.-%\?'- GIFT OF Mrs. W, Bar stow ^m^ -f m 1 9 \i' ir^'^'S mi: tifT ^^^-Ai^^^sizr, ..^'>. .A I't^^vf^^ ' '. * * a "a , Vjwrravei iw J..U. I lOng^cre ^Gr^iPim > ' .; lilFE AND WRITINGS OF i Ut>et @;ol9!9initfi. There are few writers for whom the reader feels such personal kmdness as for Oliver GoldsmitJi. The fascinating ease and simplicity of his style; the benevolence that beams through every page ; the whimsical yet amiable views of human life and human nature; the mellow unforced humour, blended so happily with good feeling and good sense, throughout his writings; win their way ir- resistibly to the affections and carry the author with them. While writers of greater pretensions and more sounding names are suffered to lie upon our shelves, the works of Goldsmith are cherished and laid in our bosoms. We do not quote them with ostentation, but they mingle with our minds ; they sweeten our tempers and harmonize our thoughts ; they put us in good humour with ourselves and with the world, and in so doing they malceus hap- pier and better men. We have been curious therefore in gathering to- gether all the heterogeneous particulars concerning poor Goldsmith that still exist; and seldom have we met with an author's life more illustrative of his works, or works more faithfully illustrative of the author's life.* His rambling biography displays him the same kind, artless, good humoured, excur- sive, sensible, whimsical, intelligent being that he appears in his writings. Scarcely an adventure or a character is given in his page that may not be traced to his own parti-coloured story. Many of his most ludicrous scenes and ridiculous incidents have been drawn from his own blunders and mis- chances, and he seems really to have been buffeted into almost every maxim imparted by him for the instruction of his readers. Oliver Goldsmith was a native of Ireland, and was born on the 29th of November, 1728. Two *The present biography is principally taken from the Scotch dition of Goldsmith's works, published in 1821. villages claim the honour of having given him birth: Pallas in the county of Longford ; and El- phin, in the county of Roscommon. The former is named as the place in the epitaph by Dr. John- son, inscribed on his monument in Westminster Abbey; but later investigations have decided in fa- vour of Elphin. He was the second son of the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, a clergyman of the established church, but without any patrimony. His mother was daughter of the Rev. Oliver Jones, master of the diocesan school at Elphin. It was not till some time after the birth of Oliver that his father ob- tained the living of Kilkenny- West, in the county of Westmeath. Previous to this period he and his wife appear to have been almost entirely dependent on her relations for support. His father was equally distinguished for his lite- rary attainments and for the benevolence of his heart. His family consisted of five sons and two daughters. From this little world of home Gold- smith has drawn many of his domestic scenes, both whimsical and touching, which appeal so for- cibly to the heart, as well as to the fancy; his fa- ther's fireside furnished many of the family scenes of the Vicar of Wakefield; and it is said that the learned simplicity and amiable peculiarities of that worthy divine have been happily illustrated in the character of Dr. Primrose. The Rev. Henry Goldsmith, elder brother of the poet, and born seven years before him, was a man of estimable worth and excellent talents. Great expectations were formed of hun, from the promise of his youth, both when at school and at college; but he offended and disappointed his friends, by entering into matrimony at the early age of nineteen, and resigning all ambitious views for love and a curacy. If, however, we may be- lieve the pictures drawn by the poet of his brother's 8 LIFE AND WRITINGS domestic life, his lot, though humble, was a happy one. He is the village pastor of the " Deserted Village;" so exers:ipla-j in hi-s eha^acter, and "pass- ing rich wifti foity pounds a. year." It is to this brother, who wijfs the guide and protector of Gold- 'smrih'duripg; hjis, childhood, and^toywljom he was ; ,t^,n(\ef\y Atift(iW>d,Xhiii?hCi addresses tho^e beautiful ' lih^s in hi^pdenf of the Tlateher :' ' ' Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee ; j^: Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a length'ning chain. His family also form the ruddy and joyous group, and exercise the simple but generous rites of hospitality, which the poet so charmingly de- scribes : Bless'd be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, Wliere all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; Or press the bashful stranger to his food. And loam the luxury of doing good. The whimsical character of the Man in Black, in the "Citizen of the World," so rich in eccen- tricities and in amiable failings, is said to have been likewise drawn partly from his brother, part- ly from his father, but in a great measure from the author himself. It is difficult, however, to assign placed under the care of a village school-master, to be instrjLicted in reading, writing, and arithmetic. Tills pedagogue, whom his scholar afterwards so happily describes in the " Deserted Village," had been a quarter-master in the army during the wars of Q,ueen Anne, and, in his own estimation, a man of no small pith and moment. Having passed through various parts of Europe, and being of an eccentric turn of mind, he acquired habits of ro- mancing that bordered on the marvellous, and, like many other travellers, was possessed with a prodi- gious itch for detailing his adventures. He him- self was most commonly the redoubted hero of his own story, and his pupils were always the amazed and wilhng auditory : And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small ttfead could carry all he knew. The tales of wonder recounted by this second Pinto are said to have had surprising effects on his youthful hearers; and it has been plausibly con- jectured that to the vivid impressions thus made on the young imagination of our author, may be as- cribed those wandering propensities which influ- enced his after life. * After he had been for some time with this in- different preceptor, his mother, with whom he was always a favourite, exerted her influence to per- with precision the originals of a writer's characters, j suade his father to give him an education that would They are generally composed of scattered, though i qualify him for a liberal profession. Her solicita- accordant traits, observed in various individuals, itious, together with the passionate attachment which which have been seized upon with the discriminat- ing tact of genius and combined into one harmoni- ous whole. Still, it is a fact, as evident as it is de- lightful, that Goldsmith has poured out the genu- ine feeUngs of his heart in his works; and has had continually before him, in his delineations of simple worth and domestic virtue, the objects of his filial and fraternal affection. Goldsmith is said, in his earlier years, to have been whimsical in his humours and eccentric in his habits. This was remarked in his infancy. Some- times lie assumed the gravity and reserve of riper years, at other times would give free scope to the wild frolic and exuberant vivacity suited to his age. The singularity of his moods and manners, and the evidences he gave of a precocity of talent, caus- ed him to be talked of in the neighbourhood as a little prodigy. It is said that, even before he was eight years old he evinced a natural turn for poet- ry, and made many attempts at rhymes, to the amusement of his father and friends; and when somewhat older, after he had learned to write, his chief pleasure was to scribble rude verses on small scraps of paper, and then commit them to the flames. His father had strained his slender means in giving a liberal education to his eldest son, and had determined to bring up Oliver to trade. He was the boy evinced for books and learning, and his early indications of talent, prevailed over all scru- ples of economy, and he was placed under the care of the Rev. Mr. Griffin, schoolmaster of Elphin. He was boarded in the house of his uncle, John Goldsmith, Esq., of Ballyoughter, in the vicinity. Here the amiableness of his disposition and the amusing eccentricity of his humour rendered him a universal favourite. A httle anecdote, preserved by the family of his uncle evinces the precocity of his wit. At an entertainment given by this gentleman to a party of young people in the neighbourhood, a fiddler was sent for, and dancing introduced. Oli- ver, although only nine years of age, was permitted to share in the festivities of the evening, and was called on to dance a hornpipe. His figure was never good, but at this tune it was pecuUarly short and clumsy, and having but recently recovered from the small-pox, his features were greatly disfigured. The scraper of catgut, struck vnth the oddity of the boy's appearance, thought to display his waggery, by likening him to ^sop dancing. This compari- son, according to his notions, being uncommonly happy, he continued to harp on it for a considerable time, when suddenly the laugh of the company was turned against himself, by Oliver sarcastically re- marking. OF DR. GOLDSMITH. Our herald hath proclaim'd this saying, See iEsop dancing, and liis monkey playing. So smart a repartee, from so young a boy, was the subject of much conversation, and perhaps of itself was decisive of his fortune. His friends im Jnediately determined that he should be sent to the aniversity; and some of his relations, who belonged to the church, and possessed the necessary means, generously offered to contribute towards the ex- pense. The Rev. Mr. Green, and the Rev. Mr. Contarine, both men of distinguished worth and learning, stood forward on this occasion as the youth's patrons. To qualify him for the university, he was now sent to Athlone school, and placed under the tui- tion of the Rev. Mr. Campbell. There he re- mained two*years; but the ill health of the master having obliged him to resign liis situation, Oliver was consigned to the care of the Rev. Patrick Hughes, at Edgeworthstown, in the county of Longford, under whom he continued his studies till finally fitted for the university. Under this re- spectable teacher and excellent man, he is said to have made much greater progress than under any :)f the rest of his instructors. A short time before leaving the school of Mr, Hughes, our poet had an adventure which is be- lieved to have suggested the plot of his comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer, or the Mistakes of a Night." His father's house was distant about twenty miles from Edgeworthstown, and Avlien on his jour- ney thither for the last time, he had devoted so mijch tmie to amusement on the road, that it was almost dark when he reached the little town of Ar- magh. Some friend had given him a guinea, and Oliver, who was never niggard of his purse, re- solved to put up here for the night, and treat him- self to a good supper and a bed. Having asked for the best house in the village, he was conducted to the best hotise, instead of the best inn. The owner, immediately discovered the mistake, but be- ing a man of humour, resolved to carry on the joke, Oliver was therefore permitted to order his horse to the stable, while he himself walked into tllQ par- lour, and took his seat famiharly by the fire-side. The servants were then called about him to receive his orders as to supper. The supper was soon produced; the gentleman, with his wife and daugh- ters, were generously invited to partake; a bottle of wine was called for to crown the feast, and at going to bed, a hot cake was ordered to be prepared for his breakfast. The laugh, to be sure, was ra- ther against our hero in the morning, when he called for his bill, and found he had been hospitably entertained in a private family. But finding that his host was an acquaintance of his father's, he en- tered into the humour of the scene, and laughed as heartily as the rest. On the nth of June, 1744, Goldsmith, then fif- teen years of ago, was admitted a sizer in Trinity College, Dublin, under the Rev. Theakcr Wilder, one of the fellows, a man of violent temper, from whose overbearing disposition he suffered much vexation. The young student was giddy and thoughtless, and on one occasion mvited a number of young persons of both sexes to a supper and dance in his apartments, in direct violation of the college rules. The vigilant Wilder became ap- prised of the circumstance, and rushed like a tiger to the festive scene. He burst into the apartment, put the gay assembly to the rout, but previous to their dispersion, seized on the unfortunate delin- quent, and inflicted corporal chastisement on liim, in presence of the party. The youthful poet could not brook this outrage and indignity. He could not look his acquaintances in the face without the deepest feeling of shame and mortification. He determined, therefore, to escape altogether from his terrible tutor, by abandoning his studies, and flying to some distant part of the glolio. With this view he disposed of his books and clothes, and resolved to embark at Cork : but here his usual thoughtless and improvident turn was again dis- played, for he lingered so long in DubUn after his resolution had been taken, that his finances were reduced to a single shilling when he set out on the journey. He was accustomed afterwards to give a ludi- crous account of his adventures in this expedition, although it was attended by many distressful cir- cumstances. Having contrived to subsist three whole days on the shilling he set out with, he was then compelled by necessity to sell the clothes off his back, and at last was so reduced by famine, that he was only saved from sinking under it by the compassion of a young girl at a wake, from whom he got a handful of gray peas. This he used to say was the most delicious repast he had ever made. While in this state of hunger and wretchedness, without money and without friends, the rashness and folly of his undertaking became every moment more apparent, and, in spite of Ms lacerated feel- ings, and the dread of Wilder, he resolved to pro- pose a reconciliation with his friends, and once more to return to the college. Before he had reached the place of embarkation, therefore, he con- trived to get notice conveyed to his brother of his miserable condition, and hinted that if a promise of milder treatment were obtained from his tutor, he should be inclined to return. His affectionate brother instantly hastened to relieve his distress, equipped him with new clothing, and carried him hack to college. A reconcihation was also in some degree effected v/ith Wilder, but there was never afterwards between them any interchange of friend- ship or regard. From the despondency resulting from his tutor's 10 LIFE AND WRITINGS ill treatment, Goldsmith is said to have sunk into habitual indolence; yet his genius sometimes dawn- ed through the gloom, and translations from the classics made by him at this period were long re- membered by his cotemporaries with app*lause. He was not, however, admitted to the degree of Bache- lor of Arts till February 27, 1749, O. S. two years after the regular time. The chagrin and vexation attending his unlucky disputes with his tutor, were soon after succeeded by a calamity of deeper moment, and more lasting consequences to our poet. This was the death of his worthy and amiable father. He had now lost his natural guardian and best friend, and found himself young in the world, without either protector 6t guide. His uncle Contarine, however, in this emergency kindly interfered, and, with almost pa- rental anxiety, took the charge of advising and di- recting his future progress. When he had com- pleted his studies at the university,* Mr. Contarine advised him to prepare for holy orders; but this was a measure always repugnant to his inclinations. An unsettled turn of mind, an unquenchable de- sire of visiting other countries, and perhaps an in- genuous sense of his unfitness for the clerical pro- fession, conspired to disincline him to the church; and though at length he yielded to the pressing so- licitations of his uncle and friends, b}^ applying to the bishop for ordination, it is thought he was more pleased than disappointed when rejected by his lordship, on account of his youth. He was now anxious, however, to be employed in some way or other, and when the office of private tutor in the family of a neighbouring gentleman was offered to him, he willingly accepted it. In this situation he remained about a year; but finding the employment much more disagreeable than he had been taught to beUeve it, and the necessary confinement pain- fully irksome, he suddenly gave up his charge, pro- cured a good horse, and, with about thirty pounds which lie had saved, quitted his friends, and set out nobody knew whither. As this singular unpremeditated step had been taken without consulting any of his friends, and as no intelhgence could be obtained either of him- self or the motives which had prompted his de- parture, his family became much alarmed for his safety, and were justly offended at his conduct. * During his studies at the university, he was a contempo- rary with Burke ; and it has been said that neither of them gave much promise of future celebrity. Goldsmith, however, got a premium at a Christmas examination ; and a premium obtained at such examination is more honourable than any other, because it ascertains the person who receives it to be the first in literary merit. At the other exanoinations, the person thus distinguished may be only tlie second in merit ; he who has previously obtained the same honorary reward, sometimes receiving a written certificate that he was the best answerer ; it being a rule, that not more than one premium -neuld be adjudged to the same person in one year. Week after week passed away, and no tidings of the fugitive. At last, when all hope of his re- turn had been given up, and when they concluded he must have left the country altogether, the fami- ly were astonished by his sudden reappearance at his mother's house; safe and sound, to be sure, but not exactly in such good trim as when he had left them. His horse was metamorphosed into a shabby Uttle pony, not worth twenty shillmgs; and instead of thirty pounds in his pocket, he was without a penny. On this occasion the indignation of his mother was strongly expressed; but his brothers and sisters, who were all tenderly attach- ed to him, interfered, and soon effected a recon- ciliation. Once more reinstated in the good graces of his family, our poet amused them with a detail of his adventures in this last expedition. He pre- mised that he had long felt a strong inclination to visit the New World, but knowing that his friends would throw obstacles in the way of his departure, he had determined to set out unknown to any of them. Intending to embark at Cork, he had gone directly thither, and immediately after he arrived disposed of his horse, and struck a bargain with a captain of a ship bound for North America. For three weeks after his arrival, the wind continued unfavorable for putting to sea ; and the vessel re- mained wind-bound in the harbour. In the mean time, he amused himself by sauntering about the city and its environs, satisfying his curiosity, and examining every object worthy of notice. Hav- ing formed some acquaintances by means of the captain, he accompanied a party on an excursion into the country. The idea never occurred to him, that the wind, which had blown so perversely a-head during there wrecks, might change in a sin- gle day ; he was not less surprised than chagrined, therefore, on his return next morning, to find the vessel gone. This was a death-blow to his scheme of emigration, as his passage-money was already in the pocket of the captain. Mortified and disappointed, he lingered about Cork, irresolute what to do, until the languishing state of his purse, which was reduced to two gui- neas, admonished him to make the best of his way home. He accordingly bought a poor little pony, which he called Fiddleback, and found that he had just five sliilUngs left to defray the travelhng expen- ses of himself arid his steed. This pittance, how- ever, was rather too scanty for a journey of a hun- dred and twenty miles, and he was at a loss how to procure a further supply. He at last bethought himself of an old college friend, who lived on the road, not far from Cork, and determined to apply to him for assistance. Having been often pressed by this person to spend a summer at his house, he had the less hesitation in paying him a visit under his present circumstances, and doubted not that he OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 11 vtovld at once obtain all the aid his situation re- quired. When on the road to the house of his iriend, a poor woman with eight children, whose husband had been thrown into jail for rent, threw herself in his way and implored for relief. The feelings of humanity being ever most easily awak- ened in Oliver's bosom, he gave her all that re- mained in his purse, and trusted his own wants to the expected liberality of his old fellow-collegian. This dear friend, whose promised hospitalities were so securely relied on, received him with much apparent satisfaction, and only appeared anxious to learn the motive which could have prompted this chance visit. Charmed with this seeming cor- diality with which he was received, Oliver gave him an artless and honest account of his whole ex- pedition; and did not even conceal the offence which his departure must have given to his friends. His good host listened with profound attention and appeared to take so much interest in the detail of our poet's adventures, that he was at length in- duced to disclose the immediate object of his visit This chanced to be the true touch-stone for try- ing the liberality of so honest a friend. A profound sigh, and querulous declamation on his own in- firm state of health, was the only return to his hint for assistance. When pressed a little further, this kind friend drily remarked, that for his part he could not understand how some people got them- selves into scrapes ; that on any other occasion he would have been happy to accommodate an old comrade, but really he had been lately so very ill, and was, even now, in such a sickly condition, that it was very inconvenient to entertain compa- ny of any kind. Besides, he could not well ask a person in health to share in his slops and milk diet. If, however, Mr. Goldsmith could think of putting up with the family fare, such as it was, he would be made welcome; at the same time he must apprise him that it might not soon be got Tea.dy. The astonishment and dismay of our poet at the conclusion of this speech was sufficiently visible in his lengthened visage. Nothing but the utter emptiness of his purse, and his great distance from home, could have induced him to pocket the insult, or accept so inhospitable an imitation. No better, however, could be made of it in his present circumstances; so without showing his chagrin, he good-humouredly partool^of a miserable supper of brown bread and butter milk, served up at a late hour by a miserable looking old woman, the fit handmaid of so miserable a master. Notwithstanding the base colours in which our poet's host had exhibited himself, the former had too much good-nature to harbour resentment. When they met in the morning, therefore, he entered fa- miliarly into conversation, and even condescended to ask what he would advise him to do in his pre- sent difficulty. "My dear fellow," said his host, "return home immediately. You can never do witli- out the assistance of your friends; and if you keep them longer in suspense and alarm by remaining away, you will only widen the breach which your rashness must have already occasioned, and perhaps mduce them to throw you off altogether." ' ' But," rejoined Oliver, "how am I to get on without mo- ney? I told you I had not a shilling left, and it is quite impossible for me to proceed on the journey, unless you should be so obliging as to lend me a guinea for the purpose." Here again his friend's countenance fell. He pleaded his inabiUty to lend, in consequence of having spent all his ready cash during his late illness, interlarding this apology with many sage aphorisms on the disadvantages of borrowing, and the sin of running into debt. " But my dear fellow," resumed he, " I'll tell you how you may get over the difficulty. May you not sell the Uttle horse you brought with you last night? The price of it will be sufficient for all your expenses till you arrive among your friends, and, in the mean time, I think I can furnish you with another to help you forward on the jour- ney." Oliver could discover no objection to a plan so feasible, and therefore agreed to it at once; but when be asked for a sight of the steed which was to carry him home, his host, with solemn gravity, drew from under the bed a stout oaken staff, which he presented to him with a grin of self-approba- tion. Our poor poet now lost all patience, and was just about to snatch it from him, and apply it to his pate, when a loud rap announced a visiter. A person of interesting appearance was immediately afterwards ushered into the room, and, when the us- ual compliments were over, Oliver was presented to him by his host, as if nothing had happened, and described as the learned and ingenious young man of whom he had heard so much while at college. The agreeable manners of this gentleman soon gave an interesting turn to the conversation. Har- mony appeared to be once more restored between Oliver and his host, and the stranger invited them both to dine with him the following day. This was not acceded to on the part of the poet, with- out considerable reluctance; but the gentleman's pressing solicitations prevailed on him to consent. The hospitality and kindness displayed at this per- son's table was a striking contrast to the penury and meanness exhibited by his fellow-collegian, and Oliver could hardly refrain from making some sarcastic remarks on the difference. The hints on this subject which were occasionally hazarded by the poet, led the gentleman to suspect that the two friends were not on the most cordial tenns. He was therefore induced to invite our poet to spend a few days at his house. An invitation of this kind, so opportunely and handsomely given, was a for- tunate circumstance for Oliver. He did not hesi- tate a moment to accept it, and at parting with his 12 LIFE AND WRITINGS dear fellow-collegian, archly recommended to him to take good care of the steed kept at so much ex- pense for the use of his friends; and, of all things, to beware of surfeiting them with a milk diet. To this sarcasm the other only replied by a sneer at the poet's poverty and improvident disposition. Their host being well acquainted with the charac- ter of his neighbour, seemed, when OUver after- wards recounted to him all the circumstances that had taken place, to be more amused than surprised at the detail. In the house of this new friend Goldsmith expe- rienced the most hospitable entertainment for seve- ral days. Two beautiful daughters, as well as the host himself, were emulous in finding amusement for their guest during his stay; and when about to depart, he was oflered money to defray the expense of his journey, and a servant to attend him on horseback. The servant and horse he declined, but accepted of a loan of three half-guineas ; and with sentiments of the deepest respect and grati- tude, took leave of his benevolent host. He now pursued his journey without any fur- ther interruption, and arrived at his mother's house in the sudden and unexpected manner already nar- rated. Once more reconciled to his friends, he did not fail to transmit to his Idnd benefactor suitable acknowledgments expressive of the grateful sense he entertained of such unlooked-for and generous hospitality. It was now considered essential that he should fix on a profession, the pursuit of which might di- vert him from idle and expensive habits. After various consultations, it was determined that he should begin the study of the law, and his uncle Contarine agreed to advance the necessary funds. Provided with money for the expenses of his jour- ney, and to enable him to enter on his studies at the Temple, Oliver set out for London, but his customary imprudence again interfered. He fell by accident into the company of a sharper in Dub- lin, and being tempted to engage in play, was soon plundered of all his money, and again left to find his way home without a shiUing in his pocket. His friends now almost despaired of him. Not- withstanding the brilliancy of his natural talents, it was feared that his habitual carelessness and im- providence would form a bar to his success in any profession whatever. That it would be vain for him to pursue the study of the law veith such dis- positions was obvious; and, of course, it was neces- sary once more to cast about for a profession. Af- ter various consultations, therefore, it was finally determined that physic should be his future pur- suit ; and his kind uncle, who had been prevailed on to pardon him once more, took hun again under his protection, and at last fixed him at Edinburgh as a student of medicine, about the end of the year i752. On his arrival in that city, he had no sooner deposited his trunk in lodgings than he sallied out to see the town. He rambled about until a late hour, and when he felt disposed to turn his face homeward, recollected for the first time that he knew neither the name nor address of his landlady. In tliis dilemma, as he was wandering at random, he fortunately met with the porter who had carried his baggage, and who now served him as a guide. In the University of Edinburgh, at that time be coming famous as a school of medicine, he attend- ed the lectures of the celebrated Monro, and the other professors in medical science. What pro- gress he made in this study, however, is not par- ticularly ascertained. Riotous conviviality, and tavern adjournments, whether for business or plea- sure, were at that tune characteristic of Edinburgh society ; and it does not appear that our poet was able to resist the general contagion. His attention to his studies was far from being regular. Dissi- pation and play allured him from the class-room, and his health and his purse suffered in conse- quence. About this period, his contemporaries have reported, that he sometimes also sacrificed to the Muses, but of these early efifusions no specimen seems to have been preserved. The social and good-humoured qualities of oui poet appear to have made him a general favourite with his fellow-students. He was a keen partici- pator in all their wild pranks and humorous frolics. He was also a prime table companion : always rea- dy with story, anecdote, or song, though it must be confessed that m such exhibitions he was far from being successful. His narrations were too frequent- ly accompanied by grimace or bufibonery; nor was his wit of that chaste and classical land that might have been expected from his education. On the contrary, it was generally forced, coarse, and un- natural. All his oral communications partook of these defects ; and it is a fact not less true than sin- gular, that even in after life he was never exempt from them, although accustomed to the poUtest li- terary society. When conversing on this feature in our poet's character, his friend Dr. Johnson many years after- wards, justly, but perhaps rather severely, remark- ed, " The misfortune of Goldsmith in conversation is this : he goes on without knowing how he is to get off. His genius is great, but his knowledge is small. As they say of a generous man, it is a pity he is not rich, we may say of Goldsmith, it is a pity he is not knowing : he would not keep his knowledge to himself." On another occasion, Johnson being called on for his opinion on the same subject, took a similar view of it, wdth much critical acumen, and all his usuaJ power of amplification. "Goldsmith," said he, " should not be for ever attempting to shine in con- versation; he has not temper for it, he is so much mortified when he fails. A game of jokes is com- OF DR. GOLDSMITH. posed partly of skill, partly of chance; a man may be beat at times by one who has not the tenth part of his wit. Now Goldsmith's putting himself against another, is like a man laying a hundred to one, who can not spare the hundred. It is not worth a man's wliile. A man should not lay a hundred to one, unless he can easily spare it; though he has a hundred chances for him, he can get but a guinea, and he may lose a hundred. Goldsmith is in this state : when he contends, if he get the bet- ter, it is a very little addition to a man of his literary reputation; if he do not get the better, he is misera- Hy vexed." Though now arrived at an age when reflection on passing objects and events might have been oc casionally eUcited, yet it does not appear that any thing of that kind worth preserving occurred in our poet's correspondence with his friends. The only drcumstancc which seems to have excited particu- lar remark was the economy of the Scotch in cook- ing and eating ; and of this he would sometimes give rather a ludicrous account. His first landlady, he used to say, nearly starved him out of his lodgings ; and the second, tliough somewhat more Uberal, was still a wonderful adept in the art of saving. When permitted to put forth all her talents in this way, she would perform siu^prising feats. A single lorn of mutton would sometimes be made to serve our poet and two fellow-students a whole week ; a bran- dered chop was served up one day, a fried steak ano- ther, collops with onion sauce a third, and so on, till the fleshy parts were quite consumed, when finally a dish of broth was made from the well-picked bones on the seventh day, and the landlady rested from her labours. After he had attended some courses of lectures at Eldinburgh, it was thought advisable that he should complete his medical studies at the University of Leyden, then celebrated as a great medical school his uncle Contarine furnishing the funds. Gold smith accordingly looked out at Leith for a vessel for Holland; but finding one about to sail for Bor- deaux, with his usual eccentricity engaged a pas- sage. He found himself, however, in an awkward dilemma about the time of embarkation. He had become security to a tailor for a fellow-student in a considerable amount. The tailor arrested hun for debt; and, but for the interference of Mr. Lachlan Maclane and Dr. Sleigh, he would have been thrown into prison. Rescued from this diflSculty, he embarked, but encountered a storm, and a de- tention, and an escape from sliipwreck, and finally arrived safe at Rotterdam, instead of Bordeaux ; all which is thus related by himself, in an extract from a letter, without date, to liis generous uncle Conta- rine. " Some time after the receipt of your last, I era- barked for Bordeaux, on board a Scotch ship, call- ed the St. Andrew, Captain John Wall, master. The ship made a tolerable appearance, and as ano- ther inducement, I was let to know that six agree- able 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-upon- TjTie. We all went ashore to refresh us, after the fatigue of our voyage. Seven men and I were one day on shore, and on the following evening, as we were all very merry, the room door bursts open, en- ters a sergeant and twelve grenadiers, with their bayonets screwed, 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 re- mained in prison with the rest a fortnight, and with difficulty got oft* 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 m my favour; the ship was gone on to Bordeaux be- fore I got from prison, and was wrecked at the mouth of the Garonne, and every one of the crew were drowned. It happened the last great storm. There was a ship at that time ready for HoUandj I embarked, and in nine days, thanlt my God, I ar- rived safe at Rotterdam, whence I travelled by land to Leyden, and whence I now vmte." He proceeds in the same letter to amuse his friends with a whimsical account of the costume and manners of the Hollanders; which we also ex- tract for the entertaimnent of the reader. You may expect some account of this country ; and though I am not well qualified for such an un- dertaking, yet I shall endeavour to satisfy some part of your expectations. Nothing surprised me more than the books every day pubUshed descrip- tive of the manners of tliis country. Any young man who talces it into his head to publish his travels, visits the comitries he intends to describe; passes through them with as much inattention as his valet de chambre; and consequently, not having a fund himself to fill a volume, he apphes to those who wrote before him, and gives us the manners of a country; not as he must have seen them, but such as they might have been fifty years before. The modern Dutchman is quite adifl^erent creature from him of former times: he in every thing imitates a Frenchman, but in his easy disengaged air, wlaich is the result of keeping polite company. The Dutchman is vastly ceremonious, and is perhaps exactly what a Frenchman might have been in the reign of Louis XIV. Such are the better bred. But the downright Hollander is one of the oldest figures in nature. Upon a head of lanlc hair he wears a half-cocked narrow hat, laced with black riband ; no coat, but seven waistcoats, and nine pair of breeches; so that his hips reach almost up to his arm-pits. This well-clothed vegetable is now fit to 14 LIFE AND WRITINGS see company, or make love. But what a pleasing thing can equal its beauty. Wherever I turn my creature is the object of his appetite? Why, she wears a large fur cap, with a deal of Flanders lace; and for every pair of breeches he carries, she puts on two petticoats. " A Dutch lady burns nothing about her phleg- matic admirer but his tobacco. You must know, sir, every woman carries in her hand a stove with coals in it, which, when she sits, she snugs under her petticoats ; and at this chimney dozing Strephon lights his pipe. I take it that this continual smok- ing is what gives the man the ruddy healthful com- plexion he generally wears, by draining his super- fluous moisture; while the woman, deprived of this amusement, overflows with such viscidities as tint the complexion, and give that paleness of visage which low fenny grounds and moist air conspire to cause. A Dutch woman and a Scotch will bear an opposition. The one is pale and fat, the other lean and ruddy. The one walks as if she were straddling after a go-cart, and the other takes too masculme a stride. I shall not endeavour to de- prive either country of its share of beauty; but must say, that of all objects on this earth, an En- glish farmer's daughter is most charming. Every woman there is a complete beauty, while the higher class of women want many of the requisites to make them even tolerable. Their pleasures here are very dull, though very various. You may smoke, you may doze, you may go to the ItaUan comedy, as good an amusement as either of the for- mer. This entertainment always brings in Har- lequin, who is generally a magician; and in conse- quence of his diaboUcal art, performs a thousand tricks on the rest of the persons of the drama, who are all fools. I have seen the pit in a roar of laugh- ter at this humour, when with his sword he touches the glass from which another was drinking. ' T was not his face they laughed at, for that Wls masked: they must have seen something vastly queer in the wooden sword, that neither I, nor you, sir, were you there, could see. " In winter, when their canals are frozen, every house is forsaken, and all people are on the ice ; sleds drawn by horses, and skating, are at that time the reigning amusements. They have boats here that slide on the ice, and are driven by the winds. When they spread all their sails they go more than a mile and a half a minute, and their motion is so rapid, the eye can scarcely accompany them. Their ordinary manner of travelling is very cheap and very convenient. They sail in covered boats drawn by horses ; and in these you are sure to meet people of all nations. Here the Dutch slumber, the French chatter, and the Enghsh play at cards. Any man who likes company, may have them to his taste. For my part, I generally de- tached myself from all society, and was wholly taken up in observing the face of the country. No- eyes, fine houses, elegant gardens, statues, grottoa, vistas, presented themselves ; but when you entei their towns you are charmed beyond description No misery is to be seen here ; every one is useful* ly employed. "Scotland and this country bear the highest contrast. There, liills and rocks intercept every prospect ; here, 'tis all a continued plain. There you might see a well dressed duchess issuing from a dirty close ; and here a dirty Dutchman inhabit- ing a palace. The Scotch may be compared to a tulip planted in dung; but I never see a Dutchman in his own house, but I think of a magnificent Egyptian temple dedicated to an ox. " Physic is by no means taught here so well as in Edinburgh ; and in all Leyden there are but four British students, owing to all necessaries being so extremely dear, and the professors so very lazy (the chemical professor excepted,) that we don't much care to come hither. I am not certain how long my stay here may be ; however, I expect to have the happiness of seeing you at Kilmore, if I can, next March." While resident in Leyden, he attended the lec- tures of Gaubius on chemistry, and those of Albi- nus on anatomy. In the letters of Goldsmith to his uncle, Gaubius is the only professor of whose talents he gives a favourable opinion.* Of all the other professors he seems to have formed rather a contemptuous estimate ; and with regard to the in- habitants in general, his remarks are by no means of a laudatory description. But to appreciate the characters of men, and describe the manners of a people with accuracy, require the nicest discrimi- nation, and much knowledge of the world. On such subjects, therefore, the opinions of our poet, at this early period of his life, are to be the less re- garded. His Dutch characteristics can only be deemed good himaoured caricatures, and probably were dravm as such, merely for the amusement of his friends in Ireland. It happened, unfortunately for Goldsmith, that one of his most dangerous propensities met with too much encouragement during his stay in Hol- land. The people ofthatcoxmtry are much addict- ed to games of chance. Gaming tables are to be met with in every tavern, and at every place of amusement. Goldsmith, unable to resist the con- tagion of example, with his usual faciUty sailed with the stream; and fortune, according to c/ustom, alternately greeted him vsdth smiles and frowns. His friend. Dr. ElUs,t who was then also study- ing at Leyden, used to relate, that on one occasion he came to him with much exultation, and count- * Gaubius died in 1750, at the age of 75, leaving a splendid reputation. He was tlie favourite pupil of Boerhaave. and wrote several learned and ingenious works. t Afterwards clerk of the Irish House of Commorw. OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 15 ed out a considerable ^um which he had won the preceding evening. " Perceiving that this tempo- rary success," said Ellis, "was only fanning the flame of a ruinous passion, I was at some pains to point out to him the destructive consequences of indulging so dangerous a propensity. I exhorted him, since fortune had for once been unusually kind, to rest satisfied with his present gains, and showed, that if he set apart the money now in his hands, he would be able to complete his studies without further assistance from his friends. Gold- smith, who could perceive, though he could not al- ways pursue the right path, admitted all the truth f my observations, seemed grateful for my advice, #nd promised for the future strictly to adhere to it." The votary of play, however, is never to be so sasily cured. Reason and ridicule are equally im- potent against that unhappy passion. To those infected with it, the charms of the gaming table may be said to be omnipotent. Soon after this, he once more gave himself up to it without control, and not only lost all he had lately won, but was stripped of every shilling he had in the world. In this emergency he was obliged to have recourse to Dr. Ellis for advice. His friend perceived that ad- monition was useless, and that so long as he re- mained within reach of the vortex of play, his gambling propensities could never be restrained. It was therefore determined that he ought to quit Holland ; and with a view to his further improve- ment, it was suggested that he should visit some of the neighbouring countries before returning to his own. He readily acceded to this proposal, and notwithstanding the paucity of his means, resolved to pursue it without delay. EUis, however, kindly took his wants into consideration, and agreed to accommodate him with a sum of money to carry his plan into execution ; but in this, as in other in- stances, his heedless improvidence interfered to render his friend's generosity abortive. When about to set out on his journey, accident or curiosity led him into a garden at Leyden, where the choicest flowers were reared for sale. In consequence of an unaccountable mania for flowers having at one time spread itself over Holland, an extensive trade in flower roots became universally prevalent in that country, and at this period the Dutch florists were the most celebrated in Europe.* Fortunes and law suits innumerable had been lost and won in this singular traflac; ^d though the rage had now greatly subsided, flower roots still bore a considera- ble value. Unluckily, while rambling through the garden at Leyden, Goldsmith recollected that his * It was the celebrated tulip mania. For a tulip root, known by the name of Semper Augustus, 550^. sterling was given; and for other tulip roots less rare, various prices were given, from one hundred to four hundred guineas. Tliis madness raged in Holland for many years, tiU at length the State in- terfered, and a law was enacted which put a stop to the trade. uncle was an amateur of such rarities. With his usual inconsiderateness he immediately concluded a bargain for a parcel of the roots, never reflecting on his own limited means, or the purpose for which his money had been furnished. This absurd and extravagant purchase nearly exhausted the fund he had already received from hfe friend Ellis, and it is not unlikely that the gaming table gleaned the little that remained ; for it has often been asserted, that after his magnificent speculation in tulip roots he actually set out upon his travels with only one clean shirt, and without a shilling in his pocket. When this expedition was projected, it is most likely that nothing more was intended than a short excursion into Belgium and France. The passion for travel, however, which had so long lain dormant in his mind was now thoroughly awakened. Blessed with a good constitution, an adventurous spirit, and with that thoughtless, or perhaps happy disposition, which talces no care for to-morrow, he continued his travels for a long time in spite of in- numerable privations; and neither poverty, fatigue, nor hardship, seems to have damped his ardour, or interrupted liis progress. It is a well authenticated fact, that he performed the tour of Europe on foot, and that he finished the arduous and singular un- dertaking without any other means than was ob- tained by an occasional display of his scholarship, or a tune upon his flute. It is much to be regretted that no account of his tour was ever given to the world by himself. The oral conununications which he sometimes gave to friends, are said to have borne some resem- blance to the story of the Wanderer in the Vicar of Wakefield. The interest they excited did not arise so much from the novelty of the incidents as from the fine vein of moral reflection interwoven with the narrative. Like the Wanderer, he possessed a sufficient portion of ancient Uterature, some taste in music, and a tolerable knowledge of the French language. His learning was a passport to the hos- pitalities of the literary and religious establish- ments on the continent, and the music of his flute generally procured him a welcome reception at the cottages of the peasantry. "Whenever I ap- proached a peasant's house towards night-fall," he used to say, "I played one of my merriest tunes, and that procured me not only a lodging, but sub- sistence for the next day; but, in truth;" his con- stant expression, "I must own, whenever I attempt- ed to entertain persons of a higher rank, they al- ways thought my performance odious, and never made me any return for my endeavours to please them." The hearty good-will, however, with which he was received by the harmless peasantry, seems to have atoned to him for the disregard of the rich. How much their simple manners won upon his afl*ection3, may be discovered from the fin^ 16 LIFE AND WRITINGS passage in his "Traveller," in which he so happi- ly introduces himself: How often have I led thy sportive choir With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring Lou:e I Where shading elms along the margin grew, And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew: And haply, though my harsh touch, falt'ring still, But mock'd aU tune, and marr'd the dancers' skill, Vet would the village praise my wondrous power, And dance, forgetful of the noontide hoiu:. The learned and religious houses also appear to have been equally hospitable. "With the mem- bers of these estabUshments," said ho, "I could converse on topics of literature, and then I always forgot the meanness of my circumstances." In many of the foreign universities and con- vents there are, upon certain days, philosophical theses maintained against every adventitious dis- putant ; for which, if the champion opposes with A any dexterity, he can claim a gratuity in money, a dinner, and a bed for one night. The talents of Goldsmith frequently enabled him to command the rehef afforded by this useful and hospitable cus- tom. In this manner, without money or friends, he fought his way from convent to convent, and from city to city, examined mankind more nearly, and, as he himself expressed it, saw both sides of the picture. To Goldsmith's close and familiar intercourse with the scenes and natives of the different coun- tries through which he passed, the world is indebt- ed for his " Traveller." For although that poem was afterwards " slowly and painfully elaborated," still the nice and accurate discrimination of na- tional character displayed could only be acquired by actual examination. In the progress of his journey, he seems to have treasured his facts and observations, with a view to the formation of this delightful poem. The first sketch of it is said to have been vmtten after his arrival in Switzerland, and was transmitted from that country to his bro- ther Henry in Ireland. After his arrival in Svntzerland, he took up his abode for some time in Geneva. Here he appears to have found friends, or formed acquaintances; for we find him recommended at this place as tu- tor to a young gentleman on his travels. The youth to whom he was recommended was the ne- phew of Mr. S******, pawnbroker in London, who had unexpectedly acquired a large fortune by the death of his uncle. Determined to see the world, he had just arrived at Geneva on the grand tour, and not being provided with a travelling tu- tor, Goldsmith was hired to perform the functions of that office. They set out together for Mar- seilles; but never were tutor and pupil so miserably assorted. The latter, before acquiring his fortune, had been for some time articled to an attorney, and while in that capacity had so well learned the art of managing in money concerns, that it had at length become his favourite study. Naturally ava- ricious, his training as an attorney had nothing duninished the reign of that sordid passion, and it discovered its most odious features in almost every transaction. When he engaged a tutor, there- fore, he took care to make a special proviso, that in all money matters he should be at liberty to tu- tor himself. A stipulation of this kind so cramp- ed the views and propensities of Goldsmith, and afforded to the pupil so many opportunities of dis- playing his mean disposition, that disgust and dis- like almost immediately ensued. When arrived at Marseilles they mutually agreed to separate; and the poet having received the small part of hia salary that was due, his pupU, terrified at the ex- pense of travelling, instantly embarked for Eng- land. Goldsmith, thus freed from the trammels of tu- torship, set out once more on foot, and in that man- ner travelled through various districts of France. He finally pursued his journey into Italy, visiting Venice, Verona, Florence, and other celebrat^ places. At Padua, where he staid six months, he is said to have taken a medical degree, but upon what authority is not ascertained. While resi- dent at Padua he was assisted, it is believed, by remittances from his uncle Contarine, who, how- ever, unfortunately died about that time.* In Italy, Goldsmith found his talent for music al- most useless as a means of subsistence, for every peasant was a better musician than himself; but his skill in disputation still served his purpose, and the religious establishments were equally hospita- ble. At length, curiosity being fully gratified, he resolved to retrace his steps towards his native home. He returned through France, as the short- er route, and as affording greater facilities to a pedestrian. He was lodged and entertained as formerly, sometimes at learned and religious estab- lishments, and sometimes at* the cottages of the peasantry, and thus, with the aid of his philoso- phy and his flute, he disputed and piped his way homewards. When Goldsmith arrived at Dover from Franc^ it was about the breaking out of the war in 1755-6. Being unprovided with money, a new difficulty now presented itself, how to fight his *The Rev. Thomas Contarine was descended from the no- ble family of the Contarini of Venice. His ancestor, having married a nun in his native country, was obliged to fly with her into Fi^ance, where she died of the small-pox. Being pursued by ecclesiastical censures, Contarmi came to Eng- land; but the puritanical manners which then prevailed, hav- ing afforded him but a cold reception, he was on his way to Ireland, when at Chester he met with a young lady of the name of Chaloner whom he married. Having afterwards conformed to the established church, he, through the interest of his wife's family, obtained ecclesiastical preferment in the diocese of Elphin. This gentleman was their lineal descent (ia.nl. CampbelPs Biography of Goldsmith. OF DH. GOLDSMITH. 17 way to the metropolis. His whole stock of cash could not defray the expense of the ordinary con- veyance, and neither flute nor logic could help him to a supper or a bed. By some means or other, however, he contrived to reach London in safety. On his arrival he had only a few halfpence in his pocket. To use his own words, in one of his let- ters, he found himself "without friend, recom- mendation, money, or impudence;" and, contrary to his usual habits, began to be filled with the gloomiest apprehensions. There was not a mo- ment to be lost, therefore, in seeking for a sit- uation that might aflford him the means of imme- diate subsistence. His first attempt was to get ad- mission as an assistant to a boarding-school or aca- demy, but, for want of a recommendation, even that poor and painfxil situation was found difficult to be obtained. This difficulty appears also to have been nothing lessened by his stooping to make use of a feigned name. "What his motives were for such a measure has never been fully explained ; but it is fair to infer, that his literary i)ride revolted at servitude, and perhaps, conscious that his powers would ultimately enable him to cniorge from his present obscurity, he was unwilling it should after- wards be known that he had occupied a situation 60 humble. Deceit and finesse, liowc\ er, arc at all times dangerous, be the motive for employing them ever so innocent; and in the present inotauce our author found them productive of considerable em- barrassment ; for, when the master of the school demanded a reference to some respectable person for a character. Goldsmith was at a loss to account for using any other name than his own. In this dilemma he wrote to Dr. RadcHIT, a mild benevo- lent man, who had been joint-tutor with hi.