health from the late acci- 
 dent that happened by the fire: but I continued in- 
 flexible. 
 
 "Why, my treasures," cried I, "why will you thus 
 attempt to persuade me to the thing that is not right ? My 
 duty has taught me to forgive him, but my conscience will 
 not permit me to approve. Would you have me applaud 
 to the world what my heart must internally condemn? 
 Would you have me tamely sit down and flatter our 
 infamous betrayer, and, to avoid a prison, continually suffer 
 the more galling bonds of mental confinement ? No, never. 
 If we are to be taken from this abode, only let us hold to 
 the right, and wherever we are thrown we can still retire to
 
 408 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 a charming apartment, where we can look around our own 
 hearts with intrepidity and with pleasure." 
 
 In this manner we spent that evening. Early the next 
 morning, as the snow had fallen in great abundance in 
 the night, my son was employed in clearing it away, 
 and opening a passage before the door. He had not 
 been thus engaged long when he came running in, with 
 looks all pale, to tell us that two strangers, whom he 
 knew to be officers of justice, were making towards the 
 house. 
 
 Just as he spoke they came in, and approaching the bed 
 where I lay, after previously informing me of their employ- 
 ment and business, made me their prisoner, bidding me to 
 prepare to go with them to the county jail, which was 
 eleven miles off. 
 
 " My friends," said I, " this is severe weather in which 
 you are come to take ,me to a prison ; and it is particu- 
 larly unfortunate at this time, as one of my arms has 
 lately been burnt in a terrible manner, and it has thrown 
 me into a slight fever, and I want clothes to cover me, 
 and I am now too weak and old to walk far in such a 
 deep snow ; but if it must be so " 
 
 I then turned to my wife and children, and directed 
 them to get together what few things were left us, and 
 prepare immediately for leaving this place. I entreated 
 them to be expeditious, and desired my son to assist his 
 eldest sister, who, from a consciousness that she was the 
 cause of our calamities, was fallen, and had lost anguish 
 in insensibility. I encouraged mv wife, who, pale and
 
 FRESH CALAMITIES. 
 
 409 
 
 trembling, clasped our affrighted little ones in her arms, 
 that clung to her bosom in silence, dreading to look 
 round at the strangers. In the meantime my youngest 
 daughter prepared for our departure ; and as she received 
 several hints to use dispatch, in about an hour we were 
 ready to depart
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 NO SITUATION, HOWEVER WRETCHED IT SEEMS, BUT HAS SOMH 
 SORT OF COMFORT ATTENDING IT. 
 
 set forward from this peaceful neighbourhood, 
 and walked on slowly : my eldest daughter 
 being enfeebled by a slow fever, which had 
 begun for some days to undermine her constitu- 
 tion, one of the officers, who had a horse, kindly took her 
 behind him ; for even these men cannot entirely divest 
 themselves of humanity. My son led one of the little ones 
 by the hand, and my wife the other ; while I leaned upon 
 my youngest girl, whose tears fell, not for her own, but my 
 distresses. 
 
 We were now got from my late dwelling about two 
 miles, when we saw a crowd running and shouting behind 
 U S, consisting of about fifty of my poorest parishioners. 
 These, with dreadful imprecations, soon seized upon the 
 two officers of justice, and swearing they would never see 
 their minister go to a jail while they had a drop of blood 
 to shed in his defence, were going to use them with great
 
 NO SITUATION WITHOUT SOME COMFORT. 4" 
 
 severity. The consequence might have been fatal, had I 
 not immediately interposed, and with some difficulty res- 
 cued the officers from the hands of the enraged multitude. 
 My children, who looked upon my delivery now as certain, 
 appeared transported with joy, and were incapable of 
 containing their raptures : but they were soon undeceived, 
 upon hearing me address the poor deluded people, who 
 came, as they imagined, to do me service. 
 
 "What! my friends," cried I, "and is this the way you 
 love me ? Is this the manner you obey the instructions I 
 have given you from the pulpit thus to fly in the face of 
 justice, and bring down ruin on yourselves and me ? 
 Which is your ringleader? Show me the man that has 
 thus seduced you : as sure as he lives, he shall feel my 
 resentment Alas! my dear deluded flock, return back 
 to the duty you owe to God, to your country, and to me. 
 I shall yet, perhaps, one day see you in greater felicity 
 here, and contribute to make your lives more happy ; but 
 let it at least be my comfort, when I pen my fold for 
 immortality, that not one here shall be wanting." 
 
 They now seemed all repentance, and, melting into 
 tears, came, one after the other, to bid me farewell. I 
 shook each tenderly by the hand, and leaving them my 
 blessing, proceeded forward without meeting any further 
 interruption. Some hours before night we reached the 
 town, or rather village ; for it consisted but of a few mean 
 houses, having lost all its former opulence, and containing 
 no marks of its ancient superiority but the jail. 
 
 Upon entering we put up at an inn, where we had such
 
 412 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 refreshments as could most readily be procured, and I 
 supped with my family with my usual cheerfulness. After 
 seeing them properly accommodated for that night, I next 
 attended the sheriffs officers to the prison, which had 
 formerly been built for the purposes of war, and consisted 
 of one large apartment, strongly grated, and paved with 
 stone, common to both felons and debtors at certain 
 hours in the four-and-twenty. Besides this, every prisoner 
 had a separate cell, where he was locked in for the 
 night. 
 
 I expected, upon my entrance, to find nothing but 
 lamentations, and various sounds of misery ; but it was 
 very different. The prisoners seemed all employed in one 
 common design, that of forgetting thought in merriment or 
 clamour. I was apprised of the usual perquisite required 
 upon these occasions ; and immediately complied with 
 the demand, though the little money I had was very near 
 being all exhausted. This was immediately sent away for 
 liquor, and the whole prison was soon filled with riot, 
 laughter, and profaneness. 
 
 "How!" cried I to myself; "shall men so very wicked 
 be cheerful, and shall I be melancholy ? I feel only the 
 same confinement with them, and I think I have more 
 reason to be happy." 
 
 With such reflections I laboured to become cheerful : 
 but cheerfulness was never yet produced by effort, which is 
 itself painful. As I was sitting, therefore, in a corner of 
 the jail, in a pensive posture, one of my fellow-prisoners 
 came up, and, sitting by me, entered into conversation. It
 
 A/0 SITUATION WITHOUT SOME COMPORT. 413 
 
 was my constant rule in life never to avoid the conver- 
 sation of any man who seemed to desire it ; for, if good, I 
 might profit by his instructions ; if bad, he might be 
 assisted by mine. I found this to be a knowing man, of 
 strong unlettered sense, but a thorough knowledge of the 
 world, as it is called, or, more properly speaking, of human 
 nature on the wrong side. He asked me if I had taken 
 care to provide myself with a bed, which was a circum- 
 stance I had never once attended to. 
 
 "That's unfortunate," cried he, "as you are allowed 
 nothing but straw, and your apartment is very large and 
 cold. However, you seem to be something of a gentle- 
 man ; and, as I have been one myself in my time, part of 
 my bedclothes are heartily at your service." 
 
 I thanked him, professing my surprise at finding such 
 humanity in a jail, in misfortunes ; adding, to let him see 
 that I was a scholar, that the ancient sage seemed to 
 understand the value of company in affliction, when he 
 said, Ton kosmon aire, ei dos ton etairon ; "an , in 
 fact," continued I, "what is the world, if it affords only 
 solitude ?" 
 
 "You talk of the world, sir," returned my fellow- 
 prisoner : " the world is in its dotage ; and yet the cos- 
 mogony, or creation of the world, has puzzled the philoso- 
 phers of every age. What medley of opinions have they 
 not broached upon the creation of the world ! Sanchonia- 
 thon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocelius Lucanus, have afl. 
 attempted it in vain. The latter has these words : 
 Anarction ara kai atehttaion to pan, which implies "
 
 4t 4 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 " I ask pardon, sir," cried I, " for interrupting so much 
 learning ; but I think I have heard all this before. Have 
 I not had the pleasure of once seeing you at Welbridge 
 Fair ? and is not your name Ephraim Jenkinson ?" At 
 this demand he only sighed. " I suppose you must recol- 
 lect," resumed I, " one Doctor Primrose, from whom you 
 bought a horse." 
 
 He now at once recollected me, for the gloominess of 
 the place, and the approaching night, had prevented his 
 distinguishing my features before. "Yes, sir," returned 
 Mr. Jenkinson, " I remember you perfectly well : I bought 
 a horse, but forgot to pay for him. Your neighbour Flam- 
 borough is the only prosecutor I am any way afraid of at 
 the next assizes ; for he intends to swear positively against 
 me as a coiner. I am heartily sorry, sir, I ever deceived 
 you, or indeed any man ; for you see," continued he, 
 pointing to his shackles, "what my tricks have brought 
 me to." 
 
 "Well, sir," replied I, "your kindness in offering me 
 assistance when you could expect no return, shall be 
 repaid with my endeavours to soften or totally suppress 
 Mr. Flamborough's evidence, and I will send my son to 
 him for that purpose the first opportunity ; nor do I in the 
 least doubt but he will comply with my request : and as 
 to my own evidence, you need be under no uneasiness 
 about that" 
 
 " Well, sir," cried he, " all the return I can make shall be 
 yours. You shall have more than half my bedclothes
 
 MO SITUATION WITHOUT SOME COMFORT. 4*5 
 
 to-night, and I'll take care to stand your friend in the 
 prison, where I think I have some influence." 
 
 I thanked him, and could not avoid being surprised at 
 the present youthful change in his aspect ; for, at the time 
 I had seen him before, he appeared at least sixty. " Sir," 
 answered he, "you are little acquainted with the world. 
 I had at that time false hair, and have learned tne art of 
 counterfeiting every age, from seventeen to seventy. Ah, 
 sir ! had I but bestowed half the pains in learning a trade 
 that I have in learning to be a scoundrel, I might have 
 been a rich man at this day ; but, rogue as I am, still I 
 may be your friend, and that, perhaps, when you least 
 expect it." 
 
 We were now prevented from further conversation by 
 the arrival of the jailer's servants, who came to call over 
 the prisoners' names, and lock up for the night : a fellow 
 also with a bundle of straw for my bed attended, who led 
 me along a dark narrow passage into a room paved like 
 the common prison, and in one corner of this I spread my 
 bed, and the clothes given me by my fellow-prisoner; 
 which done, my conductor, who was civil enough, bade me 
 a good night. After my usual meditations, and having 
 praised my heavenly Corrector, I laid myself down, and 
 slept with the utmost tranquillity till morning.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 A. REFORMATION IN THE JAIL. TO MAKE LAWS COMPLETE, THEY 
 SHOULD REWARD AS WELL AS PUNISH. 
 
 jHE next morning early I was awakened by my 
 family, whom I found in tears at my bedside. 
 The gloomy appearance of everything about 
 us, it seems, had daunted them. I gently 
 rebuked their sorrow, assuring them I had never slept 
 with greater tranquillity ; and, next, inquired after my 
 eldest daughter, who was not among them : they informed 
 me that yesterday's uneasiness and fatigue had increased 
 her fever, and it was judged proper to leave her behind. 
 My next care was to send my son to procure a room or 
 two to lodge my family in, as near the prison as con- 
 veniently could be found. He obeyed, but could only 
 find one apartment, which was hired at a small expense 
 for his mother and sisters ; the jailer with humanity con- 
 senting to let him and his two little brothers be in the 
 prison with me : a bed was therefore prepared for them in 
 a corner of the room, which I thought answered very
 
 REFORMATION IN THE JAIL. 417 
 
 conveniently. I was willing, however, previously to know 
 whether my little children chose to lie in a place which 
 seemed to frighten them upon entrance. 
 
 " Well," cried I, " my good boys, how do you like your 
 bed ? I hope you are not afraid to lie in this room, dark 
 as it appears ?" 
 
 " No, papa," says Dick, " I am not afraid to lie any- 
 where where you are." 
 
 "And I," says Bill, who was yet but four years old, 
 " love every place best that my papa is in." 
 
 After this I allotted to each of the family what they 
 were to do. My daughter was particularly directed to 
 watch her declining sister's health ; my wife was to attend 
 me ; my little boys were to read to me. " And as for 
 you, my son," continued I, " it is by the labour of your 
 hands we must all hope to be supported. Your wages as 
 a day labourer will be fully sufficient, with proper frugality, 
 to maintain us all, and comfortably too. Thou art now 
 sixteen years old, and hast strength, and it was given thee, 
 my son, for very useful purposes ; for it must save from 
 famine your helpless parents and family. Prepare then 
 this evening to look out for work against to-morrow, 
 and bring home every night what money you earn for our 
 support." 
 
 Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, I 
 walked down to the common prison, where I could enjoy 
 more air and room ; but I was not long there, when the 
 execrations, lewdness, and brutality that invaded me on 
 every side, drove me back to my apartments again : here I 
 
 27
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 sat for some time, pondering upon the strange infatuation 
 of wretches who, finding all mankind in open arms against 
 them, were labouring to make themselves a future and 
 tremendous enemy. 
 
 Their insensibility excited my highest compassion, and 
 blotted my own uneasiness from my mind : it even appeared 
 a duty incumbent upon me to attempt to reclaim them. I 
 resolved, therefore, once more to return, and, in spite ol 
 their contempt, to give them my advice, and conquer them 
 by perseverance. Going therefore among them again, I 
 informed Mr. Jenkinson of my design ; at which he 
 laughed heartily, but communicated it to the rest. The 
 proposal was received with the greatest good humour, as it 
 promised to afford a new fund of entertainment to persons 
 who had now no other resource for mirth but what could 
 be 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 
 amend some, but could itself receive no contamination 
 from any. 
 
 After reading I entered upon my exhortation, which 
 was rather calculated at first to amuse them than to 
 reprove. 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
 
 REFORMA TION Iff THE JAIL. 419 
 
 sorry, I said, to hear them so very profane ; because they 
 got nothing by it, and might lose a great deal : " For be 
 assured, my friends," cried I (" for you are my friends, how- 
 ever 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 how scurvily he uses you ? He has given 
 you nothing here, you find, but a mouthful of oaths and an 
 empty belly ; and by the best accounts I have of him, he 
 will give you nothing that's good hereafter. 
 
 " If used ill in our dealing 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 
 hand, swearing that I was a very honest fellow, and 
 that they desired my farther acquaintance. I therefore 
 promised to repeat my lecture next day, and actually
 
 420 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 conceived some hope 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 
 reproof, if the archer could but take a proper aim. When 
 I had thus satisfied my mind I went back to my apart- 
 ment, where my wife prepared a frugal meal, while Mr. 
 Jenkinson begged leave to add his dinner to ours, and 
 partake of the pleasure, as he was kind enough to express 
 it, of my conversation. He had not yet seen my family ; 
 for, as they came to my apartment by a door in the 
 narrow passage already described, by this means they 
 avoided the common prison : Jenkinson, at the first 
 interview, therefore, seemed not a little struck with the 
 beauty of my youngest daughter, which her pensive air 
 contributed to heighten ; and my little ones did not pass 
 unnoticed. 
 
 " Alas, doctor !" cried he, " these children are too hand- 
 some and too good for such a place as this." 
 
 "Why, Mr. Jenkinson," replied I, "thank Heaven, 
 my children are pretty tolerable in morals ; and if they 
 be good, it matters little for the rest." 
 
 "I fancy, sir," returned my fellow-prisoner, "that it 
 must give you a great comfort to have this little family 
 about you." 
 
 " A comfort, Mr. Jenkinson !" replied I : " yes, it is 
 indeed a comfort, and I would not be without them for all 
 the world : for they can make a dungeon seem a palace. 
 There is but one way in this life of wounding my happi- 
 ness, and that is by injuring them."
 
 REFORM A TION IN THE JAIL. 4*1 
 
 " I am afraid then, sir," cried he, " that I am in some 
 measure culpable ; for I think I see here [looking at my 
 son Moses] one that I have injured, and by whom I wish 
 to be forgiven." 
 
 My son immediately recollected his voice and features, 
 though he had before seen him in disguise ; and, taking 
 him by the hand, with a smile forgave him. " Yet," con- 
 tinued he, " I can't help wondering at what you could see 
 in my face to think me a proper mark for deception." 
 
 "My dear sir," returned the other, "it was not your 
 face, but your white stockings and the black ribbon on 
 your hair that allured me. But, no disparagement to 
 your parts, I have deceived wiser men than you in my 
 time ; and yet, with all my tricks, the blockheads have 
 been too many for me at last." 
 
 "I suppose," cried my son, "that the narrative of 
 such a life as yours must be extremely instructive and 
 amusing." 
 
 " Not much of either," returned Mr. Jenkinson : " those 
 relations which describe the tricks and vices only of 
 mankind, by increasing our suspicion in life, retard our 
 success. The traveller that distrusts every person he 
 meets, and turns back upon the appearance of every man 
 that looks like a robber, seldom arrives in time at his 
 journey's end. Indeed, I think, from my own experience, 
 that the knowing one is the silliest fellow under the sun. 
 I was thought cunning from my very childhood ; when 
 but seven years old, the ladies would say that I was a 
 perfect little man ; at fourteen I knew the world, cocked
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 my hat, and loved the ladies ; at twenty, though I was 
 perfectly honest, yet every one thought me so cunning, 
 that no one would trust me. Thus I was at last obliged to 
 turn sharper in my own defence, and have lived ever since, 
 my head throbbing with schemes to deceive, and my heart 
 palpitating with fears of detection. I used often to laugh 
 at your honest simple neighbour Flamborough, and one 
 way or another generally cheated him once a year: 
 yet still the honest man went forward without suspicion, 
 and grew rich ; while I still continued tricksy and cunning, 
 and was poor without the consolation of being honest. 
 However," continued he, "let me know your case, and 
 what has brought you here: perhaps, though I have 
 not skill to avoid a jail myself, I may extricate my 
 friends." 
 
 In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him of 
 the whole train of accidents and follies that had plunged 
 me into my present troubles, and my utter inability to 
 get free. 
 
 After hearing my story, and pausing some minutes, he 
 slapped his forehead, as if he had hit upon something 
 material, and took his leave, saying he would try what 
 could be done.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 
 
 [HE next morning I communicated to my wife 
 and children the schemes I had planned of 
 reforming the prisoners, which they received 
 with universal disapprobation, alleging the im- 
 possibility and impropriety of it ; adding that my en- 
 deavours would no way contribute to their amendment, 
 but might probably disgrace my calling. 
 
 " Excuse me," returned I ; " these people, however fallen, 
 are still men ; and that is a very good title to my affections. 
 Good counsel rejected returns to enrich the giver's bosom ; 
 and though the instruction I communicate may not mend 
 them, yet it will assuredly mend myself. If these wretches, 
 my children, were princes, there would be thousands ready 
 to offer their ministry ; but, in my opinion, the heart that 
 is buried in a dungeon is as precious as that seated upon a 
 throne. Yes, my treasures, if I can mend them I will : 
 perhaps they will not all despise me ; perhaps I may catch 
 up even one from the gulf, and that will be great gain ; for 
 is there upon earth a gem so precious as the human soul ?"
 
 424 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 Thus saying, I left them, and descended to the common 
 prison, where I found the prisoners very merry, expecting 
 my arrival, and each prepared with some jail-trick to play 
 upon the doctor. Thus, as I was going to begin, one 
 turned my wig awry, as if by accident, and then asked my 
 pardon ; a second, who stood at some distance, had a knack 
 of spitting through his teeth, which fell in showers upon 
 my book ; a third would cry Amen ! in such an affected 
 tone as gave the rest great delight ; a fourth had slily 
 picked my pockets of my spectacles : but 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 dis- 
 placed one of them, and put an obscene jest-book of his 
 own in the place. However, I took no notice of all 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 suc- 
 ceeded ; and in less than six days some were penitent, 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 service also, by rendering their situation 
 somewhat more comfortable. Their time had hitherto 
 been divided between famine and excess, tumultuous riot 
 and bitter repining : their own employment was quarrelling 
 among each other, playing at cribbage, and cutting
 
 THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 425 
 
 tobacco stoppers. From this last mode of idle industry I 
 took the hint of setting such as chose to work at cutting 
 pegs for tobacconists and shoemakers, the proper wood 
 being bought by a general subscription, and when 
 manufactured, sold by my appointment ; so that each 
 earned something every day ; a trifle indeed, but sufficient 
 to maintain him. 
 
 I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the punish- 
 ment of immorality, and rewards for peculiar industry. 
 Thus in less than a fortnight I had formed them into 
 something social and humane, and had the pleasure of 
 regarding myself as a legislator who had brought men 
 from their native ferocity into friendship and obedience. 
 
 And it were highly to be wished that legislative power 
 would thus direct the law rather to reformation than 
 severity ; that it would soon be convinced that the work 
 of eradicating crimes is not by making punishments 
 familiar, but formidable. Then instead of our present 
 prisons, which find or make men guilty ; which enclose 
 wretches for the commission of one crime, and return 
 them, if returned alive, fitted for the perpetration of 
 thousands it were to be wished we had, as in other parts 
 of Europe, places of penitence and solitude, where the 
 accused might be attended by such as would give them 
 repentance if guilty, or new motives to virtue if innocent. 
 And this, but not the increasing punishments, is the way 
 to mend a state ; nor can I avoid even questioning the 
 validity of that right which social combinations have 
 assumed, of capitally punishing offences of a slight nature.
 
 426 THE VICAR OF WAXEFIELD. 
 
 In cases of murder their right is obvious, as it is the duty 
 of us all, from the law of self-defence, to cut off that man 
 who has shown a disregard for the life of another ; against 
 such all nature rises in arms, but it is not so against him 
 who steals my property. Natural law gives me no right 
 to take away his life, as by that the horse he steals is as 
 much his property as mine. If, then, I have any right, 
 it must be from a compact made between us, that he who 
 deprives the other of his horse shall die. But this is a 
 false compact, because no man has a right to barter his 
 life, no more than take it away, as it is not his own. And 
 besides, the compact is inadequate, and would be set aside 
 even in a court of modern equity, as there is a great 
 penalty for a trifling inconvenience ; since it is far better 
 that two men should live than one man should ride. But 
 a compact that is false between two men is equally so 
 between a hundred and a hundred thousand ; for as ten 
 millions of circles can never make a square, so the united 
 voice of myriads cannot lend the smallest foundation to 
 falsehood. It is thus that reason speaks, and untutored 
 nature says the same thing. Savages, that are directed by 
 natural law alone, are very tender of the lives of each 
 other ; they seldom shed blood but to retaliate former 
 cruelty. 
 
 Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, had but 
 few executions in times of peace ; and in all commencing 
 governments that have the print of nature still strong upon 
 them scarce any crime is held capital. 
 
 It is among the citizens of a refined community that
 
 THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 427 
 
 penal laws, which are in the hands of the rich, are laid 
 upon the poor. Government, while it grows older, seems 
 to acquire the moroseness of age ; and as if our property 
 were become dearer in proportion as it increased as if 
 the more enormous our wealth the more extensive our fears, 
 all our possessions are paled up with new edicts every 
 day, and hung round with gibbets to scare every invader. 
 
 I cannot tell whether it is from the number of our penal 
 laws, or the licentiousness of our people, that this country 
 should show more convicts in a year than half the domin- 
 ions of Europe united. Perhaps it is owing to both, for 
 they mutually produce each other. When by indiscrim- 
 inate penal laws a nation beholds the same punishment 
 affixed to dissimilar degrees of guilt, from perceiving no 
 distinction in the penalty, the people are led to lose all 
 sense of distinction in the crime, and this distinction 
 is the bulwark of all morality ; thus the multitude of 
 laws produces new vices, and new vices call for fresh 
 restraints. 
 
 It were to be wished, then, that power instead of con- 
 triving new laws to punish vice, instead of drawing hard 
 the cords of society till a convulsion come to burst them, 
 instead of cutting away wretches as useless before we 
 have tried their utility, instead of converting correction 
 into vengeance, it were to be wished that we tried the 
 restrictive arts of government, and made laws the pro- 
 tector, but not the tyrant, of the people. We should 
 then find that creatures whose souls are held as dross 
 only wanted the hand of a refiner ; we should then find
 
 428 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 that wretches now stuck up for long tortures, lest luxury 
 should feel a momentary pang, might, if properly treated, 
 serve to sinew the state in times of danger ; that as their 
 faces are like ours, their hearts are so too ; that few minds 
 are so base as that perseverance cannot amend ; that a 
 man may see his last crime without dying for it ; and that 
 very little blood will serve to cement our security.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 HAPPINESS AND MISERY RATHER THE RESULT OP PRUDENCE 
 THAN OF VIRTUE IN THIS LIFE ; TEMPORAL EVILS OR FELICITIES 
 BEING REGARDED BY HEAVEN AS THINGS MERELY TN THEM- 
 SELVES TRIFLING, AND UNWORTHY ITS CARE IN THE DISTRIBU- 
 TION. 
 
 HAD now been confined more than a fortnight, 
 but had not since my arrival been visited by my 
 dear Olivia ; and I greatly longed to see her. 
 Having communicated my wishes to my wife, 
 the next morning the poor girl entered my apartment 
 leaning on her sister's arm. The change which I saw in 
 her countenance struck me. The numberless graces that 
 once resided there were now fled, and the hand of death 
 seemed to have moulded every feature to alarm me : her 
 temples were sunk, her forehead was tense, and a fatal 
 paleness sat upon her cheek. 
 
 " I am glad to see thee, my dear," cried I ; " but why 
 this dejection, Livy ? I hope, my love, you have too great 
 a regard for me to permit disappointment thus to under-
 
 430 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 mine a life which I prize as my own. Be cheerful, my 
 child, and we may yet see happier days." 
 
 " You have ever, sir," replied she, " been kind to me ; 
 and it adds to my pain that I shall never have an oppor- 
 tunity of sharing the happiness you promise. Happiness, 
 I fear, is no longer reserved for me here, and I long to be 
 rid of a place where I have only found distress. Indeed, 
 sir, I wish you would make a proper submission to Mr. 
 Thornhill: it may, in some measure, induce him to pity 
 you, and it will give me relief in dying." 
 
 " Never, child," replied I, " never will I be brought to 
 acknowledge my daughter a prostitute ; for though the 
 world may look upon your offence with scorn, let it be 
 mine to regard it as a mark of credulity, not of guilt. My 
 dear, I am no way miserable in this place, however dismal 
 it may seem ; and be assured that, while you continue to 
 bless me by living, he shall never have my consent to make 
 you more wretched by marrying another." 
 
 After the departure of my daughter, my fellow-prisoner,, 
 who was by at this interview, sensibly enough expostulated 
 upon my obstinacy in refusing a submission which pro- 
 mised to give me freedom. He observed that the rest 
 of my family were not to be sacrificed to the peace of one 
 child alone, and she the only one who had offended me. 
 " Besides," added he, " I don't know if it be just thus to 
 obstruct the union of man and wife, which you do at 
 present, by refusing to consent to a match which you 
 cannot hinder, but may render unhappy." 
 
 " Sir," replied I, " you are unacquainted with the man
 
 HAPPINESS THE RESULT OF PRUDENCE. 43. 
 
 that oppresses us. I am very sensible that no submission 
 I can make could procure me liberty even for an hour. I 
 am told that, even in this very room, a debtor of his, no 
 later than last year, died for want. But though my sub- 
 mission and approbation could transfer me from hence to 
 the most beautiful apartment he is possessed of, yet I 
 would grant neither, as something whispers me that it 
 would be giving a sanction to adultery. While my 
 daughter lives, no other marriage of his shall ever be legal 
 in my eye. Were she removed, indeed, I should be the 
 basest of men, from any resentment of my own, to attempt 
 putting asunder those who wish for a union. No ; villain 
 as he is, I should even wish him married, to prevent the 
 consequences of his future debaucheries. But now should 
 I not be the most cruel of fathers to sign an instrument 
 which must send my child to the grave, merely to avoid a 
 prison myself; and thus, to escape one pang, break my 
 child's heart with a thousand ?" 
 
 He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but could 
 not avoid observing that he feared my daughter's life was 
 already too much wasted to keep me long a prisoner. 
 " However," continued he, " though you refuse to submit 
 to the nephew, I hope you have no objection to laying 
 your case before the uncle, who has the first character in 
 the kingdom for everything that is just and good. I would 
 advise you to send him a letter by the post, intimating 
 all his nephew's ill-usage ; and, my life for it, that in three 
 days you shall have an answer." 
 
 1 thanked him for the hint, and instantly set about com-
 
 432 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 plying ; but I wanted paper, and unluckily all our money 
 had been laid out that morning in provisions. However, 
 he supplied me. 
 
 For the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety 
 to know what reception my letter might meet with ; but 
 in the meantime was frequently solicited by my wife to 
 submit to any conditions rather than remain here, and 
 every hour received repeated accounts of the decline of my 
 daughter's health. The third day and the fourth arrived, 
 but I received no answer to my letter : the complaints of 
 a stranger against a favourite nephew were no way likely 
 to succeed ; so that these hopes soon vanished, like all 
 my former. My mind, however, still supported itself, 
 though confinement and bad air began to make a little 
 alteration in my health, and my arm that had suffered 
 in the fire grew worse. My children, however, sat by me, 
 and while I was stretched on my straw read to me by 
 turns, or listened and wept at my instructions : but my 
 daughter's health declining faster than mine, every 
 message from her contributed to increase my apprehension 
 and pain. The fifth morning after I had written the letter 
 which was sent Sir William Thornhill, I was alarmed with 
 an account that she was speechless. Now it was that 
 confinement was truly painful to me ; my soul was burst- 
 ing from its prison to be near the pillow of my child, to 
 comfort, to strengthen her, to receive her last wishes, and 
 teach her soul the way to heaven. Another account came, 
 she was expiring, and yet I was debarred the small com- 
 fort of weeping by her. My fellow-prisoner some time
 
 HAPPINESS THE RESULT. OF PRUDENCE. 433 
 
 after came with the last account, he bade me be patient 
 she was dead ! The next morning he returned and found 
 me with my two little ones, now my only companions, 
 who were using all their innocent efforts to comfort me. 
 They entreated to read to me, and bade me not cry, for 
 I was now too old to weep. " And is not my sister an 
 angel now, papa ?" cried the elder ; " and why then are 
 you sorry for her ? I wish I were an angel, out of this 
 frightful place, if my papa were with me." " Yes," added 
 my younger darling, " heaven, where my sister is, is a finer 
 place than this ; and there are none but good people there, 
 and the people here are very bad." 
 
 Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prattle by ob- 
 serving that, now my daughter was no more, I should 
 seriously think of the rest of my family, and attempt to 
 save my own life, which was every day declining for want 
 of necessaries and wholesome air. He added that it was 
 now incumbent on me to sacrifice any pride or resentment 
 of my own to the welfare of those who depended on me 
 for support ; and that I was now, both by reason and 
 justice, obliged to try to reconcile my landlord. 
 
 " Heaven be praised !" replied I ; " there is no pride left 
 me now. I should detest my own heart if I saw either 
 pride or resentment lurking there. On the contrary, as 
 my oppressor has been once my parishioner, I hope one 
 day to present him up an unpolluted soul at the eternal 
 tribunal. No, sir, I have no resentment now ; and though 
 he has taken from me what I held dearer than all his 
 
 treasures, though he has wrung my heart (for I am sick 
 
 28
 
 434 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD, 
 
 almost to fainting, very sick), my fellow-prisoner, yet that 
 shall never inspire me with vengeance. I am now willing 
 to approve his marriage ; and if this submission can do him 
 any pleasure, let him know that if I have done him any 
 injury I am sorry for it." Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, 
 and wrote down my submission nearly as I have expressed 
 it, to which I signed my name. My son was employed to 
 carry the letter to Mr. Thornhill, who was then at his seat 
 in the country. He went, and in about six hours returned 
 with a verbal answer. He had some difficulty, he said, to 
 get a sight of his landlord, as the servants were insolent 
 and suspicious ; but he accidentally saw him as he was 
 going out upon business, preparing for his marriage, which 
 was to be in three days. He continued to inform us that 
 he stepped up in the humblest manner and delivered the 
 letter, which, when Mr. Thornhill had read, he said that all 
 submission was now too late and unnecessary ; that he had 
 heard of our application to his uncle, which met with the 
 contempt it deserved ; and as for the rest, that all future 
 applications should be directed to his attorney, not to him. 
 He observed, however, that as he had a very good opinion 
 of the discretion of the two young ladies, they might have 
 been the most agreeable intercessors. 
 
 "Well, sir," said I to my fellow-prisoner, "you now dis- 
 cover the temper of the man who oppresses me. He can 
 at once be facetious and cruel ; but let him use me as he 
 will, I shall soon be free, in spite of all his bolts to restrain 
 me. I am now drawing towards an abode that looks 
 Brighter as I approach it: this expectation cheers my
 
 HAPPINESS THE RESULT OF PRUDENCE. 435 
 
 afflictions; and though I leave a helpless family of 
 orphans behind me, yet they will not be utterly forsaken ; 
 some friend, perhaps, will be found to assist them for the 
 sake of their poor father, and some may charitably relieve 
 them for the sake of their heavenly Father." 
 
 Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen that day 
 before, appeared with looks of terror, and making efforts, 
 but unable to speak. "Why, my love," cried I "why 
 will you thus increase my afflictions by your own ? What 
 though no submission can turn our severe master, though 
 he has doomed me to die in this place of wretchedness, and 
 though we have lost a darling child ? yet you will find 
 comfort in your other children when I shall be no more." 
 "We have indeed lost," returned she, "a darling child! 
 My Sophia, my dearest, is gone ; snatched from us, carried 
 off by ruffians !" 
 
 " How, madam !" cried my fellow-prisoner ; " Miss Sophia 
 carried off by villains ? Sure it cannot be !" 
 
 She could only answer with a fixed look and a flood of 
 tears ; but one of the prisoners' wives, who was present and 
 came in with her, gave us a more distinct account 
 She informed us, that as my wife, my daughter, and 
 herself were taking a walk together on the great road, 
 a little way out of the village, a post-chaise and pair drove 
 up to them and instantly stopped ; upon which a well- 
 dressed man, but not Mr. Thornhill, stepping out, clasped 
 my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bade 
 the postillion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a 
 moment
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 "Now," cried I, "the sum of my miseries is made up, 
 nor is it in the power of anything on earth to give me 
 another pang. What ! not one left ! not leave me one ? 
 the monster ! The child that was next my heart ! she had 
 the beauty of an angel, and almost the wisdom of an angel. 
 But support that woman, nor let her fall. Not to leave me 
 one ! Not to leave me one !" 
 
 "Alas, my husband !" said my wife, "you seem to want 
 comfort even more than I. Our distresses are great ; but 
 I could bear this, and more, if I saw you but easy. They 
 may take away my children, and all the world, if they 
 leave me but you." 
 
 My son, who was present, endeavoured to moderate 
 her grief ; he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that we 
 might still have reason to be thankful. " My child," cried 
 I, " look round the world, and see if there be any 
 happiness left me now. Is not every ray of comfort shut 
 out ? while all our bright prospects only lie beyond the 
 grave." 
 
 " My dear father," returned he, " I hope there is still 
 something that will give you an interval of satisfaction; 
 for I have a letter from my brother George." 
 
 " What of him, my child ?" interrupted I ; " does he 
 know our misery ? I hope my boy is exempt from any 
 part of what the wretched family suffers." 
 
 "Yes, sir," returned he, "he is perfectly gay, cheerful, 
 and happy. His letter brings nothing but good news ; he 
 is the favourite of his colonel, who promises to procure him 
 the very next lieutenancy that becomes vacant"
 
 HAPPINESS THE RESULT OF PRUDENCE 43? 
 
 " But are you sure of all this ?" cried my wife ; " are 
 you sure that nothing ill has befallen my boy ?" " No- 
 thing, indeed, madam," returned my son : " you shall 
 see the letter, which will give you the highest pleasure , 
 and if anything can procure comfort, I am sure that will." 
 " But are you sure," still repeated she, " that the letter 
 is from himself, and that he is really so happy ?" " Yes, 
 madam," replied he, "it is certainly his, and he will one 
 day be the credit and the support of our family." " Then 
 I thank Providence," cried she, "that my last letter to 
 him has miscarried. Yes, my dear," continued she, turn- 
 ing to me, " I will now confess, that though the hand of 
 Heaven is sore upon us in other instances, it has been 
 favourable here. By the last letter I wrote my son, which 
 was in the bitterness of anger, I desired him, upon his 
 mother's blessing, and if he had the heart of a man, to 
 see justice done his father and sister, and avenge our 
 cause; but, thanks be to Him who directs all things, it 
 has miscarried, and I am at rest." " Woman," cried I, 
 "thou hast done very ill, and at another time my re- 
 proaches might have been more severe. Oh, what a 
 tremendous gulf hast thou escaped, that would have buried 
 both thee and him in endless ruin! Providence, indeed, 
 has here been kinder to us than we to ourselves : it has 
 reserved that son to be the father and protector of my 
 children when I shall be away. How unjustly did I 
 complain of being stripped of every comfort, when still I 
 hear that he is happy, and insensible of our afflictions ; 
 still kept in reserve to support his widowed mother, and
 
 438 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 to protect his brothers and sisters ! But what sisters has 
 he left ? He has no sisters now ; they are all gone, 
 robbed from me, and I am undone !" 
 