-? perse- cutor Wilder, in Trinity College, and had some- times lectured the other pupils. Having can- didly stated to the doctor the predicament in wliich he was placed, and explained the immediate object in view, he told him that the same post whieli conveyed this information would also bring him a letter of inquiry from the school-master, to wliicli t was hoped he would be so good as return a fa- vourable answer. It appears that Dr. Radcliii" promptly complied with this request, for Goldsmith immediately obtained the situation. We learn from Campbell's Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland, that our author's letter of thanks to Dr. Radcliff on that occasion was accompanied with a very interesting account of his travels and adventures. The employment of usher at an academy in Lon- don, is of itself a task of no ordinary labour; but, independent of the drudgery and toil, it is attended with so many little irritating circumstances, that of all others it is perhaps a situation the most pain- ful and irksome to a man of independent mind and liberal ideas. To a person of our author's temper and habits, it was peculiarly distasteful. How long he remained in this situation is not well ascertained, but he ever spoke of it in bitterness of spirit. The very remembrance of it seemed to be gall and worm- wood to him; and how keenly he must have felt its mortification and misery, may be gathered from the satire with which it is designated in various parts of his works. The language which he has put into the mouth of the Wanderer's cousin, when he applies to liim for an ushership, is feelingly charac- teristic. "I," said he, "have been an usher to a boarding-school myself; and may I die by an ano- dyne necklace, but I had rather be an under-turn- key 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 arc fit for a school? Let me examine you a little. Have you been bred ap- prentice to the business?" -No. "Then you won't do for a school. Can you dress the boys' hair ?" No. " Then you won't do for a school. Have you had the small-pox?" No. " Then you won't do for a school. Can you lie three in a bed?" No. " Then you will never do for a school. HaA e 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." On another occasion, when talking on the same SiUbject, our author thus sunnned u]) the misery of such an employment : " After the fatigues of tiie day, the poor usher of an academy is obliged to sleep in the same bed with a Frenchman, a teacher of that language to the boys, who disturbs him every niglit, an hour perhaps, in papering and fillet- ing hio hair, and stinks worse tlian a carrion, with his rancid pomatums, when he lays his head beside him on his bolster." Having thrown up this wretched employment, he was obliged to cast about for one more congenial to his mind. In this, however, he again found con- siderable difficulty. His personal appearance and address were never prepossessing, but at that par- ticular period were still less so from tlie thread-bare state of his wardrobe. He applied to se^ eral of the medical tribe, but had the mortification to meet witli repeated refusals; and on more than one occasion was jeered with the mimicry of his broad Irish jic- cent. At length a chemist, near Fish-street-hill, took him into his laboratory, where his medical knowledge soon rendered him an able and useful assistant. Not long after this, however, accident discovered to him that his old friend and fellow- student, Dr. Sleigh, was in London, and he deter- mined, if possible, to renew his acquaintance with him. " It was Sunday," said Goldsmith, "when I paid him the first visit, and it is to be supposed 1 18 LIFE AND WRITINGS was dressed in my best clothes. Sleigh scarcely knew me ; such is the tax the unfortunate pay to poverty. However, when he did recollect me, I found his heart as warm as ever, and he shared his purse and his friendship with me during his con- tinuance in London." The friendship of Dr. Sleigh* was not confined to the mere relief of our poet's immediate wants, ])ut showed itself in an anxious solicitude for his permanent success in life. Nobody better knew how to appreciate his talents and acquirements, and the accurate knowledge that Sleigh possessed of London qualified him to advise and direct the poet in his subsequent pursuits. Accordingly we find that Goldsmith, encouraged by his friend's advice, commenced medical practitioner at Bankside, in Southwark, whence he afterwards removed to the Temple and its neighbourhood. In Southwark it appears that his practice did not answer his ex- pectations, but in the vicinity of the Temple he was more successful. The fees of the physician, however, were little, and that little, as is usual among the poorer classes, was very ill paid. He found it necessary, therefore, to have recourse like- wise to his pen, and being introduced by Dr. Sleigh to some of the booksellers, was almost im- mediately engaged in their service; and thus, " with very little practice as a physician, and very little reputation as a poet," as he himself expresses it, he made " a shift to live." The peculiarities of his situation at this period are described in the fol- lowing letter, addressed to the gentleman who had married his eldest sister. It is dated Temple Ex- change Coffee-house, December 27, 1757, and ad- dressed to Daniel Hodson, Esq., at Lishoy, near Ballymahon, Ireland, " Dear Sir, It may be four years since my last letters went to Ireland ; and from you in particular I received no answer, probably because you never wrote to me. My brother Charles, however, in- forms me of the fatigue you were at in soliciting a subscription to assist me, not only among my friends and relations, but acquaintance in general. Though my pride might feel some repugnance at being thus relieved, yet my gratitude can suffer no diminution. How much am I obliged to you, to them, for such generosity, or (why should not your virtues have the proper name) for such charity to me at that juncture. Sure I am bom to ill fortune, to be so much a debtor, and unable to repay. But to say no more of tliis : too many professions of gratitude are often considered as indirect petitions for future favours ; let me only add, that my not receiving that supply was the cause of my present establishment ITiis gentleman subsequently settled in Cork, his native city, and was rapidly rising into eminence in his profession, when he was cut off in the flower of his age by an inflamma- tory fever, which deprived the world of a fine scholar, a skilful physician, and an honest man. at London. You may easily imagine w^hat difl^- culties I had to encounter, left as I was without friends, recommendations, money, or impudence; and that in a country where being born an Irish- man was sufiicient to keep me unemployed. Many in such circumstances would have had recourse to the friar's cord, or the suicide's halter. But, with all my follies, I had principle to resist the one, and resolution to combat the other. " 1 suppose you desire to know my present situ- ation. As there is nothing in it at which I should blush, or which mankind could censure, I see no reason for making it a secret. In short, by a very little practice as a physician, and a % ery little repu- tation as a poet, I make a sliift to live. Nothing is more apt to introduce us to the gates of the Muses than poverty ; but it were well for us if they only , left us at the door the mischief is, they sometimes I choose to give us their company at the entertain- I ment, and want, instead of being gentleman usher, , often turns master of the cx^rcmonies. Thus, upon hearing I write, no doubt you imagine I starve ; j and the name of an author naturally remands you I of a garret. In this particular I do not tliink pro- I per to undeceive my friends. But whether I eat : or starve ; live in a first fioor, or four pair of stairs high, I still remember them with ardour ; nay, my I very country comes in for a share of my affection. Unaccountable fondness for country, this maladie du pays, as the French call it ! Unaccountable, that he should still have an affection for a place, w ho never received, when in it, above common ci I vility ; who never brought any thing out of it, ex- I cept his brogue and his blunders. Surely my affec- ition is equally ridiculous with the Scotchman's, j who refused to be cured of the itch because it made Mm unco thoughtfxd o' his wife and bonnie Inve- i rary. But now to be serious ; let me ask myself j what gives me a wish to see Ireland again 1 The I country is a fine one, perhaps 7 No. There are 1 good company in Ireland? No. The conversation I there is generally made up of a smutty toast, or a bawdy song. The A-ivacity supported by some humble cousin, who has just folly enough to earn his dinner. Then, perhaps, there is more wit and learning among the Irish? Oh, Lord, no! There has been more money spent in the encouragement of the Podareen mare there in one season, than given in rewards to learned men since the time of Usher. All their productions in learning amount to perhaps a translation, or a few tracts in divinity ; and all their productions in wit to just nothing at all. Why the plague, then, so fond of Ireland 7 Then, all at once, because you, my dear friend, and a few more, who are exceptions to the general picture, have a residence there. This it is that gives me all the pangs I feel in separation. I con- fess I carry this spirit sometimes to the souring the pleasures 1 at present possess. If I go to the opera, OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 19 where Signora Columba pours out all the mazes of mclod}^, I sit and sigh for Lishoy fireside, and Johnny Armstrong's Last Good Night, from Peg- gy Golden. If I climb Flamstead-hill, than where nature never exhibited a more magnificent pros- pect, 1 confess it fine, but then I had rather be placed on the little mount before Lishoy gate, and there take in, to me, the most pleasing horizon in nature. Before Charles came hither, my thouglits sometimes found refuge from severe studies among my friends in Ireland. I fancied strange revolutions at home ; but I find it was the rapidity of my own motion that gave an imaginary one to objects really at rest. No alterations there. Some friends, he tells me, are still lean, but very rich ; others very fit, but still very poor. Nay, all the news I hear of you is, that you and Mrs. Hodson sometimes sally out in visits among the neighbours, and some- times make a migration from the blue bed to the brown, I could from ray heail wish that you and she, and Lishoy and Ballymahon, and all of you, would fairly make a migration into Middlesex; though, upon second thoughts, this might be at- tended with a few inconveniencics : therefore, as the mountain will not come to Mahomet, why Ma- homet shall go to the mountain ; or, to speak plain English, as you can not conveniently pay me a visit, if next summer I can contrive to be absent six weeks from London, I shall spend tliree of them among my friends in Ireland. But first believe me, my design is purely to visit, and neither to cut a figure nor levy contributions, neither to excite en- vy nor soUcit favour; in fact, my circumstances are adapted to neither, I am too poor to be gazed at, and too rich to need assistance, "You see, dear Dan, how long I have been talking about myself; but attribute my vanity to my affection: as every man is fond of himself, and I consider you as a second self, I imagine you will consequently be pleased with these instances of egotism." Goldsmith then alludes to some concerns of a private nature, and concludes : " My deai^ sir, these things give me real uneasi- ness, and I could wish to redress them. But at I)resent there is hardly a kingdom in Europe in which I am not a debtor. I have already discharged my most threatening and pressing demands, for we must be just before we can be grateful. For the rest I need not say, (you know I am,) your af- fectionate kinsman." The medical and literary pursuits of our author, though productive, at this period, of little emolu- ment, gradually extended the sphere of his acquaint- ance. Several of his fellow students at Edinburgh and Dublin were now resident in London, and, by degrees, he continued to renew the intimacy that had formerly subsisted between them.' Some of them occasionally assisted him with their purse. and others procured lum the notice of the polite and the learned. Among the friendships thus agreeably renewed, there was one with a medical character,* afterwards eminent in his profession, who used to give the following account of our au- thor's first interview with him in London. " From the time of Goldsmith's leaving Edin- burgh in the year 1754, I never saw him till the year 1756, when I was in London attending the hospitals and lectures ; early in January he called upon me one morning before I was up, and on my entering the room I recognised my old acquaint- ance, dressed in a rusty full trimmed black suit, with his pockets full of papers, which instantly re- minded me of the poet in Garrick's farce of Lethe. After we had finished our breakfast he drew from his pocket part of a tragedy, which he said he had brought for my correction. In vain I pleaded iiia- 1)ility, when he began to read, and every part on which I expressed a doubt as to the propriety, was immediately blotted out. I tlien more earnestly pressed him not to trust to my judgment, but to take the opinion of persons better qualified to de- cide on dramatic compositions. He now^ told me that he had submitted his production, so far as he had written, to Mr. Richardson, the author of Cla- rissa, on which I peremptorily declined offering another criticism on the J>crformance. The name and subject of tlie tragedy have unfortunately es- caped my memory, neither do I recollect, with ex- actness, hov/ much he had written, though I am inclined to believe that he had not completed the third act; I never heard whether he afterwards finished it. In this visit, I remember his relating a strange Gluixotic scheme he had in contemplation, of going to decipher the inscriptions on the Writ- ten Mountains, though he was altogether ignorant of Arabic, or the language in which they might be supposed to be written. The salary of tliree hundred pounds per annum, which had been left for the purpose, was the temptation !" "With regard to the sketch of a tragedy here al- luded to, the piece never was completed, nor did he afterwards attempt any thing in the same line. His project respecting the Written Monntains, was certainly an undertaking of a most extrava- gant description; but, if we consider how little qualified he was for such a task, it can hardl}^ be supposed that the scheme ever entered seriously into his mind. It was not unusual with him to hazard opinions and adopt resolutions, without much consideration, and often without calculating the means to the end. "Goldsmith," said Bos- well, "had a more than conunon share of that hurry of ideas which we often find in his country- men. He was very much wdiat the French call un etourdi, and from vanity and an eager desire * It is presumed that Dr. Sfeigh is meant so LIFE AND WRITINGS of being conspicuous, wherever he was, he fre- nuently talked earelessly, without knowledge of the subject or even without thought." The ex- travagant scheme respecting the Written Moun- tdins, however, seems not to have given way to a more rational undertaking at home; and, notwith- istanding our author's boast, in his letter to Mr, Hodson, of being " too rich to need assistance," we find him, about this time, induced to relinquish his medical i)ractice, and undertake the manage- ment of the classical school at Peck ham. The never do it sincerely. Take me then with all my faults. Let me write when I please ; for you see I say what I please, and am only thinking aloud when writing to you. I suppose you have heard of my intention of going to the East Indies. The place of my destination is one of the factories on the coast of Coromandel, and I go in the quality of physician and surgeon ; for which the Company has signed my warrant, which has already cost me ten pounds; I must also pay fifty pounds for my pas- sage, and ten pounds for my sea-stores ; and the master. Dr. Milner, having been seized with a se- other incidental expenses of my equipment will vere illness, was unable to attend to the duties of his charge ; and it had been necetjsary to procure a person, of classical attainments, to preside over the establishment, while deprived of his own sup- port. The son of the doctor having studied with Goldsmith at Edinburgh, knew his abilities as scholar, and recommended him to his father as a person well qualified for the situation. Our author accordingly took charge of the school, and acquitted himself in the management so much to the satis- fiiction of his employer, that he engaged to procure a medical appointment for him under the East In- dia Company. Dr. Milner had considerable in- fluence with some of the directors, and afterwards made good his promise, for, by his means, through the interest of the director Mr. Jones, Goldsmith was appointed physician to one of the factories in India, in the year 1758. This appointment seems, for a while, to have filled the vivid imagination of our author with splendid dreams of futurity. The princely fortunes acquired b}^ some individuals in the Indies flattered liim with the hope of similar success ; and accord- ingly we find him bending his whole soul to the accompUshment of this new undertaking. The chief obstacle that stood in the way was the ex- pense of his equipment for so long a voyage ; but his " Present State of Polite Literature in Europe" had been, for some time, preparing for the press ; and he seems to have relied that the profits of that work would aflford the means of enabling him to embark. Proposals were immediately drawn up, and published, to print the work by subscription. These he circulated with indefatigable zeal and industry. He wrote to his friends in Ireland to promote the subscription in that country, and, in the correspondence with them, he evinces the greatest anxiety for its success. In the following letter he explains liis situation and prospects, and shows how much he had set his heart on the ex- pedition to the East. It is without dat, but writ- ten some time in 1758, or in the early pa*t, of 1759, and addressed to Mr. Daniel Hodson, his brother- in-law. "Dear Sir, You can not expect regularity in one who is regular in nothing. Nay, were I forced to love you by rule, T dare venture to say, I could amount to sixty or seventy pounds more. The sa- lary is but trifling, viz. one hundred pounds per annum; but the other advantages, if a person be pio?.- dent, are considerable. The practice of the place, if I am rightly informed, generally amounts to not less than one thousand pounds per annum, for which the appointed physician has an exclusive privilege. This, with the advantages r<'sulting from trade, with the high interest which money bears, viz. twenty per cent., are the inducements which per- suade me to undergo the fatigues of the sea, the dangers of war, and the still greater dangers of the climate ; which induce me to leave a place where I am every day gaining friends and esteem, and where I might enjoy all the conveniencies of life. I am certainly wrong not to be contented with what I already possess, trifling as it is ; for should I ask myself one serious question. What is it I want? what can I answer? My desires are as capricioua as the big-bellied woman's who longed for a piece of her husband's nose. I have no certainty, it is true ; but wh^ can not I do as some men of more merit, who have lived on more prc(;arious terms? Scarron used jestingly to call himself the .Marquis of Gluenault, which was the name of the booksel- ler that employed him; and why may not I assert my privilege and quality on the same pretensions? Yet, upon deliberation, whatever airs I give my- self on this side of the water, my dignity, I fancy would be evaporated before I reached the other. I know you have in Ireland a very indiflerent idea of a man who writes for bread, though Swift and Steele did so in the earliest part of their lives. You imagine, I suppose, that every author by profession lives in a garret, wears shabby clothes, and con- verses vsdth the meanest compan3^ Yet I do not believe there is one single writer, w^ho has abilities to translate a French novel, that docs not keep bet- ter company, Avear finer clothes, and live more gen- teely, than many who pride themselves for notliing else in Ireland. I confess it again, my dear Dan, that nothing but the wildest ambition could prevail on me to leave the enjoyment of that refined con- versation which I am sometimes permitted to par- take in, for uncertain fortune, and paltry show. You can not conceive how I am sometimes divided. To leave all that is dear to me gives me pain; but OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 91 when I consider I may possibly acquire a genteel independence for life; when I think of that dignity which philosophy claims, to raise itself above con- tempt and ridicule; when 1 think thus, I eagerly long to embrace every opportunity of separating myself from the vulgar, as much in my circum- stances as I am already in my sentiments. I am going to pubUsh a book, for an account of which I refer you to a letter wliich I w^rote to my brother Goldsmith. Circulate for me among your acquaint- ance a hundred proposals, which 1 have given or- ders may be sent to you, and if, in pursuance of such circulation, you should receive any subscrip- tions, let them, when collected, be transmitted to Mr. Bradley, who will give a receipt for the same. " I know not how my desire of seeing Ireland, which had so long slept, has again revived with so much ardour. So weak is my temper, and so un- steady, that I am frequently tempted, particularly when low-spirited, to return home, and leave my fortune, though just beginning to look kinder. But it shall not be. In five or six years I hope to in- dulge these transpoits, I find I want constitution, and a strong steady disposition, which alone makes men great. I will, however, correct my faults, since I am conscious of them." The following letter to Edward Mills, Esq. dat- ed Temple Exchange CofTee-house, August 7, 1759, gives the title of the book he was about to pub- lish, as stated in the foregoing letter. " Dkar Sir, You have quitted, I find, that plan of life which you once intended to pursue, and given up ambition for domestic tranquillity. Wore I to consult your satisfaction alone in this change, I have the utmost reason to congratulate your choice ; but when I consider my own, I can not avoid feeling some regret, that one of my few friends has declin- ed a pursuit in which he had every reason to expect success. The truth is, like the rest of the world, I am self-interested in my concern; and do not so much consider the happiness you have acquired, as the honour I have probably lost in the change. I have often let my fancy loose when you were the subject, and have imagined you gracing the bencli, or thundering at the bar; while I have taken no small pride to myself, and whispered all that I could come near, that this was my cousin. Instead ol" this, it seems you arc contented to be merely a hap- py man; to be esteemed only by your acquaintance; to cultivate your patt^rnal acres ; to take unmolested a nap under one of your own hawthorns, or in Mrs. Mills's l)ed-chamber, which, even a poet must confess, is rather the most comfortable place of the two. " But, however your resolutions may be altered with respect to your situation in life, I persuade my- self they are ujialterable with regard to 3^our friends in it. I can not think the world has taken such entire possession of that heart (once so suscep- tible of friendship,) as not to have left a corner there for a friend or two; bijt I flatter myself that J even have my place among the number. Thia I have a claim to from the similitude of our disposi- tions; or, setting that aside, I can demand it as my right by the most equitable law in nature, I mean that of retaliation ; for indeed you have more than your share in mine. I am a man of few professions; and yet this very instant I can not avoid the pain- ful apprehension, that my present profession (which speaks not half my feelings,) should be considered only as a pretext to cover a request, as I have a re- quest to make. No, my dear Ned, I know you arc too generous to tliink so; and you know me too proud to stoop to mercenary insincerity. I have a request, it is true, to make ; but, as 1 know to whom I am a petitioner, I make it without diffidence or con- fusion. It is in short this : I am going to publish a book in London, entitled, " An Essay on the pre- sent State of Taste and Literature in Europe." Every v^ork published here, the printers in Ireland republish there, without giving the author the least consideration for his copy. I would in this respect disappoint their avarice, and have all the additional advantages that may result from the sale of my per- formance there to myself. The book is now print- ing in London, and I have requested Dr. Radcliff, Mr. Lawder, Mr. Bryanton, my brother Mr. Hen- ry Goldsmith, and brother-in-law Mr. Hodson, to circulate my proposals among their acquaintance. The same request I now malie to you; and have accordingly given directions to Mr. Bradley, book- seller in Darae-strect, Dublin, to send you a hun- dred proposals. Whatever subscriptions, pursuant to those proposals, you may receive, when collected, rnay be transmitted to Mr. Bradley, who will give a receipt for the money and be accountable for the books. I shall not, by a paltry apology, excuse my self for putting you to this trouble. Were 1 not convinced that you found more pleasure in doing good-natured things than uneasiness at being em- ployed in them, I should not have singled }^ou out on this occasion. It is probable you would comply with such a request, if it tended to the encourage- ment of any man of learning whatsoever; what then may not he expect who has claims of family and friendship to enfore his?" The same subjects are pursued in another and every interesting letter, written in 1759, but subse- quent to the foregoing, to his brother, the Rev. Henry Goldsmith, " Dear Sir, Tour punctuality in answering a man whose trade is writing, is more than I had reason to expect, and yet you see me generally fill a whole sheet, which is all the recompense I can make for being so frequently troublesome. The behaviour of Mr. Mills and Mr, Lawder is a Uttle 23 LIFE AND WRITINGS extraordinary. However, their answering neither you nor me, is a sufficient indication of their dis- liking the employment which I assigned them. As their conduct is different from what I had expected, so I have made an alteration in mine. I shall the beginning of next month send over two hundred and fifty books,* which are all that I fancy can be well sold among you, and I would have you make some distinction in the persons who hayecubscribecl. The money, which will amount to sixty pounds, may be left with Mr. Bradley as soon as possil)le. I am not certain but I shall quickly have occasion for it. I have met with no disappointment with respect to my East India voyage, nor are my reso- lutions altered; though at the same time, I must confess it gives me some pain to think I am almost beginning the world at the age of thirty-one. Though I never had a day's sickness since I saw you, yet 1 am not that strong active man you once knew me. You scarcely can conceive how much eight years of disappointment, anguish, and study, have worn me down. If I remember right, you are seven or eight years older than me, yet 1 dare venture to say, if a stranger saw us both, he would pay me the honours of seniority. Imagine to your- self a pale, melancholy visage, with two great wrinkles between the eye-brows, with an eye dis- gustingly severe, and a big wig, and you may have a perfect picture of my present appearance. On the other hand, I conceive you as perfectly sleek and healthy, passing many a happy day among your own children, or those who knew you a child. Since I knew what it was to be a man, this is a pleasure I have not known. I have passed my days among a parcel of cool designing beings, and have contracted all their suspicious manner in my own behaviour. I should actually be as unfit for the so- ciety of my friends at home, as I detest that which I am obliged to partake of here. I can now neither partake of the pleasure of a revel, nor contribute to raise its jollity. I can neither laugh nor drink, have contracted a hesitating disagreeable manner of speaking, and a visage that looks ill-nature itself; in short, I have thought myself into a settled melan- choly, and an utter disgust of all that life brings with it. Whence this romantic turn, that all our family are possessed with'? Whence this love for every place and every country but that in which we eside? for every occupation but our own? This desire of fortune, and yet this eagerness to dissi- pate? I perceive, my dear sir, that i am at intervals for indulging this splenetic manner, and following my own taste regardless of yours. " The reasons you have given me for breeding up your son a scholar, are judicious and convincing. I should, however, be glad to know for what par- The " Present State of Polite Literature in Europe,'' sub- jcrlplion p)"lce, 5s. ticular profession he is designed. If he be assidu- ous, and divested of strong passions, (for passions in youth always lead to pleasure.) he may do very well in your college; for it must be owned, that the industrious poor have good encouragement there, ^ perhaps better than in any other in Europe. But ,if he has ambition, strong passions, and an exqui- site sensibility of contempt, do not .send him there, unless you have no other trade for him except your own. It is impossible to conceive how much may I be done by a proper education at home. A hoy, for instance, who understands perfectly well Latin. French, arithmetic, and the principles of the civil law, and can write a fine hand, has an education that may qualify him for any undertaking. And these parts of learning should be carefully incul- 1 cated, let him be designed for whatever calling he i will. Above all tilings, let him never touch a ro- j mance or novel ; these paint beauty in colours more charming than nature, and describe happiness that man never tastes. How delusive, how destructive are those pictures of consummate bliss ! They teach the youthful mind to sigh after beauty and happi- ness which never existed ; to despise the little good which fortune has mixed in our cup, by expecting more than she ever gave : and in general, take the word of a man who has seen the world, and has studied human nature more by experience than precept; take my word for it, I say, that books teach us ^ ery little of the world. The greatest merit in a state of poverty would only serve to make the possessor ridiculous ; may distress, but can not re- lieve him. Frugality, and even avarice, in the lower orders of mankind, are true ambition. These afford the only ladder for the poor to rise to prefer- ment. Teach, then, my dear sir, to your son thrifl and economy. Let his poor wandering uncle's example be placed before his eyes. I had learned from books to be disinterested and generous, before I was taught from experience the necessity of being prudent. I had contracted the habits and notions of a philosopher, while I was exposing myst'if to the insidious approaches of cunning; and often by being, even with my narrow finances, charitable to excess, I forgot the rules of justice, and placed my- self in the very situation of the wretch who did not thank me for my bounty. When I am in the re- motest part of the world, tell him this, and perhaps he may improve from my example. But I find my- self again falling into my gloomy habits of thinking. " My mother, I am informed, is almost blind : even though I had the utmost inclination to return home, under such circumstances I could not ; for to behold her in distress, without a capacity of reliev- ing her from it, would add too much to my splenetic habit. Your last letter was much too short; it should have answered some queries 1 made in my former. Just sit down as I do, and write forward till you have filled all ycur paper; it requires no OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 23 thought, at least from the ease with which my own sentiments rise when they are addressed to you: for, believe me, my head has no share in all I write; my heart dictates the whole. Pray give my love to Bob Bryanton, and entreat hmi, from me, not to drink. My dear sir, give me some account about poor Jenny.* Yet her husband loves her ; if so, she can not be unhappy. " I know not whether I should tell you yet why should I conceal those trifles, or indeed any thing, from you? There is a book of mine will be pub- hshed in a few days, the Ufe of a very extraordinary man no less than the great Voltaire. You know already by the title, that it is no more than a catch- penny. However, I spent but four weeks on the whole performance, for which I received twenty pounds. When published, I shall take some me- thod of conveying it to you, unless you may think it dear of the postage, which may amount to four or fi\e sMllings, However, I fear you will not find an equivalence of amusement. Your last letter, I repeat it, was too short; you should have given me your opinion of the design of the heroic-comical poem which I sent you : you remember I intended to introduce the hero of the poem as lying in a pal- try alehouse. You may take the following speci- men of the manner, which I flatter myself is quite original. The room in which he lies, may be de- scribed somewhat this way : " The window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray, That feebly show'd the state in which he lay. The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread ; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; The game of goose was there exposed to view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ; The seasons, framed with listing, found a place, And Prussia's monarch show'd his lamp-black face. The morn was cold; he views with keen desire A rusty grate uncoascious of a fire; An unpaid reckoning on the frieze was scored, And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board. " And now imagine, after his soliloquy, the land- lord to make his appearance, in order to dun liim for the reckoning : " Not with that face, so servile and so gay, That welcomes every stranger that can pay; With sulky eye he smoked the patient man, Then puU'd his breeches tight, and thus began, etc. " All this is taken, you see, from nature. It is a good remark of Montaigne's, that the wisest men often have friends, wdth whom they do not care how much they play the fool. Take my present follies as instances of regard. Poetry is a much easier, and more agreeable species of composi- tion than prose; and could a man Uve by it, it were no unpleasant employment to be a poet. I am resolved to leave no space, though I should fill it up only by telling you, what you very well know * Hjs ycungeat sister, who had rnarriod unfortunately. already, I mean that I am your most affectionate friend and brother." Notwithstanding the ardour with which our au- thor at first prosecuted his intention of embarking for the Indies, we find soon after that he abandon- ed the design altogether, and applied himself with renewed vigour to Uterary pursuits. From what particular motive this expedition was given up, has never been accurately explained, but most liliely it was owing to the immediate impracticability of raising an adequate sum for his equipment. Per- haps, however, abetter reason may be found in the rapid change that took place in our author's circum- stances about this time, in consequence of the in- creased patronage he began to receive from the booksellers. No man had tlie art of displaying with more advantage as a writer, whatever literary acquisitions he had made; and whatever he put his hands to as an author, he finished witn ;?nt;h felici- ty of thought and purity of expression, thai it al- most instantly became popular. Hence the booksti- lers were soon bound to him from interest, and the profits they derived from the ready sale of liis pro- ductions became the guarantee of his constant em- ployment. He had by this time published the " Bee, being Essays on the most interesting Sub- jects," also Essays and Tales in the British Maga- zine, afterwards collected and published in one vol- ume, besides various criticisms in the newspapers and reviews, all of which were read with avidity by the public, and commended by the learned. His connexions with literary characters became conse- quently still more extended, and his literary pros- pects were rendered still more flattering ; and hence we may the more easily account for the change that took place in his mind with regard to his In- dian appointment. Our author's toil in the service of the booksellers was now exceedingly laborious. Independent of his contributions to newspapers and magazines, lie wrote regularly for Mr. Griffiths in the Monthly Review, from nine till two o'clock every day. Hii friend Dr. Milner had introduced him to Griffith^?, and this work was performed in consequence of a written agreement which was to last for a year. The remuneration to be given on the part of Mr. Griffiths, was board and lodging, and a handsome salary; but it is' probable Goldsmith found the drudgery too irksome, for at the end of seven or eight months the agreement was dissolved by mu- tual consent. When the " Inquiry into the state of Polite Literature" was published, Mr. Newber- ry, the bookseller, who at that tune gave great en- couragement to men of literary talents, became one of our author's chief patrons. For that gentleman he was now regularly engaged in writing or com- piling a variety jof minor pieces, and at the same time was introduced by his means as a writer in the Public Led^^cr, to which he contributed Chu 34 LIF*E AND WRITINGS nese Letters, afterwards published under the title of the " Citizen of the World." At this time also, Goldsmith wrote occasionally for the British Magazine and Critical Review, con- ducted by Dr. Smollett. To that celebrated wri- ter he was originally introduced in consequence of the taste and accuracy with which he had criticis- ed a despicable" translation of Ovid's Fasti, by a pedantic schoolmaster ; though the intercourse be- tween them does not appear to have been kept up for any considerable time, yet Goldsmith is said to have derived important advantages from the con- nexion. It is well known that the liberal soul of Smollett made him the friend of every author in distress; and it is generally understood that, for some time, he warmly interested himself in Gold- smith's success. He not only recommended him to the patronage of the most eminent booksellers, but introduced him to the notice of the first literary characters. Notwithstanding the variety of our author's lite- rary labours, however, no decided improvement in his circumstances appears to have taken place till after the publication of his " Inquiry" in 1759. At that time he had lodgings in Green-Arbour Court, Old Bailey; and, that he must have occu- pied them rather on principles of economy than from the excellence of their accommodation, is proved by a little anecdote related by one of his (iterary friends. " I called on Goldsmith, at his lodgings," said he, "in March 1759, and found him writing his " Inqvury," in a miserable, dirty- tooking room, in which there was but one chair ; and when from civility, he resigned it to me, he was himself obliged to sit in the window. While we were conversing together some one gently tapped at the door, and being desired to come in, a poor ragged httle girl, of a very becoming de- meanour, entered the room, and dropping a cour- tesy said, ' my mamma sends her compliments, and begs the favour of you to lend her a chamber-pot full of coals?' " Our author's labours for the booksellers, though for some time unproductive of general literary fame, by degrees procured him the more substan- tial benefits of good living and commodious lodg- ings. He soon acquired extraordinary facility in compilation, and used to boast of the power of his pen in this way of procuring money. According- j ly, as early as 17G1, we find him removed from Green- Arbour (jourt to Wine-Oflice Court in Fleet-street, whei'e he occupied genteel apartments, received visits of ceremony, and sometimes gave entertainments to his literary friends. j Among the distinguished characters to whom Goldsmith had been lately introduced, and with whom he now regularly associated, either from similarity of disposition or pursuits, the most re- markable in point of eminence was Dr. Johnson. To a mind of the highest order, richly and various- ly cultivated, Johnson united a warm and gene- rous disposition. Similar qualities, both of the head and the heart, were conspicuous in Gold- smith; and hence, to use an expression of the Rambler himself, no two men were, perhaps, ever better formed to take to one another. The innate benevolence of heart which they mutually displav- ed first drew them together; and so strong was the attraction, ultimately increased by respect for each other's powers, that their friendship subsisted with- out interruption, and with undiminished regard, for a period of fourteen years. It has been inju- diciously remarked, that this connexion was unfor- tunate for the reputation of Goldsmith, and that, in the literary circles of the time, " he seldom ap- peared but as a foil to the Giant of Words." On the contrary, however, the intercourse that subsist- ed between these eminent men, would rather ap- pear to have been productive of the finest illustra- tion of their respective characters; and such was the strength of their mutual attachment, that it seems to have been the study of each to embellish and exalt the character of the other. Besides, Johnson was the giant of intellect as well as the giant of w^ords, and it is absurd to suppose, that, in the display of his extraordinary powers he would ever require a foil to heighten their effect. Gold- smith, it is true, seemed sometimes, as it were, to look tip to the great moralist, but it was rather vnth affection than with dread, more with the spirit of emulation than the despair of equal excellence. And, on the other hand, in no single instance do we find that Johnson ever looked down upon Gold- smith as inferior to himself: the reverse, indeed, is much more frequently the case; for the uniform tendency of his remarks on the genius and writings of our author is to hold him up as the brighest lite- rary ornament of his time. Long before his fame was established with the public, Johnson had justly appreciated his talents, and in a conversation with Boswell, concluded with asserting, that "Gold- smith was one of the first men then existing as an author." It has not been ascertained by whom Johnson and our author were originally introduced to one another; but it is generally understood that their intimacy conunenced in the beginning of 17G1. On the 31st of May, that year, we find Johnson, for the first time, at a supper in Goldsmith's lodg- ings, in Wine-Office Court, along with a number of literary friends. Dr. Percy, afterwards Bishop of Dromore, was one of the party invited, and be- ing intimate with the great lexicographer, was re- quested to call at his chambers and take him along with him. When walking together, to the poet's lodging, Percy was struck with the unusual spruceness of Johnson's appearance in the studied neatness of his dress: he had on a new smt of OP DR. GOLDSMITH. clothes, a new hat, and a wig nicely powdered; and in the tout ensemble of his apparel there was a degree of smartness, so perfectly dissimilar to his ordinary habits and appearance, that it could not fail to prompt an inquiry on the part of his compan- ion, as to the cause of this transformation. " Why, sir," said Johnson, " I hear that Goldsmith, who is a very great sloven, justifies his disregard of cleanliness and decency, quoting my practice, and I am desirous this night to show him a better ex ample." The connexion betwixt oiu* author and John son was henceforth more closely cemented by dai , ly association. Mutual communication of thought oegot mutual esteem, and as their intercourse in- creased, their friendship improved. Nothing could have been more fortunate for Goldsmith. A man of his open improvident disposition was apt to stand in need of the assistance of a friend. The years, wisdom, and experience of Johnson, ren- dered his advice of the highest value, and from the kindness and promptitude with which he un- dertook and performed good offices, he might al- ways be securely relied on in cases of difficulty or distress. It was not long before the improvi- dence of our author produced embarrassment in his circumstances, and we find the illustrious mo- ralist the prompt and affectionate Mentor of his imprudent friend. The sums which he was now receiving as a writer, might naturally be supposed to have been at least equal to his wants, and more than sufficient to have kept him out of debt. But Goldsmith's affections were so social and generous, that when he had money he gave it most liberally away. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, if we find him soon after this period in distress for money, and even under arrest for his rent He had just put the finishing stroke to his Vicar of Wakefield when the arrest took place, and was obliged to send for his friend Johnson to raise mo- ney by a sale of the manuscript. Our author's situation, on this occasion, hav- ing been mis-stated, it may be proper to give an authentic detail of it as narrated by Johnson him- self. "I received one morning a message from poor Goldsmith that he was in great distress, and as it was not in his power to come to me, begging that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a guinea, and promised to come to him direct- ly. I accordingly went as soon as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion : I perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had 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 tlmt he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced to me. I looked into it, and saw its merit ; told the landlady I should scon re- turn ; and having gone to a bookseller sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill." Mr. Newberry was the person with whom Johnson thus bargained for the " Vicar of Wake- field." The price agreed on was certainly Uttle for a work of such merit ; but the author's name was not then conspicuously known to the public, and the purchaser took the whole risk on himself by paying the money dov/n. So unconscious was he of the real worth of his purchase, and so httle sanguine of its success, that he kept the manu- script by him for a long time after. Indeed, it was not till the author's fame had been fully establish- ed by the publication of his "Traveller," that the publisher ventured to put the "Vicar of Wake- field" to the press; and then he reaped the two-fold advantage arising from the intrinsic merit of the work, and the high character of its author. When Boswell some years afterwards, remarked to John- son, that there had been too little value given by the bookseller on this occasion : "No, sir," said he, "the price was sufficient when the bock was sold; for then the fame of Goldsmith had not been ele- vated, as it afterwards was, by his "Traveller;" and the bookseller had such faint hopes of profit by his bargain, that he kept the manuscript by him a long tinie, and did not publish till after the "Traveller" had appeared. Then, to be sure, it was accidentally worth more money. Had it been sold after the. "Traveller," twice as much money would have been given for it, though sixty guineas was no mean price. The bookseller had the advantage of Goldsmith's reputation from the "Traveller," in the sale, though Goldsmith had it not in selling the copy." After the sale of this novel. Goldsmith and Mr. Newberry became still more closely connected. We find him, in 17G3, in lodgings at Canonbury House, Islington, where he laboured assiduously for that gentleman, in the revisal and correction of various publications; particularly, "The Art of Poetry," in 2 vols. 12mo; a "Life of Beau Nash," the famous king of Bath; a republication of his own letters, originally written in the character of a Chinese Philosopher, and contributed to the Public Ledger, a newspaper of which Kelly was at that time the editor. These were now collected and given to the public in 2 vols. 12mo, under the title of "The Citizen of the World." Of all his productions, prompted by necessity, and written on the spur of the moment, this collection of letters is entitled to the praise of supereminent merit. Few works exhibit a nicer perception, or more deli- cate delineation of life and manners. Wit, humour, LIFE AND WRITINGS and sentiment, pervade every page; the vices and follies of the day are touched with the most play- ful and diverting satire; and English character- istics, in endless variety, are hit oil" with the pen- cil of a master. They have ever maintained their currency and reputation, and are ranked among the classical productions of the British muse. Nearly about the same time, or early in 1764, a selection of all his fugitive pieces, originally con- tributed to various magazines, were collected and man of letters, but as such not very remarkab!; distinguished; and it was frequently observed, that though his publications were much read, they were not greatly talJced of. With tlie characteris- tic irritability of genius, conscious of its powers and jealous of its reward. Goldsmith used to fret under the pangs of neglected merit, and to repine at the slow ])rogress of public opinion. No votary of the muses was ever more emulous of fame ; and, with his accustomed simplicity, he published for his own benefit, in one volume, un- 1 was careless of concealing his impatience to ob- der the title of "Essays." These, in their general tain it. Various anecdotes of his fretful anxiety scope and tendency bear some analogy to the letters^ for applause have been recorded in dili'erent pub- of the Chinese Philosopher. The manner is still i Hcations, but the most authentic is one of rather a happier than the matter, though that too is excel- j ludicrous description, noticed by Mr. Boswell. lent; and our author appears to have been prompt- Conversing with Dr. Johnson one day on the dif- ed to their republication, in consequence of the Ube- ; ficulty of acquiring literary celebrity, "Ah," said ral use that was surreptitiously made of them byihe, in a tone of distress, "the public will never do the magazines, and other fugitive repositories of ! nie justice; whenever I write any tiling, they the day. In a humorous preface which accom-j w^'e a poin^o know nothing about it." On an- panied the volume, he took notice of that circum- other occasion, when Boswell was present, "I stance, and vindicates his claim to the merit as fear," said Goldsmith, " I have come too late into v.ell as the profit of his own productions. "Most; the world; Pope and other poets have taken up of these Essays," said ho, "have been regularly the places in the temple of Fame, and as a few at reprinted two or three times a-year, and conveyed , any period can possess poetical reputation, a man of to ttie public through the channel of some engag- ' genius can now hardly acquire it." And in the ing compilation. If there be a pride in multiplied ; same querulous tone of despondency he addresses editions, I have seen some of my labours sixteen his brother, in the dedication to his "Traveller:" times reprinted, and claimed by different parents! "Of all kinds of ambition, as things are now cir- as their own. I have seen them flourished at cumstanced, perhaps that which pursues poetical tJic beginning with praise, and signed at the fame is the wildest. What from the increased re- end with the names of Philantos, Fhilalethes, Phi- 1 finement of the times, from the diversity of judg- lalcutheros, and Fhilanthropos. These gentle- 1 ment produced by opposing systems of criticism men have kindly stood sponsors to my produc- : and from the more prevalent divisions of opinion tions; and to flatter me more, have always passed influenced by party, the strongest and happiesi them as their own. It is time, however, at last to ^ efforts can expect to please but a very narrow cir- vindicate my claims; and as these entertainers of ' cle." A short time, however, proved to our au- the public, as they call themselves, have partly thor how fallacious were his fears. In less than a lived upon me for som^ years, let me now try if 1 1 year the publication of his " Traveller," placed can not live a little upon myself. I would desire, i him at the head of the poets of his time, in this case, to imitate that fat man, whom I have The outline of this beautiful poem had been somewhere heard of in a shipwTeck, who, when sketched during our author's residence in Switz- the sailors, pressed by famine, were taking slices erland, and part of it, as noticed in the dedication, from his posteriors to satisfy their hunger, insisted, had been addressed from that countrj- to his brother with great justice, on having the first cut for him- tienry in Ireland. DiflSdent of its merit, and self." The rapidity with which the first impres- fearful of its success, he kept it by him in its origi- sion of this little volume was disposed of, greatly , nal crude state for several j^ears, and it was not till surpassed the expectations of its author. Since \ he had been strongly encouraged by the high opin- that time, few books have gone through a greater: ion expressed of it by Dr. Johnson, that he was at variety of editions. last induced to prepare it for the press. For two It has been somewhere remarked, that Gold- years previous to its publication, while toiling at smith was a plant of slow growth ; and perhaps ' other works for bread, his choicest hours arc said there may be some truth in the observation, in so ! to have been devoted to the revisal and correction far as regards public applause. He had now been seven years a writer, and, notwithstanding the va- riety of his labours, had produced little, except his of this poem, and, if report may be believed, no po- em was ever touched and. retouched by its author ith more painful and fastidious care. When he "Inquiry" and "Citizen of the World," to distin- 1 thought at length that it had received the highest guish him from the herd of authors by profession, possible finishing, it was committed to the press, With the pubUc he was generally known as a and came out early in 1765. It w^as hailed witb OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 27 deliglit by all ranks, celebrity and patronage fol- lowed the applause with which it was received, and Goldsmith, so far as regarded fame, was at last at the height of his ambition. The great moral object of the " Traveller" is to reconcile man with his lot. The poet maintains that happiness is equally distributed among man- kind, and that a different good, either furnished by nature or provided by art, renders the blessings of all natipns even. In pursuing his subject he takes an imaginary station on the Alps, and passes his view over the countries that lie spread out beneath him, noticing those only, however, through which the author had personally travelled. He draws a picture of each in succession, de- scribing from his own observation their scenery and manners. He enumerates their advantages, and contrasts tlieir various pursuits, " wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content," showing that each favourite object, when attained, runs into ex- cess, and defeats itself by bringing with it its own peculiar evil. He proceeds to show, that content- ment is more frequently to be found in a meagre mountam soil and stormy region, than in a genial climate and luxuriant country ; for labour produces competence, and custom inures to hardship, while ignorance renders the rugged peasant calm and cheerful under a life of toil and deprivation. But the poet makes a distinction between mere content and happiness. If the wants of barren states are few, and their wishes limited, their enjoyments are in like manner circumscribed ; for every v/ant be- comes a sourcceof pleasure when gratified. Their virtues partake also a similar dearth, and their morals, like their pleasures, are scanty, coarse, and low. For, as refinement stops, from sire to son Unalter'd, unimproved, the manners run; And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart Fail blunted from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast May sit like falcons cowering on the nest ; But all the gentler morals, such as play Through life's more cultured wallis, and charm the way, These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly, To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. The poet comes at length to the conclusion, that happiness centres in the mind, that it depends up- on ourselves, and is equally to be enjoyed in every country and under every government ; for, even in regions of tyranny and terror, where unjust laws oppress, and cruel tortures are inflicted, these evils rarely find their way into the hallowed seclusion of a domestic circle. In this poem, we may particularly remark a q\iality which distinguishes the writings of Gold- smith ; it perpetually presents the author to our minds. He is one of the few writers who are in- }parably identified with their works. We ilibik of him in every page; we grow intimate with hira as a man, and learn to love him as we read. A general benevolence glows throughout this poem. It breathes the Uberal spirit of a true citizen of tlie world. And yet how beautifully does it inculcate and illustrate that local attachment, that preference to native land, which, in spite of every disadvan- tage of soil or climate, pleads so eloquently to every bosom; which calls out with maternal voice from the sandy desert or the stormy rock, appealing ir- resistibly to the heart in the midst of foreign luxu- ries and delights, and calling the wanderer home. When the " Traveller" was published. Dr. Johnson wrote a review of it for one of the journals, and pronounced it the finest ^ em that had appear- ed since the time of Pope. This was no cold praise, for the versification of Pope was at that time the model for imitation ; his rules were the standard of criticism, and the " Essay on Man" was placed at the head of didactic poetiy. The fame of Gold- smith was now firmly established ; and he had the satisfaction to find, that it did not merely rest on the authority of tlie million, for the learned and the great now deemed themselves honoured by his acquaintance. His poem was frequently the subject of conver- sation among the literary circles of the time, and particularly in that circle which used to assemble at the house of Sir Joshua Reynolds. On one oc- casion it was remarked among the company at Sir Joshua's, that " the ' Traveller' had brought Gokl- smith into high reputation." "Yes," said Mr. Langton, " and no wonder ; there is not one bad line in that poem, not one of Dryden's careless verses." " Sir Joshua. I was glad to hear Charles Fox say, it was one of the finest poems in the English language. "Langton. Why were you glad? You sure- ly had no doubt of it before. "Dr. Johnson. No : the merit of the " Travel- ler," is so well estabUshed, that Mr. Fox's praise can not augment it, nor his censure diminish it." "Sir Joshua. But liis friends may suspect they had too great a partiality for him. "Johnson. Nay, sir, it can not be so; for the partiality of his friends was always against him." Goldsmith, however, was not permitted to enjoy the fame he had acquired without experiencing al- so the detraction that generally attends successiul genius. The envy of some and the jealousy of others, especially among the minor candidates foi poetical fame, was speedily awakened by the ap- plause bestowed on his poem. Unable to deny the merit of the performance, they strove to detract from the merit of its author, by ascribing the chief part of it to the friendly muse of Dr. Johnson. This question has since been finally settled. In the year 1733, Dr. Johnson, at the request of Mr. LIFE AND WRITINGS Boswell, marked with a pencil all the lines he had furnished, which are only line 420th, To stop too fearful, and too faint to go ; and the concluding ten lines, except the last coup- let but one, printed in italic. How small of all that human hearts endure, Tliat pan which laws or kings can cause or cure ; Ptill to ourselves in every place consign'd, Our own felicity we makfe or find ; With secret coui*se, which no loud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy, Tlie lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel,* To men remote from power but rarely