 " Father," interrupted my son, " I beg you will give 
 me leave to read this letter; I know it will please 
 you." Upon which, with my permission, he read as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 "HONOURED SIR, I have called off my imagination 
 a few moments from the pleasures that surround me to 
 fix it upon objects that are still more pleasing, the dear 
 little fireside at home. My fancy draws that harmless 
 group as listening to every line of this with great com- 
 posure. I view those faces with delight, which never felt 
 the deforming hand of ambition or distress. But, whatever 
 your happiness may be at home, I am sure it will be some 
 addition to it to hear that I am perfectly pleased with my 
 situation, and every way happy here. 
 
 " Our regiment is countermanded, and is not to leave 
 the kingdom. The colonel, who professes himself my 
 friend, takes me with him to all companies where he is 
 acquainted ; and, after my first visit, I generally find 
 myself received with increased respect upon repeating it. 
 
 I danced last night with Lady G , and could I forget 
 
 you know whom, I might be perhaps successful : but it is 
 my fate still to remember others while I am myself forgotten 
 by most of my absent friends, and in this number, I fe.ar, 
 sir, that I must consider you, for I have long expected the 
 pleasure of a letter from home to no purpose. Olivia and
 
 HAPPINESS THE RESULT OF PRUDENCE. 439 
 
 Sophia, too, promised to write, but seem to have forgotten 
 me. Tell them that they are two arrant little baggages, 
 and that I am this moment in a most violent passion with 
 them ; yet still, I know not how, though I want to bluster 
 a little, my heart is respondent only to softer emotions. 
 Then tell them, sir, that after all, I love them affection- 
 ately, and be assured of my ever remaining your dutiful 
 son." 
 
 " In all our miseries," cried I, " what thanks have we 
 not to return that one at least of our family is exempted 
 from what we^ suffer ! Heaven be his guard, and keep 
 my boy thus happy, to be the support of his widowed 
 mother, and the father of these two babes, which is all 
 the patrimony I can now bequeath him! May he keep 
 their innocence from the temptations of want, and be their 
 conductor in the paths of honour !" I had scarcely said 
 these words when a noise like that of a tumult seemed 
 to proceed from the prison below : it died away soon after, 
 and a clanking of fetters was heard along the passage that 
 led to my apartment. The keeper of the prison entered, 
 holding a man all bloody, wounded, and fettered with the 
 heaviest irons. I looked with compassion upon the wretch 
 as he approached me, but with horror when I found it was 
 my own son. " My George ! my George ! and do I 
 behold thee thus ? wounded ! fettered ! Is this thy 
 happiness ? Is this the manner you return to me ? Oh, 
 that this sight would break my heart at once, and let 
 me die !"
 
 440 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 "Where, sir, is your fortitude?" returned my son, with 
 an intrepid voice. " I must suffer ; my life is forfeited, 
 and let them take it." 
 
 I tried to restrain my passion for a few minutes in 
 silence, but I thought I should have died with the effort. 
 " Oh, my boy, my heart weeps to behold thee thus, 
 and I cannot, cannot help it ! In the moment I thought 
 thee blest, and prayed for thy safety, to behold thee 
 thus again, chained, wounded ! And yet the death of the 
 youthful is happy : but I am old, a very old man, and 
 have lived to see this day ; to see my children all un- 
 timely falling about me, while I continue a wretched 
 survivor in the midst of ruin ! May all the curses that 
 ever sunk a soul fall heavy upon the murderer of my 
 children ! May he live, like me, to see " 
 
 " Hold, sir," replied my son, " or I shall blush for thee. 
 How, sir ! forgetful of your age, your holy calling, thus 
 to arrogate the justice of Heaven, and fling those curses 
 upward, that must soon descend to crush thy own grey 
 head with destruction ! No, sir, let it be your care now 
 to fit me for that vile death I must shortly suffer; to 
 arm me with hope and resolution ; to give me courage 
 to drink of that bitterness which must shortly be my 
 portion." 
 
 " My child, you must not die ! I am sure no offence of 
 thine can deserve so vile a punishment. My George could 
 never be guilty of any crime to make his ancestors ashamed 
 of him."
 
 HAPPINESS THE RESULT OF PRUDENCE. 441 
 
 " Mine, sir," returned my son, " is, I fear, an unpardon- 
 able one. When I received my mother's letter from 
 home, I immediately came down, determined to punish the 
 betrayer of our honour, and sent him an order to meet me, 
 which he answered, not in person, but by despatching four 
 of his domestics to seize me. I wounded one who first 
 assaulted me, and I fear desperately ; but the rest made 
 me their prisoner. The coward is determined to put the 
 law in execution against me : the proofs are undeniable : 
 I have sent a challenge ; and, as I am the first aggressor 
 upon the statute, I see no hopes of pardon. But you have 
 often charmed me with your lessons of fortitude ; let me 
 now, sir, find them in your example." 
 
 " And, my son, you shall find them. I am now raised 
 above this world, and all the pleasures it can produce. 
 From this moment I break from my heart all the ties that 
 held it down to earth, and will prepare to fit us both for 
 eternity. Yes, my son, I will point out the way, and my 
 soul shall guide yours in the ascent, for we will take our 
 flight together. I now see, and am convinced, you can 
 expect no pardon here, and I can only exhort you to seek 
 : at that greatest tribunal where we shall both shortly 
 nswer. But let us not be niggardly in our exhortation^ 
 at let all our fellow-prisoners have a share. Good jai 
 t them be permitted to stand here while I attempt i 
 .prove them." 
 
 Thus saying, I made an effort to rise from the stnr. 
 jut wanted strength, and was able only to reciu.
 
 442 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 against the wall. The prisoners assembled according to 
 my directions, for they loved to hear my counsel ; my son 
 and his mother supported me on either side ; I looked and 
 saw that none were wanting, and then addressed them with 
 the following exhortation.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE EQUAL DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE DEMONSTRATED WITH RF 
 GARD TO THE HAPPY AND THE MISERABLE HERE BELOW ; THAT. 
 FROM THE NATURE OF PLEASURE AND PAIN, THE WRETCHEO 
 MUST BE REPAID THE BALANCE OF THEIR SUFFERINGS IN THE 
 LIFE HEREAFTER. 
 
 JY friends, my children, and fellow-sufferers 
 when I reflect on the distribution of good 
 and evil here below, I find that much has 
 been given man to enjoy, yet still more to 
 suffer. Though we should examine the whole world, we 
 shall not find one man so happy as to have nothing left to 
 wish for ; but we daily see thousands who by suicide show 
 us they have nothing left to hope. In this life, then, it 
 appears that we cannot be entirely blessed ; but yet we 
 may be completely miserable. 
 
 " Why man should thus feel pain ; why our wretched- 
 ness should be requisite in the formation of universal 
 felicity ; why, when all other systems are made perfect by 
 the perfection of their subordinate parts, the great system
 
 444 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 should require for its perfection parts that are not only 
 subordinate to others, but imperfect in themselves ; these 
 are questions that never can be explained, and might be 
 useless if known. On this subject Providence has thought 
 fit to elude our curiosity, satisfied with granting us motives 
 to consolation. 
 
 " In this situation man has called in the friendly assist- 
 ance of philosophy ; and Heaven, seeing the incapacity of 
 that to console him, has given him the aid of religion. 
 The consolations of philosophy are very amusing, but often 
 fallacious : it tells us that life is filled with comforts if we 
 will but enjoy them ; and, on the other hand, that though 
 we unavoidably have miseries here, life is short, and they 
 will soon be over. Thus do these consolations destroy 
 each other ; for if life is a place of comfort, its shortness 
 must be misery, and if it be long, our griefs are protracted. 
 Thus philosophy is weak ; but religion comforts in a 
 higher strain. Man is here, it tells us, fitting up his mind, 
 and preparing it for another abode. When the good man 
 leaves the body and is all a glorious mind, he will find he 
 has been making himself a heaven of happiness here ; 
 while the wretch that has been maimed and contaminated 
 by his vices, shrinks from his body with terror, and finds 
 that he has anticipated the vengeance of heaven. To 
 religion, then, we must hold, in every circumstance of life, 
 for our truest comfort ; for if already we are happy, it is a 
 pleasure to think that we can make that happiness un- 
 ending, and if we are miserable, it is very consoling to 
 think that there is a place of rest. Thus, to the fortunate,
 
 THE DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE DEMONSTRA TED. 445 
 
 religion holds out a continuance of bliss ; to the wretched, 
 a change from pain. 
 
 "But though religion is very kind to all men, it has 
 promised peculiar rewards to the unhappy : the sick, the 
 naked, the houseless, the heavy laden, and the prisoner, 
 have ever most frequent promises in our sacred law. The 
 Author of our religion everywhere professes Himself the 
 wretch's Friend ; and, unlike the false ones of this world 
 bestows all his caresses upon the forlorn. The unthinking 
 have censured this as partiality as a preference without 
 merit to deserve it; but they never reflect that it is not in tht 
 power even of Heaven itself to make the offer of unceasing 
 felicity as great a gift to the happy as to the miserable. 
 To the first, eternity is but a single blessing, since at most 
 it but increases what they already possess ; to the latter it 
 is a double advantage, for it diminishes their pain here, 
 and rewards them with heavenly bliss hereafter. 
 
 " But Providence is in another respect kinder to the poor 
 than to the rich ; for as it thus makes the life after death 
 more desirable, so it smooths the passage there. The 
 wretched have had a long familiarity with every face of 
 terror. The man of sorrow lays himself quietly down, 
 with no possessions to regret, and but few ties to stop his 
 departure ; he feels only nature's pang in the final separ- 
 ation, and this is no way greater than he has often fainted 
 under before ; for, after a certain degree of pain, every new 
 breach that death opens in the constitution nature kindly 
 covers with insensibility. 
 
 ** Thus Providence has given to the wretched two advan-
 
 44 6 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 tages over the happy in this life, greater felicity in dying, 
 and in heaven all that superiority of pleasure which arises 
 from contrasted enjoyment. And this superiority, my 
 friends, is no small advantage, and seems to be one of the 
 pleasures of the poor man in the parable ; for though he 
 was already in Heaven, and felt all the raptures it could 
 give, yet it was mentioned, as an addition to his happiness, 
 that he had once been wretched, and now was comforted ; 
 that he had known what it was to be miserable, and now 
 felt what it was to be happy. 
 
 "Thus, my friends, you see religion does what phi- 
 losophy could never do : it shows the equal dealings of 
 Heaven to the happy and the unhappy, and levels all 
 human enjoyments to nearly the same standard ; it gives 
 to both rich and poor the same happiness hereafter, and 
 equal hopes to aspire after it : but if the rich have the 
 advantage of enjoying pleasure here, the poor have the 
 endless satisfaction of knowing what it was once to be miser- 
 able, when crowned with endless felicity hereafter: and even 
 though this should be called a small advantage, yet, being 
 an eternal one, it must make up by duration what the 
 temporal happiness of the great may have exceeded by 
 intenseness. 
 
 " These are therefore the consolations which the wretched 
 have peculiar to themselves, and in which they are above 
 the rest of mankind ; in other respects they are below 
 them. They who would know the miseries of the poor 
 must see life and endure it. To declaim on the temporal 
 advantages they enjoy is only repeating what none either
 
 THE DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE DEMONSTRATED. 447 
 
 believe or practise. The men who have the necessaries of 
 living are not poor, and they who want them must be 
 miserable. Yes, my friends, we must be miserable. No 
 vain efforts of a refined imagination can soothe the wants 
 of nature, can give elastic sweetness to the dark vapour of 
 a dungeon, or ease the throbbings of a broken heart. Let 
 the philosopher from his couch of softness tell us we can 
 resist all these. Alas ! the effort by which we resist them 
 is still the greatest pain. Death is slight, and any man 
 may sustain it ; but torments are dreadful, and these no 
 man can endure. 
 