known, Leave reason, faith, ajid conscience, all our own. Johnson added " these are all of which I can he sure." They bear indeed but a very trifling pro- portion to the whole, which consists of four hun- dred and tliirty -eight verses. The truth in this case seems to be, that the report had its ovigin in the avowed fact of the poem having been submit- ted to Johnson's friendly revision before it was sent to the press. jj. Goldsmith, though now universally known and |@ admired, and enabled to look forward to indepen- dence at home, appears still to have retained a strong tincture of his original roving disposition. He had long entertained a design of penetrating into the interior parts of Asia, to investigate the remains of ancient grandeur, learning, and man- ners; and when Lord Bute became prime minister at the accession of George the Third, this desire it was more strongly excited by the hope of obtain- ing some portion of the royal bounty, then so libe- rally dispensed by that nobleman in pensions and benefactions to men of learning and genius. That he might be enabled to execute this favourite pro- ject he resolved on making a direct application to the premier for pecuniary assistance, and the sanc- tion of Government, but, the better to ensure suc- cess, he previously drew up and pubUshed in the Public Ledger, an ingenious essay on the subject, in which the advantages of such a mission were stated vdth much ability and eloquence. Our poor author, however, was then but little known, and not having distinguished himself by any popular literary effort, Ms petition or memorial was thrown * Goldsmith in this couplet mentions Luke as a person well known, and superficial readera have parsed it over quite emoothly; while those of more attention have been as much perplexed by Luke, as by Lydiat in "The Vanity of Human Wishes." The truth is, that Goldsmith himself was in a mis- take. In the "Respublica Hungarica," there is an account of a desperate rebellion in the year 1514, headed by two bro- thers of the name of Zeck, George and Luke. W^hen it was quelled, George, and not Luke, was punished, by las head being encircled with a red liot iron crown: Corona cande- scente ferrea coronatur. The same severity of torture was exercised on the Earl of Atholj-one of the murderers of James L of Scotland. aside unnoticed or neglected. Perhaps it was for- tunate for literature that it so happened. Gold, smith, with all his genius and taste as a writer, was but little versed in the arts; and it is extreme- ly questionable whether he was quaUfied to accom- plish the task which he had proposed to himself. The opinion of his friend. Dr. Johnson, who so well knew and appreciated the extent of his ac- quirements, may be given as decisive of such a question. In a conversation with Mr. Boswell, the latter remarked, that our author " had long a visionary prospect of some time or other going to Aleppo, when his circumstances should be easier, in order to acquire a knowledge, as far as might be, of any arts peculiar to the East, and introduce them into Britain;" to which Johnson rejoined, "of all men. Goldsmith is most unfit to go out on such an inquiry ; for he is yet ignorant of such arts as we ourselves already possess, and consequently could not know what would be accessions to our present stock of mechanical knowledge: sir, he would bring home a grinding-barrow, and think he had furnished a wonderful improvement." Goldsmith, however, seems never to have been conscious of the deficiency of his own powers for such an un- dertaking. His passion for travel was never ex- tinguished ; and notwithstanding the neglect with which his application for ministerial patronage had been treated, his design of penetrating to the East frequently revived. Even after the publication of the " Traveller," as formerly remarked, though en- gaged in several literary undertakings, this design was still predominant; and had it not been for his characteristic simpUcity or carelesness, or perhaps his propensity to practical blundering, an opportu- nity was now thrown in his way that might have enabled liim to fulfil his most sanguine expecta- tions. Among the distinguished characters of the day which the merit of the " Traveller," had attached to its author, either as patrons or friends, LoiJ Nugent (afterwards Earl of Clare) was conspicu- ous in point of rank; and his lordship, not satisfied with Ms own personal notice and friendship, warm- ly recommended him to his friends in power, par- ticularly to the Earl (afterwards Duke) of North- umberland, then lord-Ueutenant of Ireland. That nobleman, on the recommendation of Lord Nu- gent, had read several of Goldsmith's productions, and being charmed with the elegance of their style, expressed a desire to extend Ms psH;ronage to their author. After his lordship's return from Ireland, in 1765, he communicated Ms intentions to Dr. Percy, who was related to the family of Northmn- berland, and by his means an interview took place ; between the poet and the peer. Of this visit to his lordship. Goldsmith used to give the following account : "I was invited by my friend Percy t< 1 wait upon tlie duke, in consequence of the saiis* OP DR. GOLDSMITH. faction he had received from the perusal of one of my productions. I dressed myself in the best man- ner I could, and after studying some compliments I thought necessary on such an occasion, proceed- ed to Northumberland-house, and acquainted the servants that I had particular business with the duke. They showed me into an ante-chamber, where, after waiting some time, a gentleman very elegantly dressed made his appearance. Taking him for the duke, I delivered all the fine things 1 had composed, in order to compliment him on the honour he had done me ; when, to my great aston- ishment, he told me I had mistaken him for his mas- ter, who would see me immediately. At that in- stant the duke came into the apartment, and 1 was so confounded on the occasion, that I wanted words barely sufficient to express the sense I entertained of the duke's politeness, and went away exceedingly chagrined at the blunder I had committed. In the embarrassment which ensued from this awkward mistake, our author's eastern project, for which he had intended to have solicited his lord- ship's patronage, was totally forgotten, and the visit appears to have been concluded without even a hint as to this great object of his wishes. Sir John Hawkins, in his " Life of Dr. John- son," has noticed and commented on the circum- stances attending this interview, with peevishness and ill-humour. " Having one day," says he, " a call to wait on the late Duke, then Earl of North- umberland, I found Goldsmith waiting for an au- dience in an outer room: I asked him what had brought him there ; he told me, an invitation from his lordship. I made my business as short as I could, and as a reason, mentioned that Dr. Gold- smith was waiting without. The earl asked me if I was acquainted with him? 1 told him I was, adding what I thought was likely to recommend him. I retired, and stayed in the outer room to take him home. Upon his coming out, I aslccd him the result of this conversation. " Kis lord- ship," said he, " told me he had read my poem, meaning the ' Traveller,' and was much delighted w^ith it; that he was going lord-lieutenant to Ire- land, and that, hearing I was a native of that coun- try, he should be glad to do me any kindness." " And what did you answer," asked I, " to this gracious ofler?" " Why," said he, " I could say nothing but that I had a brother there, a clergy- man, that stood in need of help: as for myself, I have no dependence on the promises of great men ; I look to the booksellers for support; they are my best friends, and I am not inclined to forsake them for others," "Thus," continues Sir John, "did this itliot in the affairs of the world trifle with his fortunes, and put back the hand that was held out to assist him!" In a worldly point of view, the c)Tyduct of Goldsmith on this occasion was un- dispositions will be pleased with such a character- istic instance of his well-known simplicity and goodness of heart. A benevolent mind will db- cover in the recommendation of a brother, to the exclusion of himself, a degree of disinterestedness, which, as it is seldom to be met-with, is the more to be admired. Though Goldsmith thus lost the only good op- portunity that had offered for obtaining Govern- ment patronage for his intended eastern expedi- tion, it must be admitted to the honour of the Duke of Northumberland, that when the plan was after- wards explained to him at a distant period, he ex- pressed his regret that he had not been made ac- quainted with it earlier; for he could at once have placed the poet on the Irish establishment, with a sufficient salary to enable him to prosecute his re searches, and would have taken care to have had it continued to him during the whole period of his travels. From this time our poet, though he some- times talked of his plan, appears to have for ever rehnquished the design of travelling into Asia. Independent of every consideration of interest or ambition, the introduction of Goldsmith to a noble- man of such high rank as the Earl of Northum- berland, was a circumstance sufficiently gratifying to a mind fond of distinction. In fact, the vanity of our poet, was greatly excited by the honour of the interview with his lordship: and, for a consider- able time after, it was mucli the subject of allusion and reference in his conversation. One of those ingeiious executors of the law, a bailiff*, having come to the knowledge of this circumstance, deter- mined i") turn it to his advantage in the execution of a writ which he had against the poet for a small debt. He wrote Goldsmith a letter, stating, that he was steward to a nobleman who was charmed with reading his last production, and had ordered him to desire the doctor to appomt a place where he might have the honour of meeting him, to con- duct him to his lordship. Goldsmith swallowed the bait without hesitation; he appointed the Bri- tish Coffee-house, to which he was accompanied by his friend Mr. Hamilton, the proprietor and printer of the Critical Review, who in vain remon- strated on the singularity of the application. On entering the coffee-room, the baiUff" paid his re- spects to the poet, and desired that he might have the honour of immediately attending him. They had scarcely entered Pall-Mall on their way to his lordsliip, when the bailiff* produced his writ, to the infinite astonishment and chagrin of our author. Mr. Hamilton, however, immediately interfered, generously paid the money, and redeemed the poet from captivity. Soon after the publication of the " Traveller," Goldsmith appears to have fixed his abode in the Temple, where he ever afterwards resided. His doubtedly absurd ; but those who have generous apartments were first in the library staircase, next ro LIFE AND WRITINGS in the King's-Bench-walk, and ultimately at No. 2, in Brick-court. Here he had chambers in the first floor, elegantly furnished, and here he was often visited by literary friends, distinguished aUke by their rank, talents, and acquirements. In the num- ber of those with whom he now associated, and could rank among his friends, he was able to ex- hibit a list of the most eminent and conspicuous men of the time, among whom may be particu- larized the names of Burke, Fox, Johnson, Percy, Reynolds, Garrick, Colman, Dyer, Jones, Boswell, and Beauclerk, with the Lords Nugent and Charle- mont. The mention of these names naturally calls up the recollection of the famous Literary Club of which Goldsmith was one of the earliest members, and of which the conversational anecdotes, re- ported by ?.Ir. Boswell, have contributed to give so much interest to the pag6s of that gentleman's bi- ography of Johnson. As our author continued a member of this select society from its foundation till liis death, and shone as one of its most conspicuous orn.aments, some account of its institution, and a notice of the names of its members till the present time, all of whom have more or less figured in the literary or political world, may not be unacceptable to many of our readers. This literary association is said by Mr. Boswell to have been founded in 176-1, but Dr. Percy is of opinion that its institution was not so early. Sir Joshua Reynolds had the merit of being the first to suggest it to Dr. Johnson and Mr. Burke; and they having acceded to the proposal, the respective friends of these three were invited to join them. The ori- ginal inembers, therefore, as they stand on the re- cords of the society, were Sir Joshua Reynolds,* Dr. Johnson, Mr. Edmund Burke, Dr. Nugent,t Mr. Beauclerk, Mr. Langton, Dr. Goldsmith, Mr. Chamier, and Sir John Hawkins ; and to this num- ber there was added soon afterwards Mr. Samuel Dyer.t It existed long without a name, but at the * Neither Sir Joshua nor Sir John Hawkins had then been knighted, nor had Johnson been presented with his diploma of IJ* D. ; but both here and on other occasions the parties are noticed by their most common appellations. t- This gentleman was a physician, father of INIr. Burke's wife; not the Dr. Nugent wiio published some volumes of tra- vels, and several philosophical works, for whom he has been sometimes mistaken. The above Dr. Nugent Avas a very amiable man, and highly respected by his contemporaries. J Tiiis gentleman was one of the intimate friends of Mr. Bitrke, who inserted in the public papers the following cha- racter of him at the time of hia death, which happened on l\Ionday, September 14, 1772 : "On Monday evening died at his lodgings in Castle-street, Leicester Fields, Saniuel Dyer, Esq., Fellow of the Royal So- ciety. He was a man of profound and general erudition ; and iiis sagacity and judgment were fully equal to the extent of his learning. His mind was candid, sincere, benevolent; his friendsliip disinterested and unalterable. The modesty, sim- plicity, and sweetness of his mr.nners, rendered his conversa- tion as amiable as it v/as instrucii\e, and cndcai'ed him to funeral of Mr. Garrick, became distinguished by the title of the Literary Club. The members met and supped together one evening in every week, at the Turk's Head, in Gerrard street, Soho. Their meetings commenced at seven; and by means of the inexhaustible conversational powers of Johnson, Burke, and Beauclerk, their sittings were generally protracted till a pretty late hour. It was originally intended that the number of members should be made up to twelve, but for the first three or four years it never exceeded nine or ten ; and it was un- derstood that if even only two of these should chance to iiieet, they would l>e able to entertain one another for the evening. About the beginning of 1768, the attendbig or efficient members were reduced to eight ; first by the secession of Mr. Beauclerk, who became es- tranged by the gayer attractions of more fashiona- ble clubs ; and next by the retirement of Sir John Hawkins. Soon after this it was proposed by Dr. Johnson to elect a supply of new members, and to make up their number to twelve, the election to be made by ballot, and one black ball to be sufficient for the ex elusion of a candidate. The doctor's proposal was immediately carried into effect by the election of Sir Robert Chambers, Dr. Percy, and the late George Colman ; and these three were introduced as new members on Monday evening, February 15, 1768. Mr. Beauclerk having desired to be restored to the society, was re-elected about the same time.. From this period till 1772 the club consisted of the same members, and its weekly meetings were regularly continued every Monda}^ evening till De- cember that year, when the night of meeting waS altered to Friday. Shortly afterwards there were no less than four vacancies occasioned by death. These were supplied, first by the Earl of Charle- mont and David Garrick, who were elected on the 12th of March, 1773 ; and next by Mr. (afterwards Sir William) Jones and Mr. Boswell, the former of whom was elected on the 2d, and the latter on the 30th of April following. In adverting to the election of Mr. Garrick, it may not be deemed im- pertinent to notice an error on the part of Sir John Hawkins, in his " Life of Johnson." Speaking of that gentleman's wish to become a member of the club, "Garrick," says the knight, *' trusted that the least intimation of a desire to come among us would procure him a ready admission; but in this he was mistaken. Johnson consulted rae upon it ; those few who had the happiness of knowing intimately that valuable unostentatious man; and his death is to them a loss irreparable." Mr. Dyer was held in high estimation for his erudition by Dr. Johnson, but we know not of any literary work in which le was concerned, except that he corrected and improved the translation of Plutarch's Lives, by Dryden and others, when t was revived by Tonson. OP DR. GOLDSMITH. SI and when I could find no objection to receiving Jiim, exclaimed, " he will disturb us by his buf- foonery!" and afterwards so managed matters, that he was never formally proposed, and by conse- quence never admitted. In justice both to Mr. Garrick and Dr. Johnson, Mr. Boswell has rectified this mis-statement. " The truth is," says he, "that not very long after the in- stitution of our club, Sir Joshua Reynolds was speaking of it to Garrick : ' I Uke it much (said the latter); I think 1 shall be of you.' When Sir Joshua mentioned this to Dr. Johnson, he was much displeased with the actor's conceit. ' He' II he ofxis (said Johnson), how docs he know we will permit him 7 The first duke in England has no right to hold such language.' However, when Garrick was regularly proposed some time after- wards, Johnson, though he had taken a momentary offence at his arrogance, warmly and kindly sup- ported him; and he was accordingly elected, was a most agreeable member, and continued to attend our meetings to the time of his death." This state- ment, while it corrects the inaccuracy of Sir John, affords also a proof of the estimation in which the Literary Club was held by its own members, and the nicety that might be opposed to the admission of a candidate. The founders appear to have been somewhat vain of the institution, both as unique in its kind, and as distinguished by the learning and talent of its members. Dr. Johnson, in particular, seems to have had a sort of paternal anxiety for its prosperity and perpetuation, and on many occasions exhibited almost as jealous a care of its purity and reputation as of his own. Talking of a certain lord one day, a man of coarse manners, but a man of abilities and information, " I don't say," con- tinued Johnson, " he is a man I would set at the head of a nation, though perhaps he may be as good as the next prime minister that comes : but he is a man to be at the head of a club, I don't say our club, for there is no such club." On another oc- casion, when it was mentioned to him by Mr. Beauclerk that Dr. Dodd had once wished to be a member of the club, Johnson observed, " I should be sorry indeed if any of our club were hanged," and added, jocularly, " I will not say but some of them deserve it," alluding to their politics and re- ligion, which were frequently in opposition to his own. But the high regard in which the doctor held this association was most strikingly evinced in the election of Mr. Sheridan. In return for some literary civilities received from that gentleman while he had as yet only figured as a dramatist, Johnson thought the finest compliment he could bestow would be to procure his election to the Literary Club. When the ballot was proposed, therefore, he ex- erted his influence, and concluded his recommenda- tion of the candidate by remarking, that " he who has written the two best comedies of Vb age, is surely a considerable man." Sheridan had accord- ingly the honour to be elected. The importance thus attached by its members to this celebrated club, seems justified by time and public opinion. No association of. a like kind has existed , and re- tained its original high character, for so long a pe- riod ; and none has ever been composed of men so remarkable for extraordinary talent. In 1774, an accession of new members was add- ed by the election of the Hon. Charles James Fox, Sir Charles Bunbury, Dr. George Fordyce, and George Steevens, Esq. ; and this brings the annals of the club down to the death of Goldsmith. Either then, or soon after, the number of the members was increased to thirty; and, in 1776, instead of sup- ping once a-week, they resolved to dine together once a-fortnight during the sitting of Parliament; and now the meetings take place every other Tues- day at Parsloe's, in St. James' s-street. It isbeUev- ed, that this increase in the number of the mem- bers, originally Umited to twelve, took place in con- sequence of a suggestion on the part of our author. Conversing with Johnson and Sir Joshua Rey- nolds one day. Goldsmith remarked, " that he wish- ed for some additional members to the Literary Club, to give it an agreeable variety; for (said he) there can be nothing new among us; we have tra- velled over one another's minds." Johnson, how- ever, did not hke the idea that his mind could be travelled over or exhausted, and seemed rather dis- pleased; but Sir Joshua thought Goldsmith in the right, observing, that "where people have lived a great deal together, they know what each of them will say on every subject. A new imderstanding, therefore, is desirable; because, though it may only furnish the same sense upon a question which would have been furnished by those with whom we are accustomed to live, yet this sense will have a different colouring, and colouring is of much effect in every thing else as well as painting."* From the institution of the Literary Club to the present time, it is believed that the following is a correct list of the members: I/jvd Ashburtoii (Dunning.) Sir Joseph Banks. Marquis of Bath. Dr. Barnard, Bishop of Kila- loe. Mr. Topham Beauclerk. ' Sir Charles Blagden. ' Mr. Boswell. ' Sir Charles Bunbury. ' Right Hon. Edmund Burke. Richard Burke (his son.) Dr. Burney. Sir Robert Chambers. Mr. Chamier. ' Earl of Charlemont. George Colman. Mr. Courtney. Dr. Douglas, Bishop of Salis. biuy. * Mr, Dyer. * Lord Elliot. * Rev. Dr. Farmer. * Dr. George Fordyce. * Right Hoa C. J. Fox. * David Garrick. * Mr. Gibbon. * Dr. Goldsmith. * Sir William Hamilton. Sir John Hawkins. Dr. Hinchliffe, Bishop of Pe- terborough. * Dr. Johnson. * Sir William Jonea. Mr. Langtoa 32 LIFE AND WRITINGS In a society thus composed of men distinguished for genius, learning, and rank, where the chief ob- ject of the institution was social and Uterary enjoy- ment, it is certainly interesting to know what kind of intellectual sauce was usually served up to give a zest to their periodical suppers. Happily, Mr. Boswell has supplied such a desideratum; and as a fair specimen of the numerous conversations which he has reported of the members, it may not be un- amusing to our readers to be presented with part of the discussion which took place at the time of his own election in April, 1773, and a full report of the sitting of the club on the 24th of March, 1775. This we do with the more pleasure, on account of the first discussion being in some sort illustrative of the character and writings of our author. On Friday, April 30," says Mr. Boswell, " I ^ined with Dr. Johnson at Mr. Bcauclerk's, where were Lord Charlemont, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and some more members of the Literary Club, whom he nad obligingly invited to meet me, as I was this evening to be balloted for as candidate for admission into that distinguished society. Johnson had done me the honour to propose me, and Beauclerk was very zealous for me. *'GoIdsmitli being mentioned, Johnson said, * It is amazing how little Goldsmith knows. He sel- dom comes where he is not more ignorant than any one else,' Sir Joshua Reynolds, ' Yet there is no man whose company is more Uked.' Johnson, ' To be sure, sir. When people find a man, of the most distinguished abilities as a writer, their inferior while he is with them, it must be highly gratifying to them. What Goldsmith comically says of him- ' Duke of Leeds. ' Earl Lucan. ' Earl Macartney. ' Mr. Malone. Dr. Marlay, Bishop of Clon- fert. 'Dr. Nugent Hon. Frederick North (now Earl of Guilford.) ' Earl of Upper Ossory. "Viscount Palmerston. ' Dr. Percy, Bishop of Dro- more. Major RenneL Sir Joshua Reynolds, SirW. Scott (now Lord Sto- well) M.R. B.Sheridan. Dr. Shipley, Bishop of St. Asaph. Dr. Adam Smith. Earl Spencer. William Lock, jun Mr. George Ellis. Lord Minto. * Dr. French Lawrence, * Dr. Horsley, Bishop of St. Asaph. Henry Vaughan, M. D. * Mr. George Steevens. ' Mr. Agmendesham Vesey. * Dr, Warren. * Dr. Joseph Warton. * Rev, Thomas Wai-ton. * Right Hon. William Wind- ham. Right Hon. George Canning. Mr. Marsden. Right Hon. J. H, Frere. Right Hon. Thos. Grenville. *Rev, Dr, Vincent, Dean of Westminster, Right Hon. Sir William Grant, Master of the Rolls, Sir George Staunton. Mr. Charles Wilkins, Right Hon, William Drum- mond. The members whose names are distinguished by an asterisk In the foregoing list have all paid the debt of nature. Among those who survive, it is generally understood that tlie spirit of the original ai jciation is still preserved. self is very true, he always gets the better when he argues alone : meaning, that he is master of a sub- ject in his study, and can write well upon it; but when he comes into company grows confused, and unable to talk. Take him as a poet, his " Travel- ler" is a very fine performance; ay, and so is his "Deserted Village," were it not sometimes too much the echo of his " Traveller." Whether, in- deed, we take him as a poet, as a comic writer, or as a historian, he stands in the first class.' Boswell, * A historian! my dear sir, you will not surely rank his compilation of the Roman History with the works of other historians of this age?" Johnson, ' Why, who is before him?' Boswell, ' Hume, Ro- bertson, Lord Lyttleton,' Johnson (his antipathy to the Scotch beginning to rise,) ' I have not read Hume; but, doubtless, Goldsmith's History is bet- ter than the verbiage of Robertson, or the foppery of Dalrymple.' Boswell, ' Will you not admit the superiority of Robertson, in whose History we find such penetration, such painting?" Johnson, ' Sir, you must consider how that penetration and that painting are employed. It is not history; it is ima- gination. He who describes what ho never saw, draws from fancy. Robertson paints minds as Sir Joshua paints faces in a history-piece : he ima- gines a heroic countenance. You must look upon Robertson's work as romance, and try it by that standard. History it is not. Besides, sir, it is the great excellence of a writer to put into his book as much as his book will hold. Goldsmith has done this in his History. Now Robertson might have put twice as much into his book. Robertson is like a man who has packed gold in wool : the wool takes up more room than the gold. No, sir, I al- ways thought Robertson would be crushed by his own weight would be buried under his own orna- ments. Goldsmith tells you shortly all you want to know ; Robertson detains you a great deal too long. No man will read Robertson's cumbrous de- tail a second time; but Goldsmith's plain narrative will please again and again. I would say to Ro- bertson what an old tutor of a college said to one of his pupils: "Read over your compositions and wherever you meet with a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out." Goldsmith's abridgment is tetter than that of Lucius Florus or Eutropius : and I will venture to say, that if you compare him with Vertot, in the same places of the Roman History, you will find that he excels Vertot. Sir, he has the art of compiling, and of saying every thing he has to say in a pleasing manner. He is now writing a Natural History, and will make it as entertaining as a Persian Tale.' " 1 can not dismiss the present topic (continues Mr. Boswell) without observing, that Dr. Johnson, who owned that he oflen talked for victory, rather urged plausible objections to Dr. Robertson's ex- cellent historical works in the ardour of contest. OP DR. GOLDSMITH. 83 than expressed his real and decided opinion; for it is not easy to suppose, that he should so widely differ from the rest of the literary world. "Johnson, 'I remember once being with Gold- smith in Westminster Abbey. While we sur- veyed the Poet's-Corner, I said to liim, Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis,* When we got to Temple-Bar he stopped me, pointed to the heads upon it, and slily whispered me, rorsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis. 't ''Johnson praised John Bunyan highly. 'His "Pilgrim's Progress" has great merit, both for in- vention, imagination, and the conduct of the story ; and it has had the best evidence of its merits, the general and continued approbation of mankind. Few books, I believe, have had a more extensive sale. It is remarkable, that it begins very much like the poem of Dante ; yet there was no trans- lation of Dante when Bunyan wrote. There is reason to think that he had read Spenser." "A proposition which had been agitated, that monuments to eminent persons should, for the time to come, be erected in St, Paul's Church as well as in the Westminster Abbey, was mention- ed; and it was asked, who should be honoured by having his monument first erected? Somebody suggested Pope. Johnson, 'Why, sir, as Pope was a Roman Catholic, I would not have his to be first. I think Milton's rather should have the pre- cedence. I think more highly of him now than I did at twenty. There is more thinking in him and Butler than in any one of our poets.' "The gentlemen (continues Mr. Boswell) now went away to their club, and I was left at Beau- clerk's till the fate of my election should be an- nounced to me. I sat in a state of anxiety, which even the charming conversation of Lady Di Beauclerk could not entirely dissipate. In a short time I received the agreeable intelligence that I was chosen. I hastened to the place of meeting, and was introduced to such a society as can sel- dom be found. Mr. Edmund Burke, whom I then saw for the first time, and whose splendid ta- lents had long made me ardently wish for his ac- quaintance; Dr. Nugent, Mr. Garrick, Dr. Gold- smith, Mr. (afterwards Sir William) Jones, and the company with whom I had dined. Upon my en- trance, Johnson placed himself behind a chair, on which he leaned as on a desk or pulpit, and, with humourous formality, gave me a charge^ pointing out the conduct expected from me as a member of this club." The next conversational specimen given by Mr. . Ovid, de Art. Amand. ]. iii. 5. 13. t In allusion to Dr. Johason's supposed political principles, tnd perhaps his own. E. 3 Boswell, is of the discussion which took place at the meeting of 24th March, 1775. "Before John- son came in, we talked of his 'Journey to the Wes- tern Islands,' and of his coming away 'willing to believe the second sight,' which seemed to excite some ridicule. I was then so impressed with the truth of many of the stories of which I nad been told, that I avowed my conviction, saying 'He is only willing to believe ; I do believe. The evidence is enough for me, though not for his great mind. What will not fill a quart bottle will fill a pint bot- tle. I am filled with belief.' 'Are you,' said Col- man, 'then cork it up.' "I found his 'Journey' the common topic of conversation in London at this time, wherever I happened to be. At one of Lord Mansfield's for- mal Sunday evening conversations, strangely call- ed levees, his Lordship addressed me, 'We have all been reading your Travels, Mr. Boswell.' I an- swered, 'I was but the humble attendant of Dr. Johnson.' The Chief- Justice replied, with that air and manner wliich none who ever heard or saw him can forget, 'He speaks ill of nobody but Ossian.' "Johnson was in high spirits this evening at the club, and talked with great animation and success. He attacked Swift, as he used to do upon all occasions : " The Tale of a Tub" is so much su perior to his other writings, that we can hardly believe he was the author of it : there is in it such a vigoijr of mind, such a swarm of thoughts, so much of nature, and art, and life.' I wondered to hear him say of 'Gulliver's Travels,' 'When once you have thought of big and httle men, it is very easy to do all the rest.' I endeavoured to make a stand for Swift, and tried to rouse those who were much more able to defend him; but in vain. Johnson at last, of his own accord, allowed very great merit to the inventory of articles found in the pocket of 'the Man Mountain,' particular- ly the description of his watch, which it was con- jectured was his god, as he consulted it upon all occasions. He observed, that 'Swift put his name but to two things (after he had a name to put), the "Plan of the Improvement of the EngUsh Language," and the last "Drapier's Letters.'" "From Swift there was an easy transition to Mr. Thomas Sheridan, Johnson, ' Sheridan is a wonderful admirer of the tragedy of Douglas, and presented its author with a gold medal. Some years ago, at a Coffee-house in Oxford, I called to him "Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Sheridan, how came you to give a gold medal to Home, for writing that foolish play?" This, you see, was wanton and in- solent; but I meant to be wanton and insolent. A medal has no value but as a stamp of merit. And was Sheridan to assume to himself the right of giving that stamp? If Sheridan was magnificent cno\igh to bestow a gold modal as an honorary ! 34 LIFE AND WRITINGS ward of dramatic excellence, he should have re- quested one of the universities to choose the per- son on whom it should be conferred. Sheridan had no right to give a stamp of merit: it was counterfeiting Apollo's coin,' " Now that Goldsmith had acquired fame as a poet of the first rank, and was associated with the wit and talent that belonged to this cele- brated club, his publisher, Mr. Newberry, thought he might venture to give the "Vicar of Wakefield" to the world. It was accordingly brought out in 1766, and not only proved a most lucrative specu- lation for the bookseller, but brought a fresh ac- cession of literary celebrity to ite author. Notv^rith- standing the striking merit of this work, it is a fact not less singular than true, that the literary friends to whom Goldsmith submitted it for criti- cism, before publication, were divided in opinion as to the probabiUty of its success ; and it is still more singular that Dr. Johnson himself should have en- tertained doubts on the subject. It has been as- serted, that the publisher put it to press in the crude state in which he found it, when the bar- gain was made with Johnson for the manuscript; but such a conclusion is obviously erroneous. Goldsmith was at that time on the best terms witli Newberry, and engaged in the completion of vari- ous minor pieces for him; and as the fame of the one as well as the profit of the other were equally at stake on the success of the performance, it is ex- ceedingly improbable that both author and pub- lisher should be regardless of such revisal and cor- rection as was clearly for the benefit of both. That Goldsmith did alter and revise this work be- fore publication, may be gathered from a conversa- tion which took place between Johnson and Mr. Boswell. " Talking of a friend of ours," says the latter, "who associated with persons of very dis- cordant principles and characters, I said he was a very universal man, quite a man of the world." "Yes, sir," said Johnson, "but one may be so much a man of the world, as to be nothing in the world. I remember a passage in Goldsmith's ' Vi- car of Wakefield,' which he was afterwards fool enough to expunge; '7 do not love a man who is zealous for nothing y^ Boswell, "That was a fine passage." Johnson, "Yes, sir; there was another fine passage which he struck out: 'When I was a young man , being anxious to distinguish my- self, I was perpetually starting new propositions; but I soon gave this over; for I found that gener- ally what was new was false J " The "Vicar of Wakefield" has long been con- sidered one of the most interesting tales in our language. It is seldom that a story presenting merely a picture of common life, and a detail of domestic events, so powerfully affects the reader. The irresistible cliarm this novel possesses, evinces how much may be done, without the aid of extra- vagant incident, to excite the imagination and in- terest the feeUngs. Few productions of the kind afford greater amusement in the perusal, and stUI fewer inculcate more impressive lessons of morali- ty. Though wit and humour abound in every page, yet in the whole volume there is not one thought injurious in its tendency, nor one senti- ment that can offend the chastest ear. Its language, in the words of an elegant writer, is what "angels might have heard and virgins told." In the deli- neation of his characters, in the conduct of his fa- ble, and in the moral of the piece, the genius of the author is equally conspicuous. The hero displays with unaffected simplicity the most striking virtues that can adorn social life : sincere in his professions, humane and generous in his disposition, he is him- self a pattern of the character he represents. The other personages are drawn with similar discrimi- nation. Each is distinguished by some peculia. feature; and the general grouping of the whole has this particular excellence, that not one could be wanted without injuring the unity and beauty of the design. The drama of the tale is also managed with equal skill and effect. There are no extra- vagant incidents, and no forced or improbable situ- ations; one event rises out of another in the same easy and natural manner as flows the language of the narration; the interest never flags, and is kept up to the last by the expedient of concealing the real character of Burchell. But it is the moral of the work which entitles the author to the praise of supereminent merit in this species of writing. No writer has arrived more successfully at the great ends of a moralist. By the finest examples, he in- culcates the practice of benevolence, patience in suffering, and reliance on the providence of God. A short time after the publication of the "Vicar of Wakefield," Goldsmith printed his beautiful ballad of the "Hermit." His friend Dr. Percy had published, in the same year, "Reliques of An- cient English Poetry;" and as the "Hermit" wa found to bear some resemblance to a tale in that collection, entitled " The Friar of Orders Gray," the scribblers of the time availed themselves of the circumstance to tax him with plagiarism. Irritated at the charge, he published a letter in the St. James's Chronicle, vindicating the priority of his own poem, and asserting that the plan of the other must have been taken from his. It is probable, however, that both poems were taken from a very ancient ballad in the same collection, beginning "Gentle Heardsman." Our author had seen and admired this ancient poem, in the possession of Dr. Percy, long before it was printed; and some of the stanzas he appears, perhaps undesignedly, to have imitated in the "Hermit," as the reader wiD perceive on examining the following specimens: OF DR. GOLDSMITH. FROM THE OLD BALLAD. And grew soe coy and nice to please, As women's lookes are often soe, Ho might not kisse, nor hand forsoothe, Unless I willed him so to doe. Thus being wearyed with delayes, To see I pittyed not his greeffe, fle gott him to a secrett place, And there hee dyed without releeffe. And for his sake these weeds I weare, And sacrifice my tender age; And every day I'll beg my bread, To imdergo this pilgrimage. Thus every day I fast and pray, And ever will doe till I dye ; And gett mo to some secrett place; For soe did hee, and soe will L FROM THE HERMIT. For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain ; And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain. Till, quite dejected by my scorn. He left me to my pride ; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he died. But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay ; I'll seek the sohtude he sought. And stretch me where he lay. And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die; Twas so for me that Edwin did. And so for him will L There has been an attempt, in later days, to cast a doubt upon the title of Goldsmith to the whole of this poem. It has been asserted that the "Her- mit" was a translation of an ancient French poem entitled "Raimond and Angcline." The pretend- ed original made its appearance in a trifling peri- odical publication, entitled "The Cluiz." It bears internal evidence of being in reality an imitation of Goldsmith's poem. The frivolous source of this flippant attack, and its transparent falsity, wotdd have caused it to pass unnoticed here, had it not been made a matter of grave discussion in some periodical journals. To enter into a detailed refu- tation would be absurd. The poem of "The Hermit" was at first in- scribed to the Countess (afterwards Duchess) of Northumberland, who had shown a partiality for productions of this kind, by patronizing Percy's "Reliques of Ancient English Poetry " This led to a renewed intercourse with the drjce, to whom we have already narrated Goldsmith's first visit; but the time had gone by when his grace could have been politically useful, and we do not know that our author reaped any other advantage from the notice that nobleman took of him, than the [gratification of being recognized by a man of the duke's high rank as a literary friend. This distinguished peer and his duchess were accustomed to spend part of each summer at Bath; and one year, after their return to London, her grace related to Dr. Percy, with considerable hu- mour, the following occurrence, characteristic of our author's occasional abstraction of mind. On one of the parades at Bath, the duke and Lord Nugent had hired two adjacent houses. Gold- smith, who was then resident on a visit with the latter, one morning walked up into the duke's din- ing room, as he and the; duchess were preparing to sit down to breakfast. In a manner the most free and easy he threw hiijaself on a sofa; and, as he was then perfectly known to them both, they in- quired of him the Bath news of the day. But per- ceiving him to be rather in a meditative humour, they rightly guessed there was some mistake, and endeavoured, by easy and cheerful conversation to prevent his becoming embarrassed. When break- fast was served up, they invited him to stay and partEdie of it ; and then poor Goldsmith awoke from his reverie, declared he thought he had been in the house of his friend Lord Nugent, and with confu- sion hastily withdrew; not, however, till the good- humoured duke and duchess had made him promise to dine with them. Sometliing akin to this incident, is the well known blunder committed by our author during a conversation with the Earl of Shelbourne. One evening, while in company with this nobleman, Goldsmith, after a variety of conversation, fell into a fit of musing. At last, as if suddenly recovering from his abstraction, he addressed his lordship ab- ruptly in this manner; "My lord, I have often wondered why every body should call your lordship Malagrida; for Malagrida, you know, was a very good man." The well bred peer only replied to this awkward compliment by a smile, and the heedless poet went on totally unconscious of his error. It was afterwards remarked by Dr. John- son, that this mistalie of Goldsmith was only a blunder in emphasis, and that the expression meant nothing more than, "I wonder they should use Malagrida as a term of reproach." About this period, or perhaps a little earlier, Goldsmith, in addition to the apartjncnts he occu- pied in the Temple, took a country-house on the Edgeware-road, in conjunction with a Mr. Bott, one of his Uterary friends, for the benefit of good air, and the convenience of retirement. .To this little mansion he gave the jocular appellation of Shoe- maker^ s Paradise, the architecture being in a fan- tastic style, after the taste of its original possessor, who was one of the craft. Here he began and finished one of his most pleasing and successful compilations, a " History of England, in a Series of Letters from a Nobleman to his Son." This 36 LIFE AND WRITINGS little work was at first published anonymously, and was very generadly ascribed to the pen of Lord "SLyttleton, That nobleman then held some rank in the world of letters, and as the chief feature in the performance was an easy elegance of language, without much depth of thought, or investigation, the public were the more easily betrayed into a be- lief that it was the work of his lordship. It had likewise the honour to be ascribed to the Earl of Orrery, and some other noble authors of that period. That it was really the production of Goldsmith, nowever, was soon afterwards generally known; a circumstance, which in all probability, greatly en- hanced its value in the estimation of the world. Few books have had a more extensive sale or wider circulation. The fame our author had now acquired as a critic, a novelist, and a poet, prompted liim to ad- venture in the drama. His first effort produced " The Good-natured Man." This comedy was oflfered to Garrick, to be brought out at his theatre of Drury-Lane; but after much fiuctuation between doubt and encouragement, with his customary hesi- tation and uncertainty, he at length declined it. The conduct of Garrick in this instance was the more sur- prising, as the piece had been read and applauded in manuscript by most of the author's literary friends, and had not only the sanction of Burke's critical judgment, but Johnson himself had engaged to write the prologue. Colman, the manager of Gov- ent-Garden Theatre, was, however, not so scrupu- lous; especially when he found it presented under such patronage. It was therefore agreed that it should be produced at his theatre ; and it was repre- sented there for the first time on the 29th of Janu- ary, 1768. Contrary to the expectations of the au- thor and his friends, it did not meet with unquali- fied applause ; and though it kept possession of the stage nine nights, it was finally withdrawn. The peculiar genius of its author was apparent in the ease and elegance of the dialogue, and throughout the whole there were many keen remarks on men and manners; but the piece was deficient in stage- efl!ect. The Bailiff" scene, in particular, was gene- rally reprobated, though the characters were well drawn. This scene was afterwards greatly abridg- ed. Whatever were the faults of the piece as a whole, it was admitted that many of the parts pos- sessed great comic effect, and these were highly applauded. The part of Croaker, in particular, was allowed to be excellent. It was admirably sup- ported by Shuter, the most popular comedian of his day. The ilrollery of his manner while reading the incendiary letter in the fourth act, and liis ex- pression of the different passions by which he was agitated, were so irresistibly comical, that he brought down thimders of applause. Goldsmith himself was so overcome with the acting of Shuter, that he ex- pressed his delight before the whole company, a- ' suring him that "he had exceeded his own idea of the character, and that the fine comic richnesi of his colouring made it almost appear as new te him as to any other person in the house." Dr. Johnson furnished the prologue, and publicly de- clared, that in his opinion, " The Good-natured Man" was the best comedy that had appeared since " The Provoked Husband." He dwelt with much complacency on the character of Croaker, and averred that none equal to it in originaUty had for a long time been exhibited on the stage. Goldsmith used to acknowledge, that for his con- ception of this character he was indebted to John- son's Suspirius in the "Rambler." That of Honey wood, in its undistinguishing benevolence, bear some resemblance to his own. "The Good-na- tured Man" has undoubtedly great merit; and though deficient in effect for the stage, will always be a favourite in the closet. Mr. Cumberland re- marks, that it " has enough to justify the good opinion of its literary patrons, and secure its au- thor against any loss of reputation; for it has the stamp of a man of talents upon it, though its popu- larity with the audience did not quite keep pace with the expectations that were grounded on the fiat it had antecedently been honoured with." Short aa its career was, however, its author by the sale of the copy, and the profits of his three nights, acquired not less than five hundred pounds, a sum which enabled him to enlarge liis domestic establishment and improve his style of hving, though it is beUev- cd on rather a too expensive scale. On removing, at this time from an attic in the Inner-Temple, to elegant chambers in Brick-court, Middle-Temple, he is said to have laid out upwards of four hundred pounds. Goldsmith's improved circumstances, did not, however, compensate for the vexations he suffered from the virulence of some of the periodical critics. " At that time," says Mr. Cumberland, " there was a nest of vipers in league against every name to which any degree of celebrity was attached; and they kept their hold upon the papers till certain of their leaders were compelled to fly their country, some to save their ears, and some to save their necks. They were well known ; and I am sorry to say, some men whose minds should have been superior to any terrors they could hold out, made suit to them for favour, nay even combined witn them on some occasions, and were mean enough to enrol themselves under their despicable ban- ners." From tliis class of critics, poor Goldsmith's sensitive feelings suffTered the horrors of crucifixion. To add to his mortification, the comedy of " False Delicacy," written by his friend Kelly, came out at Drury-Lane Theatre about the same time with " The Good-natured Man" at Covent-Garden, and had such an unexampled run of success, that it was said to have driven itg opponent fairly off the OF DR. GOLDSMITH. ^ field, ^his might, perhaps, be in some measure owing to the able management of Garrick, under whose special superintendence it was got up; but at that time sentimental writing was the prevailing taste of the town, and Kelly's piece was the finest specimen of the sentimental school that had ap peared. Although " False Delicacy," according to Dr. Johnson, was *' totally devoid of character," no less than ten thousand copies were sold in the course of only one season; and the booksellers con- cerned in the copyright, as a mark of the sense they entertained of the comedy, evinced by its ex- traordinary sale, presented Kelly with a piece of plate of considerable value, and gave a sumptuous entertainment to him and his friends. These cir- cumstances so wrought upon the irritable feelings of Goldsmith, in whose disposition, warm and generous as it was, envy had an unhappy predomi- nance, that he renounced the friendship of Kelly, and could with difficulty be brought to forgive him this temporary success. Our author, though in the chief features of his character the original of his own " Good-natured Man," was yet strangely jealous of the success of others, and particularly in whatever regarded literary fame. We find it difficult to reconcile the possession of so odious a quality with affectionate habits and benevolent propensities like his. True it is, how- ever, that he was prone to indulge this unamiable passion to so ridiculous an excess, that tlie instances of it are hardly credible. When accompanying two beautiful young ladies,* with their mother, on a tour in France, he was amusingly angry that more attention was paid to them than to him. And once, at the exhibition of the Fantoccini in Lon- don, when those who sat next him observed with what dexterity a puppet was maJe to toss a pike, he could not bear that it should have such praisCj and exclaimed with some warmth, "Pshaw! I can do it better myself" In fact, on his way home with Mr. Burke to supper, he broke his shin, by attempting to exhibit to the company how much better he could jump over a stick than the puppets. His envy of Johnson was one day strongly ex- hibited at the house of Sir Joshua Reynolds. While the doctor was relating to the circle there assembled the particulars of his celebrated inter- view with the king, Goldsmitii remained unmoved upon a sofa at some distance, affecting not to join in the least in the eager curiosity of the company. At length, however, the frankness and simplicity of his natural character prevailed. He sprung from the sofa, advanced to Johnson, and in a kind of flutter, from imagining himself in the situation he had just been hearing described, exclaimed, " Well, you acquitted yourself in this conversation better than I should have done; for I should have bowed and stammered through the whole of it," On another occasion, during an interesting ar- gument carried on by Johnson, Mayo, and Top- lady, at the table of Messrs. Dilly, the booksellers, ' Goldsmith sat in restless agitation, from a wish to get in and shine. Finding himself excluded, he had taken his hat to go away, but remained for some time with it in his hand, Uke a gamester who, at the close of a long night, lingers for a little while, to see if he can have a favourable opening to finish with success. Once when he was beginning to speak, he found himself overpowered by the loud voice of Johnson, who was at the opposite end of the table, and did not perceive Goldsmith's attempt. Thus disappointed of his wish to obtain the atten- tion of the company. Goldsmith in a passion threw down his hat, looking angrily at Johnson, and ex- claiming in a bitter tone " Take zY." Wlien Top- lady was going to speak, Johnson uttered some sound, which led Goldsmith to think that he was beginning again, and taking the words from Top- lady. Upon which he seized this opportunity of venting his own spleen, under the pretext of sup- porting another person ; "Sir," said he to Johnson, "the gentleman has heard you patiently for an hour: pray allow us now to hear him." Johnson replied, " Sir, 1 was not interrupting the gentle- man ; I was onl^tgiving him a signal of my atten- tion. Sir, you are impertinent." Goldsmith made no reply. Johnson, Boswell, and Mr. Langton, towards the evening, adjourned to the club, where they found Burke, Garrick, and some other mem- bers, and amongst them their friend Goldsmith, who sat silently brooding over Johnson's reprimand to him after dinner. Johnson perceived this, and said aside to some of them, " I'll make Goldsmith forgive me;" and then called to him in a loud voice, " Dr. Goldsmith, something passed to-day where you and I dined ; I ask your pardon." Gold- smith answered placidly, " It must be much from you, sir, that I take ill." And so at once the dif- ference was over ; they were on as easy terms as ever, and Goldsmith rattled away as usual.' The tinclure of envy thus conspicuous in the dis- position of our author, was accompanied by another characteristic feature, more innocent but withal ex- ceedingly ridiculous. He was vain of imaginary qualifications, and had an incessant desire of being conspicuous in company ; and this was the occasion of his sometimes appearing to such disadvantage as one should hardly have supposed possible in a man of his genius. When his literary reputation had risen deservedly high, and his society was much coiirted, his jealousy of the great attention paid to Johnson was more strikingly apparent. One eve- ning, in a circle of wits, he found fault with Bos- * The Miss Homecks, one of wtvom was afterwaads married 1 ^^^ ^^^' talking of Johnson as entitled to the honour to Henry Bunbury, Esq, and the other to Colonel Gwyn. 'of unquestionable superiority. " Sir," said he, 38 LIFE AND WRITINGS "you are for making a monarchy of what should be a republic." He was still more mortified, when, talking in a company with fluent vivacity, and, as he flattered himself, to the admiration of all who were present, a German who sat next him, and perceived Johnson rolling himself, as if about to speak, suddenly stop- ped him, saying, " Stay, stay ; Toctor Shonson is going to say something." This was very provok- ing to one so irritable as Goldsmith, who frequently mentioned it with strong expressions of indigna- tion. There is thus much to be said, however, for the envy of Goldsmith. It was rarely excited but on oc- casions of mere literary competition ; and, perhaps, appeared much more conspicuous in him than other men, because he had less art, and never attempted to conceal it. Mr. Boswell used to defend him. against Dr. Johnson for this fault, on the groimd of his frank and open avowal of it on all occasions; George Walker, a clergyman who happened to grace and simplicity, peculiar to the general styfc of their author, and are well calculated to attract young readers by the graces of composition. But the more advanced student of history must resort to other sources for information. In the History of England, in particular, there are several mis-statements ; and one instance may be given from his account of a remarkable occur- rence in the affairs of his own country, to which it might have been expected he would have paid more than ordinary attention. This is to be foimd in his narrative of the famous siege of London- derry, in 1689, sustained against the French army during a hundred and four days, after the city was found to be without provisions for little more than a week, and had besides been abandoned by the military commanders as utterly untenable. For this memorable defence the country was indebted to the courage, conduct, and talents of the Rev. but Johnson had the best of the argument. " He talked of it to be sure often enough," said the latter, "but he had so much of it that he could not con- ceal it. Now, sir, what a man avows, he is not ashamed to think ; though many a man thinks what he is ashamed to avow. We are all envious na- turally ; but by checking envy, we get the better of it. So we are all thieves naturally ; a child al- ways tries to get at what it wants the nearest way : . by good instructions and good habits tliis is cured, till a man has not even an inclination to seize what is another's ; has no struggle with himself about it." But, after all, if ever envy was entitled to be called innocent, it certainly was so in the person of Goldsmith. Whatever of this kind appeared in his conduct was but a momentary sensation, which he knew not like other men how to disguise or con ceal. Rarely did it influence the general tenor of Kis conduct, and, it is believed, was never once knovni to have embittered his heart. While Goldsmith was occupied with his comedy of the "Good-natured Man," he was, as usual, busily employed in the compilation of various pub- lications for the booksellers, particularly a series of histories for the instruction of young readers. These were, his " History of Rome," in 2 vols. 8vo. and the " History of England," in 4 vols. Svo. The " History of Greece," in 2 vols. Svo. pub- lished under his name after his death, can not with certainty be ascribed to his pen. For the "History of England," Davies the bookseller con- tracted to pay him 500Z. and for an abridgment of the Roman history, the sum of fifty guineas.* These historical compilations possess all the ease. take refuge in the city after it was abandoned by the military. Under the direction of Walker, as- sisted by two officers accidentally in the place, the defence was conducted with so much skill, courage, and perseverance, and the citizens displayed such valour, patience, and fortitude, under innumerable hardships and privations, that the city was finally saved.* For his services on this occasion Mr. * The articles of agreement relative to these works between the bookseller and Goldsmith having been preserved, we quote them for the gratification of our reader's curiosity, especially aa they were drawn by the doctor himself. " MEMORANDUM. " Russell street, Coveni Garden. " It is agreed between Oliver Goldsmith, M. B., on the one hand, and Thomas Davies, bookseller, of Russell street Covent Garden, on the other, that Oliver Goldsmith shall write for Thomas Davies, a History of England, from the birth of the British Empire, to the death of George the II., in four volumes, octavo, of the si7.e and letter of the Roman History, written by Oliver Goldsmith. The said History of England shall be written and compiled in the space of two years from the date hereof. And when the said History is written and delivered in manuscript, the printer giving his opinion that the quantity above mentioned is completed, that then Oliver Goldsijiith shall be paid by Thomas Davies the sum of 5001. sterling, for having written and compiled the same. It is agreed also, tha: Oliver Goldsmith shaU print his name to the said work. In witness whereof we have set our names the 13th of June, 1769. " Oliver Goldsmith. " TViomas Davies." "MEMORANDUM. " September 15, 1770, " It is agreed between Oliver Goldsmith, M.B., and Thomas Davies, of Covent Garden, bookseller, that Oliver Goldsmith shall abridge, for Thomas Davies, the book entitled Gold- smith's Roman History, in two volumes, Svo, into one volume in 12mo, so as to fit it for the use of such as will not be at the expense of that in Svo. For the abridging of the said history, and for putting his name thereto, said Thomas Davies shall pay Oliver Goldsmith fifty guineas; to be paid him on the at)ridgment and delivering of the copy. As witness our hands. " Oliver Goldsmith. " Thomas Davies." * A curious journal which Mr. Walker had kept of all the occiu:rences during the siege, was pubhshed at that period, in 4to, and was afterwards republished by the late Dr. Brown, OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 39 Walker, who belonged to the Established Church, was afterwards created Bishop of Dromore by King William ; but his military zeal prompted him to volunteer his services at the battle of the Boyne, where he was unfortunately killed. Of this ex- traordinary character Goldsmith takes a very slight and rather disrespectful notice, stating him to have been a dissenting minister, which he was not, and neglecting to record either his promotion or his death.* Goldsmith, besides his regular emplojonent in the compilation of these histories, had now all the other business of an author by profession. Either through friendship or for money, but oftener from charity to the needy or unsuccessful of his brethren, he was frequently engaged in the composition of prefaces, dedications, and introductions to the performances of other writers. These exhibit ingenious proofs of his ready talent at general writing, and for the most part gave a much better display of the subject! treated of than could have been done by their own authors. But in this view he is rather to be con- sidered as an advocate pleading the cause of ano- ther, than as delivering the sentiments of his own mind; for he often recommends the doubtful pecu- liarities, and even the defects of a work, which it is obvious, had been engaged on the other side, lie could with equal ability have detected and exposed. Something like this our readers will find in an Ad- dress to the Public, which was to usher in propo- sals for "A New History of the World, from the creation to the present time," in 12 vols, 8vo. by Guthrie and others, to be printed for Newberry. This undertaking was to form an abridgment of all the volumes of the ancient and modern universal his- tories; and our author urges a great variety of topics in praise of such contractions and condensing of his- torical materials, which, with equal ingenuity, he author of the Estimate, etc. One very providential circum- stance happened to the besieged. Being reduced by the ex- tremity of famine to eat every kind of unwholesome food, they were dying in great numbers of the bloody flux ; but the acci- dental discovery of some concealed barrels of starch and tal- low, relieved their hunger, and cured the dysentery at the eame time. * Our author's inaccui-acy, with regard to Mr. Walker, was corrected in the following letter addref^ed to him by Mr. Woolsey, of Dundalk : " To Dr. Goldsmith. Sir, I beg leave to acquaint you, there is a mistake in your abridgment of the History of England, respecting Dr. Walker, viz. ' one Walker, a dissenting minister.' "I venture to assure you, Mr. Walker was a clergyman of the Established Church of Ireland, who was appointed Bishop of Dromore by King William, for his services at Derry, but was unfortunately killed at the battle of the Boyne; which I hope you will be pleased to insert in future editions of your late book. " The Duke of Schomberg was certainly killed in passing the river Boyne. I am, Sir, with great respect, your most eljedient humble servant, " Thomas Woolsey." "Dundalk, April 10, 1772." could have opposed and refuted. But the whole is truly excellent as a composition. About the same time, he drew up a preface or introduction to Dr. Brookes's " System of Natural History," in 6 vols. 12mo, in itself a very dull and uninteresting work; but such an admirable display of the subject wab given in the preface, which he rendered doubly cap- tivating by the charms of his style, that the book- sellers immediately engaged him to undertake his own larger work of the ''History of the Earth and Animated Nature." It was this work which Dr. Johnson emphatically said, its author would " make as entertaining as a Persian Tale." The result proved the accuracy of the judgment thus passed on it; for, although it contains numerous defects, yet the witchery of its language has kept it buoyant in spite of criticism. The numerous editions through which it has passed attest, that, if not a profound, it is at least a popular work; and few will be dispos- ed to deny, that with all its faults, if not the most instructive, it is undoubtedly the most amusing work of the kind yet published. It would be absurd to aver, that an adept would find himself enhghtened by the doctor's labours in that science : but a com- mon reader will find his curiosity gratified, and that time agreeably disposed of which he bestows on this work. When our author engaged in this compi- lation, he resolved to make a translation of Phny, and, by the help of a commentary, to make that agreeable writer more generally acceptable to the public; but the appearance of Buffon's work induced him to change his plan, and instead of translating an ancient writer, he resolved to imitate the last and best of the moderns who had written on the same subject. To this illustrious Frenchman Gold- smith acknowledges the highest obligations, but, unluckily, he has copied him without discrimina- tion, and, while he selected his beauties, heedlessly adopted his mistakes. In a serio-comical apostrophe to the author, Mr. Cumberland observes, on the subject of this work, that " distress drove Goldsmith upon undertakings neither congenial with his studies, nor worthy of his talents. I remember him, when, in his chambers in the Temple, he showed me the beginning of his ' Animated Nature;' it was with a sigh, such as ge- nius draws, when hard necessity diverts it from its bent to drudge for bread, and talk of birds, and beasts, and creeping things, which Pidcock's showman would have done as well. Poor fellow, he hardly knew an ass from a mule, nor a turkey from a goose, but when he saw it on. the table. But publishers hate poetry, and Paternoster-row is not Parnassus. Even the mighty Dr. Hill, who was not a very deli- cate feeder, could not make a dinner out of the press, till, by a happy transformation into Hannah Glass, he turned himself into a cook, and sold re- ceipts for made-dishes to all the savoury readers m the kingdom. Then, indeed, the press acknow- 40 LIFE AND WRITINGS ledged him second in fame only to John Bunyan: his feasts kept pace in sale with Nelson's Fasts ; and when his own name was fairly written out of credit, he wrote himself into immortality under an alias. Now, though necessity, or I should rather say, the desire of finding money for a masquerade, drove Oliver Goldsmith upon abridging histories, and turning BuiTon into English, yet I much doubt, if, without that spur, he would ever have put his Pegasus into action : no, if he had been rich, the world would have been poorer than it is, by the loss of all the treasures of his genius, and the con- tributions of his pen." Much in the same style was Goldsmith himself accustomed to talk of his mercenary labours. A poor writer consulted him one day on what subjects he might employ his pen with most profit : " My dear fellow," said Goldsmith, laughing, indeed, but in good earnest, " pay no regard to the draggle-tail Muses; for my part, I have always found produc- tions in prose more sought after and better paid for." On another occasion, one of his noble friends, whose classical taste he knew and admired, lament- ed to him his neglect of the Muses, and enquired of him why he forsook poetry, to compile histories, and write novels'? "My lord," said our author, "by courting the Muses I shall starve, but by my other labours, I eat, drink, and have good clothes, and enjoy the luxuries of life." This is, no doubt, the reason that his poems bear so small a propor- tion to his other productions ; but it is said, that he always reflected on these sacrifices to necessity with the bitterest regret. Although Goldsmith thus toiled for a livehhoou in the drudgery of compilation, we do not find that he had become negligent of fame. His leisure hours were still devoted to his Muse ; and the next voluntary production of his pen was the highly finished poem of " The Deserted Village." Pre- vious to its publication, the bookseller who had bar- gained for the manuscript, gave him a note for one hundred guineas. Having mentioned this soon afterwards to some of his friends, one of them re- marked, that it was a very great sura for so short a performance. "In truth," said Goldsmith, "I think so too; it i^ much more than the honest man can afford, or the piece is worth : I have not been easy since I received it; I will therefore go back and return him his note :" which he actually did, and left it entirely to the bookseller to pay him accord- ing to the success of the sale and the profits it might produce. His estimate of the value of this perform- ance was formed from data somewhat singular for a poet, who most commonly appreciates his la- bours rather by tiieir quality than their quantity. He computed, that a hundred guineas was equal to five shillings a couplet, which, he modestly observ ed, " was certainly too much, because more than he thought any publisher could afford, or, indeed, than any modern poetry whatever could be worth." The sale of this poem, however, was so rapid and extensive, that the bookseller soon paid him the full amount of the note he had returned, with an ac- knowledgment for the disinterestedness he had evinced on the occasion. Although criticism has allotted the highest rank to " The Traveller," there is no doubt that " The Deserted Village" is the most popular and favourite poem of the two. Perhaps no poetical piece of equal length has been more universally read by all classes or has more frequently supplied extracts for apt quotation. It abounds with couplets and single lines, so simply beautiful in sentiment, so musical in cadence, and so perfect in expression, that the ear is delighted to retain them for theii truth, while their tone of tender melancholy indeli bly engraves them on the heart. The character- istic of our author's poetry is a prevailing simplici- ty, which conceals all the artifices of versification : but it is not confined to his expression alone, for it pervades every feature of the poem. His delinea- tion of rural scenery, his village portraits, his moral, political, and classical allusions, while marked by singular fidelity, chasteness, and elegance, are all chiefly distinguished for this pleasing and natural character. The finishing is exquisitely delicate, without being overwrought; and, with the feehngs of tenderness and melancholy which runs thjrough the poem, there is occasianally mixed up a slight tincture of pleasantry, which gives an additional interest to the whole. "The Deserted Village" is written in the same style and measure with " The Traveller," and may in some degree be considered a suite of that poem : pursuing some of the views and illustrating in their results some of the principles there laid down. But the poet is here more intimately interested in his subject. The case is taken from his own experi- ence, the scenery drawn from his own home, and the application especially intended for his own country. The main intention of the poem is to contrast agriculture with commerce, and to maintain that the former is the most worthy pursuit, both as it regards individual happiness and national prosperi- ty. He proceeds to show that commerce, while it causes an influx of wealth, introduces also luxury, and its attendant vices and miseries. He dwells with pathos on the effects of those lordly fortunes which create little worlds of solitary magnificence around them, swallowing up the small farms in their wide and useless domains ; thus throwing an air of splendour over the country, while in fact they hedge and wall out its real life and soul its hardy peasantry. OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 41 m fares the land, to hast'ning iUa 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 he supplied. The poet, again personified in the traveller, re- turns from his wanderings in distant countries to the village of his childhood. In the opening of the poem he draws from memory a minute and beauti- ful picture of the place, and fondly recalls its sim- ple sports and rustic gambols. In all his journey- ings, his perils, and his sufferings, he had ever look- ed forward to this beloved spot, as the haven of re- pose for the evening of his days. And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue. Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, \ still had hopes, my long vexatioas past, ;Iere to return, and die at home at last. With these expectations he returns, after the lapse of several years, and finds the village deserted and desolate. A splendid mansion had risen in its neighbourhood ; the cottages and hamlets had been demolished; their gardens and fields were thrown into parks and pleasure-grounds; and their rustic inhabitants, thrust out from their favourite abodes, had emigrated to another hemisphere. 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. Dejected at this disappointment of his cherished hope, the poet wanders among the faint traces of past scenes, contrasting their former Ufe and gaiety with their present solitude and desolation. This gives occasion for some of the richest and mellow- est picturing to be found in any poetry. The village-preacher and his modest mansion; the schoolmaster and his noisy troop; the ale-house and its grotesque frequenters, are all masterpieces of their kind. The village alluded to in this poem is at present sufficiently ascertained to be Lishoy, near Bally- mahon, in the county of Westmeath, Ireland, in which Goldsmith passed his youth. It has been remarked, that the description of the place and the people, together with the introduction of the nightingale, a bird, it is said, unknown in the Irish ornithology, savour more of the rural scenery and rustic life of an English than an Irish village. But this presents no insuperable difficulty. Such h- censes are customary in poetry; and it is notorious^ that the clear blue sky and the delicious tempera- ture of Italy, have with much greater freedom been appropriated by English bards to deck out their descriptions of an English spring. It is evi- dent, indeed, that Goldsmith meant to represent his village as an English one. He took from Lis- hoy, therefore, only such traits and characteristics as might be applied to village-life in England, and modified them accordingly. He took what be- longed to human nature in rustic life, and adapted it to the allotted scene. In the same way a painter takes his models from real life around him, even when he would paint a foreign or a classic group. There is a verity in the scenes and characters of "The Deserted Village" that shows Goldsmith to have described what he had seen and felt; and it is upon record that an occurrence took place at Lishoy, during his life time, similar to that which produced the desolation of the village in the poem. This occurrence is thus related by the Rev. Dr. Strean, of the diocese of Elphin, in a letter to Mr. Mangin, and inserted in that gentleman's "Essay on light reading." "The poem of 'The Deserted Village,' " says Dr. Strean, "took its origin from the (ircumstance of General Robert Napier, the grandfather of the gentleman who now lives in the house, within half a mile of Lishoy, built by the general, having purchased an extensive tract of the country sur- rounding Lishoy, or Auburn; in consequence of which,'many families, here called cottiers, were re- moved to make room for the intended improve- ments of what was now to become the wide do- main of a rich man, warm with the idea of chang- ing the face of his new acquisition, and were forc- ed, 'with fainting steps,' to go in search of Horrid tracts,' and 'distant climes.' "This fact might be sufficient to establish the seat of the poem; but there can not remain a doubt in any unprejudiced mind, when the following are added ; viz. that the character of the village -preach- er, the above-named Henry, the brother of the poet, is copied from nature. He is described exactly as he lived: and his 'modest mansion' as it existed. Burn, the name of the village-master, and the site of his school-house, and Catherine Giraghty, a lonely widow, The wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, To strip the broolc with mantling cresses spread. (and to this day the brook and ditches near the spot where her cabin stood abound with cresses), still remain in the memory of the inhabitants, and Catherine's children live in the neighbourhood. The pool, the busy mill, the house where 'nut- brown draughts inspired,' are still visited as the poetic scene; and the 'hawthorn bush,' growing in an open space in front of the house, which I knew to have three trunks, is now reduced to one, the other two having been cut, from time to time, by persons carrying pieces of it away to be made into toys, etc. in honour of the bard, and of the celebncy of his poem. All these contribute to the same proof; and the 'decent church,' which I at- tended for upwards of eighteen years, and which 'tops the neighbouring hill,' is exactly described 49 LIFE AND WRITINGS as seen from Lishoy, the residence of the preach- er." To the honour of Ireland, and in particular of a gentleman named Hogan, grandson to General Napier the destroyer, we are enabled to add that the village of Lishoy, now bearing its poetical name of Auburn, has been renovated and restor- ed, at least as to its localities, to what it was in its happiest days. The parsonage, rescued from a legion of pigs and poultry, which had taken possession of its lower apartments, and relieved from loads of grain and fodder, under which its upper chambers had for some years groaned, has resumed its ancient title of Lishoy-house : the church yet crowns the hill, and is again entitled to the appellation of decent; the school-house maintains its station ; and the village-inn, with its sign repainted, its chambers re- white washed, and the varnished clock replaced in its corner, echoes once more with the voices of rustic politicians, merry peasants, and buxom maids. Half willing to be press'd, Who kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. To render the dispensation of poetical justice still more complete, the usurping mansion, the erection of which occasioned the downfall of the village, has become dismantled and dilapidated, and has been converted into a barrack.* Goldsmith dedicated " The Deserted Village" to his friend Sir Joshua Reynolds, from motives of af- fection. " I can have no expectations," said the poet, "in an address of this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to estabUsh my own. You can gain nothing from my admiration, as I am igno- rant of that art in which you are said to excel : and I may lose much by the severity of your judg- ment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest therefore aside, to which 1 never paid much attention, I must be indulged at present in following my affections. The only dedication I ever made was to my brother, because I loved him better than most other men. He is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this poem to you." * The following account of the renovation of this village ia extracted from a number of the New Monthly Magazine. "About three miles from Ballymahon, a very central town in the sister kingdom, is the mansion and village of Auburn, so called by their present possessor, Captain Hogan. Through the taste and improvement of this gentleman, it is now a beau tiful spot, although fifteen years since it presented a very bare and unpoetical aspect. This, however, was owing to a cause which serves strongly to corroborate the assertion, that Gold- smith had this scene in view when he wrote his poem of 'Tlie Deserted VUlage.' The then possessor. General Napier, turn- ed all his tenants out of their farms, that he miglu enclose them in his own private domain. Littleton, the mansion of the General, stands not far off; a complete emblem of the deso- lating spirit lamented by the poet, dilapidated and convened into a barrack. "The chief object of attraction is I>ishoy, once tlie pai-son- age-house of Henry Goldsmith, that brother to Avhom the poet dedicated his 'Traveller,' and who is represented as the Village Pastor, Passing rich with forty younds a-year. "When I was in the country, the lower chambers were in- habited by pigs and sheep, and the drawing-rooms by oats. Captain Hogan, however, has, I believe, got it since into his possession, and has, of course, improved its condition. "Though at first strongly inclined lo 'dispute the identity of Auburn, Lishoy-house overcame my scruples. As I clambered ver the rotten gate, and crossed the grass-grown lawn, or court, the tide of association became too strong for casuistry : here the poet dwelt and wrote, and here his thoughts fondly recurred when composing his ' Traveller,' in a foreign land. Yonder was >he decent church, that literally ' topped the neigh- bouring hill.' Before me lay the little hill of Knockrue, on which he declares, in one of his letters, he had rather sit with a book in hand, than mingle in the proudest assemblies. And above all, startingly true, beneath my feet was Yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden-flower grows wild. "A painting from the life could not be more exact. 'The stubborn currant-bush' lifts its head above the rank grass, ani the proud hollyhock flaunts where its sisters of the flower- knot are no more. "In the middle of the village stands the old 'hawthorn- tree,' built up with masomy, to distinguish and preserve it it is old and stunted, and suflers much from the depreda tions of post-chaise travellers, who generally stop to procure a twig. Opposite to it is the village ale-house, over the door of which swings 'The Three .lolly Pigeons.' Within, every thing is arranged according to the letter: Tlie white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The vamish'd clock that click'd behind the door; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; The pictures placed for ornament and use. The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose. " Captain Hogan, I have heard, found great difficulty Jn ol)taining 'the twelve good rules,' but at length purchased them at some London book-stall, to adorn the white-washed parlour of the 'Three Jolly Pigeons.' However laudable this may be, nothing shook my faith in tlie reality of Auburn so much as this exactness, which had the disagreeable air of be- ing got up for the occasion. The last object of pilgrimage is the quondam habitation of the schoolmaster, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule. "It is surrounded with fragrant proofs of its identity in The blossora'd furze unprofitably gay. "Here is to be seen the chair of the poet, which fell into (ha hands of its presents possessors at the wreck of the parson- age-house : they have frequently refused large offers of pur. chase ; but more, I dare say, for the sake of drawing contri- butions from the curious than from any reverence for the bard. The chair is of oak, with back and seat of cane, which precluded all hopes of a secret drawer, like that lately disco- vered in Gay's. There is no fear of its being worn out by the devout eai-nastness of sitters as the cocks and hens have usurped undisputed possession of it, and protest most cla- morously against all attemps to get it cleansed, or to Seat one's self. GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 43 The warm friendship which had subsisted for years between the painter and the poet, warranted this dedication ; while the fine qualities which dis- tinguished that eminent artist, richly merited the elegant compliment thus paid him by Goldsmith. "Reynolds," says Mr. Cumberland, "was a per- fect gentleman ; had good sense, great propriety, with all the social attributes, and all the graces of hospitality, equal to any man. He well knew how to appreciate men of talents, and how near akin the muse of poetry was to that art of which he was so eminent a master. From Goldsmith he caught the subject of his famous Ugolino ; what aids he got from others, if he got any, were worthily be- stowed and happily applied. Great as an artist. Sir Joshua was equally distinguished as a man ; and as few have better deserved, so few have had a more ample share of prosperity dealt out to them. He sunned himself, as it were, in an unclouded sky, and his Muse, that gave him a palette dressed by all the Graces, brought him also a cornucopia, rich and full as Flora, Ceres, and Bacchus could conspire to make it. When he was lost to the world," continues Mr. Cumberland, " his death was the dispersion of a bright and luminous circle of ingenious friends, whom the elegance of his manners, the equability of his temper, and the at- traction of his talents, had caused to assemble round him as the centre of their society. In all the most engaging graces of his art, in disposition, at- titude, employment, character of his figures, and above all, in giving mind and meaning to his por- traits, if I were to say Sir Joshua never was ex- celled, I am inclined to believe so many better opinions would be with me, that I should not be found to have said too much." "The controversy concerning the identity of this Auburn was formerly a standing theme of discussion among the learn- ed of the neighbourhood, but since the pros and cons have been all ascertained, the argument has died away. Its abet- tors plead the singular agreement between the local history of the place and the Auburn of the poem, and the exactness with which the scenery of the one answers to the description of the other. To this is opposed the mention of the nightingale, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made ; ihere being no such bird in the island. The objection is slight- ed, on the other hand, by considering the passage as a mere poetical license: 'Besides,' say they, 'the robin is the Irish nightingale.' And if it be hinted, how unlikely it was that Goldsmith should have laid the scene in a place from which he was and had been so long absent, the rejoinder is always, 'Pray, sir, was Milton in hell when he built Pandemonium"?' "The line is naturally drawn between; there can be no doubt that the poet intended England by ***** The land to hast'ning ills a prey, Where weajth accumulates and men decay. *' But it la very natural tp suppose, that at the same time his imagination had in vjew the scenes of his youth, which give such strong feature of resemblance to the picture." Soon after the publication of "The Deserted Village," Goldsmith found leisure to accompany a party of ladies on an excursion to Paris. The only memorial which has been preserved of this journey, is the following fragment of a letter ad- dressed to his friend Sir Joshua. "My dear Friend, We had a very quick pas- sage from Dover to Calais, which we performed in three hours and twenty minutes, all of us extreme- ly sea-sick, which must necessarily have happened, as my machine to prevent sea-sickness was not completed. We were glad to leave Dover, be- cause we hated to be imposed upon ; so were in high spirits at coming to Calais, where we were told that a little money would go a great way. Upon landing two little trunks, which was all we carried with us, we were surprised to see fourteen or fif- teen fellows, all running down to the ship to lay their hands upon them ; four got under each trunk, the rest surrounded, and held the hasps ; and in this manner our little baggage was conducted with a kind of funeral solemnity, till it was safely lodg- ed at the custom-house. We were well enough pleased with the people's civility, till they came to be paid. Every creature that had the happiness of but touching our trunks v^th their finger, ex- pected sixpence ; and they had so pretty a civil manner of demariding it, that there was no refus- ing them. When we had done with the porters, we had next to speak with the custom-house officers, who had their pretty civil way too. We were di- rected to the Hotel d'Angleterre, where a valet de place came to offer his services ; and spoke to me ten minutes before I once found out that he was speaking English. We had no occasion for his services, so we gave him a little money because he spoke English, and because he wanted it. I can not help mentioning another circumstance ; I bought a new ribbon for my wig at Canterbury, and the barber at Calais broke it, in order to gain sixpence by buying me a new one." About this period, the Royal Academy of paint- ing was established, and Sir Joshua seized the op- portunity it afforded him of testifying his regard and partiality for Goldsmith, by procuring for him the appointment of Professor of Ancient History. Though unattended with either emolument or trouble, it conferred some respectabiUty, and entitled him to a seat at the occasional meetings of the aca- demicians, as well as at their annual dinner. He himself properly considered it a more complimenta- ry distinction, and from a passage in the following letter to his brother Maurice, it is evident he would have prized his new office much more highly had it been coupled wdth that unpoetical accompani- ment, a salary. Maurice was the poet's youngest brother. Not having been bred to any business, he, upon some occasion, complained to Oliver, that he found it difficult to live like a gentlemen. On 44 LIFE AND WRITINGS which the poet begged he would without delay quit so unprofitable a pursuit, and betake him- self to a trade. Maurice wisely took the hint, and bound himself apprentice to a cabinet-maker. He had a shop in Dublin when the Duke of Rutland was Lord Lieutenant; and his grace, at the in- stance of Mr. Orde (afterwards Lord Bolton,) made him an inspector of the Ucenses in that city, out of regard for his brother's memory. He was also appointed mace-bearer on the erection of the Royal Irish Academy; both of them places very compatible with his business. In the former, he gave proofs of his integrity, by detecting several frauds in the revenue in his department, by which he himself might have profited, if he had not been a man of principle. He died without issue. The letter is dated January, 1770. "Dear Brother, I should have answered your letter sooner, but in truth I am not fond of thinking of the necessities of those I love, when it is so very little in my power to help them. I am sorry to find you are still every way unprovided for; and what adds to my uneasiness is, that I have received a letter from my sister Johnson,* by which I learn that she is pretty much in the same circtim- stances. As to myself, I believe I could get both you and my poor brother-in-law something like that which you desire, but I am determined never to ask for little things, nor exhaust any little inter- est I may have, until I can serve you, him, and myself more effectually. As yet, no opportunity has offered, but I believe you are pretty well con- vinced that I will not be remiss when it arrives. The king has lately been pleased to make me Pro- fessor of Ancient History in a Royal Academy of Painting, which he has just established, but there is no salary annexed; and I took it rather as a com- pliment to the institution, than any benefit to my- felf. Honours to one in my situation are something like ruffles to a man that wants a shirt. You tell me that there arc fourteen or fifteen pounds left me in the hands of my cousin Lawder, and you ask me what I would have done witli them. My dear brother, I would by no means give any directions to my dear worthy relations at Kilmore how to dis- pose of money, which is, properly speaking, more theirs than mine. All that I can say, is, that I en- tirely, and this letter will serve to witness, give up any right and title to it; and I am sure they will dispose of it to the best advantage. To them I en- tirely leave it, whether they or you may think the whole necessary to fit you out, or whether our poor sister Johnson may not want the half, I leave en- tirely to their and your discretion. The kindness of that good couple to our poor shattered family, demands our sincerest gratitude : and though they have almost forgot me, yet, if good things at last ar- 1 rive, I hope one day to return, and increase theii good-humour by adding to my own. I have sent my cousin Jenny a miniature picture of myself, as 1 believe it is the most acceptable present I can offer. I have ordered it to be left for her at George Faulk- ner's, folded in a letter. The face, you well kiww, is ugly enough, but it is finely painted. I will short- ly also send my friends over the Shannon somir mezzotinto prints of myself, and some more of my friends here, such as Burke, Johnson, Reynolds, and Colman. I believe I have written a hundred letters to different friends in your country, and never received an answer from any of them. I do not know how to account for this, or why they are unwilling to keep up for me those regards which I must ever retain for them. If then you have a mind to oblige me, you will write often, whether I an- swer you or not. Let me particularly have the news of our family and old acquaintances. For instance, you may begin by telling me about the family where you reside, how they spend their time, and whether they ever make mention of me. Tell me about my mother, my brother Hodson, and his son, my brother Harry's son and daughter, my sister Johnson, the family of Ballyoughter, what is be- come of them, where they live, and how they do. You talked of being my only brother; I don't un- derstand you : Where is Charles? A sheet of pa- per occasionally filled with news of this kind would make me very happy, and would keep you nearer my mind. As it is, my dear brother, believe me to be yours most affectionately."* The lives of Lord Bolingbroke and Dr. Parnell, undertaken for the booksellers, were the next pro- ductions that came from his pen. They were pre- fixed to the respective works of these writers, pub- lished about 1770 or 1771 . Both performances are executed with his wonted taste and felicity of ex- pression ; and, in his memoir of Parnell, the pover- ty of incident peculiar to the life of a scholar is in- geniously supplied by the author's own reflections. When Dr. Johnson afterwards undertook to write the "Lives of the Poets," he concluded the series with that of Parnell, and seized the opportunity it afforded him of paying an elegant compliment to the memory of his deceased friend. " The life of Dr. Parnell," said he, " is a task which I should very willingly decline, since it has lately been writ- ten by Goldsmith; a man of such variety of powers, and such fehcity of performance, that ho always seemed to do best that which he was doing; a man who had the art of being minute without tedious- ness, and general without confusion; whose lan- guage was copious without exuberance, exact with- out constraint, and easy witliout weakness. To the original of this letter there is annexed a receipt, which shows the sum of 15?. was paid to aiamice Goldsmitli, ' ; for a legacy bequeathed to Oliver Goldsmith by the late Rev. His youngest sister, who had made an unfortunate maniage. Thomas Contarine, dated 4th February, U70. OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 45 " What such an author told, who would tell it again? I have made an abstract from his larger nar- ration; and have this gratification from my attempt, that it gives me an opportunity of paying due tri- bute to the memory of Goldsmith." Amongst his various undertakings for the boot sellers at this period, there was one, however, in which Goldsmith was peculiarly unfortunate. He had been employed by Griffin to make a selection of elegai^it poems from the best English classics, for the use of boarding-schools, and to prefix to it one of his captivating prefaces. In noting the selections for the printer, Goldsmith imluckily marked ofl' one of the most indecent tales in Prior, a circumstance that efifectually ruined the reputation and the sale of the Work at the same time. It has been said, that the error in this instance must have arisen from inadvertency or carelessness; but the inadver- tency must have been excessive, as the tale is actu- ally introduced with a criticism. Goldsmith, when conversing on the subject of his labours at this time as a compiler, used to refer to the " Selection of English Poetry," as a striking instance of the facility with which such work might sometimes be performed. He remarked " that of all his compilations, this showed most the art of the profession." To furnish copy for it required no in- vention, and but little thought: he had only to mark with a pencil the particular passages for the printer, so that he easily acquired two hundred pounds; "but then," said he, "lest the premium should be deemed more than a compensation for the labour, a man shows his judgment in these selec- tions, and he may be often twenty years of liis life cultivating that judgment." In 1771, Goldsmith was invited by Mr. Bennet Langton and his lady, the Countess of Rothes, to spend some part of the autumn with them at their seat in Lincolnshire. Sir Joshua Reynolds, it would seem, had promised to accompany him on this visit; but, from the following letter to Mr. Langton, neither he nor Sir Joshua were able at that time to avail themselves of the invitation. The letter is dated Temple, Brick-court, September 7, 1771. "My Dear Sir, Since I had the pleasure of seeing you last, I have been almost wholly in the country at a farmer's house quite alone, trying to write a comedy. It is now finished , but when, or how it will be acted, or whether it will be acted at all, are questions I can not resolve. I am therefore so much employed upon that, that I am under the necessity of putting off my intended visit to Lin- colnshire for this season. Reynolds is just return- ed from Paris, and finds himself now in the case of a truant, that must make up for his idle time by diligence. We have therefore agreed to postpone our journey till next summer, when we hope to have the honour of waiting upon Lady Rothes and you, and staying double the time of our late intend- ed visit. We often meet, and never without re- membering you. I see Mr. Beauclerk very often, both in town and country. He is now going di- rectly forward to become a second Boyle: deep in chemistry and physics. Johnson has been down upon a visit to a country parson, Dr. Taylor, and is returned to his old haunts at Mrs Thrale's. Burke is a farmer, en attendant a better place; but visiting about too. Every soul is visiting about, and merry, but myself: and that is hard, too, as 1 have been trying these three months to do some- thing to make people laugh. There have I been stroUing about the hedges, studying jests, with a most tragical countenance. The ' Natural Histo- ry' is about half finished, and I wiU shortly finish the rest. God knows I am tired of this kind of finishing, which is but bungUng work; and that not so much my fault as the fault of my scur- vy circumstances. They begin to talk in town of the Opposition's gaining ground; the cry of liberty is still as loud as ever. I have published, or Davies has published for me, ' An Abridgment of the His- tory of England,' for which I have been a good deal abused in the newspapers for betraying the liberties of the people. God knows I had no thought for or against liberty in my head; my whole aim being to make up a book of a decent size, that, as Squire Richard says, ' would do no harm to nobo- dy.' However, they set me down as an arrant Tory, and consequently an honest man. When you come to look at any part of it, you vdll say that I am a sour Whig. God bless you; and, with my most respectful compliments to her ladyship, I re- main, dear sir, your most affectionate humble ser- vant." Goldsmith's residence at the farmer's house men- tioned in this letter, appears to have been continu- ed for a considerable time. It was situated near to the six-mile stone on the Edgeware-road; and Mr. Boswell mentions that he and Mr. Mickle, transla- tor of "The Lusiad," paid him a visit there, in April, 1772. Unfortunately they did not find him at home ; but having some curiosity to see his apart- ment, they went in, and found curious scraps of descriptions of animals scrawled upon the wall, with a black lead pencil. He had carried down his- books thither, that he might pursue his labours- with less interruption. According to the testimo- ny of a literary friend, who had close intercourse- with him for the last ten years of his life, the fol- lowing was his mode of study and living, while in the country. He first read in a morning from the original works requisite for the compilation he had in hand, as much as he designed for one letter or chapter marking down the passages referred to on a sheet of paper, with remarks. He then rode or walked out with a friend or two, returned to dinner, spent the day generally convivially, without much 46 LIFE AND WRITINGS drinking, to which he was never addicted; and besides a critic of acknowledged taste and acumea when he retired to his bed-chamber, took up his His reluctance to accept of our author's play, books and papers with him, where he generally wrote the chapter, or the best part of it, before he went to rest. This latter exercise, he said, cost him very little trouble ; for having all his materi- als duly prepared, he wrote it with as much ease as a common letter. The mode of life and study thus described. Goldsmith, however, only pursued by fits. He loved the gaieties, amusements, and so- ciety of London; and amongst these he would oc- casionally lose himself for months together. To make up for his lost time he would again retire to the farm-house, and there devote himself to his la- bours with such intense application, that, for weeks successively, he would remain in his apartments without taking exercise. This desultory system is supposed to have injured his health, and to have brought on those fits of the strangury to which he was subject in the latter part of his life. He used to say, that " he believed the farmer's family with therefore, and his decided condemnation of it at its last rehearsal, was almost considered decisive of its fate. Goldsmith, however, did not despair of it himself; and the opinion of Dr. Johnson, without being sanguine, leaned to the favourable side. In a letter to Mr. Boswell he says, "Dr. Goldsmith has a new comedy, which is expected in the spring. No name is yet given to it. The chief diversion arises from a stratagem, by which a lover is made to mistake his future father-in-law's house for an inn. This, you see, borders upon farce. The di- alogue is quick and gay, and the incidents are ^o prepared as not to seem improbable." And after- wards, when Colman had actually consented to bring it out, Johnson wrote thus to the Rev. Mr. White : " Dr. Goldsmith has a new comedy in re- hearsal at Covent Garden, to which the manager predicts ill success. I hope he will be mistaken : 1 think it deserves a very kind reception." Others whomhelodgedthoughthimanoddcharacter,simi- of Goldsmith's friends also entertained favourable lar to that in which the Spectator appeared to his opinions of the piece ; and a few of them even pro- landlady and her children: he was The Gentleman^ About this period he was concerned in a work called "The Gentleman's Journal," published once a fortnight. It was conducted under the joint ma- nagement of Kenrick, Bickerstaff, and others; but was soon discontinued. When a friend was talk- ing to our author one day on the subject of this work, he concluded his remarks by observing, what an extraordinary sudden death it had. "Not at all, sir," said Goldsmith; "a very common case; it died of too many doctors." His next performance was his second attempt as a dramatist. Not discouraged by the cold re- ception which his first play had met with, he re- solved to try his fate with a second, and, maugre a host of adverse critics, succeeded. In his letter to Mr. Langton he mentions, that he had been occu- pied in writing a comedy, "trying these three months to do something to make the people laugh," and "strolling about the hedges, studying jests, with a most tragical countenance." This was the drama which he afterwards christened "She Stoops to Conquer; or. The Mistakes of a Night." Al- though then just finished, its publication was de- layed till it should be acted at one of the theatres; and from the various obstacles and delays which are there thrown in an author's way, it was not produced till March, 1773. Much difference of oj>inion existed as to the probability of its success. The majority of critics to whom it had been sub- mitted were apprehensive of a total failure; and it was not till after great solicitation, that Mr. Col- man, the manager of Covent Garden theatre, con- sented to put it in rehearsal. That gentleman had himself given incontestable proofs of dramatic ge- nius, in the production of various pieces, and was phetically anticipated a triumph over the judgment of the manager. Perhaps, however, the strong and decided interest taken by these friends in the fate of the play was one great cause of its success. A large party of them, with Johnson at their head, attended to witness the representation, and a scheme to lead the plaudits of the house, which had been preconcerted with much address, was carried into execution with triumphant effect. This contri- vance, and the circumstances which led to it are detailed by Mr. Cumberland in his Memoirs. " It was now," says Mr. Cumberland, "that I first met him at the British Coffee-house. He dined with us as a visiter, introduced, as I think, by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and we held a consultation upon the naming of his comedy, which some of the company had read, and which he detailed to the rest after his manner with a great deal of good humour. Somebody suggested She Stoops to Conquer; and that title was agreed upon. When I perceived an embarrassment in his manner towards me, which I could readily account for, I lost no time to put him at his ease; and I flatter myself I was success- ful. As my heart was ever warm towards my con- temporaries, I did not counterfeit, but really felt a cordial interest in his behalf; and I had soon the pleasure to perceive, that he credited me for my sincerity. 'You and I,' said he, 'have very differ- ent motives for resorting to the stage. I write for money, and care little about fame." I was touched by this melancholy confession, and from that mo- ment busied myself assiduously amongst all my connexions in his cause. The whole company pledged themselves to the support of the ingenu- ous poet, and faithfully kept their promise to him. In fact, he needed all that could be done for him, OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 47 BS Mr. Colman, then manager of Covent Garden theatre, protested against the comedy, when as yet he had not struck upon a name for it. Johnson at length stood forth in all his terrors as champion for the piece, and backed by us, his clients and re- tainers, demanded a fair trial. Colman again pro- tested; but, with that salvo for his own reputation, liberally lent his stage to one of the most eccentric productions that ever found its way to it; and * She Stoops to Conquer' was put into rehearsal. " We were not over sanguine of success, but perfectly determined to struggle hard for our au- thor: we accordingly assembled our strength at the Shakspeare Tavern in a considerable body for an early dinner, where Samuel Johnson took the chair at the head of a long table, and was the life and soul of the corps : the poet took post silently by his side, with the Burkes, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Fitzherbert, Caleb Whitefoord, and a phalanx of North British predetermined applauders, under the banner of Major Mills, all good men and true. Our illustrious president was in inimitable glee: and poor Goldsmith that day took all his raillery as patiently and complacently as my friend Bos- well would have done any day, or every day of his life. In the mean time we did not forget our du- ty ; and though we had a better comedy going, in which Johnson was chief actor, we betook our- selves in good lime to our separate and allotted posts, and waited the awful drawing up of the cur- tain. As our stations were preconcerted, so were our signals for plaudits arranged and determined upon in a manner that gave every one his cue where to look for them, and how to follow them up. " We had amongst us a very worthy and efficient member, long since lost to his friends and the world at large, Adam Drummond, of amiable me- mory, who was gifted by nature with the most so- norous, and at the same time the most contagious, laugh that ever echoed from the human lungs. The neigliing of the horse of the son of Hystaspes was a whisper to it ; the whole thunder of the thea- tre could not drown it. This kind and ingenu- ous friend fairly forewarned us, that he knew no more when to give his fire than the cannon did that was planted on a battery. He desired, there- fore, to have a flapper at his elbow, and I had the honour to be deputed to that office. I planted him in an upper box, pretty nearly over the stage, in full view of the pit and galleries, and perfectly well situated to give the echo all its play through the hollows and recesses of the theatre. The success of our manoeuvres was complete. All eyes were upon Johnson, who sat in a front row of a side box; and when he laughed, every body thought themselves warranted to roar. In the mean time my friend followed signals with a rattle so irresisti- oly comic, that, when he had repeated it several grossed by his person and performances, that the progress of the play seemed Ukely to become a se condary object, and I found it prudent to insinuate to him that he might halt his music without any prejudice to the author ; but, alas ! it was now too late to rein him in : he had laughed upon my sig- nal where he found no joke, and now unluckily he fancied that he found a joke in almost every thing that was said; so that nothing in nature could be more mal-a-propos than some of his bursts every now and then were. These were dangerous mo- ments, for the pit began to take mnbrage; but we carried our point through, and triumphed not only over Colman's judgment but our own." The victory thus achieved was a source of infi- nite exultation to Goldsmith, not more from the pride of success, than from the mortification he imagined it caused to the manager, at whom he was not a little piqued in consequence of the fol- lowing circumstance. On the first night of performance he did not come to the house till towards the close of the re- presentation, having rambled into St. James's Park to ruminate on the probable fate of his piece; and such was his anxiety and apprehension, that he was with much difficulty prevailed on to repair to the theatre, on the suggestion of a friend, who pointed out the necessity of his presence, in order to mark any objectionable passages, for the purpose of omission or alteration in the repetition of the performance. With expectation suspended be- tween hope and fear, he had scarcely entered the passage that leads to the stage, when his ears were shocked with a hiss, which came from the audience as a token of their disapprobation of the farcical supposition of Mrs. Hardcastle being so deluded as to suppose herself at a distance of fifty miles from home while she was actually not distant fifty yards. Such was our poor author's tremor and agitation on this unwelcome salute, that running up to the manager, he exclaimed, " What's that? what's that?" "Pshaw, doctor!" replied Colman, in a sarcastic tone, "don't be terrified at squibs, when we have been sitting these two hours upon a barrel oi gunpowder.^' The pride of Goldsmith was so mortified by this remark, that the friendship which had before subsisted between him and the manager was from that moment dissolved. The play of " She Stoops to Conquer" is found- ed upon the incident already related, which befel the author in his younger days, when he mistook a gentleman's house for an inn. Although, from the extravaganie of the plot, and drollery of the incidents, we must admit that the piece is very nearly allied to farce, yet the dialogue is carried on in such pure and elegant language, and the strokes of wit and humour are so easy and natural, that few productions of the drama afford more pleasure times, the attention of the spectators was so en- in the representation, l still keeps possession of 48 LIFE AND WRITINGS the stage as a stock play, and is frequently acted ; a circumstance which proves the accuracy of the opinion expressed by Dr. Johnson, "that he knew of no comedy for many years that had so much exhilarated an audience; that had answered so much the great end of comedy ^that of making an audience merry." In publishing this play, Gold- smith paid his friend Johnson the compliment of a dedication, and expressed in the strongest man- ner the high regard he entertained for him. "By inscribing this slight performance to you," said he, " 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 manldnd also to inform them, that the greatest wit may be found in a character without impairing the most unaffected piety." The good fortune which attended this drama was productive of its usual concomitants a mixed portion of applause and censure, with instances of fulsome flattery and furious detraction. While from less fortunate bards, whose poverty induced them to soUcit his bounty, he received the incense of adulation in a torrent of congratulatory address- es; from others, more independent, who were jealous of his reputation, and envied his success, he experienced all the virulence of malignant cri- ticism and scun-ilous invective. A single instance of each may gratify the curiosity of our readers. Packet" of the 24th March, 1773, pubUshed by Mr. Thomas Evans, bookseller in Patemoster- row. Both the manner and the matter are un- worthy of Kenrick, who was a man of talents. It was probably the work of a more obscure hand. " FOR THE LONDON PACKET. " TO DR. GOLDSMITH. " Vous vous noyez par vanity. "ON DR. GOLDSMITH'S COMEDY 'she stoops to CONaUER.' *' Quite sick in her bed Thalia was laid, A sentiment puke had quite kill'd the sweet maid, Her bright eyes lost all of their fire; When a regular doctor, one Goldsmith by name, Found out her disorder as soon as he came, And has made her (for ever 'twill crown all his fame) As lively as one can desire. *' Oh ! doctor, assist a poor bard who lies ill. Without e'er a nurse, e'er a potion, or pill : From your kindness he hopes for some ease. You're a 'good-natured man' all the world does allow, O would your good-nature but shine forth just now, In a manner I'm sure your good sense will tell how, Your servant most humbly 'twould please ! " The bearer is the author's wife, and an an- swer from Dr. Goldsmith by her, will be ever grate- fully acknowledged by his humble servant, 'John Oakman.' "Saturday, March 27, 1773." The other instance exhibits an attempt to check the author's triumph on the ninth night after the representation of his play. It was a most illiberal personal attack, in the form of a letter (supposed to be written by Dr. Kenrick.) addressed to Gold- smith himself, and inserted in ' The London " Sir, The happy knack which you have learnt of puffing your own compositions, provokes me to come forth. You have not been the editor of newspapers and magazines, not to discover the trick of literary humbug: but the gauze is so thin, that the very fooUsh part of the world see through it, and discover the doctor's monkey face, and cloven foot. Your poetic vanity is as unpardona- ble as your personal. Would man believe it, and will woman bear it, to be told, that for hours the great Goldsmith will stand surveying his grotesque orang-outang's figure in a pier glass? Was but the lovely H k as much enamoured, you would not sigh, my gentle swain, in vain. But your vanity is preposterous. How will this same bard of Bedlam ring the changes in the praise of Goldy ! But what has he to be either proud or vain of? ' The Trav- eller' is a flimsy poem, built upon false principles principles diametrically opposite to liberty. What is ' The Good-natured Man' but a poor, water-gruel, dramatic dose? What is the ' Deserted Village' but a pretty poem, of easy numbers, without fancy, dignity, genius, or fire? And pray what may be the last speaking pantomime, so praised by the doctor himself, but an incoherent piece of stuill the figure of a woraan with a fish's tail, without plot, incident, or intrigue? We are made to laugh at stale dull jokes, wherein we mistake pleasantry for wit, and grimace for humour ; wherein every scene is unnatural, and inconsistent with the rules, the laws of nature, and of the drama : viz. two gentlemen come to a man of fortune's house, eat, drink, etc. and take it for an inn. The one is in- tended as a lover for the daughter : he talks with her for some hours : and when he sees her again in a different dress, he treats her as a bar-girl, and swears she squinted. He abuses the master of the house, and threatens to kick him out of his own doors. The 'squire, whom we are told is to be a fool, proves the most sensible being of the piece ; and he makes out a whole act, by bidding his mo- ther lie close behind a bush, persuading her that his father, her own husband, is a highwayman, and that he has come to cut their throats, and, to give his cousin an opportunity to go off, he drives his mother over hedges, ditches, and thi'ough ponds. There is not, sweet sucking Johnson, a natural stroke in the whole play, but the young fellow's i OF DR. GOLDSMITH. giving the stolen jewels to the mother, supposing her to be the landlady. That Mr. Colman did no justice to this piece, I honestly allow; that he told his friends it would be damned, 1 positively aver ; and, from such ungenerous insinuations, without a dramatic merit, it rose to public notice ; and it is now the ton to go and see it, though I never saw a person that either liked it, or approved it, any more than the absurd plot of Home's tragedy of * Alonzo.' Mr. Goldsmith, correct your arrogance, reduce your vanity : and endeavour to believe, as a man, you are of the plainest sort ; and, as an au- thor, but a mortal piece of mediocrity. " Brise le miroir le infidele, " Qui vous cache la vdritS. "Tom Tickle." Indignant at the wanton scurrility of this letter, which was pointed out to him by the officious kind- ness of a friend, and enraged at the indelicacy of in- troducing the name of a lady with whom he was ac- quainted, Goldsmith, acccompanied by one of his countrymen, waited on Mr. Evans, and remonstrat- ed vsdth him on the malignity and cruelty of such an immerited attack upon private character. After ar- guing upon the subject, Evans, who had really no concern in the paper, except as publisher, went to examine the file; and while stooping down for it, the author was rashly advised by his friend to take that opportunity of using his cane, which he imme- diately proceeded to do, and applied it to the pub- Usher's shoulders. The latter, however, unexpect- edly made a powerful resistance, and being a stout. hiPi-blooded Welshman, very soon returned the blows with interest. Perceiving the turn that mat- iters were taking, Goldsmith's hot-headed friend jfled out of the shop, leaving him in a sad plight, and nearly overpowered by the fierce Welshman. [n the mean time. Dr. Kenrick, who happened to be in a private room of the publisher's, came forward Dn hearing the noise, and interposed between the combatants, so as to put an end to the fight. The iuthor, sorely bruised and battered, was then con- i^eyed toacoach; and Kenrick, though suspected ;o be the writet of the libel, affecting great com- passion for his condition, conducted him home. This ridiculous quarrel afforded considerable sport or the newspapers before it was finally made up. I^n action was threatened by Evans for the assault, )ut it was at length compromised. Many para- graphs appeared, however, reflecting severely on he impropriety of Goldsmith's attempting to beat , person in his own house; and to these he con- eived it incumbent on him to make a reply. Ac- ordingly the following justificatory address ap- ared in " The Daily Advertiser" of Wednesday, .larch 31, 1773. 