 " To us, then, my friends, the promises of happiness in 
 heaven should be peculiarly dear ; for if our reward be in 
 this life alone, we are indeed of all men the most miser- 
 able. When I look round these gloomy walls, made to 
 terrify as well as to confine us this light that only serves 
 to show the horrors of the place those shackles, that 
 tyranny has imposed or crime made necessary when I 
 survey these emaciated looks and hear those groans, oh, 
 my friends, what a glorious exchange would heaven be for 
 these ! To fly through regions unconfined as air to bask 
 in the sunshine of eternal bliss to carol over endless 
 hymns of praise to have no master to threaten or insult 
 us, but the form of Goodness himself for ever in our eyes, 
 when I think of these things, death becomes the 
 messenger of very glad tidings ; when I think of these 
 things, his sharpest arrow becomes the staff of my sup- 
 port; when I think of these things, what is there in life 
 worth having ? when I think of these things, what is there
 
 448 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 that should not be spurned away ? Kings in their palaces 
 should groan for such advantages ; but we, humbled as we 
 are, should yearn for them. 
 
 " And shall these things be ours ? Ours they will cer- 
 tainly be if we but try for them ; and what is a comfort, 
 we are shut out from many temptations that would retard 
 our pursuit. Only let us try for them and they will cer- 
 tainly be ours, and what is still a comfort, shortly too ; for if 
 we look back on past life, it appears but a very short span, 
 and whatever we may think of the rest of life, it will yet be 
 found of less duration : as we grow older the days seem to 
 grow shorter, and our intimacy with time ever lessens the 
 perception of his stay. Then let us take comfort now, for 
 we shall soon be at our journey's end we shall soon lay 
 down the heavy burden laid by Heaven upon us ; and 
 though death, the only friend of the wretched, for a little 
 while mocks the weary traveller with the view, and like the 
 horizon, still flies before him, yet the time will certainly 
 and shortly come when we shall cease from our toil, 
 when the luxuriant great ones of the world shall no more 
 tread us to the earth, when we shall think with pleasure 
 of our sufferings below, when we shall be surrounded 
 with all our friends, or such as deserved our friendship, 
 when our bliss shall be unutterable, and still, to crown all, 
 unending."
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. LET US BE INPI *X1BLS, 
 AND FORTUNE WILL AT LAST CHANGE IN OUR FAVOUR. 
 
 JHEN I had thus finished, and my audience was 
 retired, the jailer, who was one of the most 
 humane of his profession, hoped I would not 
 be displeased, as what he did was but his duty ; 
 observing he must remove my son into a stronger cell, but 
 he should be permitted to visit me every morning. I 
 thanked him for his clemency, and grasping my boy's 
 hand, bade him farewell, and be mindful of the great duty 
 that was before him. 
 
 I again therefore laid me down, and one of my little 
 ones sat by my bedside reading, when Mr. Jenkinson, 
 entering, informed me that there was news of my 
 daughter ; for that she was seen by a person about two 
 hours before in a strange gentleman's company, and that 
 they had stopped at a neighbouring village for refresh- 
 ment, and seemed as if returning to town. He had scarce 
 delivered this news, when the jailer came, with looks of
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 haste and pleasure, to inform me that my daughter was 
 found. Moses came running in a moment after, crying 
 out that his sister Sophy was below, and coming up with 
 our old friend Mr. Burchell. 
 
 Just as he delivered this news my dearest girl entered, 
 and, with looks almost wild with pleasure, ran to kiss me 
 in a transport of affection. Her mother's tears and 
 silence also showed her pleasure. 
 
 " Here, papa," cried the charming girl, " here is the 
 brave man to whom I owe my delivery ; to this gentle- 
 man's intrepidity I am indebted for my happiness and 
 safety." 
 
 A kiss from Mr. Burchell, whose pleasure seemed even 
 greater than hers, interrupted what she was going to 
 add. 
 
 "Ahj Mr. Burchell!" cried I, "this is but a wretched 
 habitation you find us in ; and we are now very different 
 from what you last saw us. You were ever our friend ; 
 we have long discovered our errors with regard to you, and 
 repented of our ingratitude. After the vile usage you 
 then received at my hands, I am almost ashamed to be- 
 hold your face ; yet I hope you'll forgive me, as I was 
 deceived by a base, ungenerous wretch, who, under the 
 mask of friendship, has undone me." 
 
 " It is impossible," replied Mr. Burchell, " that I should 
 forgive you, as you never deserved my resentment. I 
 partly saw your delusion then ; and, as it was out of my 
 power to restrain, I could only pity it" 
 
 " It was ever my conjecture," cried I, "that your mine]
 
 HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. 4$I 
 
 was noble ; but now I find it so. But tell me, my dear 
 child, how hast thou been relieved, or who the ruffians were 
 that carried thee away ?" 
 
 " Indeed, sir," replied she, " as to the villain that carried 
 me off, I am yet ignorant ; for, as my mamma and I were 
 walking out, he came behind us, and, almost before I could 
 call for help, forced me into the post-chaise, and in an 
 instant the horses drove away. I met several on the road, 
 to whom I cried out for assistance ; but they disregarded 
 my entreaties. In the meantime, the ruffian himself used 
 every art to hinder me from crying out : he flattered and 
 threatened me by turns, and swore that, if I continued but 
 silent he intended no harm. In the meantime I had broken 
 the canvas that he had drawn up, and whom should I 
 perceive at some distance but your old friend Mr. Burchell, 
 walking along with his usual swiftness with the great stick, 
 for which we used so much to ridicule him ! As soon as 
 we came within hearing, I called out to him by name, 
 and entreated his help. I repeated my exclamations 
 several times ; upon which, with a very loud voice, he 
 bade the postillion stop : but the boy took no notice, but 
 drove on with still greater speed. I now thought he could 
 never overtake us, when in less than a minute I saw Mr. 
 Burchell come running up by the side of the horses, and 
 with one blow knock the postillion to the ground. The 
 horses, when he was fallen, soon stopped of themselves ; 
 and the ruffian stepping out, with oaths and menaces, 
 drew his sword, and ordered him at his peril to retire ; 
 but Mr. Burchell, running up, shivered his sword to pieces.
 
 452 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 and then pursued him for near a quarter of a mile ; but he 
 made his escape. I was at this time come out myself, willing 
 to assist my deliverer ; but he soon returned to me in 
 triumph. The postillion, who was recovered, was going to 
 make his escape too ; but Mr. Burchell ordered him at his 
 peril to mount again and drive back to town. Finding it 
 impossible to resist, he reluctantly complied, though the 
 wound he had received seemed, to me at least, to be 
 dangerous. He continued to complain of the pain as we 
 drove along, so that he at last excited Mr. Burchell's com- 
 passion ; who, at my request, exchanged him for another 
 at an inn where we called on our return." 
 
 " Welcome, then," cried I, " my child ; and thou, her 
 gallant deliverer, a thousand welcomes ! Though out 
 cheer is but wretched, yet our hearts are ready to receive 
 you. And now, Mr. Burchell, as you have delivered my 
 girl, if you think her a recompence, she is yours : if you 
 can stoop to an alliance with a family so poor as mine, 
 take her; obtain her consent, as I know you have her 
 heart, and you have mine : and let me tell you, sir, that I 
 give you no small treasure : she has been celebrated for 
 beauty, it is true : but that is not my meaning : I give you 
 a treasure in her mind." 
 
 " But I suppose, sir," cried Mr. Burchell, " that you are 
 apprised of my circumstances, and of my incapacity to 
 support her as she deserves ?" 
 
 " If your present objection," replied I, " be meant as an 
 evasion of my offer, I desist ; but I know no man so 
 worthy to deserve her as you ; and if I could give her
 
 HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. 45 
 
 thousands, and thousands sought her from me, yet nr 
 honest, brave Burchell should be my dearest choice." 
 
 To all this his silence alone seemed to give a mortifyinj 
 refusal ; and without the least reply to my offer, h< 
 demanded if we could not be furnished with refreshment 
 from the next inn ; to which being answered in th< 
 affirmative, he ordered them to send in the best dinne 
 that could be provided upon such short notice. He be 
 spoke also a dozen of their best wine, and some cordial 
 for me ; adding, with a smile, that he would stretch a littli 
 for once ; and, though in a prison, asserted he was neve 
 more disposed to be merry. The waiter soon made hi 
 appearance, with preparations for dinner ; a table wa 
 lent us by the jailer, who seemed remarkably assiduous 
 the wine was disposed in order ; and two very well-dressec 
 dishes were brought in. 
 
 My daughter had not yet heard of her poor brother': 
 melancholy situation, and we all seemed unwilling to damj 
 her cheerfulness by the relation ; but it was in vain that '. 
 attempted to appear cheerful : the circumstances of 1113 
 unfortunate son arose through all efforts to dissemble ; sc 
 that I was at last obliged to damp our mirth by relating 
 his misfortunes, and wishing he might be permitted tc 
 share with us in this little interval of satisfaction. Affcei 
 my guests were recovered from the consternation my 
 account had produced, I requested also that Mr. Jenkin- 
 son, a fellow-prisoner, might be admitted ; and the jailer 
 granted my request with an air of submission. The clank- 
 ing of my son's irons was no sooner heard along the
 
 454 THE VICAR OF WAREFIELb. 
 
 passage, than his sister ran impatiently to meet him ; 
 while Mr. Burchell in the meantime asked me if my son's 
 name was George ; to which replying in the affirmative, 
 he still continued silent. As soon as my boy entered the 
 room, I could perceive he regarded Mr. Burchell with a 
 look of astonishment and reverence. " Come on," cried I, 
 " my son : though we are very low, yet Providence has 
 been pleased to grant us some small relaxation from pain. 
 Thy sister is restored to us, and there is her deliverer : to 
 that brave man it is that I am indebted for yet having a 
 daughter. Give him, my boy, the hand of friendship : he 
 deserves our warmest gratitude." 
 
 My son seemed all this while regardless of what I 
 said, and still continued fixed at a respectful distance 
 "My dear brother," cried his sister, "why don't you 
 thank my good deliverer ? The brave should ever love 
 each other." 
 
 He still continued his silence and astonishment ; till 
 our guest at last perceived himself to be known, and, 
 assuming all his native dignity, desired my son to come 
 forward. Never before had I seen anything so truly 
 majestic as the air he assumed upon this occasion. The 
 greatest object in the universe, says a certain philosopher, 
 is a good man struggling with adversity; yet there is 
 still a greater, which is, the good man that comes to re- 
 lieve it. 
 
 After he had regarded my son some time with a superior 
 air, " I again find," said he, " unthinking boy, that the same 
 crime " But here he was interrupted by one of the
 
 HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. 455 
 
 jailer's servants, who came to inform us that a person of 
 distinction, who had driven into town with a chariot and 
 several attendants, sent his respects to the gentleman that 
 was with us, and begged to know when he should think 
 proper to- be waited upon. "Bid the fellow wait," cried 
 our guest, "till I shall have leisure to receive him :" and 
 then, turning to my son, " I again find, sir," proceeded he, 
 "that you are guilty of the same offence for which you 
 once had my reproof, and for which the law is now pre- 
 paring its justest punishments. You imagine, perhaps, 
 that a contempt for your own life gives you a right to 
 take that of another : but where, sir, is the difference 
 between a duellist who hazards a life of no value, and the 
 murderer* who acts with greater security ? Is it any 
 diminution of the gamester's fraud, when he alleges that 
 he staked ; a counter 2" v*. u . 
 
 "Alas, sir!" cried I, "whoever you are, pity the poor 
 misguided creature : for what he has done was in 
 obedience to a deluded mother, who, in the bitterness 
 of her resentment, required him, upon her blessing, to 
 avenge her quarrel. Here, sir, is the letter, which will 
 serve to convince you of her imprudence, and diminish his 
 guilt." 
 
 He took the letter, and hastily read it over. "This," 
 says he, " though not a perfect excuse, is such a palliation 
 of his fault as induces me to forgive him. And now, sir," 
 continued he, kindly taking my son by the hand, " I see 
 you are surprised at finding me here ; but I have often 
 visited prisons upon occasions less interesting. I am now
 
 THE VICAR OF WAREFIELD 
 
 come to see justice done a worthy man for whom I have 
 the most sincere esteem. I have long been a disguised 
 spectator of thy father's benevolence : I have, at his little 
 dwelling, enjoyed respect uncontaminated by flattery ; 
 and have received that happiness that courts could not 
 give, from the amusing simplicity round his fireside. My 
 nephew has been apprised of my intentions of coming 
 here, and I find he is arrived ; it would be wronging him 
 and you to condemn him without examination ; if there 
 be injury there shall be redress ; and this I may say with- 
 out boasting, that none have taxed the injustice of Sir 
 William Thornhill." 
 