4 " TO THE PUBLIC. " Lest it may be supposed, that I have been wil- ling to correct in others an abuse of what 1 have been guilty myself, I beg leave to declare, that in all my life I never wrote or dictated a single para- graph, letter, or essay in a newspaper, except a few moral essays, under the character of a Chinese, about ten years ago, in the ' Ledger;' and a letter, to which I signed my name, in the ' St. James's Chronicle.' If the liberty of the press, therefore, has been abused, 1 have had no hand in it. " I have always considered the press as the pro- tector of our freedom; as a watchful guardian, capable of uniting the weak against the encroach- ments of power. What concerns the public most properly admits of a public discussion. But, of late, the press has turned from defending public interest to making inroads upon private life; from combating the strong to overwhelming the feeble. No condition is now too obscure for its abuse; and the protector is become the tyrant of the people. In this manner, the freedom of the press is beginning to sow its own dissolution; the great must oppose it from principle, and the weak from fear; till at last every ranli of mankind shall be found to give up its benefits, content with security from its in- sults. "How to put a stop to this licentiousness, by which all are indiscriminately abused, and by which vice consequently escapes in the general censure, I am unable to tell. All I could wish is, that as the law gives us no protection against the injury, so it should give calumniators no shelter after having provoked correction. The insults which we receive before the public, by being more open, arc the more distressing. By treating them with silent contempt, we do not pay a suflicient defer- ence to the opinion of the world. By recurring to legal redress, we too often expose the weakness of the law, which only sei-ves to increase our morti- fication by failing to relieve us. In short, every man should singly consider himself as a guardian of the liberty of the press; and, as far as his influ- ence can extend, should endeavour to prevent its li- centiousness becoming at last the grave of its free- dom. "Oliver Goldsmith." The composition of this address is so much in the style of Dr. Johnson, that it was at first gener- ally believed to be the production of his pen. John- son, however, always disclaimed any participation in it ; and liis disavowal has since been recorded in the volumes of Mr, Boswell. "On Saturday, April 3," says that gentleman, "the day after my arrival in London this year, I went to his (Dr. Johnson's) house late in the evening, and sat with Mrs. Williams till he came home. I found, in the 50 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. * London Chronicle,' Dr. Goldsmith's apology to the public for beating Evans, a bookseller, on ac- count of a paragraph in a newspaper published by him, which Goldsmith thought impertinent to him and to a lady of his acquaintance. The apology was written so much in Dr. Johnson's manner, that both Mrs. Williams and I supposed it to be his; but when he came home he soon undeceived us when he said to Mrs. Williams, ' Well, Dr. Goldsmith's manifesto has got into your paper,' I asked him if Dr. Goldsmith had written it, with an air that made him see I suspected it was his, though subscribed by Goldsmith. Johnson, 'Sir, Dr. Goldsmith would no more have asked me to write such a thing as that for him, than he would have asked me to feed him with a spoon, or to do any thing else that denoted his imbecility. I as much believe that he wrote it, as if I had seen him do it. Sir, had he shown it to any one friend, he would not have been allowed to publish it. He has, in- deed, done it very well ; but it is a foolish thing well done. I suppose he has been so much elated with the success of his new comedy, that he has thought every thing that concerned him must be of impor- tance to the public' Boswell; 'I fancy, sir, this is the first time that he has been engaged in such an ad- venture.' Johnson; 'Why, sir, I believe it is the first time he has beat; he may have been beaten be- fore. This, sir, is a new plume to him.' " Had it not been for the painful and ludicrous circumstances attending this unlucky squabble, Goldsmith, in all probability, would have felt more than sufficiently elated with the success of his new comedy. Independent of the literary triumph it afforded him over the judgments of Colman and others as critics, the pecuniary advantages he reap- ed from it were equally satisfactory. He cleared, by this performance alone, upwards of eight hun- dred pounds. Indeed, the emolument which at this period Goldsmith derived from his various pro- ductions was considerable. In less than two years, it is computed that he realised not less than eighteen hundred pounds. This comprises the profits of both his comedies, various sums received on ac- count of his "Animated Nature," which was still in progress, and the copy-money of his lives of Bolingbroke and Parnell. Nevertheless, within little more than a year after the receipt of these sums, his circumstances were by no means in a prosperous condition. The profuse liberality with which he assisted indigent authors was one of the causes which led to such a state of things. Pur- don, Pilkington, Hiffernan, and others, but parti- cularly some of his own countrymen, hung per- petually about him, played upon his credulity, and, under pretence of borrowing, literally robbed him of his money. Though dupdd again and again by some of these artful men, he never could steel liis heart against their applications. A story of distress always awakened his sensibility, and emp. tied his purse. But what contributed more than any other cause to exhaust his means and embar- rass his afilairs, was the return of his passion for gaming. The command of money had unfortu- nately drawn him again into that pernicious habit, and he became the easy prey of the more knowing and experienced in the art. Notwithstanding the amount of his receipts, therefore, poor Goldsmith, from the goodness of his heart, and his indiscretion at play, instead of being able to look forward to affluence, was involved in all the perplexities of debt. It is remarkable that about this time he attempt- ed to discard the ordinary address by which he had been long recognised ; rejecting the title of Doctor, and assuming that of plain Mr. Gold- smith. The motives that induced this innovation have never been properly explained. Some have supposed that it was owing to a resolution never more to engage as a practical professor in the heal- ing art; while others have imagined that it was prompted by his dislike to the constraint imposed by the grave deportment necessary to support the appellation and character of Doctor, or perhaps from ambition to be thought a man of fashion ra- ther than a mere man of letters. Whatever were the motives, he found it impossible to throw off a designation by which he had been so long and gene- rally known ; the world continued to call him Doc- tor (though he was only Bachelor of Medicine) till the day of his death, and posterity has perpetu- ated the title. " The History of the Earth and Animated Na- ture," on which he had been engaged alwut four years, at length made its appearance in the begin- ning of 1774, and finally closed the literary labour* of Goldsmith. During the progress of this under- taking, he is said to have received from the publish- er eight hundred and fifty pounds of copy-money.. Its character, as a work of literature and science^ we have already noticed. The unfinished poem of "Retaliation," the only performance that remains to be noticed, owed ita birth to some circumstances of festive merrimeni that occurred at one of the meetings in St. James's. Coffee-house. The occasion that produced it i* thus adverted to by Mr. Cumberland in his Me- moirs: "It was upon a proposal started by Edmund Burke, that a party of friends, who had dined to- gether at Sir Joshua Reynolds' and my house, should meet at the St. James's Coffee-house; which accordingly took place, and was occasion- ally repeated with much festivity and good fellow- J ship. Dr. Barnard, dean of Derry, a very amia- 1 ble and old friend of mine. Dr. Douglas, since bishop of Salisbury, Johnson, David Garrick, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Oliver Goldsmith, Edmund and Richard Burke, Ilickcy, with two or three others OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 51 constituted our party. At one of these meetings, an idea was suggested of extemporary epitaphs upon the parties present ; pen and ink were called for, and Garrick off hand wrote an epitaph with a good deal of humour upon poor Goldsmith, who was the first in jest, as he proved to be in reality, that we committed to the grave. The dean also gave him an epitaph, and Sir Joshua illuminated the dean's verses with a sketch of his bust in pen and ink, inimitably caricatured. Neither Johnson nor Burke wrote any thing ; and when I perceived Oliver was rather sore, and seemed to watch me with that kind of attention which indicated his expectation of something in the same kind of burlesque with theirs, I thought it time to press the joke no far- ther, and wrote a few couplets at a side-table; which, when I had finished, and was called upon by the company to exhibit. Goldsmith, with much agitation, besought me to spare him ; and I was about to tear them, when Johnson wrested them out of my hand, and in a loud voice read them at the table. I have now lost all recollection of them, and in fact they were little worth remembering; but as they were serious and complimentary, the effect they had upon Goldsmith was the more pleas- ing for being so entirely unexpected. The con- cluding line, which is the only one I can call to mind, was 'All mourn the poet, I lament the man.' This I recollect, because he repeated it several times, and seemed much gratified by it. At our next meeting, he produced his epitaphs as they stand in the little posthumous poem abovemen- tioned ; and this was the last time he ever enjoyed the company of his friends." The delicacy with which Mr. Cumberland acted on this occasion, and the compliment he paid to our author, were not thrown away. In drawing the character of Cumberland in return. Goldsmith, while he demonstrated his judgment as a critic, proved his gratitude and friendship at the same time, in designating him, " The Terence of England, the mender of hearts." Other members of the club, however, were hit off with a much smaller portion of compliment, and for the most part with more truth than flattery ; yet the wit and humour with which he discrimi- nated their various shades of character, is happily free from the slightest tincture of ill-nature. His epitaph on Mr. Burke proves him to have been in- timately acquainted with the disposition and quaU- uies of that celebrated orator. The characteristics Df Mr. Burke's brother are humorously delineated, md were highly appropriate ; the portrait of Dr. : Douglas is critically true ; but the most masterly ketch in the piece is undoubtedly the character of jrarrick, who had been peculiarly severe in his spitaph on Goldsmith, On the evening that Goldsmith produced "Re- taUation" he read it in full club, and the members were afterwards called on for their opinions. Some expatiated largely in its praise, and others seemed to be delighted with it; yet, when its pubUcation was suggested, the prevailing sentiment was de- cidedly hostile to such a measure. Goldsmith hence discovered, that a little sprinkling of fear was not an unnecessary ingredient in the friendship of the world; and though he meant not immediately to publish his poem, he determined to keep it, as he expressed himself to a friend, " as a rod in pickle for any future occasion that might occur." But this occasion never presented itself: a more awful period was now approaching. A short time previous to this, he had projected an important literary work, under the title of " A Universal Dictionary of Arts and Sciences." In this undertaking he is said to have engaged all his literary friends, including most of the members of the Literary Club, particularly Johnson, Reynolds, and Burke, who promised to promote the design with all their interest, and to furnish him with original articles on various subjects to be embraced by the work. So much had he this project at heart, so sanguine was he of its success, and so Uttle doubt did he entertain of encouragement from the booksellers, that without previous concert with any one of the trade, he actually printed and pub- lished the Prospectus at his own expense. These gentlemen, however, were not, at that time, dis- posed to enter upon so heavy an undertaking, and of course received his proposals so coldly, that he found himself obliged to abandon the design. It is supposed that he had fondly promised himself re- lief from his pecuniary difficulties by this scheme, and consequently his chagrin at the disappointment was the more keenly felt. He frequently lamented the circumstance to his friends ; and there is little doubt that it contributed, with other vexations, to aggravate the disease which ended in his dissolu- tion. Goldsmith had been, for some years, occasionally afflicted with a strangury. The attacks of this disease had latterly become more frequent and vio- lent; and these, combined with anxiety of mind on the subject of his accumulating debts, embittered his days, and brought on almost habitual despon- dency. While in this unhappy condition, he was attacked by a nervous fever in the spring of 1774. On Friday, the 25th of March, that year, finding himself extremely ill, he sent at eleven o'clock at night for Mr. Ilawes, an apothecary, to whom he complained of a violent pain extending all over the fore-part of his head ; his tongue was moist, he had a cold shivering, and his pulse beat about ninety strokes in a minute. He said he had taken two ounces of ipecacuanha wine as a vomit, and that it war nis intention to take Dr. James's fever pow- 62 LIFE AND WRITINGS ders, which he desired might be sent him. Mr. Hawes repUed, that in his opinion this medicine was very improper at that time, and begged he would not think of it; but every argument used seemed only to render him more determined in his own opinion. Mr. Hawes knowing that on former occasions Goldsmith had always consulted Dr. Fordyce, and that he entertained the highest opinion of his abili- ties as a physician, requested permission to send for him. To this, with great reluctance, he gave consent, as the taking of Dr. James's powders, ap- peared to be the only object that employed his at- tention ; and even after he had given his consent, he endeavoured to throw an obstacle in the way, by saying, that Dr. Fordyce was gone to spend the evening in Gerrard-street, "where," added he, "I should also have been myself, if t had not been indis- posed." Mr. Hawes immediately dispatched a mes- .senger for Dr. Fordyce, whom he found at home, and who instantly waited upon Goldsmith. Dr. Fordyce, on perceiving the symptoms of the disease, was of the same opinion with Mr. Hawes respecting Dr. James's powders; and strongly re- presented to the patient the impropriety of his tak- ing that medicine in his 'present situation. Un- happily, however, he was deaf to all remonstrances, and persevered in his own resolution. On the following morning Mr. Hawes visited his patient, and found him very much reduced; his voice feeble, and his pulse very quick and small. When he inquired of him how he did, Goldsmith sighed deeply, and in a very low and languid tone said, " he wished he had taken his friendly advice last night," Dr. Fordyce arrived soon after Mr. Hawes, and saw with alarm the danger of their patient's situa- tion. He therefore proposed to send for Dr. Tur- ton, of whose talents and skill he knew Goldsmith had a great opinion : to this proposal the patient readily consented, and ordered his servant to go di- rectly. Doctors Fordyce and Turton accordingly met at the time appointed, and had a consultation. This they continued twice a day till the 4th of April, 1774, when the disorder terminated in the death of the poet, in the forty-fifth year of his age. Goldsmith' s sudden and unexpected dissolution created a general feeling of regret among the litera- ry circles of that period. The newspapers and pe- riodical publications teemed with tributary verses to his memory ; and perhaps no poet was ever more lamented in every possible variety of sonnet, elegy, epitaph, and dirge. Mr. Woty's hnes on the oc- casion we select from the general mass of eulogy. Another's woe thy heart could always meh ; None gave more free, for none more deeply fdt Sweet bard, adieu ! thy own harmonious lays Have sculptured out thy monument of praise; Yes, these survive to time's remotest day, While drops the bust, and boastful tombs decay. Reader, if number'd in the Muses' train, Go, tune the lyre, and imitate his strain; But, if no poet thou, reverse the plan, Depart in peace, and imitate the man." "Adieu, sweet bard! to each fine feeling true, Thy virtues many, and thy foibles few ; Those form'd to charm e'en vicious minds and these With harmkoi mirth the social soul to please. " Of poor Dr. Goldsmith," said Johnson^ in an- swer to a query of Boswell's, "there is little to bo told more than the papers have made public. He died of a fever, made, I am afraid, more violent by uneasiness of mind. His debts began to be heavy, and all his resources were exhausted. Sir Joshua is of opinion, that he owed no less than two thou- sand pounds.* Was ever poet so trusted before?" The extraordinary sum thus owing by Gold- smith excited general surprise after his death, and gave rise to some ill-natured and injurious reflec- tions. To those, however, who were intimately acquainted with his careless disposition and habits, the wonder was not, that he should be so much in debt, but, as Johnson remarks, that he should have been so much trusted. He was so liberal in his donations, and profuse in his general disburse- ments ; so unsettled in his mode of Uving, and im- prudent in gaming; and altogether so little accus- tomed to regulate his expenses by any system of economy, that at last his debts greatly exceeded his resources ; and their accumulation towards the close of his hfe was by no means matter of astonishment. These debts, however, consisted chiefly of sums that he had taken up in advance, from the mana- gers of the two theaters, for comedies which he had engaged to furnish to each; and from the booksel- lers for publications which he was to finish for the press ; all which engagements he fully intended, and would probably have been able to fulfil, as he had done on former occasions in similar exigencies; but his premature death unhappily prevented the execution of his plans. The friends of Goldsmith, Uterary as well as per- sonal, were exceedingly numerous, and so attach- ed to his memory, that they determined to honour his remains with a public funeral, and to bury hinj in Westminster Abbey. His pall was to have been supported by Lord Shelburne, Lord Louth, Sir Joshua Reynolds, the Hon. Mr. Beauclerk, Mr. Edmund Burke, and Mr. Garrick. Some cir- cumstances, which have never been explained, oc- ccurred to prevent this resolution from being carri- ed into effect. It is generally believed that the chief reason was a feeling of deUcacy, suggested by the disclosure of his embarrassed afl!airs, and the extra- ordinary amount of his debts. He was, therefore^ privately interred in the Temple burying-ground '4000L Campbell's Biography of Goldsmith OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 53 I few select friends paying the last sad offices to his remains. A short time afterwards, however, the members of the Literary Club suggested, and zealously promoted, a subscription to defray the ex pense of a monument to his memory. The neces sary funds were soon realized, and the chisel of Nollekens was employed to do honour to the poet. The design and workmanship of this memorial were purposely simple and inexpensive. It was erected in Poet's Corner in Westminster Abbey, between the monument of Gay and that of the Duke of Argyll. On this occasion, the statuary ^s admitted to have produced a good likeness of the person commemorated. The bust of Goldsmith is exhibited in a large medallion, embellished wdth literary ornaments, underneath which is a tablet of white marble, with the following Latin inscription by Dr. Johnson. OLIVARH GOLDSMITH, Poetae, Physici, Historici, Qui milium fere scribendl genus non tetigit, Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit: Sive risus essent movendi, Sive lacrymae, Affectuum potena at lenis dominator: Ingenio sublimis, vividus, versatilis, Oratione grandis, nitidus, venustus: Hoc raonumento memoriam coluit Bodalium amor, Amicorum fides, Lectorum veneratio. Natus in Hibernia Forniee Longfordiensis, In loco cui nomen Pallas, Nov. xxix, MDCCXXXL Eblanse Uteris institutua. Obi it Londini, April, iv. MDCCLXXIV.' * This I-atin inscription having been undertaken at the sug- gestion of a meetii-bg which took place in the house of Mr. Cumberland, when some members of the Literary Club were present, .Tohnson, either out of deference to them, or from the carelessness and modesty which characterised him as to his own writings, submitted the composition to the revisal of Sir Toshua Reynolds, with a request to show it afterwards to the Club for their approval. " I liave been kept away from you," says he, in a card to Sir Joshua, "I know not well how; and of these vexatious hindrances I know not when there will be an end. I therefore send you the poor dear Doctor's epitaph. Read it first yourself; and, if you then think it right, show it to the Club. I am, you know, willing to be corrected. If you think any thing much amiss, keep it to yourself till we come to- gether." The epitaph was accordingly laid before the Club soon afterwards, and though no alteration was made, yet it gave rise to a great deal of discussion, and was productive of a curious literary ^ezt cV esprit, not only singular in itself, but remarkable for the celebrated names connected with it. "ThisjeM d' esprit," says Sir William Forbes, in a letter to Mr. Boswell, "took its rise one day at dinner at our friend Sir Joshua Rejmolds's. All the company present, except myself, were friends and acquaintance of Dr. Goldsmith. The epi- taph, written for him by Dr. Johnson, became the subject of conversation, and various emendations were suggested, which it was agreed should be submitted to the Doctor's cx)nsidera- tton. But the question weu?, Who should have the courage to In addition to this eulogium on the literary qua- lities of his friend, Johnson afterwards honoured his memory with the following telrastick in Greek. loV TCK^OV tl(rOI>CtUC TCV OXiCctplOtOf KCVtHV A crease the pride of the worthy. The temporal concerns of our family were cnieflv committed to my wife's management; as to the spi- ritual, 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 or- phans and widows of the clergy of our diocese: for having a fortune of my own, I was careiess ot temporalities, and felt a secret pleasure m doing my duty without reward. I also set a resolution of keeping no curate, and of being acquainted with every man in the parish, exhorting tne married men to temperance, and the bachelors to matrimo- ny ; so that in a few years it was a common saying, that there were three strange wants at Wakefield, a parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, and 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 I made a point of supporting ; for I maintained with THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 69 Whiston, that it was unlawfiil for a priest of the cnurch of England, after the death of his first wife, to take a second; o-r 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 pubUshed some tracts upon the sub- ject myself, which, as they never sold, I have the consolation of thinking were read only by the hap- py /ew. Some of my friends called this my weak side; but alas! they had not Uke me made it the subject of long contemplation. The more I re- flected upon it, the more important it appeared. 1 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 Whis- ton; so I wrote a similar epitaph for my wife, though still Uving, in which I extolled her pru- dence, economy, and obedience till death; and hav- ing got it copied fair, with an elegant frame, it was placed over the chimney-piece, where it an- swered several very useful purposes. In admon- ishing my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity to her; it inspired her with a passion for fame, and constantly put her in mind of her end. It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often recommended, that my eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his affections upon the daugh- ter of a neighbouring clergyman, who was a digni- tary in the church, and in circumstances to give ner a large fortune. But fortune was her smallest accomplishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all (except my two daughters) to be completely pretty. Her youth, health and in- nocence, were still heightened 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 pre- cedes an expected alliance. Being convinced 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 amuse- ments which the young couple every day shared in each other's company seemed to increase their pas- sion. We were generally awaked in the morning by music, and on fine days rode a hunting. The hours between breakfast and dinner the ladies de- voted 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 every thing herself, it being her mother's way, she gave us upon these occasions the history of every dish. When we had dined, to prevent the ladies ieaving us, I generally ordered J;he table to be re- moved; and sometimes, with the music ma^^er'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 I hated all manner of gaming, except backgammon, at which my old friend and I sometimes took a two-penny hit. Nor can I here pass over an ominous circumstance that happened the last time we played together; I only wanted to fling a quatre, 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 earnest- ly 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 ar- gument and style, I could not in the pride of my heart avoid showing it to my old friend Mr. Wil- mot, as I made no doubt of receiving his approba- tion; 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 ac- tually courting a fourth wife. This as may be ex- pected, produced a dispute attended with some acri- mony, which threatened to interrupt our intended alliance : but the day before that appointed for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the subject at large. It was managed with proper spirit on both sides : he asserted that I was heterodox, I retorted the charge; he repHed and I rejoined. In the mean time, while the controversy was hottest, I was called out by one of my relations, 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 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 for- tune," returned my friend, "I am now sorry to in- form 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 until after the wedding : but now it may serve to moderate your warmth in the argu- ment; 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," returned 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 circum- stances: and as for the argument, I even here ro- (50 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. tract my former concessions in the old gentleman's favour, nor will I allow liim now to be a husliand in any sense of the expression." It would be endless to describe the different sen sations of both families when I divulged the news of our misfortune : but what others felt was slight to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr. Wil- mot, who seemed before sufficiently inclined to break off" the match, was by this blow soon deter mined : 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. The only hope of our family now was, that the report of our misfortune might be malicious or pre- mature; but a letter from my agent in town soon came with a confirmation of every particular. The loss of fortune to myself alone would have been trifling; the only uneasiness I felt was for my fami- ly, who were to be humble without an education to render them callous to contempt. Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to restrain their affliction ; for premature consola- tion is but the remembrance 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 1 could still en- joy 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 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 brjlig down the pride of my family to their circumstances; fori well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness itself. " You can not be ignorant, my children," cried I, " that no prudence of ours could have pre- vented our late misfortune ; but prudence may do much in disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my fondlings, and wisdom bids us conform to our humble situation. Let us then, without re- pining, give up those splendours with which num- bers are wretched, and seek in humbler circum- stances that peace with which all may be happy. The poor live pleasantly without our help, why then should not we learn to five without theirs? Na, my cliildren, 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 deter- mined to send him to town, where his abilities might contribute to our support and nis own. The separation of friends and families is, perhaps, on of the most distressful circumstances attendant on penury. The day soon arrived on which we were to disperse for the first time. My son, after taking leave of his mother and the rest, who mingled their tears and 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 1 had now to bestow. " You are going, my boy," cried I, " to London on foot, in the manner Hooker, your great ancestor, travelled there before yt)u. Take from me the same horse that was given him by the good Bishop Jewel, this staff", and this book too, it will be your comfort on the way : these tvpo lines in it are worth a million. ' I ha>c 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 onc a-year ; still keep a good heart, and farewell." As he was possessed of integrity and honour, I waa 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 scarcely fortitude itself could suppress. Besides, a journey of seventy miles to a family that had hitherto never been above ten from home, filled us with apprehension ; and the cries of the poor, who followed us for some miles, contributed to in- crease 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 compUed, as what he drank would increase the bill next morn- ing. He knew, however, the whole neighbour- hood to which I was removing, particularly 'Squire Thorniiill, 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 particu- larly remarkable for his attachment to the fair sex. He observed that no virtue was able to resist his arts and assiduity, and that scarcely 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 confi- dent of their allurements and virtue. While our thoughts were thus employed, the hostess entered THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 61 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 reckoning. " Want money!" replied the host " that must be impossible; for it was no later than yesterday he paid three guineas to our beadle to spare an old broken soldier that was to be whipped through the town for dog-steaUng." 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 beg- ged the landlord would introduce me to a stranger of so much charity as he described. With this he complied, showing in a gentleman who seemed to be about thirty, dressed in clothes that once were laced. His person was well formed, and his face marked with the lines of thinking. He had some- thing short and dry in his address, and seemed not to understand ceremony, or to despise it. Upon the landlord's leaving the room, I could not avoid expressing my concern to the stranger at seeing a gentleman in such circumstances, and offered him my purse to satisfy the present demand, " I take it wdth all my heart, sir," repUed 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 misfortunes, but the place to which I was going to remove. " This," cried he, " happens still more luckily 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 tes- tified 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 conversation, which was at once pleasing and in- structive, induced me to wish for a continuance of it; but it was now high time to retire and take re- freshment against the fatigues of the following day. The next morning we all set forward together : my family on horseback, while Mr. Burchell, our new companion, walked along the foot-path by the road-side, observing with a smile, that as we were ill mounted, he would be too generous to attempt leaving us behind. As the floods were not yet subsided, we were obliged to hire a guide, who trot- ted on before, Mr. Burchell and I bringing up the rear. We lightened the fatigues of the road with philosophical disputes, which he seemed to under- stand perfectly. But what surprised me most was, that theugh he was a money-borrower, he defend- ed his opinions with as much obstinacy as if he had been ray patron. He now and then also in- formed mc 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 WilUam Thornhill, a gentle- man 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, gene- rosity, 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 were all upon the side of vir- tue, they led it up to a romantic extreme. He ear- ly began to aim at the qualifications of the soldier and scholar ; was soon distinguished in the army, and had some reputation among men of learning. Adulation ever follows the ambitious ; for such alone receive most pleasure from flattery. He was sur- rounded with crowds, who showed him only one side of their character : so that he began to lose a regard for private interest in universal sympathy. He loved all mankind; for fortune prevented him from knowing that there were rascals. Physicians tell us of a disorder, in which the whole body is so. exquisitely sensible that the slightest touch gives pain : what some have thus suffered in their per- sons, this gentleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress, whether real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, and his soul laboured under a sickly sen- sibiUty 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 improvident as he grew poor; and though he talked like a man of sense, his actions were those of a fool. Still, however, being sur- rounded 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 he wished to relieve. These hung upon him for a time, and left him vdth merit- ed 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 reverence. The world now began to wear a different aspect; the flattery of his friends began to dwindle into simple approbation. Approbation soon took the more GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. friendly form of advice, and advice, when rejected, produced their reproaches. He now^ therefore found, that such friends as benefits had gathered round him, were httle estimable: he now found that a man's own heart must be ever given to gain that of another. I now found, that that I forget what I was going to observe : in short, sir, he resolved to respect himself, and laid down a plan of restoring his falling fortune. For this purpose, in his own whimsical manner, he travelled through Europe on foot, and now, though he has scarcely attained the age of thirty, his circumstances are more afflu- ent than ever. At present, his bounties are more rational and moderate than before; but still he pre- serves the character of a humorist, and finds most pleasure in eccentric virtues." My attention was so much taken up by Mr, Burchell's account, that I scarcely looked forward as we went along, till we were alarmed by the cries of my family, when turning, I perceived my young- est daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, thrown from her horse, and struggling with the torrent She had sunk twice, nor was it in my power to disengage myself in time to bring her relief. My sensations were even too violent to permit my at- tempting her rescue: she must have certainly perished had not my companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to her relief, and, with some difficulty, brought her in safety to the oppo- site shore. By taking the current a little farther up, the rest of the family got safely over, where we had an opportunity of joining our acknowledg- ments to her's. Her gratitude may be more readi- ly imagined than described : she thanked her de- liverer more with looks than words, and continued to lean upon his arm, as if still wilUng to receive assistance. My wife also hoped one day to have the pleasure of returning his kindness at her own house. Thus, after we were refreshed at the next inn, and had dined together, as Mr. Burchell was going to a diflferent part of the country, he took leave; and we pursued our journey; my wife ob- serving as he went, that she liked him extremely, and protesting, that if he had birth and fortune to entitle him to match into such a family as our's, she knew no man she would sooner fix upon. I could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty strain; but I was never much displeased with those harmless delusions that tend to make us more happy. CHAPTER IV. A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant happiness, which dei)ends not on circumstances but constitution. The place of our retreat was in a little neigh- bourhood, consisting of farmers, who tilled their own grounds, and were equal strangers to opu- lence and poverty. As they had almost all the conveniencies of life within themselves, they sel- dom visited towns or cities, in search of superflui- ty. Remote from the polite, they still retained the primeval simplicity of manners ; and frugal by habit, they scarcely knew that temperance was a virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of la- bour; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol, sent true love-knots on Valentine morning, ate pancakes on Shrove-tide, showed their wit on the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on Mi- chaelmas eve. Being apprised of our approach, the whole neighbourhood came out to meet their minis- ter, dressed in their finest clothes, and preceded by a pipe and tabor. A feast also was provided for our reception, at which we sat cheerfully down; and what the conversation wanted in wit, was made up in laughter. Our little habitation 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 excellent land, having given a hundred pounds for my predecessor's good- will. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my little enclosures; the elms and hedge-rows appear- ing with inexpressible beauty. My house con- sisted of but one story, and was covered with thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness; the walls on the inside were nicely white-washed, and my daught;ers undertook to adorn them with pic- tures 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 cop- pers being well scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably reliev- ed, and did not want richer furniture. There were three other apartments, one for my wife and me, another for our two daughters, within our own, and the third, with two beds, for the rest of 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 mechani- cal.forms of good-breeding, without which freedom ever destroys friendship, we all bent in gratitude to that Being, who gave us another day. This duty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our usual industry abroad, while my wife and daughters employed themselves in providing breakfast, which was always ready at a certain time. I allowed half an hour for this meal, and an hour for dinner; which time was taken up in innocent mirth be THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 63 iween 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 expecting family ; where smiling looks, a neat hearth, and pleasant fire, were prepared for our reception. Nor were we without guests: sometimes Farmer Flamborough, our talkative neighbour, and often the blind piper, would pay us a visit, and taste our gooseberry-wine ; for the mak- ing of which we had lost neither the receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people had several ways of being good company ; while one played, the other would sing some soothing ballad, Johnny Armstrong's last good night, or the cruelty of Bar- bara Allen. The night was concluded in the man- ner we began the morning, my youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons of the day ; and he that read loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have a halfpenny on Sunday to put in the poor's box. When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, which all my sumptuary edicts could not restredn. How well soever I fancied my lectures against pride had conquered the vanity of my daughters; yet I found them still secretly attached to all their former finery: they still loved laces, ri- bands, bugles, and catgut ; my wife herself retained a passion for her crimson paduasoy, because I for- merly happened to say it became her. The first Sunday in particular their behaviour served to mortify me ; I had desired my girls the preceding night ,to be dressed early the next day ; for I always loved to be at church a good while be- fore the rest of the congregation. They punctually obeyed my directions ; but when we were to assem- ble in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters dressed out in all their former splendour : their hair plastered up with pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up in 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 dis- cretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only re- source 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 in the parish will hoot after us." " Indeed," rephed my wife, " I always imagined that my Charles was fond of see- ing 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 tlus is not neatness, but frippery. These rufilings, and pinkings, and patchings, will only make us hated by all the wives of all our neighbours. No, my children," continued I, more gravely, " those gowns may be altered into something of a plainei cut ; for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want the means of decency. I do not know whether such flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the indigent world might be clothed from the trimmings of the vain." This remonstrance had the proper effect ; they went with great composure, that very instant, to change their dress ; and the next day I had the sa- tisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own re- quest, 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 curtaiUng. CHAPTER V. A new and great acquaintance introduced. What we place most hopes upon, generally proves most fatal. At a small distance from the house, my predo cessor had made a seat, overshadowed 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 land- scape 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 difiused a new joy, the preparations for it being made with no small share of bustle and ceremony. On these oc- casions our two little ones always read to us, and they were regularly served after we had done. Sometimes, to give a variety to our amusements, the girls sang 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 children with rapture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both health and harmony. In this manner we began to find that every situa- tion in life might bring its awn peculiar pleasures : every morning awaked us to a repetition of toil ; but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity. It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holi- day, 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 be- gan their usual concert. As we were thus en- gaged, 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 cither curiosity, or surprise, or some more hidden 04 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. motive, held my wife and daughters to their seats. The huntsman, 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 for a while regarding us, instead of pursuing the chase, stopped short, and giving his horse to a servant who attended, ap proached us with a careless superior air. He seemed to want no introduction, but was going to salute my daughters, as one certain of a kind re- ception ; 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 family, and such was the power of fortune and fine clothes, that he found no second repulse. As his address, though confi- dent, was easy, we soon became more familiar ; and perceiving musical instruments lying near, he beg- ged to be favoured with a song. As I did not ap- prove of such disproportioned acquaintances, I winked upon my daughters in order to prevent their compliance ; but my hint was counteracted by one from their mother ; so that, with a cheerful air, they gave us a favourite song of Dryden's. Mr. Thornhill seemed highly delighted with their per- formance and choice, and then took up the guitar himself. He played but very indifferently ; how- ever, my eldest daughter repaid his former applause with mterest, and assured him that his tones were iouder than even those of her master. At this com- pliment he bowed, which she returned with a cour- tesy. 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 her landlord's stepping in, and tasting 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 con- trary, gave him a question or two from the an- cients, for which he had the satisfaction of being laughed at : my little ones were iio less busy, and fondly stuck close to the stranger. All my endea- vours 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 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 coun- cil 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 con- cluded, she protested she could see no reason why the two Miss Wrinkles should marry great for- tunes, and her children get none. As this last ar- gument was directed to me, I protested 1 covdd see no reason for it neither, nor why Mr. Simkins got the ten thousand pound prize in the lottery, and we sat down with a blank. " 1 protest, Charles," cried my wife, "this is the way you always damp my girls and me when we are in spirits. Tell me, Sophy, my dear, what do you think of our new visiter? Don't you think he seemed to be good- natured ?" " Immensely so indeed, mamma," re- plied she, " I think he has a great deal to say upon every thing, 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 two last speeches I inter- preted by contraries. I found by this, that Sophia internally despised, as much as Olivia secretly ad- mired him. " Whatever may be your opinions of him, my children," cried I, "to confess the truth, he has not prepossessed me in his favour. Dis- proportioned friendships ever terminate in disgust; and I thought, notwithstanding all his ease, that he seemed perfectly sensible of the distance between us. Let us keep to companions of our own rank. There is no character more contemptible than a man that is a fortune-hunter ; and I can see no reason why fortune-hunting women should not be contemptible too. Thus, at best, we shall be con- temptible if his views be honourable ; but if they be otherwise! I should shudder but to think of that. It is true I have no apprehensions from the con- duct 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, ^vho, with his compliments, sent us a side of veni- son, and a promise to dine with us some days after. This well-timed present pleaded more powerfully in his favour, than any thing I had to say could ob- viate. 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. Tlie Happiness, of a Country Fire-side. ' As we carried on the former dispute with some degree of warmth, in order to accommodate mat- ters, 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 a part in this good cheer : feasts cf this kind THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 65 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 heart- ily by the hand, while httle Dick officiously reach- ed him a chair. I was pleased with the poor man's friendship for two reasons : because I knew that he wanted mine, and I knew him to be friendly as far as he was able. He was known in our neighbourhood by the character of the poor gentleman that would do no good when he was young, though he was not yet thirty. He would at intervals talk with great good sense; but in general he was fondest of the com- pany of children, whom he used to call harmless little men. He was famous, I found, for singing them ballads, and telling them stories; and sel- dom went out without something in his pockets for them; a piece of gingerbread, or a halfpenny whistle. He generally came for a few days into our neighbourhood once a-year, and lived upon the neighbours' hospitality. He sat down to sup- per among us, and my wife was not sparing of her gooseberry-wine. The tale went round ; he sang us old songs, and gave the children the story of the Buck of Beverland, with the history of Patient Grissel, 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," cried Bill, "will give Mr. Burchell my part, if my sisters will take me to theirs." "Well done, my good children," cried I, "hospitality is one of the first Christian duties. The beast retires to its shelter, and the bird flies to its nest; but helpless man can only find refuge from his fellow-creature. The greatest stranger in this world, was he that came to save it. He never had a house, as if willing to see what hos- pitality was left remaining amongst us. Deborah, my dear," cried 1 to my wife, "give those boys a lump of sugar each, and let Dick's be the largest, because he spoke first." In the morning early I called out my whole fami- ly to help at saving an after-growth of hay, and our guest offering his assistance, he was accepted among the number. Our labours went on Hghtly ; we turned the swath to the wind. I went fore- most, and the rest followed in due succession. I 5 could not avoid, however, observing the assiduity of Mr. Burchell in assisting my daughter Sophia in her part of the task. When he had finished his own, he would join in her's, and enter into a close conversation : but I had too good an opinion of Sophia's understanding, and was too well con- vinced of her ambition, to be under any uneasiness from a man of broken fortune. When we were finished for the day, Mr. Burchell was invited as on the night before; but he refused, as he was to lie that night at a neighbour's, to whose child he was carrying a whistle. When gone, our conversation at supper turned upon our late unfor- tune guest. "What a strong instance," said I, "is that poor man of the miseries attending a youth of levity and extravagance. He by no means wants sense, which only serves to aggravate his fonner folly. Poor forlorn creature, where are now the revellers, the flatterers, that he could once inspire and command ! Gone, perhaps^ to attend the bag- nio pander, gi-own rich by his extravagance. They once praised him, and now they applaud the pan- der ; their former raptures at his wit are now cdn verted into sarcasms at his folly : he is poor, and perhaps deserves poverty; for he has neither the ambition to be independent, npr the skill to be use- ful." Prompted perhaps by some secret reasons, I delivered this observation with too much acri- mony, which my Sophia gently leproved. "What- soever his former conduct may have been, papa, his circumstances should exempt him from censure now. His present indigence is a sufficient pun- ishment for former folly; and I have heard my papa himself say, that we should never strike an 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 Mar- syas, whose skin, the fable tells us, had been whol- ly 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 apart- ment sufficiently lightsome. And to confess a truth, this man's mind seems fitted to his sta- tion : 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 under- took to vindicate herself, and her blushing, were symptoms I did not internally approve? but I re- pressed my suspicions. 66 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. As we expected our landlord the next day, my vsdfe went to make the venison pasty. Moses sat reading, while I taught the httle ones : my daugh- ters seemed equally busy with the rest ; and I ob- served them for a good while cooking something over the fire. I at first supposed they were assist- ing their mother ; but little Dick informed me in a whisper, that they were making a ^cash for the face. Washes of all kinds I had a natural antipa- thy to ; for I knew that instead of mending the complexion, they spoiled it. I therefore approach- ed my chair by sly degrees to the fire, and grasp- ing the poker, as if it wanted mending, seemingly by accident overturned the whole composition, and it was too late to l)egin another. CHAPTER VII. A Town-wit described Tiie dullest fellows may leani lo be comical for a night or two. When 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 also be conjectured that my wife and daughters expanded their gayest plu- mage upon this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came with a couple of friends, his chaplain and feeder. The servants, who were numerous, he politely or- dered to the next ale-house, but my wife, in the triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining them all; for which, by the by, our family was pinched for three weeks after. As Mr. Burchell had hint- ed to us the day before, that he was making some proposals 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 happening to mention her name, Mr. Thornhill observed with an oath, that he never knew any thing more absurd than calling such a fright a beauty : ," For strike me ugly," continued he, " if I should not find as much pleasure in choos- ing my mistress by the information of a lamp un- der the clock at St. Dunstan's." At this he laugh- ed, 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 1 was thanked by the chaplain, as he said the Church was the only mistress of his affections. " Come, tell us honestly, Frank," said the 'Squire, with his usual archness, "suppose the Church, your present mistress, dressed in lawrn sleeves, on 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 priestcrafl in the creation. For what are tithes and tricks but an imposition, all a confounded im- posture, 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 winking on the rest of the compa- ny to prepare us for the sport, " if you are for a cool argument upon that subject, I am ready to ac- cept the challenge. And first, whether are you for managing it analogically or dialogically 1" "I am for managing it rationally," cried Moses, quite hap- py at being permitted to dispute. "Good again," cried the 'Squire, "and firstly, of the first: I hope you'll not deny, that whatever is, is. If you don't grant me that, I can go no farther." " Why," re- turned 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." ' 1 grant that too," cried Moses, " it is but just and reasonable." "I hope," cried the 'Squire, "you will not deny, that the two angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones." " No- thing can be plainer," returned t' other, and looked round with his usual importance. " Very well," cried the 'Squire, speaking very quick, "the pre- mises being thus settled, I proceed to observe, that the concatenation of self-existence, proceeding in a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally produce a prob- lematical 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 sub- mit ! Answer me one plain question : Do you think Aristotle right when he says, that relatives are re- lated 7" " 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 en- thymem deficient secundum quoad, or quoad mi- nus, and give me your reasons : give me your rea- sons, I say, directly." " I protest," cried Moses, " I don't rightly comprehend the force of your rea- soning; but if it be reduced to one simple proposi- tion, I fancy it may then have an answer." " O sir," cried the 'Squire, "I am your most humble servant; 1 find you want me to furnish you with argument and intellects too. No, sir, there I pro- test 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, thou^jh but a mere act of the memorv THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 67 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 afiections 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 de- bate 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 visiter. 