 We now found that the personage whom we had long 
 entertained as a harmless, amusing companion was nc 
 other than the celebrated Sir William Thornhill, to whose 
 virtues and singularities scarce any were strangers. The 
 poor Mr. Burchell was in reality a man of large fortune 
 and great interest, to whom senates listened with applause, 
 and whom party heard with conviction ; who was the 
 friend of his country but loyal to his king. My poor wife, 
 recollecting her former familiarity, seemed to shrink with 
 apprehension ; but Sophia, who a few moments before 
 thought him her own, now perceiving the immense dis- 
 tance to which he was removed by fortune, was not able to 
 conceal her tears. 
 
 " Ah, sir," cried my wife, with a piteous aspect, " how 
 is it impossible that I can ever have your forgiveness ? The 
 slights you received from me the last time I had the 
 honour of seeing you at our house, and the jokes which
 
 HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. 457 
 
 I audaciously threw out these, sir, I fear, can never be 
 forgiven." 
 
 "My dear good lady," returned he with a smile, "if 
 you had your joke I had my answer ; I'll leave it to all the 
 company if mine were not as good as yours. To say 
 the truth, I know nobody whom I am disposed to be 
 angry with at present, but the fellow who so frightened my 
 little girl here. I had not even time to examine the rascal's 
 person, so as to describe him in an advertisement. Can 
 you tell me, Sophia, my dear, whether you should know 
 him again ?" 
 
 "Indeed, sir," replied she, "I cannot be positive; yet, 
 now I recollect, he had a large mark over one of his 
 eyebrows." "I ask pardon, madam," interrupted Jenkin- 
 son, who was by ; but be so good as to inform me if the 
 fellow wore his own red hair." " Yes, I think so," cried 
 Sophia. " And did your honour," continued he, turning to 
 Sir William, " observe the length of his legs ?" " I can't 
 be sure of their length," cried the baronet; "but I am 
 convinced of their swiftness, for he outran me, which is 
 what I thought few men in the kingdom could have done." 
 "Please your honour," cried Jenkinson, "I know the 
 man ; it is certainly the same the best runner in England : 
 he has beaten Pimvire of Newcastle. Timothy Baxter is 
 his name ; I kr.ow him perfectly, and the very place of 
 his retreat this moment. If your honour will bid Mr. 
 Jailer let two of his men go with me, I'll engage to pro- 
 duce him to you in an hour at farthest" Upon this the 
 jailer was called in, who instantly appearing, Sir William
 
 458 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 demanded if he knew him. "Yes, please your honour," 
 replied the jailer, "I know Sir William Thornhill well; 
 and everybody that knows anything of him will desire to 
 know more of him." " Well, then," said the baronet, " my 
 request is that you will permit this man and t\yo of your 
 servants to go upon a message by my authority ; and as I 
 am in the commission of the peace I undertake to secure 
 you." " Your promise is sufficient," replied the other ; 
 " and you may, at a minute's warning, send them over 
 England, whenever your honour thinks fit." 
 
 In pursuance of the jailer's compliance, Jenkinson was 
 despatched in pursuit of Timothy Baxter, while we were 
 amused with the assiduity of our youngest boy Bill, who 
 had just come in, and climbed up to Sir William's neck in 
 order to kiss him. His mother was immediately going to 
 chastise his familiarity, but the worthy man prevented her j 
 and taking the child, all ragged as he was, upon his knee 
 "What, Bill, you chubby rogue!" cried he, "do you re- 
 member your old friend Burchell ? And, Dick, too, my 
 honest veteran, are you here ? You shall find I have not 
 forgot you." So saying, he gave each a large piece of 
 ginger-bread, which the poor fellows ate very heartily, as 
 they had got that morning but a very scanty breakfast. 
 
 We now sat down to dinner, which was almost cold ; 
 but previously, my arm still continuing painful, Sir Wil- 
 liam wrote a prescription ; for he had made the study of 
 physic his amusement, and was more than moderately 
 skilled in the profession : this being sent to an apothecary 
 who lived in the place, my arm was dressed, and I found
 
 HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. 4& 
 
 almost instantaneous relief. We were waited upon at 
 dinner by the jailer himself, who was willing to do our 
 Sfuest all the honour in his power ; but before we had well 
 dined, another message was brought from his nephew, de- 
 siring permission to appear, in order to vindicate his 
 innocence and honour ; with which request the baronet 
 complied, and desired Mr. Thornhill to be introduced
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 FORMER BENEVOLENCE NOW REPAID WITH UNEXPECTED INTEREST 
 
 5R. THORNHILL made his entrance with a 
 smile, which he seldom wanted, and was going 
 to embrace his uncle, which the other repulsed 
 with an air of disdain. " No fawning, sir, at 
 present," cried the baronet, with a look of severity ; " the 
 only way to my heart is by the road of honour ; but here 
 I only see complicated instances of falsehood, cowardice, 
 and oppression. How is it, sir, that this poor man, for 
 whom I know you professed friendship, is used thus 
 hardly ? His daughter vilely seduced as a recompense for 
 his hospitality ; and he himself thrown into prison, perhaps 
 but for resenting the insult ? His son, too, whom you 
 
 leared to face as a man " 
 
 " Is it possible, sir," interrupted his nephew, " that my 
 uncle should object that as a crime, which his repeated 
 instructions alone have persuaded me to avoid ?" 
 
 " Your rebuke," cried Sir William, " is just ; you have 
 acted in this instance prudently and well, though not quite 
 as your father would have done ; my brother, indeed, was
 
 BENEVOLENCE REPAID WITH INTEREST. 461 
 
 the soul of honour, but thou yes, you have acted in this 
 instance perfectly right, and it has my warmest approba- 
 tion." 
 
 " And I hope," said his nephew, " that the rest of my 
 conduct will not be found to deserve censure. I appeared, 
 sir, with this gentleman's daughter at some places of public 
 amusement; thus, what was levity, scandal called by a 
 harsher name, and it was reported that I had debauched 
 her. I waited on her father in person, willing to clear the 
 thing to his satisfaction, and he received me only with 
 insult and abuse. As for the rest, with regard to his being 
 here, my attorney and steward can best inform you, as I 
 commit the management of business entirely to them. If 
 lie has contracted debts, and is unwilling or even unable to 
 pay them, it is their business to proceed in this manner ; 
 and I see no hardship or injustice in pursuing the most 
 legal means of redress." 
 
 "If this," cried Sir William, "be as you have stated it, 
 there is nothing unpardonable in your offences ; and 
 though your conduct might have been more generous, in 
 not suffering this gentleman to be oppressed by subordi- 
 nate tyranny, yet it has been at least equitable." 
 
 " He cannot contradict a single particular," replied the 
 squire, " I defy him to do so ; and several of my servants 
 are ready to attest what I say. Thus, sir," continued he, 
 finding that I was silent for in fact I could not contradict 
 him "thus, sir, my own innocence is vindicated; but 
 though at your entreaty I am ready to forgive this gen- 
 tleman every other offence, yet his attempts to lessen me in
 
 6S THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 your esteem excite a resentment that I cannot govern ; and 
 this, too, at a time when his son was actually preparing to 
 take away my life this, I say, was such guilt, that I am 
 determined to let the law take its course. I have here the 
 challenge that was sent me, and two witnesses to prove it ; 
 one of my servants has been wounded dangerously ; and 
 even though my uncle himself should dissuade me, which I 
 know he will not, yet I will see public justice done, and he 
 shall suffer for it." 
 
 " Thou monster ! cried my wife, " hast thou not had 
 vengeance enough already, but must my poor boy feel thy 
 cruelty ? I hope that good Sir William will protect us, for 
 my son is as innocent as a child ; I am sure he is, and 
 never did harm to man." 
 
 " Madam," replied the good man, " your wishes for his 
 safety are not greater than mine, but I am sorry to find his 
 
 guilt too plain ; and if my nephew persists " But the 
 
 appearance of Jenkinson and the jailer's two servants now 
 called off our attention, who entered hauling in a tall man, 
 very genteelly dressed, and answering the description 
 already given of the ruffian who had carried off my daugh- 
 ter. " Here," cried Jenkinson, pulling him in " here we 
 have him ; and if ever there was a candidate for Tyburn, 
 this is one." 
 
 The moment Mr. Thornhill perceived the prisoner, and 
 Jenkinson, who had him in custody, he seemed to shrink 
 backward with terror. His face became pale with con- 
 scious guilt, and he would have withdrawn ; but Jenkinson, 
 who perceived his design, stopped bin*. "What, Squire,"
 
 BENEVOLENCE REPAID WITH INTEREST. 463 
 
 cried he, " are you ashamed of your two old acquaintances, 
 Jenkinson and Baxter ? But this is the way all great men 
 forget their friends ; though I am resolved we will not for- 
 get you. Our prisoner, please your honour," continued he, 
 turning to Sir William, " has already confessed all. This 
 is the gentleman reported to be dangerously wounded ; he 
 declares that it was Mr. Thornhill who first put him upon 
 the affair ; that he gave him the clothes he now wears, to 
 appear like a gentleman, and furnished him with a post- 
 chaise. The plan was laid between them, that he should 
 carry off the young lady to a place of safety, and that 
 there he should threaten and terrify her ; but Mr. Thorn- 
 hill was to come in, in the meantime, as if by accident, to 
 her rescue, and that they should fight awhile, and then he 
 was to run off, by which Mr. Thornhill would have the 
 better opportunity of gaining her affections himself under 
 the character of her defender." 
 
 Sir William remembered the coat to have been fre- 
 quently worn by his nephew ; and all the rest the prisoner 
 himself confirmed by a more circumstantial account, con- 
 cluding, that Mr. Thornhill had often declared to him that 
 he was in love with both sisters at the same time. 
 
 " Heavens !" cried Sir William, " what a viper have I 
 been fostering in my bosom ! And so fond of public 
 justice, too, as he seemed to be ! But he shall have it ! 
 Secure him, Mr. Jailer. Yet hold ; I fear there is no legal 
 evidence to detain him." 
 
 Upon this, Mr. Thornhill, with the utmost humility, 
 entreated that two such abandoned wretches might not be
 
 464 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 admitted as evidence against him ; but that his servants 
 should be examined. " Your servants ?" replied Sir 
 William ; " wretch, call them yours no longer : but come, 
 let us hear what those fellows have to say : let his butler 
 be called." 
 
 When the butler was introduced, he soon perceived, by 
 his former master's looks, that all his power was now over. 
 " Tell me," cried Sir William, sternly, " have you ever seen 
 your master, and that fellow dressed up in his clothes, In 
 company together ?" " Yes, please your honour," cried the 
 butler, " a thousand times ; he was the man that always 
 brought him his ladies." " How !" interrupted young Mr. 
 Thornhill ; " this to my face ?" " Yes," replied the butler, 
 "or to any man's face. To tell you a truth, Master 
 Thornhill, I never either loved you or liked you, and I 
 don't care if I tell you now a piece of my mind." " Now 
 then," cried Jenkinson, tell his honour whether you know 
 anything of me." " I can't say," replied the butler, " that 
 I know much good of you. The night that gentleman's 
 daughter was deluded to our house, you was one of them." 
 " So then," cried Sir William, " I find you have brought 
 a very fine witness to prove your innocence ; thou stain to 
 humanity ! to associate with such wretches ! But," con- 
 tinuing his examination "you tell me, Mr. Butler, that 
 this was the person who brought him this old gentleman's 
 daughter." " No, please your honour," replied the butler, 
 "he did not bring her for the squire himself undertook 
 that business ; but he brought the priest that pretended 
 to marry them." "It is but too true ." cried Jenkinson;
 
 BENEVOLENCE REPAID WITH INTEREST. 46$ 
 
 ' I cannot deny it : that was the employment assigned to 
 me ; and I confess it, to my confusion." 
 
 "Good heavens!" exclaimed the worthy baronet, "how 
 every new discovery of his villany alarms me ! All his 
 guilt is now too plain, and I find his present prosecution 
 was directed by tyranny, cowardice, and revenge. At my 
 request, Mr. Jailer, ^et this young officer, now your 
 prisoner, free, and trust to me for the consequences, I'll 
 make it my business to set the affair in a proper light to 
 my friend the magistrate who has committed h rr. But 
 where is the unfortunate young lady herself.' let her 
 appear to confront this wretch : I long to know by what 
 arts he has seduced her. Entreat her to come in, Where 
 is she ?" 
 