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 end?" "Ay, who knows that indeed!" answered I, with a groan : " For my part, I don't much like it: and I could have been better pleased with one that was poor and honest, than this fine gentleman with his fortune and infidelity ; for depend on't, if he be what I suspect him, no 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 I bave 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-think- ers, and made very good husbands ; and she knew some sensible girls that had skill enough to make converts of their spouses : "And who knows, my dear," continued she, " what Ohvia may be able to do. The girl has a great deal to say upon every subject, and to my knowledge is very well skilled in controversy." " Why, my dear, what controversy can she have read?" cried I : "It does not occur to me that I ever put such books into her hands : you certainly overrate her merit." " Indeed, i)apa," replied Oli- via, " she does not : I have read a great deal of controversy. I have read the disputes between Thwackum and Square ; the controversy l)etweeii Robinson Crusoe and Friday the savage, and am now employed in reading the controversy in Reli- gious Courtship." " Very well," cried I, " that's a good girl, I find you are perfectly qualified for maliing converts ; and so go help your mother to make the gooseberry-pie." CHAPTER VIII. An amour, which proiTiises little good fortune, yet may be productive of much. TiiK next morning we were again visited b}'- Mr. Burchell, though I began, for certain reasons, to be displeased with tlie frequency of his return ; but I could not refuse him my company and ray fire-side. It is true, his labour more than requited his enter- tainment ; for he wrought among us with vigour, and cither in the meadow or at the hay-rick put himself foremost. Besides, he had always some- thing 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 dis- like arose from an attachment he discovered to my daughter : he would, in a jesting manner, call her his little mistress, and when he bought each of the girls a set of ribands, her's was the finest. I knew 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 ra- ther reclined round a temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while Mr. Burchell gave cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our satis- faction, two blackbirds answered each other from opposite hedges, the familiar red-breast came and pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of tranquillity. " I never sit thus," says Sophia, " but I think of the two lovers so sweetly described by Mr. Gay, who were struck dead in each other's arms. There is something so pathetic in the description, that I have read it a hundred times with new rapture." " In my opin- ion," cried my son, " the finest strokes in that de- scription 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 dc- 68 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. pends." " 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 Uttle genius found them most easily imitated in their defects, and EngUsh poetry, like that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant images, without plot or connexion; a string of epithets that improve the sound, without carrying on the sense. But perhaps, madam, wliile I thus reprehend others, you'll think it just that I should give them an op- portunity 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, fs, I think, at least free from those I have mentioned."* A BALLAD. ' Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way. To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. " For here forlorn and lost 1 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 ; AU earth- bom cares are wrong ; Man wants but Uttle here below. Nor wants that little long." * We have introduced this beautiful poem in this place, be- cause it appears to be too intimately connected with the story to be omitted with any propriety, though it is inserted among the TMt of Om dbctor'8 poetieal productions. Soft as the dew from heaven descendii His gentle accents fell: The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay, A refuge to the neighb'ring poor And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch Required a master's care; The wicket, opening with a latch Received the harmless pair. And now, when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The hermit trimm'd his little fire. And cheer'd his pensive guest: And spread his vegetable store. And gaily press' d, and smiled; And, skill' d in legendary lore. The lingering hours beguiled. Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries. The cricket chirrups in the hearth, The crackling faggot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To soothe the stranger's woe ; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the hermit spied. With answering care oppress'd: " And whence, unhappy youth," he criec " The sorrows of thy breast? " From better habitations spum'd, Reluctant dost thou rove 7 Or grieve for friendship unretum'd, Or unregarded love 7 " 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 fam^ But leaves the wretch to weep 7 " 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. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. Surprised he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view ; Like colours o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. * The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms : The lovely stranger stands confest A maid in all her charms. " And ah ! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn," she cried ; " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where heaven and you reside. *' But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. *' My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he ; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine. He had but only me. " To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber'd suitors came ; Who praised me for imputed charms. And felt, or feign'd a flame. " Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove ; Aiiwngst the rest young Edwin bow'd. But never talk'd of love. " Tn 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 carol'd lays of love. His breath lent fragrance to the gale, And music to the grove. '* The blossom opening to the day, The dews of Heaven refined. Could nought of purity display To emulate his mind. " The dew, the blossom on the tree. With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but woe to me I k Their constancy was mine. "For still I tried each fickle art, L Importunate and vain; MLnd while his passion touch'd my hear*. I I triumphed in his pain : * Till quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he died. " But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. And well my life shall pay ; I'll seek the solitude he sought. And stretch me where he lay. " And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I." " Forbid it, Heaven !" the Hermit cried. And clasp' d her to his breast; The wondering fair one turned to chide- 'Twas Edwin's self that press' d. " Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here. 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 break thy Edwin's too." While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an air of tenderness with her approbation. But our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the re- port of a gun just by us, and immediately after a man was seen bursting through the hedge, to take up the game he had killed. This sportsman was the 'Squire's chaplain, who had shot one of the blackbirds that so agreeably entertained us. So loud a report and so near, startled my daughters; and I could perceive that Sophia in her fright had thrown herself into Mr. Burchell's arms for protec- tion. The gentleman came up, and asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirming that he was ig- norant 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 some reluc- tance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride in a whisper, observing, that Sophy had made a con- quest of the chaplain, as well as her sister had of the 'Squire, I suspected, however, with more pro- bability, that her affections were placed upon a dif- ferent object. The chaplain's errand was to in- form us, that Mr. Thornhill had provided music and refreshments, and intended that night giving the young ladies a ball by 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 hon- 70 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. ourcd with Miss Sophy's hand as a partner." To this my girl replied, that she should have no objec- tion if she could do it with honour : "But here," con- tinued she, "is a gentleman," looking at Mr. Bur- chell, *' who has been my companion in the task for the day, and it is fit he should share in its amusements." Mr. Burchell returned her a com- pliment for her intentions : but resigned her up to the chaplain, adding that he was to go that night five miies, 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 for- tunes to one whose expectations were much greater. But as men are most capable of distinguishing merit in women, so the ladies often form the truest judgment of us. The two sexes seem placed as spies upon each other, and are furnished with dif- ferent abilities, adapted for mutual inspection. "^ CHAPTER IX. Two Ladiea of great distinction introduced Superior finery ever seems to confer superior breeding. Mr. Burchell had scarcely taken leave, and (Sophia consented to dance with the chaplain, when my Uttle ones came running out to tell us, that the "Squire was come with a crowd of company. Upon our return, we f jund our landlord, with a couple of under gentlemen and two young ladies richly dressed, whom he introduced as wcmen of very great distinction and fashion from town. We hap- pened not to have chairs enough for the whole company; but Mr. Thornhill hnmediately propos- ed, 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 therefore 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 gentleman re- turned with my neighbour Flamborough's rosy daughters, flaunting with red top-knots ; but an un- lucky circumstance was not adverted to though the Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned the very best dancers in the parish, and understood the jig and round-about to perfection, yet they were total- ly unacquainted with country dances. This at first discomposed us: however, after a little shov- ing 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 daughter led up the ball, to the great delight of the spectators; for the neighbours, hear- ing what was going forward, came flocking about give a peremptory refusal; for which we had no- thing but sullen looks and short answers the whole day ensuing. CHAPTER X. The family endeavours to cope with their betters. The mise- ries of the poor when they attempt to appear above their circumstances. I NOW began to find, that all my long and pain- ful lectures upon temperance, simplicity and con- tmtment, were entirely disregarded. The dis- tinctions lately paid us by our betters awaked 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 daughters' eyes, that working after dinner would redden their noses, and she con\anced me that the hands never looked so white as when they did nothing. Instead therefore of finishing George's shirts, we now had them new-modelling their old gauzes, or flourishing upon catgut. The poor Miss Flamboroughs, their former gay companions, were cast off as mean acquaintance, and the whole con- versation ran upon high life and high-lived com- pany, with ])ictures, taste, Shakspeare, and the musical glasses. But we could have borne all this, had not a for- tune-telling gipsy come to raise us into perfect sub- Umity. The tawny sibyl no sooner appeared, than my girls came running to me for a shilling a-piece to cross her hand with silver. To say the truth, I was tired of being always wise, and could not help gratifying their request, because I loved to see them happy. I gave each of them a shilling; though for the honour of the family it must be ob- served, that they never went without money them- selves, 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 re- turning, 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 be- lieve she deals with somebody that's not right ; for she positively declared, that I am to be maiTied 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 mar- ried 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, 1 could have promised you a prince and a nabob for half the money." This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with very serious effects : we now began to think ourselves designed by the stars to something exalt- ed, and already anticipated our future grandeur. It has been a thousand times observed, and I must observe it once more, that the hours we pass with happy prospects in view, are more pleasing than those crowned with fruition. In the first case, we cook the dish to our own appetite ; in the latter, nature cooks it for us. It is impossible to repeat the train of agreeable reveries we called up for our entertainment. We looked upon our for- tunes 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 dreams in the GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 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 ap- proaching wedding ; at another time she imagined her daughters' pockets filled with farthings, a cer- tain sign of their being shortly stuffed with gold. The girls themselves had their omens. They felt strange Idsses on their lips; they saw rings in the candle, purses bounced from the fire, and true love-knots lurked in the bottom of every tea-cup. Towards the end of the week we received a card from the town ladies ; in which with their compli- ments, 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 a latent plot. To be sincere, I had strong suspi- cions that some absurd proposal was preparing for appearing with splendour the next day. In the evening they began their operations in a very regu- lar 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 uneasi- ness about that, you shall have a sermon whether there be or not." " That is what I expect," re- turned she; "but 1 think, my dear, we ought to appear there as decently as possible, for who knows what may happen?" " Your precautions," rephed I, " are highly commendable. A decent behaviour and appearance in church is what charms me. We fihould be devout and humble, cheerful and serene. "Yes," cried she, "1 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." " Phoo, Charles," interrupted she, " all that is very true ; but not what I would be at. I mean we should go there genteelly. You know the church is two miles off, and I protest I don't like to see my daughters trudging up to their pew all blowzed and red with walking, and looking for all the world as if they had been winners at a smock-race. Now, my dear, my proposal is this : there are our two plough horses, the colt that has been in our family these nine years, and his com- panion Blackberry, that has scarcely done an earth- ly thing for this month past. They are both grown fat and lazy. Why should not they do something as well as we? And let me tell you, when Moses has trimmed them a little, they will cut a very UAe- able figure." To this jffoposal I olgected, that walking would be twenty times more genteel than such a paltry conveyance, as Blackbeny was wall-eyed, and the colt wanted a tail: that they had never been broke 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 busi- ness 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 appear- ance of the family. I therefore walked back by the horse- way, which was five miles round, though the foot- way was but two, and when got about half way home, perceived the procession marchinjf slowly forward towards the church; my son. my wife, and the two little ones, exalted upon one horse, and my two daughters upon the other. I demanded the cause of their delay ; but I soon found by their looks they had met with a thousand mis- fortunes on the road. The horses had at first re- fused 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 en- treaties 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 mortification did not much displease me, as it would give me many opportunities of fu- ture triumph, and teach my daughters more ha- mility. CHAPTER XI. The family still resolve to hold up their heads. MiCHAKLMAS 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 con- tempt: however, we suflfered ourselves to be happy. Our honest neighbour's goose and dmnplings were fine, and the lamb's wool, even in the opinion of my vnfe, 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 fen THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. times before : however, we were kind enough to ters sat silent, admiring their exalted breeding. laugh at them once more. Mr. Burchell, who was of the party, was always fond of seeing some innocent amusement going forward, and set the boys and girls to blind man's buff. My wife too was persuaded to join in the diversion, and it give me pleasure to think she was not yet too old. In the mean time, my neighbour and I looked on, laughed at every feat, and praised our own dexterity when we were young. Hot cockles succeeded next, questions and commands followed that, and last of all, they sat down to hunt the slipper. As every person may not be acquaint- ed with this primeval pastime, it may be necessa- ry to observe, that the company at this play plant themeslves 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 Hes in hitting her a thump with the heel of the shoe on thut side least capable of making a defence. It was in this manner that my eldest daughter was hemmed in, and thumped about, all blowzed, in spirits, and bawling for fair play, with a voice that might deafen a ballad-singer, when, confusion on confusion! who should enter the room but our two great acquaintances from town, Lady Blarney and Miss CaroUna Wilhelmina 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 en- sue from such a vulgar play of Mr. Flamborough's proposing. We seemed struck to the ground for some time, as if actually petrified with amazement. The two ladies had been at our house to see us, and finding us from home, came after us hither, as they were uneasy to know what accident could have kept us from church the day before. Olivia undertook to be our prolocutor, and deUvered 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 coidd exceed their complais- ance to my daughters ; their professions the last evening were warm, but now they were ardent. They protested a desire of having a more lasting acquaintance. Lady Blarney was particularly at- tached to Olivia; Miss CaroUna Wilhelmina Ame- lia Skeggs (I love to give the whole name) took a greater fancy to her sister. They supported the conversation between themselves, while my daugh- But as every reader, however beggarly himself, is fond of high-lived dialogues, with anecdotes of Lords, Ladies, and Knights of the Garter, I must beg leave to give him the concluding part of the present conversation. "All that I know of the matter," cried Miss Skeggs, "is this, that it may be true, or it may not be true : but this I can assure your ladyship, that the whole rout was in amaze : his lordship turned all manner of colours, my lady fell into a sound, but Sir Tomkyn, drawing his sword, swore he was hers to the last drop of his blood." Well," repUed our peeress, "this I can say, that the dutchess 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 fact, that the next morning my lord duke cried out three times to his valet de chambre, Jernigan, Jer- nigan, 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 lady- ship 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 thirds: 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 stuflf in na- ture ; not a bit of high life among them." Fudge! "Your ladyship should except," says t'other, "your own things in the Lady's Magazine. I hope you'll say there's nothing low-lived there? But I suppose -we are to have no more from that quarter?" Fudge! " Why, my dear," says the lady, "you know my reader and companion has left me, to be married to Captain Roach, and as my poor eyes won't suffer me to write myself, I have been for some time looking out for another. A proper person is no easy matter to find, and to be sure thirty pounds a-year is a small stipend for a well-bred girl of character, that can read, write, and behave in com- pany : as for the chits about town, there is no bear ing them about one." Fudge! GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. " That I know," cried Miss Skeggs, "by expe- rience. For of the three companions I had this '.ast half-year, one of them refused to do plain-work a a hour in a day; another thought twenty- five guineas a-year too small a salary, and I was oblig- ed to send away the third, because I suspected an intrigue with the chaplain. Virtue, my dear La- dy 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 fami- ly. She for a moment studied my looks for appro- bation; and, to own a truth, I was of opinion, that two such places would fit our two daughters ex- actly. Besides, if the 'Squire had any real affec- tion for my eldest daughter, this would be the way to make her every way qualified for her fortune. My wife therefore was resolved that we should not be deprived of such advantages for want of assur- ance, and undertook to harangue for the family- " I hope," cried she, "your ladyships will pardon my present presumption. It is true, we have no right to pretend to such favours : but yet it is natu- ral for me to wish putting my children forward in the world. And I will be bold to say my two girls have had a pretty good education and capacity, at least the country can't show better. They can read, write, and cast accounts; they understand their needle, broadstitch, 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; work upon catgut: my eldst can cut paper, and my youngest has a very pretty man- ner of telling fortunes upon the cards." Fudge! When she had delivered this pretty piece of elo- quence, the two ladies looked at each other a few minutes in silence, with an air of doubt and import- ance. At last Miss Carolina Wilhelmina 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 auch employments : " But a thing of this kind, madam," cried she, addressing my spouse, "re- quires a thorough examination into characters, and a more perfect knowledge of each other. Not, madam," continued she, "that I in the least sus- pect the young ladies' virtue, prudence and discre- tion; but there is a form in these things, madam, there is a form." My wife approved her suspicions very much, ob- serving that she was very apt to be suspicious her- self; but referred her to all the neighbours for a character: but this our peeress decUned as unne- cessary, alleging that her cousin Thornhill's re- commendation would be sufficient ; and upon thu: we rested our petition. CHAPTER XIT. Fortune seems resolveil to humble the family of Wakefield. INIorliricatioiis are often more gainful than real calamities. When we were returned home, the night was dedicated to schemes of future conquest. Debo- rah 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 ob- taining the 'Squire's recommendation: but he had already shown us too many instances of his friend- ship to dou1)t 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 ac- quaintances of taste in town! This I am as- sured 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? Enirc nous, I protest I like my Lady Blarney vastly, so very obliging. However, Miss Carolina Wilhelmina 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," re- turned I, not knowing well what to think of the matter, " Heaven grant they may be both the bet- ter for it this day three months!" This was one of those observations I usually made to impress my wife with an opinion of my sagacity : for if the girls succeeded, then it was a pious wish fulfilled ; but if any thing unfortunate ensued, then it might be looked upon as a prophecy. All this conversa- tion, however, was only preparatory 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 de- fended. However, as I weakened, my antagonist gained strength, till at last it was resolved to part with him. As the fair happened on the following day, I had intentions of going myself; but my wife persuaded THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. me that I had got a cold, and nothing could prevail upon her to permit 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 purchasing. He always stands out and higgles, and actually tires them till he gets a bargain," As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I was willing enough to intrust him with this com- mission ; and the next morning I perceived his sis- ters 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 be- ing 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 grown too short, was much too good to be thrown away. His waistcoat was of gosling green, and his sisters had tied his hair with a broad black riband. We all followed him several paces from the door, bawling after him good luck, good luck, till we could see him no longer. He was scarcely gone, when Mr, Thornhill's butler came to congratulate us upon our good for- tune, 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 mat- ter 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 intend- ed it for wit, my daughters assented with a loud laugh of pleasure. In short, such was her satis- faction at this message, that she actually put her hand in her pocket, and gave the messenger seven- pence 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 ginger- bread each, which my wife undertook to keep for them, and give them by letters at a time. He brought my daughters also a couple of boxes, in which they might keep wafers, snuff" patches, or even money, when they got it. My wife was usuallyfond of a wea- sel-skin purse, as being the most lucky ; but this by the by. We had still a regard for Mr. Burchell, though his late rude behaviour was in some mea- sure displeasing; nor could we now avoid commu- nicating our happiness to him, and asking his ad- vice : 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 observ- ed, that an affair of tliis sort demanded the utmost circumspection. This air of diffidence highly dis pleased my wife. " I never doubted, sir," cried she, " Your readiness to be against my daughters and me. You have more circumspection than is want- ed. However, I fancy when we come to ask ad- vice, we will apply to persons who seem to have made use of it themselves," "Whatever my own conduct may have been, madam," replied he, "is not the present question; though as I have made no use of advice myself, I should in conscience give it to those that will," As I was apprehensive this answer might draw on a repartee, making up by abuse what it wanted in wit, I changed the sub- ject, by seeming to v^^onder what could keep our son so long at the fair, as it was now almost night- fall, " Never mind our son," cried my wife, "de- pend upon it he knows what he is about. I'll war- rant we'll never see him sell his hen of a rainy day. I have seen him buy such bargains as would amaze one. I'll tell you a good story about that, that will make you split your sides with laughing. But as I live, yonder comes Moses, without a horse, and the box at his back." As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating under the deal box, which he had strapped round his shoulders like a pedler. " Welcome, welcome, Moses: well, my boy, what have you brought us from the fair?" " I have brought you myself," cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting the box on the dresser. "Ah, Moses," cried my wife, " that we know ; but where is the horse?" " I have sold him," cried Moses, "for three pounds five shiUings and twopence," "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 no money," cried Moses again. " I have laid it all out in a bargain, and here it is," pulling out a bun- dle from his breast : " here they are ; a gross of green spectacles, with silver rims and shagreen cases." " A gross of green spectacles !" repeated my wife In a faint voice. " And you have parted with th# 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 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 : "1 dare swear they won't sell for above half the money at the rate of broken silver, five shiUings an ounce." "You need be under no uneasiness," cried I, " about selling the rims, for they are not worth sixpence ; for I per- ceive 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, "weh^ve parted with the colt, and have only got a gross of GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. green spectacles, with copper rims and shagreen cases! A murrain take such trumpery. The blockhead has been imposed upon, and should have known his company better." " There, my dear," cried I, " you are wrong, he should not have known * them at all." "Marry, hang the idiot," returned she, " to bring me such stuff; if I had them I would throw them in the fire." " There again you are wrong, my dear," cried I; " for though they be cop- ])er, we will keep them by us, as copper spectacles, you know, are better than nothing." By this time the unfortunate Moses was unde- ceived. He now saw that he had been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing his figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I there- fore asked the circumstance of his deception. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked the fair in search of another. A reverend looking man brought him to a tent, under pretence of having one to sell. "Here," continued Moses, "we met another man, very well dressed, who desired to borrow twenty pounds upon these, saying that he wanted money, and would dispose of them for a third of the value. The first gentleman, who pretended 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 tliey 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 confi- dence to give disagreeable advice. Our family had now made several attempts to be rfine; but some unforeseen disaster dcmoUshed each r-is soon as projected. I endeavoured to take the .(! vantage of every disappointment, to improve their ^ood sense in proportion as they were frustrated in : iiiihition. " You see, my children," cried I, " how iiiille is to be got by attempts to impose upon the world, in coping with our betters. Such as are poor, and will associate with none but the rich, are liated by those they avoid, and despised by those t]wy follow. Unequal combinations are always farther. My wife had scarcely patience to hear me to the end, but railed at the writer with unre- lacter of a family so harmless as ours, too humble ' strained resentment, Olivia was equally scvp'r. 80 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. and Sophia seemed perfectly amazed at his base- ness. As for my part, it appeared to me one of the vilest instances of improvoked ingratitude I had met with ; nor could I account for it in any other man- ner, 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 nuninating upon schemes of vengeance, when our other little boy came run- ning in to tell us that Mr. Burchell was approach- ing at the other end of the field. It is easier to conceive than describe the complicated sensations which are felt from the pain of a recent injury, and the pleasure of approaching vengeance. Though our intentions were only to upbraid him with his ingratitude, yet it was resolved to do it in a man- ner that would be perfectly cutting. For this pur- pose 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 a sense of his own baseness. Tliis being resolved upon, my wife undertook to manage the business herself, as she really had some talents for such an under- taking. We saw him approach ; he entered, drew a chair, and sat down. "A fine day, Mr. Burch- ell." "Avery 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 par- don 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, winking at us ; " and yet I dare say you can tell us how many jokes go to an ounce." "I fancy, ma- dam," returned Burchell, "you have been reading a jest book this morning, that ounce of jokes is so very good a conceit ; and yet, madam, I had rather see half an ounce of understanding." "Ibelieveyou 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." " And no doubt," returned her antagonist, "you have Imown ladies set up for wit that had none." I quickly began to find that my wife was likely to gain but little at this business ; so I re- solved to treat him in a style of more severity my- self. " Both wit and imderstanding," cried I, " are trifles v^rithout integrity ; it is that which gives value to every character. The ignorant peasant without fault, is greater than the philosopher with many ; for what is genius or courage without a heart 7 An honest man is 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 superi- ority. As the reputation of books is raised, not by their freedom from defect, but the greatness of their , beauties ; so should that of men be prized, not for their exemption from fault, but the size of those : virtues they are possessed of. The scholar may I want prudence, the statesman may have pride, and I the champion ferocity ; but shall we prefer to these the low mechanic, who laboriously plods through I life without censure or applause 1 We might as well prefer the tame correct paintings of the Flem- ish 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 vir- tues, 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 thia 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 Uttle vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel, and cow- ardly, 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 detesta- ble 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, returned he, with a face of impenetrable as- surance, " that pocket-book is mine, and I am glad you have found it." " And do you know," cried I, "this letter? Nay, never falter, man; but look me full in the face : I say, do you know this letter?'ia "That letter," returned he: "yes, it was I thar I wrote that letter." "And how could you," said I, " so basely, so ungratefully presume to write this letter?" "And how came you," replied he with looks of unparalleled effrontery, " so basely to presume to break open 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! be- gone, and never let me see thee again ! Go froni my door, and the only punishment I wish thee if THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 81 an alarmed conscience, which will be a sufficient'j tormentor!" So saying, I threw him his pocket- oook, which he took up with a smile, and shutting Ihe clasps with the utmost composure, left us quite astonis^ied 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 1, 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 companions, and in the beginning of their journey, inseparably kept together. But their union was soon found to be disagreeable and in- convenient to both : Guilt gave Shame frequent un- easiness, and Shame often betrayed the secret con- spiracies of Guilt. After long disagreement there- fore, they at length consented to part for ever. Guilt boldly walked forward alone, to overtake Fate, that went before in the shape of an execu- tioner; but Shame being naturally timorous, re- turned back to keep company with Virtue, which in the beginning of their journey they had left behind. Thus, my children, after men have tra- velled through a few stages in vice, shame forsakes them, and returns back to wait upon the few vir- tues they have still remaining." CHAPTER XVI. The family use Art, which is opposed with still greater. Whatever might have been Sophia's sensa- tions, the rest of the family was 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 procuring my daughters the amusements of the town as he designed, he took every opportunity of ^ supplying them with those little recreations which our retirement would admit of. He usually came in the morning, and while my son and I followed our occupations abroad, he sat with the family at home, and amused them by describing the town, with every part of which he was particularly ac- quainted. He could repeat all the observations that were retailed in the atmosphere 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 hopes of having him for a son-in-law, in some measure blinded us to all his imperfections. It must be owned, that mv wife laid a thousand schemes to 6 entrap him; or, to speak more tenderly, used every art to magnify the merit of her daughter. If the cakes at tea ate short and crisp, they were made by Olivia; if the gooseberry-wine v^as 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 iristances 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 arisen to proposals of marriage, yet we thought fell but little short of it ; and his slowness was attributed sometimes to na- tive bashfulness, and sometimes to his fear of offend < ing his uncle. An occurrence, however , which happened soon after, put it beyond a doubt that he designed to become one of our family ; my wife even regarded it as an absolute promise. My wife and daughters happening to return a visit to 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 resolved that we should have our pictures done too. Having, therefore, engaged the limner, for what could I dol 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 de- bates, at length came to an unanimous resolution of being drawn together in one large historical family piece. This would be cheaper, since one frame v'0uld serve for all, and it would be infinitely more genteel; for all families of any taste were now drawn in the same manner. As w'e did not immediately recollect an historical subject to hit us, we were contented each with being drawn as inde- pendent historical figures. My wife desired to be represented as Venus, and the painter was desired not to be too frugal of his diamonds in her stomach- er and hair. Her two httle 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 Whis- tonian controversy. Olivia would be drawn ag 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 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. for nothing; and Moses was to be dressed out with a hat and white feather. Our taste so much pleased the 'Squire, that he insisted as being put in as one of the family in the character of Alexander the Great, at Olivia's feet. This was considered by us all as an indication of his desire to be introduced into the family, nor could we refuse his request. The painter was therefore set to work, and as he wrought with assiduity and expedition, in less than four days the whole was completed. The piece was large, and it must be owned he did not spare his colours ; for which my wife gave him great en- comiums. We were all perfectly satisfied with his performance ; but an unfortunate circumstance had not occurred till the picture was finished, which now struck us with dismay. It was so very large that we had no place in the house to fix it. How we all came to disregard so material a point is inconceivable ; but certain it is, we had been all greatly remiss. The picture, therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we hoped, leaned, in a most mortifying manner, against the kitchen wall, where the canvass was stretched and painted, much too large to be got through any of the doors, and the jest of all our neighbours. One compared it to Robinson Crusoe's long-boat, too large to be removed; another thought it more resembled a reel in a bottle : some wondered how it could be got out, but still more were amazed how it ever got in. But though it excited the ridicule of some, it ef- fectually raised more malicious suggestions in ma- ny. The 'Squire's portrait being found united with ours, was an honour too great to escape envy. Scandalous whispers began to circulate at our ex- pense, and our tranquillity was continually dis- turbed by persons who came as friends to tell us what was said of us by enemies. These reports we always resented with becoming spirit; but scan- dal ever improves by opposition. We once again therefore entered into a consul- tation 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. Thornhill's addresses, my wife undertook to sound him, by pretending to ask his advice in the choice of a husband for her eldest daughter. If this was not found suflTicient to in- duce him to a declaration, it was then resolved to terrify him with a rival. To this last step, how- ever, 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 th way, in order to give their mamma an opportunity of putting her scheme in execution ; but they only retired to the next room, whence they could over- hear the whole conversation. My wife artfully in- troduced it, by observing, that one of the Miss Flamboroughs was like to have a very good match of it in Mr. Spanker. To this the 'Squire assent- ing, she proceeded to remark, that they who had warm fortunes were always sure of getting good husbands : " But heaven help," continued she, " the girls that have none. What signifies beauty, Mr. Thornhiin or what signifies all the virtue, 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." " Madam," returned he, "I highly approve the justice, as well as the novelty of your remarks, and if I were a king, it should be otherwise. It should then, indeed, be fine times with the girls without fortunes : our two young ladies should be the first for whom I would provide." "Ah, sir," returned my wife, " you are pleased to be facetious: but I wish I were a queen, and then I know where my eldest daughter should look for a husband. But, now that you have put it into my head, seriously, Mr. Thornhill, can't you re- commend me a proper husband for her? she is now nineteen years old, well grown and well educated, and, in my humble opinion, does not want for parts." " Madam," replied he, " if I were to choose, I would find out a person possessed of every accom- plishment that can make an angel happy. One with prudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity; such, madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper hus- band." " Ay, sir," said she, " but do you know of any such person?" "No, madam," returned he, " it is impossible to know any person that de- serves to be her husband : she's too great a treaMiie for one man's possession; she's a goddess! Upon my soulj I speak what I think, she's an angel." "Ah, IVIr. Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl : but we have been thinking of marrying her to one of your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and who wants a manager : you know whom I mean, Farmer Williams; a warm man, Mr. Thorn- hill, able to give her good bread ; and who has se- veral times made her proposals (which was actually the case): but, sir," concluded she, "I should be glad to have your approbation of our choice." "How! madam," replied he, "my approbation! My approbation of such a choice! Never. What ! sacrifice so much beauty, and sense, and goodness, to a creature insensible of the blessing! Excuse me, I can never approve of such a piece of injustice! And I have my reasons." "Indeed, sir," cried Deborah, "if you have your reasons, that's ano- ther affair; but I should l>e glad to know those THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 83 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 thege fine senti- ments. Olivia considered them as instances of the most exalted passion; but I was not quite so san- guine: it seemed to me pretty plain, that they had more of love than matrimony in them : yet, what- ever 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 tlie power of long and pleasing Temptation. As I only studied my child's real happiness, the assiduity of Mr. Williams pleased me, as he was in easy circumstances, prudent, and sincere. It required but very little encouragement to revive his former passion ; so that in an evening or two he and Mr. Thornliill met at our house, and surveyed each other for some time with looks of anger; but Wil- liams owed his landlord no rent, and little regarded his indignation. Olivia, on her side, acted the co- quette to perfection, if that might be called acting which was her real character, pretending to lavish all her tenderness on her new lover. Mr. Thorn- hill appeared quite dejected at this preference, and with a pensive air took leave, though I own it puz- zled me to find him so much in pain as he appeared to be, when he had it in his power so easily to re- move the cause, by declaring an honourable pas- sion. But whatever uneasiness he seemed to en- dure, it could easily be perceived that Olivia's an guish was still greater. After any of these inter views between her lovers, of which there were se veral, she usually retired to solitude, and there in . dulged 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 per mits 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 de- lay : I know he has. The sincerity of his looks and words convinces me of his real esteem. A short time, I hope, will discover the generosity of his sentiments, and convince you that my opinion of him has been more just than yours." " Olivia, my darling," returned I, "every scheme that has been hitherto pursued to compel him to a declara tion, has been proposed and planned by yourself nor can you in the least say that I have constrained you. But you must not suppose, my dear, that I will ever be instrumental in suffering his honest rival to be the dupe of your ill-placed passion. Whatever time you require to bring your fancied admirer to an explanation, shall be granted ; but at the expiration of that term, if he is still regardless, I must 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 as distant as you think proper; and in the meantime, take care to let Mr. Thornliill 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 opportunity, in Mr. Thornhill's presence, that day month was fixed upon for her nuptials with his rival. Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr. Thornhill's anxiety: but what Olivia really felt gave me some uneasiness. In this struggle between prudence and passion, her vivacity quite forsook her, and every opportunity of solitude was sought and spent in tears. One week passed away ; but Mr. Thornhill made no efforts to restrain her nuptials. The succeeding week he was still assi- duous; but not more open. On the third he dis- continued his visits entirely, and instead of my daughter testifying any impatience, as I expected, she seemed to 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 a continuance of competence and peace, and frequently applauded her resolution, in preferring happiness to ostenta- tion. It was within about four days of her intended nuptials, that my little family at night were gather- ed round a charming lire, telling stories of the p;jst, and laying schemes for the future; busied in form- ing a thousand projects, and laughing at whatever folly came uppermost. " Well, Moses," cried I, " we shall soon, my boy, have a wedding in the family ; what is your opinion of matters and things in general?" "My opinion, father, is, that all things go on very well; and 1 was just now think- ing, 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 har. taught that song to our Dick," cried Mo- 84 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. scs, "and I think he goes through it very prettily." "Does he so?" cried I, "then let us have it: Where's little Dick'? let him up with it boldly." " My brother Dick," cried Bill, my youngest, " is just gone out with sister Livy ; but Mr. WiUiams has taught me two songs, and I'll sing them for you, papa. Which song do you choose. The dying Sican^ 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 goose- berry-wine, to keep up our spirits, I have wept so much at all sorts of elegies of late, that, without an enlivening glass, I am sure this will overcome me; and Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrum in with the boy a little." AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH Of A MAD DOG. Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song. And if you find it wondrous short, It can not hold you long. In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran, Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began. The dog, to gain some private ends. Went mad, and bit the man, Around from all the neighbouring streets, The wondering neighbours ran. And swore the dog had lost his wits. To bite so good a man. The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That show'd the rogues they lied, The man recover' d of the bite, The dog it was that died. ^' 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," cried my wife; " and if he but preaches as well as lie 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 say- ing in our country, that the family of the Blenkin- sops 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 Marjorums but could tell a story." "However that be," cried I, " the most vulgar ballad of them 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 lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs home to versify the disaster," "That may be the mode," cried Moses, "iii sublimer compositions; 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 nose- gay; and then they go together to church, 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 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 siip- phed 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 Span- ish market is open once a-year; but our EngUsh wives are saleable every night." "You are right, my boy," cried his mother; " Old England is the only place in the world for husbands to get wives." " And for wives to man- age their husbands," interrupted I. " It is a pro- verb abroad, that if a bridge were built across the sea, all the ladies of the continent would come over to take pattern from om's; 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 happier now than the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such fire-side, nor such pleasant faces about it. Yes, Debc.~jh, we are now growing old ; but the evening of our life is Ukely to be happy. We are descend- ed from ancestors that knew no stain, and we shall leave a good and virtuous race of children behind us. While we live, they vdll be our support and our pleasure here; and when we die, they will transmit THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 65 our honour untainted to posterity. Come, my son, we wait for a song : let us have a chorus. But where is my darUng OUvia? That Uttle 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 forever." "Gone, child!" " Yes, she is gone off with two gentlemen in apost- 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, O what will my poor papa do when he knows I am undone !" "Now then," cried I, "ray children, go and be miserable ; for we shall never enjoy one hour more. And O may Heaven's everlasting fury light upon him and his ! Thus to rob me of my child ! And sure it will, for taking back my sweet innocent that I was leading up to Heaven. Such sincerity as my child was possessed of! But all our earthly happiness is now over ! Go, my children, go and be miserable and infamous ; for my heart is broken 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, caught me in her arms. " My dearest, dearest husband," cried she, "the Bible is the only weapon that is fit for your old hands now. Open that, my love, and read our anguish into patience, for she has vilely deceived us." " Indeed, sir," re- sumed my son, after a pause, " your rage is too vio- lent and unbecoming. You should be my mother's comforter, and you increase her pain. It ill suited you and your reverend character, tlius to curse your greatest enemy : you should not have cursed him, villain as he is," " I did not curse him, child, did 17" "Indeed, sir, you did; 3'ou cursed him twice," " Then may Heaven forgive me and liim 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 hath given, and for all that he hath taken away. But it is not it is not a small dis- tress that can wring tears from these old eyes, that have not wept for so many years. My child ! To undo my darUng! May confusion seize Heaven forgive me, what am I about to say ! You may remember, my love, how good she v^as, and how charming ; till this vile moment, all her care was to make us happy. Had she but died ! But she is gone, the honour of our family contaminated, and I must look out for happiness in other worlds than here. But, my child, you saw them go off: perhaps he forced her away? If he forced her, she may yet be innocent." " Ah no, sir," cried the child ; " he only kissed her, and called her his angel, and she wept very much, and leaned upon his arm, and they drove off very fast," " She's an ungrateful creature," cried my wife, who could scarcely speak for weeping, "to use us thus. She never had the least constraint put upon her affec- tions. The vile strumpet has basely deserted her parents without any provocation thus to bring your gray hairs to the grave, and I must shortly follow," In this manner that night, the first of our real misfortunes, was spent in the bitterness of com- plaint, 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 breakfast, where she used to give life and cheerful- ness to us all. My wife, as before, attempted to ease her heart by reproaches, " Never," cried she, "shall that vilest stain of our family again darken these harmless doors, I will never call her daugh- ter 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 1, "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 tlie first time the very best may err ; art may persuade, and novelty spread out its charm. The first fault is the child of sim- plicity, but every other the offspring of guilt. Yes, the wretched creature shall be welcome to this heart and this house, though stained with ten thousand vices. I will again hearken to the music of her voice, again will I hang fondly on her bosom, if I find but repentance there. My son, bring hither my Bible and my staff: I will pursue her, wherever she is ; and though I can not save her from shame, I may prevent the continuance of iniquity," CHAPTER XVIII. Tlie Pursuit of a Father to reclaim a lost Cliild to Virtue. Though 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 wffe but too well known. I therefore directed my steps towards Thornhill-castlc, 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, whom, by the description, I could only l?6 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 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, j.nd though it was yet early, insisted upon seeing him immediately. He soon appeared with the most open familiar air, and seemed perfectly ama- zed at my daughter's elopement, protesting upon his honour that he was quite a stranger to it. I now therefore condemned my former suspicions, and could turn them only on Mr. Burchell, who I recollected had of late several private conferences with her : but the appearance of another witness left me no room to doubt his \illany, 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 v^^e are more ready to act precipitately than to reason right, I never debated with myself, whether these accounts might not have been given by persons purposely placed in my way to mislead me, but resolved to pursue my daughter and her fancied deluder thither. I walked along with earnestness, and inquired of several by the wa)'-; but received no accounts, till, entering the town, I was met by a person on horseback, whom I remembered to have seen at the 'Squire's, and he assured me, that if I followed them to the races, which were but thirty miles farther, I might depend upon overtaking them ; for he had seen them dance there the night before, and the whole assembly seemed charmed with my daughter's performance. Eayly 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 ap- pearance, all earnestly employed in one pursuit, that of pleasure : how different from mine, that of reclaiming a lost child to virtue ! I thought 1 per- ceived Mr. Burchell at some distance from me ; but, as if he dreaded an interview, upon my approach- ing him, he mixed among a crowd, and 1 saw him no more. I now reflected tliat it would be to no purpose to continue my pursuit farther, and resolved to return home to an innocent family, who wanted my assistance. But the agitations of my mind, and the fatigues I had undergone, threw me into a fever, the sjrmptoms of which I perceived before I came off the course. T his was another unexpected stroke, as I was more than seventy miles distant from home : however, I retired to a little ale-house by the road-side, and in this place, the usual retreat of indigence and frugality, 1 laid me down patiently to wait the issue of my disorder. I languished here for nearly three weeks ; but at last my constitution prevailed, though I was unprovided with money to defray the expenses of my entertainment. It is possible the anxiety from this last circumstance alone might have brought on a relapse, had I not been supplied by a traveller, who stopped to take a cursory refreshment. This person was no other than the philanthropic bookseller in St. Pkol's Church-yard, who has written so many little books for children : he called himself their friend ; but he was the friend of all mankind. He was no sooner alighted, but he was in haste to be gone ; for he was ever on business of the utmost importance, and was at that time actually compiling materials for the history of one Mr. Thomas Trip. I immedi- ately recollected this good-natured man's red pim- pled face ; for he had published for me against the Deuterogamists of the age, and from him I bor- rowed 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 re- stored, and I now condemned that pride which had made me refractory to the hand of correction. Man little knows what calamities are beyond his patience to bear, till he tries them : as in ascending the heights of ambition, which look bright from below, every step we rise shows us some new and gloomy prospect of hidden 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 ovim 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 wagon, which I was resolved to overtake ; but when t 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 vil- lage, 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 pla3^er ; and as I once had some theatrical powers myself, I disserted on such topics with my usual freedom : but as I was pretty much unacquainted with the present state of the stage, I demanded who were the present theatrical writers in vogue, who the Drydens and Otways of the day? " I fancy, sir," cried the player, " few of our modern dra- matists would think themselves much honoured by being compared to the writers you mention. Dry- den's and Rowe's manner, sir, are quite out of fashion ; our taste has gone back a whole century j Fletcher, Ben Jonson, and all the plays of Shaks- peare, 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 com- panion, " the public think nothing about dialect, or THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 87 tkumour, or character, for that is none of their bu- siness ; they only go to be amused, and find them- selves happy when they can enjoy a pantomime, under the sanction of Jonson's or Shakspeare's name." " So then, I suppose," cried I, "that our modern dramatists are rather imitators of Shaks- peare than of nature." " To say the truth," re- turned my companion, " I don't know that they imitate any thing at all ; nor indeed does the pub- lic require it of them : it is not the composition of the piece, but the number of starts and attitudes that may be introduced into it, that elicits applause, I have known a piece, with not one jest in the whole, shrugged into popularity, and another saved by the poet's throwing in a fit of the gripes. No, sir, the works of Congreve and Farquhar have too much wit in them for the present taste ; our modern dialect is much more natural." By this time the equipage of the strolling com- pany was arrived at the village, which, it seems, had been apprized of our approach, and was come out to gaze at us : for my comj^anion observed, that strollers always have more spectators without doors than within. I did not consider the impropriety of my lieing in such company, till I saw a mob gather about me. I therefore took shelter, as fast as pos- sible, in the first ale-house that offered, and being shown into the common room^ was accosted by a very well dressed gentleman, who demanded whe- ther I was the real chaplain of the company, or whether it was only to be my masquerade charac- ter 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 poUtics with great earnestness and interest. I set him down in my own mind for nothing less than a parliament-man at least ; but was almost confirmed in my conjec- tures, 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 re- quest, after some entreaties, we were prevailed on to comply. CHAPTER XIX. The description of a Person discontented with the present Government and apprehensive of the loss of our Liberties. The house where we were to be entertained lying at a small distance from the village, our in- viter 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 Ihe player with a wink, observed that we were perfectly in luck. Our entertainer soon return- ed; an elegant supper was brought in, two or three ladies in easy dishabille were introduced, and the conversation began with some sprightli- ness. Politics, 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, 1 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 sev- enteen Magazines, and the two Reviews; and though they hate each other, I love them all. Lib- erty, 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 reve- rence 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. 