 " Ah, sir," said I, " that question stings me to the 
 heart ; I was once indeed happy in a daughter, but her 
 miseries " 
 
 Another interruption here prevented me, for who 
 should make her appearance but Miss Arabella Wilmot, 
 who was the next to have been married to Mr. Thorn- 
 hill. Nothing could equal her surprise at seeing Sir 
 William and his nephew here before her, for her arrival 
 was quite accidental. It happened that she and the old 
 gentleman, her father, were passing through the town on 
 their way to her aunt's, who had insisted that her nuptials 
 with Mr. Thornhill should be consummated at her house ! 
 but, stopping for refreshment, they put up at an inn at the 
 other end of the town. It was there, from the window, 
 that the young lady happened to observe one of my little
 
 466 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 boys playing in the street ; and instantly sending a 
 footman to bring the child to her, she learned from him 
 some account of our misfortunes, but was still kept 
 ignorant of young Mr. Thornhill's being the cause. 
 Though her father made several remonstrances on the 
 impropriety of her going to a prison to visit us, yet they 
 were ineffectual : she desired the child to conduct her, 
 which he did ; and it was thus she surprised us at a junc- 
 ture so unexpected. 
 
 Nor can I go on without a reflection on those accidental 
 meetings, which, though they happen every day, seldom 
 excite our surprise but upon some extraordinary occasion. 
 To what a fortuitous occurrence do we not owe every 
 pleasure and convenience of our lives ! How many seem- 
 ing accidents must unite before we can be clothed or fed ! 
 The peasant must be disposed to labour, the shower must 
 fall, the wind fill the merchant's sail, or numbers must 
 want the usual supply. 
 
 We all continued silent for some moments, while my 
 charming pupil which was the name I generally gave 
 his young lady united in her looks compassion and 
 astonishment, which gave new finishing to her beauty. 
 " Indeed, my dear Mr. Thornhill," cried she to the squire, 
 who she supposed was come here to succour and not 
 oppress us, " I take it a little unkindly that you should 
 come here without me, or never inform me of the situation 
 of a family so dear to us both. You know I should take 
 as much pleasure in contributing to the relief of my 
 reverend old master here, whom I shall ever esteem, as
 
 BENEVOLENCE REPAID WITH INTEREST. 6& 
 
 you can ; but I find that, like your uncle, you take a 
 pleasure in doing good in secret." 
 
 " He find pleasure in doing good !" cried Sir William, 
 interrupting her. " No, my dear, his pleasures are as base 
 as he is. You see in him, madam, as complete a villain 
 as ever disgraced humanity : a wretch who, after having 
 deluded this poor man's daughter after plotting against 
 the innocence of her sister, has thrown the father into 
 prison and the eldest son into fetters, because he had the 
 courage to face his betrayer. And give me leave, madam, 
 now to congratulate you upon an escape from the embraces 
 of such a monster." 
 
 " O goodness !" cried the lovely girl, " how have I been 
 deceived ! Mr. Thornhill informed me for certain, that 
 this gentleman's eldest son, Captain Primrose, was gone off 
 to America with his new-married lady." 
 
 " My sweetest miss," cried my wife, " he has told you 
 nothing but falsehoods. My son George never left the 
 kingdom, nor ever was married : though you have forsaken 
 him, he has always loved you too well to think of anybody 
 else ; and I have heard him say he would die a bachelor 
 for your sake." She then proceeded to expatiate upon 
 the sincerity of her son's passion ; she set his duel with 
 Mr. Thornhill in a proper light ; from thence she made a 
 rapid digression to the squire's debaucheries, his pretended 
 marriages, and ended with a most insulting picture of his 
 cowardice. 
 
 " Good heavens !" cried Miss Wilmot, " how very near 
 have I been to the brink- of ruin ! but how great is my
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 pleasure to have escaped it ! Ten thousand falsehoods 
 has this gentleman told me. He had at last art enough to 
 persuade me that my promise to the only man I esteemed 
 was no longer binding, since he had been unfaithful. By 
 his falsehoods I was taught to detest one equally brave and 
 generous." 
 
 But by this time my son was freed from the encum- 
 brances of justice, as the person supposed to be wounded 
 was detected to be an impostor. Mr. Jenkinson also, who 
 had acted as his valet-de-chambre, had dressed up his hair, 
 and furnished him with whatever was necessary to make a 
 genteel appearance. He now, therefore, entered, hand- 
 somely dressed in his regimentals ; and without vanity (for 
 I am above it), he appeared as handsome a fellow as ever 
 wore a military dress. As he entered, he made Miss 
 Wilmot a modest and distant bow, for he was not as yet 
 acquainted with the change which the eloquence of his 
 mother had wrought in his favour. But no decorums 
 could restrain the impatience of his blushing mistress to be 
 forgiven : her tears, her looks, all contributed to discover 
 the real sensations of her heart for having forgotten her 
 former promise, and having suffered herself to be deluded 
 by an impostor. My son appeared amazed at her con- 
 descension, and could scarce believe it real. "Sure, 
 madam," cried he, " this is but delusion ! I can never have 
 merited this ! To be blessed thus is to be too happy !" 
 " No, sir," replied she, " I have been deceived, basely 
 deceived ; else nothing could have ever made me unjust to 
 my promise. You know my friendship, you have long
 
 BENEVOLENCE REPAID WITH INTEREST. 469 
 
 known it ; but forget what I have done, and as you once 
 had my warmest vows of constancy, you shall now have 
 them repeated ; and be assured that if your Arabella 
 cannot- be yours, she shall never be another's." "And no 
 other's you shall be," cried Sir William, " if I have any 
 influence with your father." 
 
 This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who imme- 
 diately flew to the inn where the old gentleman was, to 
 inform him of every circumstance that had happened. But 
 in the meantime, the squire, perceiving that he was on 
 every side undone, now finding that no hopes were left 
 from flattery or dissimulation, concluded that his wisest 
 way would be to turn and face his pursuers. Thus, laying 
 aside all shame, he appeared the open and hardy 
 villain. 
 
 " I find, then," cried he, " that I am to expect no justice 
 here ; but I am resolved it shall be done me. You shall 
 know, sir," turning to Sir William, " I am no longer a poor 
 dependant upon your favours: I scorn them. Nothing 
 can keep Miss Wilmot's fortune from me, which, I thank 
 her father's assiduity, is pretty large. The articles, and a 
 bond of her fortune, are signed, and safe in my possession. 
 It was her fortune, not her person, that induced me to 
 wish for this match, and possessed of the one, let who will 
 take the other." 
 
 This was an alarming blow. Sir William was sensible 
 of the justness of his claims, for he had been instrumental 
 in drawing up the marriage articles himself. Miss Wilmot, 
 taereiore, perceiving that her fortune was irretrievably lost,
 
 47 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 turning to my son, asked if the loss of fortune could lessen 
 her value to him. " Though fortune," said she, " is out of 
 my power, at least I have my hand to give." 
 
 " And that, madam," cried the real lover, " was, indeed, 
 all that you ever had to give ; at least, all that I ever 
 thought worth the acceptance ; and I now protest, my 
 Arabella, by all that's happy, your want of fortune this 
 moment increases my pleasure, as it serves to convince my 
 sweet girl of my sincerity." 
 
 Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little pleased 
 at the danger his daughter had just escaped, and readily 
 consented to a dissolution of the match ; but finding that 
 her fortune, which was secured to Mr. Thornhill by bond, 
 would not be given up, nothing could exceed his dis- 
 appointment. He now saw that his money must all go to 
 enrich one who had no fortune of his own : he could bear 
 his being a rascal, but to want an equivalent to his 
 daughter's fortune was wormwood. He sat, therefore, for 
 some minutes, employed in the most mortifying specula- 
 tions, till Sir William attempted to lessen his anxiety. " I 
 must confess, sir," cried he, " that your present disappoint- 
 ment does not entirely displease me. Your immoderate 
 passion for wealth is now justly punished. But though 
 the young lady cannot be rich, she has still a sufficient 
 competence to give content. Here you see an honest 
 young soldier, who is willing to take her without fortune. 
 They have long loved each other ; and for the friendship I 
 bear his father, my interest shall not be wanting in his 
 promotion. Leave, then, that ambition which disappoints
 
 BENEVOLENCE PAID WITH INTEREST, 47* 
 
 you, and for once admit that happiness which courts your 
 acceptance/' 
 
 " Sir William," replied the old gentleman, " be assured I 
 never yet forced her inclinations, nor will I now. If she 
 still continues to love this young gentleman, let her have 
 him, with all my heart. There is still, thank Heaven, some 
 fortune left, and your promise will make it something 
 more. Only let my old friend here," meaning me, " give 
 me a promise of settling six thousand pounds upon my 
 girl if ever he should come to his fortune, and I am ready 
 this night to be the first to join them together." As it 
 now remained with me to make the young couple happy, I 
 readily gave a promise of making the settlement he re- 
 quired ; which to one who had such little expectations as 
 I, was no great favour. We had now, therefore, the satis- 
 faction of seeing them fly into each other's arms in a 
 transport. "After all my misfortunes," cried my son 
 George, "to be thus rewarded! Sure this is more than I 
 could ever have presumed to hope for. To be possessed of 
 all that's good, and after such an interval of pain ! my 
 warmest wishes could never rise so high." "Yes, my 
 George," returned his lovely bride ; " now let the wretch 
 take my fortune ; since you are happy without it, so am I. 
 Oh, what an exchange I have made, from the basest of 
 men to the dearest, best ! Let him enjoy our fortune ; I 
 now can be happy even in indigence." " And I promise 
 you," cried the squire, with a malicious grin, " that I shall 
 be very happy with what you despise." " Hold, hold, sir !" 
 cried Jenkinson ; " there are two words to that bargain
 
 472 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 As for that lady's fortune, sir, you shall never touch a 
 single stiver of it Pray, your honour," continued he to 
 Sir William, " can the squire have this lady's fortune if he 
 be married to another?" "How can you make such 4 
 simple demand?" replied the baronet: "undoubtedly he 
 cannot." " I am sorry for that," cried Jenkinson ; for as 
 this gentleman and I have been old fellow-sporters, I have 
 a friendship for him ; but I must declare, well as I love 
 him, that his contract is not worth a tobacco-stopper, for 
 he is married already." " You lie like a rascal," returned 
 the squire, who seemed roused by this insult ; " I never 
 was legally married to any woman." " Indeed, begging 
 your honour's pardon," replied the other, " you were ; and 
 I hope you will show a proper return of friendship to your 
 own honest Jenkinson, who brings you a wife ; and if the 
 company restrain their curiosity a few minutes they shall 
 see her." So saying, he went off with his usual celerity, 
 and left us all unable to form any probable conjecture as 
 to his design. " Ay, let him go," cried the squire ; " what- 
 ever else I may have done, I defy him there : I am too old 
 now to be frightened with squibs." 
 
 " I am surprised," said the baronet, " what the fellow can 
 intend by this ; some low piece of humour, I suppose."- 
 " Perhaps, sir," replied I, " he may have a more serious 
 meaning ; for, when we reflect on the various schemes this 
 gentleman has laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one 
 more artful than the rest has been found able to deceive 
 him. When we consider what numbers he has ruined, how 
 many parents now feel with anguish the infamy and the
 
 BENEVOLENCE REPAID WITH INTEREST. 473 
 
 contamination which he has brought into their families, it 
 
 would not surprise me if some of them Amazement ! 
 
 Do I see my lost daughter ? Do I hold her ? It is, my 
 life, my happiness ! I thought thee lost, my Olivia, yet 
 still I hold thee, and still thou shalt live to bless me !" 
 
 The warmest transports of the fondest lover were not 
 greater than mine, when I saw him introduce my child, 
 and held my daughter in my arms, whose silence only 
 spoke her raptures. "And art thou returned to me, my 
 darling," cried I, " to be my comfort in age ?" " That she 
 is," cried Jenkinson ; " and make much of her, for she is 
 your own honourable child, and as honest a woman as any 
 in the whole room, let the other be who she will : and as 
 for you, squire, as sure as you stand there, this young lady 
 is your lawful wedded wife ; and to convince you that I 
 speak nothing but the truth, here is the licence by which 
 you were married together." So saying, he put the licence 
 into the baronet's hands, who read it and found it perfect 
 in every respect. "And now, gentlemen," continued he, 
 " I find you are surprised at all this ; but a very few words 
 will explain the difficulty. That there squire of renown, for 
 whom I have a great friendship (but that's between our- 
 selves), has often employed me in doing odd little things 
 for him. Among the rest, he commissioned me to procure 
 him a false licence and a false priest, in order to deceive 
 this young lady ; but, as I was very much his friend, what 
 did I do but went and got a true licence and a true priest, 
 and married them both as fast as the cloth could make 
 them ! Perhaps you'll think it was generosity made me dp
 
 474 THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. 
 
 all this. But no ; to my shame I confess it, my only 
 design was to keep the licence, and let the squire know 
 that I could prove it upon him whenever I thought proper, 
 and so make him come down whenever I wanted money." 
 
 A burst of pleasure now seemed to fill the whole apart- 
 ment ; our joy even reached the common room, where the 
 prisoners sympathized 
 
 " And shook their chains, 
 In transport and rude harmony. " 
 
 Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even 
 Olivia's cheeks seemed flushed with pleasure. To be 
 thus restored to reputation, to friends, and fortune at 
 once, was a rapture sufficient to stop the progress of 
 decay, and restore former health and vivacity. But 
 perhaps, among all, there was not one who felt sincerer 
 pleasure than I. Still holding the dear loved child in 
 my arms, I asked my heart if these transports were not 
 delusion. 
 
 "How could you," cried I, turning to Jenkinson 
 " how could you add to my miseries by the story of her 
 death ? But it matters not ; my pleasure at finding her 
 again is more than a recompence for the pain." 
 
 "As to your question," replied Jenkinson, "that is 
 easily answered. I thought the only probable means of 
 freeing you from prison was by submitting to the. squire, 
 and consenting to his marriage with the other young 
 lady : but these you had vowed never to grant while your 
 daughter was living ; there was, therefore, no other
 
 BENEVOLENCE REPAID WITH INTEREST. 475 
 
 method to bring things to bear but by persuading you 
 that she was dead. I prevailed on your wife to join in the 
 deceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity of unde- 
 ceiving you till now." 
 
 In the whole assembly there now appeared only two 
 faces that did not glow with transport. Mr. Thornhill's 
 assurance had entirely forsaken him ; he now saw the gulf 
 of infamy and want before him, and trembled to take the 
 plunge : he therefore fell on his knees before his uncle, 
 and in a voice of piercing misery implored compassion. 
 Sir William was going to spurn him away, but at my 
 request he raised him, and after pausing a few moments, 
 "Thy vices, crimes, and ingratitude," cried he, "deserve 
 no tenderness ; yet thou shalt not be entirely forsaken : a 
 bare competence shall be supplied to support the wants 
 of life, but not its follies. This young lady, thy wife, shall 
 be put in possession of a third part of that fortune which 
 once was thine ; and from her tenderness alone thou art to 
 expect any extraordinary supplies for the future." He 
 was going to express his gratitude for such kindness in a 
 set speech ; but the baronet prevented him by bidding him 
 not aggravate his meanness, which was already but too 
 apparent. He ordered him at the same time to be gone, 
 and from all his former domestics to choose one, and such 
 as he should think proper, which was all that should be 
 granted to attend him. 
 
 As soon as he left us, Sir William very politely stepped 
 up to his new niece with a smile, and wished her joy. 
 His example was followed by Miss Wilmot and hej
 
 47 6 THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 
 
 father; my wife, too, kissed her daughter with much 
 affection ; as, to use her own expression, she was now made 
 an honest woman of. Sophia and Moses followed in turn, 
 and even our benefactor Jenkinson desired to be admitted 
 to that honour. Our satisfaction seemed scarce capable 
 of increase. Sir William, whose greatest pleasure was 
 in doing good, now looked round, with a countenance 
 open as the sun, and saw nothing but joy on the looks of 
 all, except that of my daughter Sophia, who, for some 
 reasons we could not comprehend, did not seem perfectly 
 satisfied. " I think now," cried he, with a smile, " that all 
 the company, except one or two, seem perfectly happy. 
 There remains only an act of justice for me to do. You 
 are sensible, sir," continued he, turning to me, "of the 
 obligations we both owe to Mr. Jenkinson, and it is but 
 just we should both reward him for it Miss Sophia will, 
 I am sure, make him very happy, and he shall have from 
 me five hundred pounds as her fortune ; and upon this 
 I am sure they can live very comfortably together. Come, 
 Miss Sophia, what say you to this match of my making ? 
 will you have him ?" 
 
 My poor girl seemed almost sinking into her mother's 
 arms at the hideous proposal. " Have him, sir ?" cried 
 she, faintly ; " no, sir, never." " What !" cried he again, 
 " not Mr. Jenkinson, your benefactor ; a handsome young 
 fellow, with five hundred pounds, and good expectations ?" 
 " I beg, sir," returned she, scarce able to speak, " that 
 you'll desist, and not make me so very wretched." " Was 
 ever such obstinacy known ?" cried he again, " to refuse the
 
 BENEVOLENCE REPAID WITH INTEREST. 
 
 man whom the family has such infinite obligations to, 
 who has preserved your sister, and who has five hundred 
 pounds? What, not have him?" "No, sir, never," 
 replied she, angrily ; " I'd sooner die first"" If that be 
 the case, then," cried he, "if you will not have him I 
 think I must have you myself." 
 
 And so saying, he caught her to his breast with ardour : 
 " My loveliest, my most sensible of girls," cried he, " hov.- 
 could you ever think your own Burchell could deceive you, 
 or that Sir William Thornhill could ever cease to admire a 
 mistress that loved him for himself alone? I have for 
 some years sought for a woman who, a stranger to my 
 fortune, could think I had merit as a man. After having 
 tried in vain, even among the pert and the ugly, how great 
 at last must be my rapture to have made a conquest over 
 such sense and such heavenly beauty !" Then turning to 
 Jenkinson " As I cannot, sir, part with this young lady 
 myself (for she has taken a fancy to the cut of my face), 
 all the recompence I can make is, to give you her fortune, 
 And you may call upon my steward to-morrow for five 
 hundred pounds." 
 
 Thus we had all our compliments to repeat, and Lady 
 Thornhill underwent the same round of ceremony that her 
 sister had done before. In the meantime, Sir William's 
 gentlemen appeared to tell us that the equipages were 
 ready to carry us to the inn, where everything was pre- 
 pared for our reception. My wife and I led the van, and 
 left those gloomy mansions of sorrow. The generous 
 baronet ordered forty pounds to be distributed among the
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 prisoners ; and Mr. Wilmot, induced by his example, gave 
 half that sum. We were received below by the shouts of 
 the villagers, and I saw, and shook by the hand two or 
 three of my honest parishioners, who were among the 
 number. They attended us to our inn, where a sumptuous 
 entertainment was provided, and coarser provisions distri- 
 buted in great quantities among the populace. 
 
 After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the alter- 
 nation of pleasure and pain which they had sustained 
 during the day, I asked permission to withdraw ; and 
 leaving the company in the midst of their mirth, as soon 
 as I found myself alone, I poured out my heart in grati- 
 tude to the Giver of joy as well as sorrow, and then slept 
 undisturbed till morning.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 [HE next morning, as soon as I awaked, I found 
 my eldest son sitting at my bedside, who came 
 to increase my joy with another turn of fortune 
 in my favour. First having released me from 
 the settlement that I had made the day before in his 
 favour, he let me know that my merchant, who had failed 
 in town, was arrested at Antwerp, and there had given up 
 effects to a much greater amount than what was due to his 
 creditors. My boy's generosity pleased me almost as 
 much as this unlooked-for good fortune ; but I had some 
 doubts whether I ought in justice to accept his offer. 
 While I was pondering upon this, Sir William entered 
 the room, to whom I communicated my doubts. His 
 opinion was, that, as my son was already possessed of a 
 very affluent fortune by his marriage, I might accept his 
 offer without hesitation. His business, however, was to 
 inform me that, as he had the night before sent for the 
 licences, and expected them every hour, he hoped that I 
 would not refuse my assistance in making all the company 
 happy that morning.
 
 4&> THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 A footman entered while we were speaking, to tell us 
 that the messenger was returned ; and as I was by this 
 time ready, I went down, where I found the whole company 
 as merry as affluence and innocence could make them. 
 However, as they were now preparing for a very solemn 
 ceremony, their laughter entirely displeased me. I told 
 them of the grave, becoming, and sublime deportment they 
 should assume upon this mystical occasion, and read them 
 two homilies and a thesis of my own composing, in order 
 to prepare them ; yet they still seemed perfectly refractory 
 and ungovernable. Even as we were going along to church, 
 to which I led the way, all gravity had quite forsaken them, 
 and I was often tempted to turn back in indignation. 
 
 In church a new dilemma -arose, which promised no easy 
 solution : this was, which couple should be married first : 
 my son's bride warmly insisted that Lady Thornhill (that 
 was to be) should take the lead ; but this the other refused 
 with equal ardour, protesting she would not be guilty of 
 such rudeness for the world. The argument was supported 
 for some time between both with equal obstinacy and good 
 breeding ; but, as I stood all this time with my book ready, 
 I was at last quite tired of the contest, and shutting it, " I 
 perceive," cried I, "that none of you have a mind to be 
 married, and I think we had as good go back again ; for I 
 suppose there will be no business done here to-day." This 
 at once reduced them to reason : the baronet and his lady 
 were first married, and then my son and his lovely partner. 
 
 I had previously that morning given orders that a coach 
 should be sent for my honest neighbour Fiamborough and
 
 THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 his family ; by which means, upon our return to the inn, 
 we had the pleasure of finding the two Miss Flamboroughs, 
 alighted before us. Mr. Jenkinson gave his hand to the 
 eldest, and my son Moses led up the other ; and I have 
 since found that he has taken a real liking to the girl, and 
 my consent and bounty he shall have whenever he thinks 
 proper to demand them. We were no sooner returned to 
 the inn than numbers of my parishioners, hearing of my 
 success, came to congratulate me; but among the rest were 
 those who rose to rescue me, and whom I formerly rebuked 
 with such sharpness. I told the story to Sir William, my 
 son-in-law, who went out and reproved them with great 
 severity; but finding them quite disheartened by this 
 harsh reproof, he gave them half a guinea apiece to drink 
 his health, and raise their dejected spirits. 
 
 Soon after this we were called to a very genteel enter- 
 tainment, which was dressed by Mr. Thornhill's cook. And 
 it may not be improper to observe, with respect to that 
 gentleman, that he now resides in quality of companion at 
 a relation's house, being very well liked, and seldom sitting 
 at the side-table, except when there is no room at the 
 other, for they make no stranger of him : his time is pretty 
 much taken up in keeping his relation who is a little 
 melancholy in spirits, and in learning to blow the French 
 horn. Myeldest daughter, however, still remembers him with 
 regret ; and she has told me, though I make a great secret 
 of it, that when he reforms, she may be brought to relent. 
 
 But to return, for I am not apt to digress thus : when 
 we were to sit down to dinner, our ceremonies were going 
 
 3'
 
 482 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 to be renewed. The question was whether my eldest 
 daughter, as being a matron, should not sit above the two 
 young brides ; but the debate was cut short by my son 
 George, who proposed that the company should sit indis- 
 criminately, every gentleman by his lady. This was re- 
 ceived with great approbation by all excepting my wife, 
 who I could perceive was not perfectly satisfied, as she 
 expected to have had the pleasure of sitting at the head 
 of the table, and carving the meat for all the company. 
 But, notwithstanding this, it is impossible to describe our 
 good humour. I can't say whether we had more wit 
 among us now than usual, but I am certain we had more 
 laughing, which answered the end as well. 
 
 One jest I particularly remember: old Mr. Wilmot, 
 drinking to Moses, whose head was turned another way, 
 my son replied, " Madam, I thank you :" upon which the 
 old gentleman, winking upon the rest of the company, 
 observed that he was thinking of his mistress ; at which 
 jest I thought the two Miss Flamboroughs would have 
 died with laughing. As soon as dinner was over, accord- 
 ing to my old custom, I requested that the table might be 
 taken away, to have the pleasure of seeing all my family 
 assembled once more by a cheerful fireside. My two little 
 ones sat upon each knee ; the rest of the company by their 
 partners. I had nothing now on this side the grave to wish 
 for: all my cares were over; my pleasure was unspeak- 
 able : it now only remained that my gratitude in good for- 
 tune should exceed my former submission in adversity. 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON
 
 
 
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