1 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 wil- ling 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 con- stitution, that sacred power which has for some years been every day declining, and losing its due share of influence in the state. But these igno- rants still continue the same cry of liberty ; and if they hiive any weight, basely throw it into the sub- siding 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?" " 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 privilege of Britons? Can any, sir, be so abject?" " No, sir," replied I, " I am for liberty, that at-, tribute of God! Glorious liberty! that theme of modern declamation. I would have all men kings. I would be a king myself. We have all naturally an equal right to the throne : we are all originally equal. This is my opinion, and was once the opinion of a set of honest men who were called Levellers. They tried to erect themselves into a community where all would 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 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 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 en- tailed 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 iace of a tyrant, the farther off he is removed from me, the better pleased am I. The generality of man- kind also are of my way of thinking, and have unanimously created one king, vi'hose election at once diminishes the number of tyrants, and puts tyranny at the greatest distance from the greatest number of people. Now the great who were ty- rants 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 ty- rant, by which they resume their primeval authori- ty. Now the state may be so circumstanced, or its laws may be so disposed, or its men of opulence so minded, as all to conspire in can-ying on this business of undermining monarchy. For in the first place, if the circumstances of our state be such as to favour the accumulation of wealth, and make the opulent still more rich, this will increase their ambition. An accumulation of wealth, however, must necessarily be the consequence, when as at present, more riches flow in from external com- merce, than arise from internal industry; for ex ternal commerce can only be managed to ad- vantage 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 this country may contribute to the ac- cumulation 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 learned are held unqualified to serve their country as counsel- lors, 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 ac- cumulated wealth, when furnished with the neces- saricB and pleasures of life, has no other method to employ the superfluity of his fortune but in pur- chasing power. That is, differently speaking, in making dependants, by purchasing the liberty of the needy or the venal, of men who are willing tc 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 lib- erty except the name. But there must still be a largo 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 tyraii- ny themselves. In this middle order of mankind are generally to be found all the arts, wisdom, and virtues of society. This order alone is known to be the true preserver of freedom, and may be called the people. Now it' may happen that this middle order of mankind may lose all its influence in a state, and its voice be in a manner drowned in that of the rabble : for if the fortune sufficient for qualifying a person at present to give his voice in state affairs be ten times less than was judged suf- ficient upon forming the constitution, it is evident that greater numbers of the rabble will be thus in- troduced 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 go- vernor with the most sacred circmnspection. Foi he divides the power of the rich, and calls off the great from falling with tenfold weight on the mid- dle 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 se^n by turning our eyes to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, where the laws govern the poor, and the rich govern the law. I am then for, and would die for monarchy, sacred monarchy ; for if there be any thing sacred amongst men, it must be the anointed Sovereign of his people; and every diminution of his power in war, or in peace, is an infringement upon the real liberties of the subject. The sounds of liberty, patriotism, and Britons, have already done much ; it is to be hoped that the true sons of freedom will prevent their ever doi*jj THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 89 more. I have known many of those pretended champions for liberty in my time, yet do I not re- member one that was not in his heart and in his family a tyrant." My warmth I found had lengthened this ha- rangue beyond the rules of goood 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 1 had spoken. "Pardon!" returned he in a fury: " I think such principles demand ten thousand pardons. What? give up liberty, pro- perty, and, the Gazetteer says, lie down to be sad- dled 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 go- ing to repeat my remonstrances; butjustthen we heard a footman's rap at the door, and the two ladies cried out, " As sure as death there is our master and mistress come home." It seems my entertainer was all this while only the butler, who, in his master's absence, had a mind to cut a figure, and be for a while the gentleman himself : and, to say the truth, he talked politics as well as most country gentlemen do. But nothing could now ex- ceed my confusion upon seeing the gentleman and his lady enter ; nor was their surprise at finding such company and good cheer less than ours. "Gentlemen," cried the real master of the house to me and my companion," my wife and I are your most humble servants; but I protest this is so unexpected a favour, that we almost sink under the obligation." However unexpected our company might be to them, theirs, I am sure, was still more so to us, and I was struck dumb with the apprehensions of my own absurdity, when whom should I next see enter the room but my dear Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was formerly de- signed 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 ut- most 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 rap- tures when they find they have the good Dr. Prim- rose for their guest." Upon hearing my name, the old gentleman and lady very politely stepped up, and welcomed me with the most cordial hospi- tality. Nor could they forbear smiling, upon being informed of the nature of my present visit ; but the unfortunate butler, whom they at first seemed dis- posed to turn away, was at my intercession for- given. Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house be- longed, 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 fonned under my ov/n instructions, 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 garden, which was decorated in the mo- dern manner. After some time spent in pointing out the beauties of the place, she inquired, with seeming unconcern, when last I had heard from my son George? "Alas, madam," cried I, "he has now been nearly three years absent, without ever writing to his friends or me. Where he is I know not ; perhaps I shall never see him or happiness more. No, my dear madam, we shall never more see such pleasing hours as were once spent by our fire -side at Wakefield. My little family are now dispersing very fast, and poverty has brought not only want, but infamy upon us." The good-na- tured girl let fall a tear at this account; but as I saw her possessed of too much sensibility, I fore- bore a more minute detail of our sufferings. It was, however, some consolation to me, to find that time had made no alteration in her affections, and that she had rejected several offers that had been made her since our leaving her part of the country. She led me round all the extensive improvements of the place, pointing to the several walks and ar- bours, 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 in to dinner, where we found the manager of the strolling company that I men- tioned before, who was come to dispose of tickets for the Fair Penitent, which was to be acted that evening, the part of Horatio by a young gentle- man who had never appeared on any stage. He seemed to be very warm in the praises of the new performer, and averred that he never saw any who bid so 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 curiosi- ty, and, at the entreaty of the ladies, I was prevailed upon to accompany them to the play-house, which was no other than a barn. As the company with which I went was incontestably the chief of the place, we were received with the greatest respect, and placed in the front seat of the theatre ; where we sat for some time with no small impatience to see Horatio make his appearance. The new per- brmer advanced at last; and let parents think of my sensations by their own, when I found it was my unfortunate son. He was going to begin, when, turning his eyes upon the audience, he per- ceived Miss Wilmot and me, and stood at once speechless and immovable. The actors behind the 90 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. scene, who ascribed this cause to his natural timidi ty, attempted to encourage him ; but instead of go- ing on, he burst into a flood of tears, and retired off the stage. I don't know what were my feelings on this occasion, for they 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 got home Mr. Arnold, who was as yet a stranger to Our extra- ordinary behaviour, being informed that the new performer was my son, sent his coach and an in- vitation for him: and as he persisted in his refusal to appear again upon the stage, the players put an- other in his place, and we soon had him with us, Mr. Arnold gave him the kindest reception, and I received him with my usual transport ; for I could never counterfeit false resentment. Miss Wilmot's reception was mixed with seeming neglect, and yet I could perceive she acted a studied part. The tumult in her mind seemed not yet abated : she said twenty giddy things that looked like joy, and then laughed loud at her own want of meaning. At intervals she would take a sly peep at the glass, as if happy in the consciousness of irresistible beauty, and often would ask questions without giv- ing any manner of attention to the answers. CHAPTER XX. The History of a Philosophic Vagabond, pursuing Novelt)-, but losing Content. After we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely of- fered 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 that 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 travel- ling after fortune is not the way to secure her; and, indeed, of late I have desisted from the pursuit." " I fancy, sir," cried Mrs. Arnold, " tfiat the ac- count 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 yet in the whole narrative I can scarcely promise you one adventure, as my ac- count 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 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 caroled 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 oui cousin, who was himself in little better circum- stances than I. My first scheme, you know, sir, was to be usher at an academy, and I asked his ad- vice on the aflfair. Our cousin received the propo- sal 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 at a boarding- school myself; and may I die by an anodyne neck- lace, but I had rather be an under-turnkey in New- gate. 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 ycu a little. Have you been bred apprentice to the busi- ness? No. Then you won't do for a school. Can you dress the boys' hair? No. Then you won't do for a school. Have you had the SEjall-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, 1 see you are a lad of spirit and some learning, what do you think of commencing author, like me? You have read in books, no doubt, of men of genius starving at the trade^ At present I'll show you forty very dull fellows about town that live by it in opulence; all honest jog-trot men, who go on smoothly and dully, and write his- tory 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 gen- tility affixed to the character of an usher, I re- solved to accept his proposal; and having the high- est respect for literature, hailed the antiqua mater of Grub-street with reverence. I thqjight 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 intercourse with the world might give us good sense, the poverty she entailed I supposed to be the nurse of genius! Big with these reflections, I sat down, and finding that the best things remained to be said on the wrong side, I resolved to write a hobk THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 91 that should le wholly new. I therefore 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 porcu- pine, I sat self-collected, with a quill pointed against every opposer." " Well said, my boy," cried I, " and what sub- ject did you treat upon? I hope you did not pass over the importance of monogamy. But I inter- rupt; go on: you published your paradoxes; well, and what did the learned world say to your para- doxes?" " 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 condemning his enemies : and unfortunately, as I had neither, I suffered the crudest 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 to the world of Propertius with notes. This demand necessarily produced a reply that I had no money; and that concession led him to in- quire 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 sub- sisted very comfortably for twelve years. The mo- ment a nobleman returns from his travels, a Creo- lian arrives from Jamaica, or a dowager from her country seat, I strike for a subscription. I first be- siege 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 have that, I smite them once more for engraving their coat of arms at the top- Thus, continued he, I live by vanity, and laugh at it. But between ourselves, I am now too well known: I should be glad to borrow your face a bit: a no"bleman 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 Suc- ceed, and we divide the spoil." " Bless us, George," cried I, " and is this the em- ployment of poets now! Do men of their exalted talents thus stoop to beggary! Can they so far dis- grace their calling as to make a vile traffic of praise for bread?" *' O no, sir," returned he, " a true poet can never be so base ; for wherever there is genius, there ia pride. The creatures I now describe are only beg- gars in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves every hardship for fame, so he is equally a coward to con- tempt ; and none but those who are unworthy pro- tection, condescend to solicit it. " Having a mind too proud to stoop to such in- dignities, and yet a fortune too hmnble 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 ensure 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 advantageously employed in the diffusive pro- ductions of fruitful mediocrity. My little piece would therefore come forth in the midst of periodi- cal publications, unnoticed and unknown. The public were more importantly employed than to observe the easy simplicity of my style, or the har- mony of my periods. Sheet after sheet was thrown off to oblivion. My essays were buried among the essays upon liberty, eastern tales, and cures for the bite of a mad dog; while Philautos, Fhilalethes, Philelutheros and Philanthropes all v^rrote bettei; because they wrote faster than I. " Now, therefore, I began to associate with none bui disappointed authors, like myself, who praised, deplored, and despised each other. The satisfac- tion we found in every celebrated writer's attempts, was inversely as their merits. I found that no ge- nius in another could please me. My unfortunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of com- fort. I could neither read nor write with satisfac- tion; for excellence in another was my aversion, and writing was my trade. " In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was one day sitting on a bench in St. James's park, a young gentleman of distinction, who had been my intimate acquaintance at the university, ap- proached 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 van- ished ; for Ned Thornhill was at the bottom a very good-natured fellow." " What did you say, George?" interrupted I. " Thornhill, was not that his name? It can cer- tainly 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 alter my appearance by a very fine suit of 93 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. his own clothes, and then I was admitted to his ta- ble, upon tlie footing of half-friend, half-imderlinrr. My business was to attend him at auetions, to put him in spirits v/hen he sat for his pictv^re, to take the left hand in his chariot when not filled by ano- ther, and to assist at tattering a kip, as the phrase was, when we 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 corkscrew ; to stand godfather to all the butler's children; to sing when I was bid; to be never out of humour; always to be humble; and, if I could, to be very happy. " In this honourable post, however, I was not without a rival. A captain of marines, who was formed for the place by nature, opposed me in my patron's affections. His mother had been 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 w^as dismissed from several for his stupidity, yet he found many of them who were as dull as himself, that permitted his assiduities. As llattery 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 fair- ly 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 with my conduct, 3^et it was a debt indispensably due to friendship I could not refuse. I undertook the afiliir, dis- armed my antagonist, and soon after had the plea- 6ure 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 me- '-'" thod of serving me, but by recommending me to his uncle Sir William Thornhill, and another nobleman of great distinction who enjoyed a post under the government. When he was gone, my first care was to carry his recommendatory let- ter 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 domestic ever transmit their mas- ter's benevolence. Being shown into a grand apart- ment, where Sir WiUiam soon came to me, I de- livered 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 sup- pose, sir, I guess your merits: you have fought for him; and so you would expect a reward ftom me for being the instrument of his vices. I wish, sin cerely 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, be- cause I knew it was just. My whole expectations now, therefore, lay in my letter to the great man. As the doors of the nobility are almost ever beset with beggars, all ready to thrust in some sly petition, I foujid it no easy matter to gain admittance. How- ever, after bribing the servants with half my world- ly fortune, I was at last shown into a spacious apartment, my letter being previously sent up for his lordship's inspection. During this anxious in- terval I had full time to look round me. Every thing was grand and of happy contrivance; the paintings, the furniture, the gildings petrified me with awe, and raised my idea of the owner. Ah, thought I to myself, how very great must the pos- sessor of all these things be, who carries in liis head the business of the state, and whose house displays half the w^ealth of a kingdom: sure his genius must be unfathomable! During these aw- ful reflections, I heard a step come heavily forward. Ah, this is the great man himself^ No, it was only a chambennaid. Another foot \vis heard soon af- ter. This must be he! No, it was only the great man's valet de chairibre. At last his lordship ac- tually 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 further notice, he went out of the room, and left me to digest my own hap- piness 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 U3, 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 an- swer, half of which only I 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 glo- rious sounds, till looking round me, I found myself alone at his lordship's gate. " My patience," continued my son, " was now quite exhausted : stung with the thousand indigni- ties 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 na- ture designed should be thrown by into her lumber- room, there to perish in obscurity. I had still, how- ever, half a guinea left, and of that I thought ior- tune herself should not deprive me; but in order to THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 93 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 resolu- tion it happened that Mr. Crispe's office seemed in- vitingly open to give me a welcome reception. In this office, Mr. Crispe kindly offers all his majesty's subjects a generous promise of 30Z. a year, for which promise all they give in return is their liber- ty for life, and permission to let him transport them to America as slaves. I was happy at finding a 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 impa- tience. 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 appro nation, and indeed he was the first man who for a month past had talked to me with smiles. After a few_ questions he found I was fit for every thing in the world. He paus- ed a while upon the properest means of providing for me, and slapping his forehead as if he had found it, assured me, tha^there was at that time an embas- sy talked of from the synod of Pennsylvania to the Chickasaw Indians, and that he would use his in- terest to get me made secretary. I knew in my own heart that the fellow lied, and yet his promise wave me pleasure, there was something so magni- ficent in the sound. I fairly therefore divided my iialf-guinea, one half of which went to be added to lis thirty thousand pounds, and with the other lalf I resolved to go to the next tavern, to be there nore happy than he. " As I was going out with that resolution, I was net at the door by the captain of a ship, with whom ' had formerly some little acquaintance, and he igreed to be my companion over a bowl of punch. \s I never chose to make a secret of my circum- tances, he assured me that I was upon the very loint of ruin, in listening to the office-keeper's pro- lises; for that he only designed to sell me to the lantations. But, continued he, I fancy you might, y a much shorter voyage, be very easily put into a enteel way of bread. Take my advice. My ship lils to-morrow for Amsterdam. What if you i in her as a passenger? The moment you land, II you have to do is to teach the Dutchmen En- lish, and I'll warrant you'll get pupils and money lough. I suppose you understand English, add- 1 he, by this time, or the deuce is in it. I confi- l 3ntly assured him of that; but expressed a doubt ' hether the Dutch would be wiUing to learn En- ish. He affirmed with an oath that they were nd of it to distraction ; and upon that affirmation agreed with his proposal, and embarked the next day to teach the Dutch English in Holland. The wind was fair, our voyage short, and after having paid my passage with half my moveables, I found myself, fallen as from the skies, a stranger in one of the principal streets of Amsterdam. In this situation I was unwilling to let any time pass un- employed in teaching. I addressed myself there- fore to two or three of those I met, whose a})pear- ance seemed most promising; but it was impossible to make ourselves mutually understood. It was not till this very moment I recollected, that in or- der to teach the Dutchmen English, it was neces- sary that they should first teach me Dutch. How I came to overlook so obvious an objection is to me amazing ; but certain it is I overlooked it. "This scheme thus blown up, T had some thoughts of fairly shipping back to England agam; but falling into company with an Irish student who was returning from Louvain, our subject 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 upon 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 JEsop and his basket of bread ; for I paid them for my lodgings to the Dutch as I travelled on. When I came to Louvain, I was resolved not to go sneak- ing to the lower professors, but openly tendered my talents to the principal himself. I went, had ad- mittance, 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 seem- ed at first to doubt of my abilities; but of these 1 offered to convince him by turning a part of any Greek author he should fix upon into Latin. Find- ing me peifectly earnest in my proposal, he ad- dressed me thus : You see me, young man; I never learned Greek and I don't find that I have ever missed it. I have had a doctor's cap and gown without Greek; I have ten thousand florins a-year without Greek ; I eat heartily without Greek; and in short, continued he, as 1 don't know Greek, I do not beheve there is any good in it. "I was now too far frbm home to think of re- turning; so I resolved to go forward. I had some knowledge of music, with a tolerable voice, and now turned what was my amusement into a present means of subsistence. I passed among the harm- less 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 91 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. towards nightfall, I played one of my most merry tunes and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the next day. I once or twice attempted to play for people of fashion ; but they always thought my performance odious, and never rewarded me even with a trifle. This was to me the more extraordinary, as whenever I used in bet- ter days to play for company, when playing was my amusement, my music never failed to throw them into raptures, and the ladies especially ; but as it was now my only means, it was received with con- tempt a proof how ready the world is to underrate those talents by which a man is supported. "In this manner 1 proceeded to Paris, with no design but just to look about me, and then to go forward. Tto people of Paris are much fonder of strangers that have money than of those that have wit. As I could not boast much of either, I was no great favourite. After walking about the town four or five days and seeing the outsides of the best houses, I was preparing to leave this retreat of ve- nal hospitality, when passing through one of the principal streets, whom should I meet but our cou- sin, to whom you first recommended me. This meeting was very agreeable to me, and I believe not displeasing to him. He inquired into the na- ture of my journey to Paris, and informed me of his own business there, which was to collect pic tures, 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 sur- prised at seeing our cousin pitched upon for this office, as he himself had often assured me he knew nothing of the matter. Upon asking how he had been taught the art of a cognoscente so very sudden- ly, he assured me that nothing was more easy. The whole secret consisted in a strict adherence to two rules; the one, always to observe the picture might have been better if the painter had taken more pains; and the other, to praise the works of Pietro Perugino. But, says he, as I once taught you how to be an author in London, I'll now undertake to instruct you in the art of picture-buying at Paris. " With this proposal I very readily closed, as it was living, and now all my ambition was to live, 1 went therefore to his lodgings, improved my dress by his assistance, and after some time accompanied him to auctions of pictures, where the English gen- try were expected to be purchasers. I was not a little surprised at his intimacy with people of the best fashion, who referred themselves to his judg- ment upon every picture or medal, as to an uner- ring standard of taste. He made very good use of my assistance upon these occasions ; for when asked his opinion, he would gravely talie me aside and ask mine, shrug, look w^se, return, and assure the com- pany that he could give no opinion upon an affair of so much importance. Yet there was sometimes member to have seen him, after giving his opinion that the colouring of a picture was not mellow enough, very deUberately take a brush with brown varnish, that was accidentally lying by, and rub it over the piece with great composure before all the company, and then ask if he had not improved the tints. "When he had finished his commission in Parii^ 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 gentleman's gover- nor, but with a proviso that he should always be permitted to govern himself. My pupil in fact understood the art of guiding in money concerns much better than I. He was heir to a fortune of about two hundred thousand pounds, left him by an uncle in the West Indies ; and his guardians, to qualify him for the management of it, had bound him apprentice to an attorney. Thus avarice was his prevailing passion ; all his questions on the road were, how money might be saved ; which was the least expensive course to travel ; whether any thing could be bought that would turn to account when disposed of again in London 7 Such curio- sities 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. H never paid a bill that he would not observe ho\ amazingly expensive travelling was, and all thii though he was not yet twenty-one. When arrivet at Leghorn, as we took a walk to look at the poi and shipping, he inquired the expense of the sage by sea home to England. This he was in formed was but a trifle compared to his returnin by land; he was therefore unable to withstand tl temptation ; so paying me the small part of my sala ry that was due, he took leave, and embarked wit only one attendant for London. " I now therefore was left once more upon tl world at large ; but then it was a thing I was use to. However, my skill in music could avail nothing in a country where every peasant was^ better musician than I ; but by this time I had ac quired another talent which answered my purposi 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 cham- pion opposes with any dexterity, he can claim a gratuity in money, a dinner, and a bed for one night. In this manner, therefore, I fought my way towards England, walked along from city to city, examined mankind more nearly, and, if I may so express it, saw both sides of the picture. My re- an occasion for a more supported assurance. I re- marks, however, are but few ; I found that monarchy THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 95 was the best government for the poor to live in, and commonvvrealths 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 him- self, 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 volun- teer 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, apprized me of the importance of the task at which I aimed ; that the public was a many-headed mon- ster, and that only such as had very good heads could please it ; 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 difl[iculty 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 pre- sence of the present company has happily hindered me from acting." CHAPTER XXI. tThe short continuance of Friendship amongst the Vicious, which is coeval only with mutual Satisfaction. j My son's account was too long to be delivered I at once ; the first part of it was begun that night, j and he was concluding the rest after dinner the aext day, when the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's squipage 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 I whisper, that the 'Squire had already made some )vertures to Miss Wilmot, and that her aunt and I mcle seemed highly to approve the match. Upon Mr. Thornhill's entering, he seemed, at seeing my ] ;on and me, to start back ; but I readily imputed hat to surprise, and not displeasure. However, ipon our advancing to salute him, he returned our ;reetirig with the most apparent candour ; and after I short time his presence served only to increase I he general good humour. i After tea he called me aside to inquire after my ' aughter ; but upon my informing him that my in- I uiry was unsuccessful, he seemed greatly surpri- 1 3d; adding, that he had been since frequently at I ly house in order to comfort the rest of my family, I fhom he left perfectly well. He then asked if I [ ad communicated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot I r my son ; and upon my replying that I had not told them as yet, he greatly approved my prudence and precaution, desiring me by all means to keep it a secret : "For at best," cried he, " it is but di- vulging 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 seem- ed to take in my concerns. His addresses, how- ever, to Miss Wilmot, were too obvious to be mis- taken : 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 show- ed my son, Mr. Thornhill's friendship seemed pro portionably to increase for him. He had formerly made us the most kind assu- rances of using his interest to serve the family ; but now his generosity was not confined to promises alone. The morning I designed for my departure, Mr. Thornhill came to me with looks of real plea- sure, 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 was going to the West Indies, for which he had promised but one hundred pounds, his interest having been sufficient to get an abatement of the other two. "As for this tri- fling piece of service," continued the young gentle- man, " I desire no other reward but the pleasure of having served my friend ; and as for the hundred pounds to be paid, if you are unable to raise it yourselves, I will advance it, and you shall repay me at your leisure." This was a favour we want- ed words to express our sense of: I readily there- fore gave my bond for the money, and testified aa much gratitude as if 1 never intended to pay. George was to depart for town the next day to secure his commission, in pursuance of his gener- ous patron's directions, who judged it highly expe- dient to use dispatch, lest in the mean time another should step in with more advantageous proposals. The next morning therefore our young soldier was early prepared for his departure, and seemed the only person among us that was not affected by it. Neither the fatigues and dangers he was going to encounter, nor the friends and mistress for Miss Wilmot actually loved him he was leaving be- hind, any way damped his spirits. After he had taken leave of the rest of the company, I gave him all I had, my blessing. " And now, my boy," cried I, " thou art going to fight for thy country, remem- ber how thy brave grandfather fought for his sacred 06 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. king, when loyalty among Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, and imitate him in all but his misfor- tunes, if it was a misfortune to die with Lord Falk- land. 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 fa- mily, 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 afflu- ence and good-breeding procure, and returned to- wards home, despairing of ever finding my daugh- ter more, but sending a sigh to Heaven to spare and to forgive her. I was now come within about twenty miles of home, having hired a horse to carry me, as I was yet but weak, and comforted myself with the hopes of soon seeing all I held dearest upon earth. But the night coming on, I put up at a little public-house by the road side, and asked for the landlord's company over a pint of wine. We sat beside his kitchen fire, which 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 coun- try, was loved. He went on to observe, that he made it his whole study to betray the daughters of such as received him to their houses, and after a fortnight or three weeks' possession, turned them out unrewarded and abandoned to the world. As we continued our discourse in this manner, his wife, who had been out to get change, returned, and per- ceiving 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. Symmonds," 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 tlie fourth left unfinished ; while you do nothing but soak with the guests all da}'^ long : whereas if a spoonful of Hquor were to cure me of a fever, I never touch a drop." I now found what she would be at, and immediately poured her 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 can not 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 ray 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, end 1 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 1 know that I am sure she has been here a fortnight, and we have not yet seen the cross of her money." " I suppose, my dear," cried he, " we shall have it all in a lump." " In a lump!" cried the other, " I hope we may get it 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 gentlewo- man, and deserves more respect." "As for the matter of that," returned the hostess, " gentle or simple, out she shall pack with a sassarara. Gen- try 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 over-head ; and I soon perceived, by the loudness of her voice, and the bitterness of her re- proaches, that no money was to be had from her lodger. I could hear her remonstrances very dis- tinctly : " Out, I say; pack out this moment! traniji, 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 your- self with; come along, I say." "O dear madam," cried the stranger, "pity me, pity a poor abandon- ed 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. "Wel- come, 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 tiiee; though thou hadst ten thousand crimes to answer for, he will forget them all." " O my own dear" for miriutes she could say no more "my own dearest good papa! could angels be kinder! how do I deserve so much! The villain, I hate hrai and myself, to be a reproach to such goodness. You can't forgive me, I know you can not." "Yes, my child, from ' my heart I do forgive thee ! Only repent, and we j both shall yet be happy. We shall see many plea- | sant days yet, my Olivia !" " Ah ! never, sir, \ never. The rest of my wretched life must be in- j famy 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 mise- ries of my guilt upon yourself;" " 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 col !3 not less obstructed with disappointment than that of ambition. " If you have the misfortune not to excel in your profession as a poet, repentance must tincture all your future enjoyments: if you succeed you make enemies. You tread a narrow path. Contempt on one side, and hatred on the other, are ready to seize you upon the slightest deviation. " But why must I be hated, you will perhaps reply ; why must I be persecuted for having writ- ten a pleasing poem, for having produced an ap- plauded tragedy, or for otherwise instructing or amusing mankind or myself 7 " My dear friend, these very successes shall ren- der you miserable for life. Let me suppose your performance has merit; let me suppose you have surmounted the teasing employments of printing and publishing; how will you be able to lull the critics, who, Uke Cerberus, are posted at all the avenues of hterature, and who settle the merits of every new performance? How, I say, will you be able to make them open in your favour? There are always three or four literary journals in France, as many in Holland, each supporting opposite in- terests. The booksellers who guide these periodi- cal compilations, find their account in being severe ; the authors employed by them have wretchedness to add to their natural malignity. The majority may be in your favour, but you may depend on being torn by the rest. Loaded with unmerited scurrility, perhaps you reply; they rejoin; both plead at the bar of the public, and both are con- demned to ridicule. " But if you write for the stage, your case is still more worthy compassion. You are there to be judged by men whom the custom of the times has rendered contemptible. Irritated by their own in- feriority, they exert all their little tyranny upon you, revenging upon the author the insults they receive from the public. From such men, then, you are to expect your sentence. Suppose your piece admitted, acted: one single ill-natured jest from the pit is sufficient to cancel all your labours. But allowing that it succeeds. There are a hun- dred squibs flying all abroad to prove that it should not have succeeded. You shall find your brightest scenes burlesqued by the ignorant; and the learned, who know a little Greek, and nothing of their na- tive language, affect to despise you. " But perhaps, with a panting heart, you carry your piece before a woman of quality. She gives the labours of your brain to her maid to be cut into shreds for curling her hair; while the laced foot- man, who carries the gaudy Uvery of luxury, in- sults your appearance, who bear the livery of indi- gence. " But granting your excellence has at last forced *nvy to confess that your works have some merit; this then is all the reward you can expect while living. However, for this tribute of applause, you must expect persecution. You will be reputed the author of scandal which you have never seen, of verses you despise, and of sentiments directly con- trary to your own. In short, you must embark in some one party, or all parties will be against you. " There are among us a number of learned so- cieties, where a lady presides, whose wit begins to twinkle when the splendour of her beauty begins to decUne. One or two men of learning compose her ministers of state. These must be flattered, or made enemies by being neglected. Thus, though you had the merit of all antiquity united in yout person, you grow old in misery and disgrace. Eve ry place designed for men of letters is filled up by men of intrigue. Some nobleman's private tutor, some court flatterer, shall bear away the prize, and leave you to anguish and to disappointment." Yet it were well if none but the dunces of socie ty were combined to render the profession of an author ridiculous or unhappy. Men of the first eminence are often found to indulge this illiberal vein of raillery. Two contending writers often, by the opposition of their wit, render their profession contemptible in the eyes of ignorant persons, who should have been taught to admire. And yet, what- ever the reader may think of himself, it is at least two to one but he is a greater blockhead than the most scribbling dunce he affects to despise. The poet's poverty is a standing topic of con- tempt. His writing for bread is an unpardonable offence. Perhaps of all mankind an author in these times is used most hardly. We keep him poor, and yet revile his poverty. Like angry pa- rents who correct their children till they cry, and then correct them for crying, we reproach him for living by his wit, and yet allow him no other means to live. His taking refuge in garrets and cellars, has of late been violently objected to him, and that by men who I dare hope are more apt to pity than insult his distress. Is poverty the writer's fault'? No doubt he knows how to prefer a bottle of cham- pagne to the nectar of the neighbouring alehouse, or a venison pasty to a plate of potatoes. Want of delicacy is not in him but in us, who deny him the opportunity of making an elegant choice. Wit certainly is the property of those who have it, nor should we be displeased if it is the only pro- perty a man sometimes has. We must not under- rate him who uses it for subsistence, and flies from the ingratitude of the age even to a bookseller for redress. If the profession of an author is to be laughed at by the stupid, it is certainly better to be contemptibly rich than contemptibly poor. For all the wit that ever adorned the human mind, will at present no more shield the author's poverty from ridicule, than his high-topped gloves conceal the unavoi'lable omissions of his laundress. 136 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. To be more serious, new fashions, follies, and vices, make new monitors necessary in every age. An author may be considered as a merciful sub- stitute to the legislature. He acts not by punishing crimes, but preventing them. However virtuous the present age, there may be still growing employ- ment for ridicule or reproof, for persuasion or satire. If the author be therefore still so necessary among us, let us treat him with proper consideration as a child of the public, not a rent-charge on the com- munity. And indeed a child of the pubUc he is in all respects; for while so well able to direct others, how incapable is he frequently found of guiding himself! His simplicity exposes him to all the insidious ap- proaches of cunning; his sensibility, to the slightest invasions of contempt. Though possessed of for- titude to stand unmoved the expected bursts of an earthquake, yet of feelings so exquisitely poignant as to agonize under the slightest disappointment. Broken rest, tasteless meals, and causeless anxiety, shorten his hfe, or render it unfit for active em- ployment: prolonged vigils and intense application still further contract his span, and make his time glide insensibly away. Let us not, then, aggravate those natural inconveniences by neglect; we have had sufficient instances of this kind already. Sale and Moore will suffice for one age at least. But they are dead, and their sorrows are over. The neglected author of the Persian eclogues, which, however inaccurate, excel any in our language, is still alive, happy, if insensible of our neglect, not raging at our ingratitude.* It is enough that the age has already produced instances of men press- ing foremost in the lists of fame, and worthy of bet- ter times; schooled by continued adversity into a hatred of their kind; flying from thought to drunk- enness; jdelding to the united pressure of labour, penury, and sorrow; sinking unheeded, without one friend to drop a tear on their unattended obse- quies, and indebted to charity for a grave. The author, when unpatronized by the great, has naturally recourse to the bookseller. There can not be perhaps imagined a combination more prejudicial to taste than this. It is the interest of the one to allow as little for writing, and of the other to write as much as possible. Accordingly, tedious compilations and periodical magazines are the result of their joint endeavours. In these cir- cumstances, the author bids adieu to fame, writes for bread, and for that only imagination is seldom called in. He sits down to address the venal muse with the most phlegmatic apathy; and, as we are told of the Russians, courts his mistress by falling asleep in her lap. His reputation never spreads in a wider circle than that of the trade, who generally value him, not for the fineness of his compositions, but the quantity he works off in a given time. A long habit of wnriting for bread thus turns the ambition of every author at last into avarice. He finds that he has written many years, that the pub- lic are scarcely acquainted even with his name ; he despairs of applause, and turns to profit which in- vites him. He finds that money procures all those advantages, that respect, and that ease, which he vainly expected from fame. Thus the man who, under the protection of the great, might have done honour to humanity when only patronized by the bookseller, becomes a thing little superior to the fellow who works at the press. Our author here alludes to the insanity of CoUina. CHAPTER X. Of the Marks of Literary Decay in France and England. The faults already mentioned are such as learn- ing is often found to flourish under; but there is one of a much more dangerous nature, which has begun to fix itself among us. I mean criticism, which may properly be called the natural destroyer of poUte learning. We have seen that critics, or those whose only business is to write books upon other books, are always more numerous, as learning is moredifl^used; and experience has shown, that in- stead of promoting its interest, which they profess to do, they generally injure it. This decay which criticism produces may be deplored, but can scarcely be remedied, as the man who writes against the critics is obliged to add himself to the number. Other depravations in the republic of letters, such as affectation in some popular writer leading others into vicious imitation; political struggles in the state; a depravity of morals among the people; ill- directed encouragement, or no encouragement from the great, these have been often found to co-ope- rate in the decline of literature ; and it has some- times declined, as in modern Italy, without them; but an increase of criticism has always portended a decay. Of all misfortunes therefore in the com- monwealth of letters, this of judging from rule, and not from feeling, is the most severe. At such a tribunal no work of original merit can please. Sublimity, if carried to an exalted height, approach- es burlesque, and humour sinks into vulgarity. The person w^ho can not feel may ridicule both as such, and bring rules to corroborate his assertion. There is, in short, no excellence in writing that such judges may not place among the neighbouring defects. Rules render the reader more difficult to be pleased, and abridge the author's power of pleas- ing. If we turn to either country, we shall perceive evident symptoms of this natural decay beginning to appear. Upon a moderate calculation, there seems to be as many volumes of criticism published in those countries, as of all other kinds of polito erudition united. Paris sends forth not less than THE PRESENT STATE OP POLITE LEARNING. 137 four litjcrary journals every month, the Annee-Lit- teraire and the Feuille by Freron, the Journal Etrangcr by the Chevalier D'Arc, and Le Mer- cure by Marmontel. We have tv^ro literary reviews in London, with critical newspapers and magazines without number. The compilers of these resem- ble the commoners of Rome ; they are all for level- ling property, not by increasing their own, but by diminishing that of others. The man who has any good-nature in his disposition must, however, be somewhat displeased to see distinguished reputation!? often the sport of ignorance, to see by one false pleasantry, the future peace of a worthy man's life disturbed, and this only, because he has unsuccess- fully attempted to instruct or amuse us. Though ill-nature is far from being wit, yet it is generally laughed at as such. The critic enj oy s the triumph, and ascribes to his parts what is only due to his ef- frontery. I fire with indignation, when I see per- sons wholly destitute of education and genius in- dent to the press, and thus turn book-malcers, adding to the sin of criticism the sin of ignorance also ; whose trade is a bad one, and who are bad work- men in the trade. When I consider those industrious men as in- debted to the works of others for a precarious sub- sistence, when I see them coming down at stated intervals to rummage the bookseller's counter for materials to work upon, it raises a smile though mixed with pity. It reminds me of an animal call- ed by naturalists the soldier. This little creature, says the historian, is passionately fond of a shell, but not being supplied with one by nature, has re- course to the deserted shell of some other. I have seen these harmless reptiles, continues he, come dovm once a-year from the mountains, rank and file, cover the whole shore, and ply busily about, each in quest of a shell to please it. Nothing can be more amusing than their industry upon this oc- casion. One shell is too big, another too little : they enter and keep possession sometimes for a good while, until one is, at last, found entirely to please. When all are thus properly equipped, they march up again to the mountains, and live in their new acquisition till under a necessity of changing. There is indeed scarcely an error of which our present writers are guilty, that does not arise from their opposing systems; there is scarcely an error that criticism can not be brouglit to excuse. From this proceeds the alik^ted security of our odes, the tuneless flow of our blank verse, the pompous epi- thet, laboured diction, and every other deviation from common sense, which procures the poet the applause of the month : he is praised by all, read by a few, and soon forgotten. There never was an unbeaten path trodden by the poet that the critic did not endeavour to reclaim him, by calling his attempt innovation. This might be instanced in Dante, who first followed nature, and was persecuted by the critics as long as he liv- ed. Thus novelty, one of the greatest beauties in poetry, must be avoided, or the connoisseur be dis- pleased. It is one of the chief privileges, however, of genius, to fly from the herd of imitators by some happy singularity; for should he stand still, his heavy pursuers will at length certainly come up, and fairly dispute the victory. The ingenious Mr. Hogarth used to assert, that every one except the connoisseur was a judge of painting. The same may be asserted of writing : the public, in general, set the whole piece in the proper point of view ; the critic lays his eye close to all its minuteness, and condemns or approves in detail. And this may be the reason why so many writers at present arc apt to appeal from the tribu- nal of criticism to that of the people. From a desire in the critic, of grafting the spirit of ancient languages upon the English, has proceed- ed, of late, several disagreeable instances of pedant- ry. Among the number, I think we may reckon blank verse. Nothing but the greatest sublimity of subject can render such a measure pleasing; however, we now see it used upon the most trivial occasions. It has particularly found its way into our didactic poetry, and is likely to bring that spe- cies of composition into disrepute for which the English are deservedly famous. Those who are acquainted with writing, know that our language runs almost naturally into blank verse. The writers of our novels, romances, and all of this class who have no notion of style, natu- rally hobble into th^s unharmonious measure. If rhymes, therefore, be more difllcult, for that very reason I would have our poets write in rhyme. Such a restriction upon the thought of a good poet, often lifts and increases the vehemence of every sentiment ; for fancy, Uke a fountain, plays high- est by diminishing the aperture. But rhymes, it ' will be said, are a remnant of monkish stupidity, an innovation upon the poetry of the ancients. They are but indifferently acquainted with anti- quity who make the assertion. Rh3nnes are pro- bably of older date than either the Greek or Latin dactyl and spondee. The Celtic, which is allowed to be the first language spoken in Europe, has ever pijeserved them, as we may find in the Edda of Ice- land, and the Irish carols, still sung among the ori- ginal inhabitants of that island. Olaus Wormius gives us some of the Teutonic poetry in this way; and Pontoppidan, bishop of Bergen, some of the Norwegian. In short, this jingle of sounds is al- most natural to mankind, at least it is so to our lan- guage, if we may judge from many unsuccessful attempts to throw it off. I should not have employed so much time in op- posing this erroneous innovation, if it were not apt to introduce another in its train ; I mean, a disgust- ing manner of solemnity into our poetry ; and, as tho 138 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. prose writer has been ever found to follow the poet, it must consequently banish in both all that agreea- ble trifling, which, if I may so express it, often deceives us into instruction. The finest senti- ment and the most weighty truth may put on a pleasant face, and it is even virtuous to jest when serious advice must be disgusting. But instead of this, the most trifling performance among us now assumes all the didactic stiflfness of wisdom. The most diminutive son of fame or of famine has his tee and his us, his Jlrstlys and his secondlys, as methodical as if bound in cow-hide, and closed with clasps of brass. Were these monthly reviews and magazines frothy, pert, or absurd, they might find some pardon ; but to be dull and dronish is an en- croachment on the prerogative of a folio. These things should be considered as pills toffurge melan- choly ; they should be made up in our splenetic cli- mate to be taken as physic, and not so as to be used when we take it. However, by the power of one single monosyl- lable, our critics have almost got the victory over humour amongst us. Does the poet paint the ab- surdities of the vulgar, then he is low ; does he ex- aggerate the features of folly, to render it more thoroughly ridiculous, he is then very lore. In short, they have proscribed the comic or satirical muse from every walk but high life, which, though abounding in fools as well as the humblest station, is by no means so fruitful in absurdity. Among well-bred fools we may despise much, but have lit- tle to laugh at ; nature seems to present us with a universal blank of silk, ribands, smiles, and whis- pers. Absurdity is the poet's game, and good- breeding is the nice concealment of absurdities. The truth is, the critic generally mistakes hu- mour for wit, which is a very different excellence. Wit raises human nature above its level ; humour acts a contrary part, and equally depresses it. To expect exalted humour is a contradiction in terms ; and the critic, by demanding an impossibility from the comic poet, has, in effect, banished new comedy from the stage. But to put the same thought in a different light, when an unexpected similitude in two objects strikes the imagination; in other words, when a thing is wittily expressed, all our pleasure turns into admiration of the artist, who had fancy enough to draw the picture. When a thing is humorously described, our burst of laughter pro- ceeds from a very different cause ; we compare the absurdity of the character represented with our own, and triumph in our conscious superiority. No na- tural defect can be a cause of laughter, because it is a misfortune to which ourselves are liable. A defect of this kind changes the passion into pity or horror. We only laugh at those instances of mo- ral absurdity, to which we are conscious we our selves are not liable. For instance, should I de scribe a man as wanting his nose, there is no hu mour in this, as it is an accident to which human nature is subject, and may be any man's case : but should I represent this man without his nose as extremely curious in the choice of his snuff-box, we here see him guilty of an absurdity of which we imagine it impossible for ourselves to be guilty, and therefore applaud our own good sense on the comparison. Thus, then, the pleasure we receive from wit turns to the admiration of another ; that which we feel from humour, centres in the admi- ration of ourselves. The poet, therefore, must place the object he would have the subject of hu- mour in a state of inferiority ; in other words, the subject of humour must be low. The solemnity worn by many of our modern writers, is, I fear, often the mask of dulness ; for certain it is, it seems to fit every author who pleases to put it on. By the complexion of many of our late publications, one might be apt to cry out with Cicero, Civem mehercule non puto esse qui his tenvporibus rider e pass it : on my conscience, I be- lieve we have all forgot to laugh in these days. Such writers probably make no distinction between what is praised and what is pleasing: between those com- mendations which the reader pays his own discern- ment, and those which are the genuine result of his sensations. It were to be wished, therefore, that we no longer found pleasure with the inflated style that has for some years been looked upon as fine writing, and which every young writer is now obliged to adopt, if he chooses to be read. We should now dispense with loaded epithet and dress- ing up trifles with dignity. For, to use an obvi- ous instance, it is not those who make the greatest noise with their wares in the streets that have most to sell. Let us, instead of writing finely, try to write naturally ; not hunt after lofty expressions to deliver mean ideas, nor be for ever gaping, when we only mean to deliver a whisper. CHAPTER XL Of the Stage. Our theatre has been generally confessed to share in this general decline, though partaking of the show and decoration of the Italian opera with the propriety and declamation of French perform- ance. The stage also is more magnificent with ua than any other in Europe, and the people in gene- ral fonder of theatrical entertainment. Yet still, as our pleasures, as well as more important concerns, are generally managed by party, the stage has felt its influence. The managers, and all who espouse their side, are for decoration and ornament; the critic, and all who have studied French decorum, are for regularity and declamation. Thus it is al- most impossible to please both parties ; and the po- et, by attempting :t, finds himself often incapable of THE PRESENT STATE OP POLITE LEARNING. 139 pleasing either. If he introduces stage pora?), the critic consigns his performance to the vulgar; if he indulges in recital and simplicity, it is accused of insipidity, or dry affectation. From the nature, therefore, of our theatre, and the genius of our country, it is extremely difficult for a dramatic poet to please his audience. But happy would he be, were these the only difficulties he had to encounter; there are many other more dangerous combinations against the little wit of the age. Our poet's performance must undergo a pro- cess truly chemical before it is presented to the pub- lic. It must be tried in the manager's fire, strain- ed through a licenser, suffer from repeated correc- tions, till it may be a mere caput mortuum when it arrives before the public. The success, however, of pieces upon the stage would be of httle moment, did it not influence the success of the same piece in the closet. Nay, I think it would be more for the interests of virtue, if stage performances were read, not acted ; made rather our companions in the cabinet than on the theatre. While we are readers, every moral senti- ment strikes us in all its beauty, but the love scenes are frigid, tawdry, and disgusting. When we are spectators, all the persuasives to vice receive ai? ad- ditional lustre. The love scene is aggravated, the obscenity heightened, the best actors figure in the most debauched characters, while the parts of mo- rality, as they are called, are thrown to some mouth- ing machine, who puts even virtue out of counte nance by his wretched imitation. But whatever be the incentives to vice which are found at the theatre, public pleasures are generally less guilty than solitary ones. To make our soli- tary satisfactions truly innocent, the actor is useful, as by his means the poet's work makes its way from the stage to the closet; for all must allow, that the reader receives more benefit by perusing a well- written play, than by seeing it acted. But how is this rule inverted on our theatres at presenf? Old pieces are revived, and scarcely any new ones admitted. The actor is ever in our eye, and the poet seldom permitted to appear; the pub- lic are again obliged to ruminate over those hashes of absurdity, which were disgusting to our ances- tors even in an age of ignorance; and the stage, in- stead of serving the people, is made subservient to the interests of avarice. We seem to be pretty much in the situation of travellers at a Scotch inn; ^vile entertainment is served up, complained of, and sent down; up comes worse, and that also is changed; and every change makes our wretched cheer more unsavoury. What must be done ? only sit down contented, cry up all that comes before us, and admire even the absurdi- ties of Shakspeare. Let the reader suspend his censure. I admire the beauties of this great father of our stage as much as they deserve, but could wish, for the hon- our of our country, and for his honour too, that many of his scenes were forgotten. A man blind of one eye should always be painted in profile. Let the spectator, who assists at any of these newly-re- vived pieces, only ask himself whether he would approve such a performance if written by a modern poet? I fear he will find that much of his applause proceeds merely from the sound of a name, and an empty veneration for antiquity. In fact, the revi- val of those pieces of forced humour, far-fetched conceit, and unnatural hyperbole, which have been ascribed to Shakspeare, is rather gibbeting than raising a statue to his memory ; it is rather a trick to the actor, who thinks it safest acting in exagge- rated characters, and who, by outstepping nature, chooses to exhibit the ridiculous outre of a harle- quin under the sanction of that venerable name. What strange vamped comedies, farcical trage- dies, or what shall I call them, speaking panto- mimes, have we not of late seen? No matter what the play may be, it is the actor who draws an audi- ence. He throws hfe into all ; all are in spirits and merry, in at one door and out at another; the spectator, in a fool's paradise, knows not what all this means, till the last act concludes in matrimo- ny. The piece pleases our critics, because it talks old English; and it pleases the galleries, because it has ribaldry. True taste or even common sense are out of the question. But great art must be sometimes used before they can thus impose upon the public. To this purpose, a prologue written with some spirit generally pre- cedes the piece, to inform us that it was composed by Shakspeare, or old Ben, or somebody else who took them for his model. A face of iron could not have the assurance to avow dislike; the theatre has its partisans who understand the force of combina- tions, trained up to vociferation, clapping of hands and clattering of sticks : and though a man might have strength sufficient to overcome a lion in sin- gle combat, he may run the risk of being devoured by an army of ants. I am not insensible, that third nights are disa- greeable drawbacks upon the annual profits of the stage. I am confident it is much more to the manager's advantage to furbish up all the lumber which the good sense of our ancestors, but for his care, had consigned to oblivion. It is not with him, therefore, but with the public I would expostulate; they have a right to demand respect, and surely those newly-revived plays are no instances of the manager's deference. I have been informed that no new play can ho admitted upon our theatres unless the author chooses to wait some years, or, to use the phrase in fashion, till it comes to be played in turn. A poet thus can never expect to contract a familiarity with the stage, by which alone he can hope \p succeed; 140 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. nor can the most signal success relieve immediate want. Our Saxon ancestors had but one name for wit and witch. I will not dispute the propriety of uniting those characters then, but the man who, under the present discouragements, ventures to write for the stage, whatever claim he may have to the appellation of a wit, at least he has no right to be called a conjuror. From all that has been said upon the state of our theatre, we may easily foresee whether it is likely to improve or decline; and whether the free-born muse can bear to submit to those restrictions which avarice or power would impose. For the future, it is somewhat unlikely, that he whose labours are valuable, or who knows their value, will turn to the stage for either fame or subsistence, when he must at once flatter an actor and please an audience. CHAPTER XII. On Universities. Instead of losing myself in a subject of such extent, I shall only offer a few thoughts as they occur, and leave their connexion to the reader. We seem divided, whether an education formed by travelling or by a sedentary life be preferable. We see more of the world by travel, but more of human nature by remaining at home; as in an in- firmary, the student who only attends to the disor- ders of a few patients, is more likely to understand his profession than he who indiscriminately exam- ines them all. A youth just landed at the Brille resembles a clown at a puppet-show; carries his amazement from one miracle to another; from this cabinet of curiosities to that collection of pictures : but won- dering is not the way to grow wise. Whatever resolutions we set ourselves, not to keep company with our countrymen abroad, we shall find them broken when once we leave home. Among strangers we consider ourselves as in a solitude, and it is but natural to desire society. In all the great towns of Europe there are to be found Englishmen residing either from interest or choice. These generally lead a life of continued debauchery. Such are the countrymen a traveller is likely to meet with. This may be the reason why Englishmen are all thought to be mad or melancholy by the vulgar abroad. Their money is giddily and merrily spent among sharpers of their own country ; and when that is gone, of all nations the English bear worst that disorder called the maladie de poche. Countries wear very different appearances to travellers of different circumstances. A man who is whhrlei through Europe in a post-chaise, and the pilgrim, who walks the grand tour on foot, will form very different conclusions.* To see Europe with advantage, a man should appear in various circumstances of fortune, but the experiment would be too dangerous for young men. There are many things relative to other coun- tries which can he learned to more advantage at home; their laws and policies are among the number. The greatest advantages which result to youth from travel, are an easy address, the shaking off national prejudices, and the finding nothing ridicu- lous in national peculiarities. The time spent in these acquisitions could have been more usefully employed at home. An edu- cation in a college seems therefore preferable. We attribute to universities either too much or too little. Some assert that they are the only proper places to advance learning; wliile others deny even their utility in forming an education. Both are erroneous. Learning is most advanced in populous cities, where chance often conspires with industry to pro- mote it : where the members of this large univer sity, if I may so call it, catch manners as they rise, study life not logic, and have th6 world for corres- pondents. The greatest number of universities have ever been founded in times of the greatest ignorance. New improvements in learning are seldom adopted in colleges until admitted every where else. And this is right; we should always be cautious of teaching the rising generation uncer- tainties for truth. Thus, though the professors in universities have been too frequently found to op- pose the advancement of learning ; yet when onco established, they are the properest persons to dif- fuse it. There is more knowledge to be acquired from one page of the volume of mankind, if the scholar only knows how to read, than in volumes of anti- quity. We grow learned, not wise, by too long a continuance at college. This points out the time at which we should leave the university. Perhaps the age of twenty- one, when at our universities the first degree is generally taken, is the proper period. The universities of Europe may be divided into three classes. Those upon the old scholastic es- tablishment, where the pupils are immured, talk nothing but Latin, and support every day syllo- gistical disputations in school philosophy. Would not one be apt to imagine this was the proper edu- cation to make a man a fool? Such are the uni- versities of Prague, Louvain, and Padua. The second is, where the pupils are under few rcstric- * In the first edition our author added, Hand inexpertus loquor; far he travelled through France etc. on fbot. THE PRESENT STATE OP POLITE LEARNING. 141 tions, where all scholastic jargon is banished, where they take a degree when they think proper, and live not m the college but the city. Such are Ed inburgh, Leyden, Gottingen, Geneva. The third is a mixture of the two former, where the pupils are restrained but not confined ; where many, though not all of the absurdities of scholastic philosophy are suppressed, and where the first degree is taken after four years' matriculation. Such are Oxford, Cambridge, and Dublin. As for the first class, their absurdities are too ap- parent to admit of a parallel. It is disputed which of the two last are more conducive U> national im- provement. Skill in the professions is acquired more by prac- tice than study; two or three years may be suffi- cient for learning their rudiments. The universi- ties of Edinburgh, etc. grant a license for practising them when the student thinks proper, which our universities refuse till after a residence of several years. The dignity of the professions may be supported by this dilatory proceeding ; but many men of learn- ing are thus too long excluded from the lucrative advantages wliich superior skill has a right to ex- pect. Those universities must certainly be most fre- quented wliich promise to give in two years the advantages which others will not under twelve. The man who has studied a profession for three years, and practised it for nine more, will certainly know more of liis business than he who has only studied it for twelve. The universities of Edinburgh, etc. must certain- ly be most proper for the study of those professions in which men choose to turn their learning to pro- fit as soon as possible. The universities of Oxford, etc. are improper for this, ^mce they keep the student from the world, which, after a certain time, is the only true school of improvement. When a degree in the professions can be taken only by men of independent fortunes, the number of candidates in learning is lessened, and conse- quently the advancement of learning retarded. This slowness of conferring degrees is a rem- nant of scholastic barbarity. Paris, Louvain, and those universities which still retain their ancient institutions, confer the doctor's degree slower even than we. The statues of every university should be consi- dered as adapted to the laws of its respective gov- ernment. Those should alter as these happen to fluctuate. Four years spent in the arts (as they are called in colleges) is perhaps laying too laborious a foun- dation. Entering a profession without any previ- ous acquisitions of this kind, is building too bold a Buperstructure. Teaching by lecture, as at Edinburgh, may rnako men scholars, if they think proper; but instructing by examination, as at Oxford, will make them so often against their inclination. Edinburgh only disposes the student to receive learning; Oxford often makes him actually learn- ed. In a word, were I poor, I should send my son to Leyderi or Edinburgh, though the annual expense in each, particularly in the first, is very great Were 1 rich, I would send him to one of our own universities. By an education received in the firs^ he has the best likeUhood of living; by that receiv- ed in the latter, he has the best chance of becoming great. We have of late heard much of the necessity of studying oratory. Vespasian was the first who paid professors of rhetoric for pubhcly instructing youth at Rome. However, those pedants never made an orator. The best orations that ever were spoken were pronounced in the parliaments of King Charles the First. These men never studied the rules of ora- tory. Mathematics are, perhaps, too much studied at our universities. This seems a science to which the meanest intellects are equal. I forget who it is that says, "All men might understand mathe- matics if they would.'' The most methodical manner of lecturing, whe- ther on morals or nature, is first rationally to ex- plain, and then produce the experiment. The most instructive method is to show the experiment first; curiosity is then excited, and attention awa- kened to every subsequent deduction. Hence it is ^evident, that in a well formed education a course of history should ever precede a course of ethics. The sons of our nobility are permitted to enjoy greater liberties in our ujaiversities than those of private men. I should blush to ask the men of learning and virtue who preside in our seminaries the reason of such a prejudicial distinction. OuJ youth should there be inspired with a love of phi- losophy; and the first maxim among philosophers is, That merit only makes distinction. Whence has proceeded the vain magnificence of expensive architecture in our collegesi Is it that men study to more advantage in a palace than in a cell? One single performance of taste or genius confers more real honours on its parent university than all the labours of the chisel. Surely pride itself has dictated to the fellows of our colleges the absurd passion of being attended at meals, and on other pubUc occasions, by those poor men, who, willing to be scholars, come in upon some charitable foundation. It impUes a contra- diction, for men to be at once learning the liberal arts, and at the same time treated as slaves j at once studying freedom, and practising servitude. 142 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. CHAPTER XIII. The Conclusion. Every subject acquires an adventitious import- ance to him who considers it with application. He finds it more closely connected with human happi- ness than the rest of mankind are apt to allow; he sees consequences resulting from it which do not strike others with equal conviction ; and still pursuing speculation beyond the bounds of reason, too fre- quently becomes ridiculously earnest in trifles or absurdity. It will perhaps be incurring this imputation, to deduce a universal degeneracy of manners from so slight an origin as the depravation of taste ; to as- sert that, as a nation grows dull, it sinks into de- bauchery. Yet such probably may be the conse- quence of literary decay; or, not to stretch the thought beyond what it will bear, vice and stupidity are always mutually productive of each other. Life, at the greatest and best, has been compared to a froward child, that must be humoured and played with till it falls asleep, and then all the care is over. Our few years are laboured away in va- rying its pleasures; new amusements are pursued with studious attention; the most childish vanities are dignified with titles of importance; and the proudest boast of the most aspiring philosopher is no more, than that he provides his httle play-fellows the greatest pastime with the greatest innocence. Thus the mind, ever wandering after amuse- ment, when abridged of happiness on one part, endeavours to find it on another; when intellectual pleasures are disagreeable, those of sense will take the kad. The man who in this age is enamoured of the tranquil joys of study and retirement, may in the next, should learning be fashionable no long- er, feel an ambition of being foremost at a horse- course; or, if such could be the absurdity of the times, of being himself a jockey. Reason and ap- petite are therefore masters of our revels in turn; and as we incline to the one, or pursue the other, we rival angels, or imitate the brutes. In the pur- suit of intellectual pleasure lies every virtue; of sensual, every vice. It is this difference of pursuit which marks the morals and characters of mankind; which lays the line between the enUghtened philosopher and the half-taught citizen; between the civil citizen and illiterate peasant; between the law-obeying peasant and the wandering savage of Africa, an animal less mischievous indeed than the tiger, because endued with fewer powers of doing mischief. The man, the nation, must therefore be good, whose chiefest luxuries consist in the refinement of reason; and reason can never be universally cultivated, unless guided by taste, which may be considered as the Imk between science and common sense, the medi- um through which learning should ever be seen by society. Taste will therefore often be a proper standard, when others fail, to judge of a nation's improve- ment or degeneracy in morals. We have often no permanent characteristics, by which to compare the virtues or the vices of oin* ancestors with our own. A generation may rise and pass away with- out leaving any traces of what it really was; and all complaints of our deterioration may be only topics of declamation or the cavillings of disappoint- ment: but in taste we have standing evidence; we can with precision compare the literary performanr ces of our fathers with our own, and from their ex- cellence or defects determine the moral, as well as the literary, merits of either. If, then, there ever comes a time when taste is so far depraved among us that critics shall load every work of genius with unnecessary comment, and quarter their empty performances with the substantial merits of an author, both for subsistence and applause ; if there comes a time when censure shall speak in storms, but praise be whispered in the breeze, while real excellence often finds ship- wreck in either; if there be a time when the Muse shall seldom be heard, except in plaintive elegy, as- if she wept her own decUne, while lazy compilations supply the place of original thinking; should there ever be such a time, may succeeding critics, both for the honour of our morals, as well as our learn- ing, say, that such a period bears no resemblance to the present age I POEMS. A PROLOGUE, Written and spoken by the Poet Laberius, a Ro- man Knight, whom Ccesar forced upon the stage. Preserved by Macrobius* What ! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, And save from infamy my sinking age ! Scarce half alive, opprest 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; Una wed by power, and unappall'd by fear, With honest thrift I held my honour dear: But this vile hour disperses all my store, And all my hoard of honour is no more; For ah! too partial to my life's decUne, Cajsar 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. THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION; A TALE.t Secluded from domestic strife Jack Book- worm led a college Ufe; A fellowship at twenty-five Made him the happiest man ahve; He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke. And freshmen wonder' d as he spoke. Such pleasures, unallay'd with care, Could any accident impair? Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix Our swain, arrived at thirty-six? O had the archer ne'er come down To ravage in a country tovm! * This translation was first printed in one of our author's -earliest works. ' The Present State of Learning in Europe," l2mo. 1759 ; but was omitted in the second edition, which ap- peared in 1774. t This and the following poem were published by Dr. Gold- fimiih in his volume of Ele^ye, which appeared in 1765. Or Flavia been content to stop At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop. O had her eyes forgot to blaze! Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ! O ! but let exclamations cease, Her presence banish'd all his peace. So with decorum all things carried; Miss frown' d, and blush' d, and then was mamcA Need we expose to vulgar sight The raptures of the bridal night? Need we intrude on hallow'd ground, Or draw the curtains closed around 7 Let it suffice, that each had charms; He clasp'd a goddess in Ms arms; And though she felt his usage rough. Yet in a man 'twas well enough. The honey-moon like lightning flew, The second brought its transports too; A third, a fourth, were not amiss. The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss: But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away, Jack found his goddess made of clay; Found half the charms that deck'd her face Arose from powder, shreds, or lace; But still the worse remain'd behind, That very face had robb'd her mind. Skill'd in no other arts was she, But dressing, patching, repartee; And, just as humour rose or fell, By turns a slattern or a belle. 'Tis true she dress'd with modem grace, Half naked at a ball or race; But when at home, at board or bed. Five greasy night -caps wrapp'd her head. Could so much beauty condescend To be a dull domestic friend 7 Could any curtain lectures bring To decency so fine a thing 7 In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting; By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting. Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy Of powdered coxcombs at her levee ; The 'squire and captain took their stations, And twenty other near relations : Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke A sigh in suftbcating smoke ; While all their hours were past between Insulting repartee or spleen. 144 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. Thus as her faults each day were known, He thinks her features coarser grown ; He fancies every vice she shows, Or thins her Up, or points her nose : Whenever age or envy rise, How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes ! He knows not how, but so it is. Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; And though her fops are wondrous civil, He thinks her ugly as the devil. Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose, As each a different way pursues, While sullen or loquacious strife Promised to hold them on for life, That dire disease, whose ruthless power Withers the beauty's transient flower : Lo ! the small-pox, whose horrid glare Levell'd its terrors at the fair ; And, rifling every youthful grace. Left but the remnant of a face. The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a perfect fright : Each former art she vainly tries To bring back lustre to her eyes; In vain she tries her paste and creams. To smooth her skin, or hide its seams: Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens; The 'squire himself was seen to yield, And even the captain quit the field. Poor madam now condemn' d to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown, Attempted pleasing him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old: With modesty her cheeks are dyed, Humility displaces pride; For tawdry finery is seen A person ever neatly clean; No more presuming on her sway, She learns good nature every day : Serenely gay, and strict in duty. Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. A NEW SIMILE IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. Long had I sought in vain to find A likeness for the scribbling kind: The modern scribbUng 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 mv 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. In the next place, his feet peruse. Wings grow again from both his shoes; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air : And here my simile unites. For in 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, Fill'd with a snake -encircled wand; By classic authors term'd caduceus, And highly famed for several uses. To wit most wondrously endued, No poppy water half so good ; For let folks only get a touch, Its soporific virtue's such. Though ne'er so much awake before, That quickly they begin to snore. Add too, what certain writers tell, With this he drives men's souls to heli. Now to apply, begin we then ; His wand's a modern author's pen; The serpents round about it twined, Denote him of the reptile kind; Denote the rage with which he writes, His frothy slaver, venom'd bites; An equal semblance still to keep, AHke too both conduce to sleep. This difference only, as the god Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod. With his goose-quill the scribbling elf, Instead of others, damns himself. And here my simile almost tript. Yet grant a word by way of postcript. Moreover Merc'ry had a failing ; Well! what of that? out with it stealing, In which all modern bards agree, Being each as great a thief as he But even this deity's existence Shall lend my simile assistance. Our modern bards ! why what a pox Are they but senseless stones and blocks'? POEMS. 145 DESCRIPTION OP AN AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER. Where the Red Lion staring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay; Where Calvert's butt, and 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 stretch'd beneath a rug; A window^, patch'd with paper, lent a ray, That dimly show'd the state in which he lay; The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread; The royal game of goose was there in view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew; The seasons, framed vdth listing, found a place, And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face. The morn was cold, he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire : With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored. And five crack' d tea-cups dress' d the chimney- board ; A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, A cap by night a stocking all the day! THE HERMIT. A BALLAD. Thefollowing letter, addressed to the Printer of he St. James's Chronicle, appeared in that par per in June, 1767. Sir, As there is nothing I dislike so much as news- paper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit toe to be as concise as possible in informing a cor- respondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels because I thought the book was a good one, and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right. Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I pubHshed 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 * The Friar of Orders Gray. L book 2. No. 18. 10 "Reliq. of Anc. Poetry," vol. 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 Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his lit- tle Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approv- ed it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing ; and, were it not for the busy dis- position of some of your correspondents, the pub- lic should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friend- ship and learning for communications of a much more important nature, lam, Sir, Yours, etc. Oliver Goldsmith. Note. On the subject of the preceding letter, the reader is desired to consult " The Life of Dr. Goldsmith," under the year 1765. THE HERMIT; A BALLAD " Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely wa}'. To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. " For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds immeasurably spread, Seem length'ning as I go." " Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. " Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still; And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will. " Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows, My rushy couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. " No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter 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-bom cares are wrong; Man wants but^little here below, *" Nor wants that little long." 146 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell : The modest stranger lowly bends. And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay, A refuge to the neighb'ring poor And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch Required a master's care; The wicket, opening with a latch, Received the harmless pair. And now, when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest. The Hermit trimm'd his little fire, And cheer' d his pensive guest : And spread his vegetable store. And gaily press' d, and smiled; And, skill' d in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguiled. Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries. The cricket chirrups in the hearth, The crackling faggot flies. Bat 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 7 "From better habitations spurn' d. Reluctant dost thou rove 7 Or grieve for friendship unretum'd, Or unregarded love? " Alas! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling and decay; And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they. " And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep; A shade that follows wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep 7 " And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair one's jest; On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest. " For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex," he said; But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray'd. Surprised he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view : Like colours o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms : The lovely stranger stands confest A maid in all her charms. " And ah! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn," she cried; " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intruder Where Heaven and you reside. " But let a maid thy pity share. Whom love has taught to stray; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. " My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he ; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine He had but only me. " To win me from his tender anus, Unnumber'd suitors came; Who praised me for imparted charms. And felt, or feign' d a flame. " Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove; Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love. " In humble, simplest habit clad. No wealth nor power had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had. But these were all to me. "And when, beside me in the dale. He Carroll' d lays of love. His breath lent fragrance to thp gale, And music to the grove. "The blossom opening to the day, The dews of Heaven refined. Could nought of purity display To emulate his mind. "The dew, the blossom on the tree. With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, woe to me I Their constancy was mine. " For still I tried each fickle art. Importunate and vain; And while his passion touch' d my heatf^ I triumph' d in his pain: " Till quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he died. POEMS. U1 " But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay ; I'll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. " And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die ; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I." "Forbid it, Heaven!" the Hermit cried, And clasp' d her to his breast: I'he wondering fair one turn'd to chide-^ 'Twas fedwin's self that press'd. " Turn, Angelina, ever dear. My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restored to love and thee. " Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And every care resign : And shall we never, never part. My life my all that's mine? " No, never from this hour to part. We'll Uve and love so true; The sigh that rends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's toow" 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 can not hold you long. In Islington there was a man. Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran, Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad, i When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began. The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the -man. Around from all the neighb'ring streets The wond'ring neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits. To bite so good a man. * This, and the following poem, appeared in "The Vicar of Wakefield," which was published in the year 1765. The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad^ They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That show'd the rogues they lied: The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died. STANZAS ON WOMAN. When lovely woman stoops to folly. And finds too late that men betray. What charms 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. THE TRAVELLER: A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. to tllE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. Dear Sir, I AM sensible that the friendship between us carf 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 de- cline giving with your own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written to you from Switzer- land, the whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, when the reader understands, that it is addressed to a man, who, despising fame and fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscuri- ty, 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 criticism, and from the divisions of party, that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest. Poetry makes a principal amtsement among tin* polished nations ; but in a country -verging to the extremes of refinement, painting arid music come in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less laborious entertainment, they at first rival 148 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. i poetry, and at length supplant her ; they engross all that favour once shown to her, and though but younger sisters, seize upon the elder's birth-right. Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it is still in great danger from the mis- taken efforts of the learned to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of blank verse, and Pindaric odes, chorusses, anapests and iambics, alliterative care and happy negligence ! Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it ; and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has always much to say; for error is ever talkative. But there is an enemy to this art still more dan- gerous, I mean party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to increase the distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists from pursuing man, after having once preyed upon hu- man flesh, the reader, who has once gratified his appetite with calumny, makes, ever after, the most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers generally adnure 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 phrensy fire. What reception a poem may find, which has neither abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, I can not 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 par- ticular principle of happiness, and that this princi- ple 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. THE TRAVELLER; A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.* Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, A weary waste expanding to the skies; * In this poem, as it passed through different editions, seve- ral alterations were made, and some additional verses intro- daced. We have followed the ninth edition, which was the mt that appeared in the lifetime of the author. Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee ; Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend. And round his dwelling guardian saints attend; Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ; Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair; Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good. But me, not destined such delights to share, My prime of life in wandering spent and care ; Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view; That, like the circle bounding earth and skies. Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; My fortune leads to traverse realms alone. And find no spot of all the world my own. 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 an 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 vaini Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, These little things are great to little man ; And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd ; Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round; Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale; Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale; For me your tributary stores combine : Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine I 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 sup- plies ; 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 oonsign'd, POEMS. 149 Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest, May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. But where to find that happiest spot below, Who can direct, when all pretend to know? The 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 to the rest. Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails. And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. Hence every state to one loved blessing prone, Conforms and models life to that alone. Each to the favourite happiness attends. And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; Till, carried to excess in each domain. This favourite good begets peculiar pain. But let us try these truths with closer eyes. And trace them through the prospect as it lies; Here for a while my proper cares resign'd. Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; Like yon neglected shrub at random cast, That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. Far to the right where Appenine ascends, Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side. Woods over woods in gay theatric pride; While oft some temple's mouldering tops between With venerable grandeur mark the scene. Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely blest. Whatever fruits in different climes were found, That proudly rise, ot 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 fives, 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 smiUng land. But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. In florid beauty groves and fields appear, Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Contrasted faults through all his manners reign ; Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain; Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; And e'en in penance planning sins anew. All evils here contaminate the mind. That opulence departed leaves behind ; For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date, When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state ; At her command the palace leam'd to rise, Again the long-fall' n column sought the skies; The canvass glow'd beyond e'en nature warm, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form: Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores display 'd her sail; While nought remain'd of all that riches gave. But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave . And late the nation found with fruitless skill Its former strength was but plethoric ill. Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride; From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade; Processions form'd for piety and love, A mistress or a saint in every grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguiled, The sports of children satisfy the child ; Each nobler aim, repress' d by long control, Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; While low delights, succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind : As in those domes, where Csesars once bore sway, Defaced by time and tottering in decay. There in the ruin, heedless of the dead. The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; And, wondering man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. My soul, turn from them ; turn we to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display. Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread No product here the barren hills afford, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array. But winter lingering chills the lap of May; f&O GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, Put 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 feasts though small, He sees his little lot the lot of all ; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; But calm, and bred jn ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes; With patient angle trolls the finny deep. Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep; ,Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way. And drags the struggling savage into day. At night returning, every 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 naany a tale repays the nightly bed. Thus every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise Enhance the bliss his scanty funds supplies. r)ear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar, But bind him to his native mountains more. Such are the charms to barren states assign'd ; Their wants but few, their wishes all confined. Yet let them only share the praises due, If few their wants, their pleasures are but few ; For every want that stimulates the breast. Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest ; Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, That first excites desire, and then sujjplies ; , Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy. To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. Their level life is but a smouldering fire, Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire; Unfit for raptures, or, if ra{)tures cheer On some high festival of once a-year, In wild excess the yulgar breast takes fire, Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. But riot their joys alone thus coarsely flow; Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low; For, as refinement stops, from sire to son Unalter'd, unimproved the manners run; And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart Fall blunted from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast May sit like falcons cowering on the nest; But all the gentler morals, such as play Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the way, These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. To kinder skies, where gentler manners. reign, I turn ; and I^rancc displays her bright domain. Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease. Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please, How often have I led thy sportive choir. With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire ! Where shading elms along the margin grew, And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew ; And haply, though my harsh touch faU'ring still, But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill; Yet would the village praise my wondrous power. And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze, And the gay grandsire, skill' d in gestic lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, Thus idly busy rolls their world away : Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear; For honour forms the social temper here. Honour, that praise which real merit gains, Or e'en imaginary worth obtains. Here passes current; paid from hand to hand. It shifts in splendid traflRc round the land ; From courts to camps, to cottages it strays. And all are taught an avarice of praise ; They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem, Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise ; For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought. Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer. To boast one splendid banquet once a-year ; Tlie mind still turns where shifting fashion draw*. Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. To men of other minds my fancy flies. Embosom' d in the deep whefe Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, I Where the broad ocean leans against the land THE TRAVELLER. 151 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 wat'ry roar, Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; The slow canal, the yellow-blossom' d vale. The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, The crowded mart, the cuhivated plain, A new creation rescued from his reign. Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil Impels the native to repeated toil. Industrious habits 1^ each bosom reign, And industry begets a love of gain. Hence all the good from opulence that springs, With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here display'd. Their much loved wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts : But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, E'en liberty itself is barter' d here. At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, T he needy sell it, and the rich man buys ; A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves. Here wretches seek dishonourable graves. And, calmly bent, to servitude conform. Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of old'! Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; War in each breast, and freedom on each brow How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the western spring; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride. And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide; There all around the gentlest breezes stray. There gentle music melts on every spray ; Creation's mildest charms are there combined. Extremes are only in the master's mind! Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state With daring aims irregularly great ; Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by ; Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band. By forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's hand. Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, True to imagined right, above control, While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan. And Learns to venerate himself as man. Thine, Freedom, thine theblessings pictured here. Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ; i Too blest indeed were such without alloy. But foster'd e'en by freedom ills annoy; That independence Britons prize too high, Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie; The self-dependent lordUngs stand alone, All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown ; Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd. Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, Represt ambition struggles round her shore, Till, over-wrought, the general system feels Ijs motion stop, or phrensy 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 thee alone, And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown : Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms, The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame. Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame, One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. Yet .think not, thus when freedom's ills I state, I mean to flatier 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, aUke undone By proud contempt, or-favour's fostering sun, Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, I only would repress them to secure : For just experience tells, in every soil, That those that think must govern those that toil; And all that freedom's highest aims can reach, Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. Hence, should one order disproportion' d grow. Its double weight must ruin all below. O then how blind to all that truth requires. Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, Except when fast approaching danger warms : But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, Contracting regal power to stretch their own ; When I behold a factious band agree To call it freedom when themselves are free ; Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw. Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home Fear, pity, justice, indignation start. Tear oft" 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 me with 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. 152 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, Her useful sons exchanged for useless orel Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste. Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste? Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain. Lead stern depopulation in her train, And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose, In barren solitary pomp repose? Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call, The smiling long-frequented village fall? Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd. The modest matron, and the blushing maid, Forced from their homes, a melancholy train. To traverse climes beyond the western main; Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with tlmnd' ring sound? E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways; Where beasts with man divided empire claim. And the brown Indian marks with 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 liis bosom sympathize with mine. Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind: Why have I stray 'd from pleasure and repose, To seek a good each government bestows? In every government, though terrors reign, Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain. How small, of all that human hearts endure. That part which laws or kings can cause or cure. Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, Our own felicity we make or find : With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, To men remote from power but rarely known, Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. THE DESERTED VILLAGE; A POEM. TO DR. GOLDSMITH, AUTHOR OP THE DESERTED VILLAGE, BYMISS AIKIN, AFTERWARDS MRS. BARBAULD. In vain fair Auburn weeps her desert plains She moves our envy who so well complains : In vain hath proud oppression laid her low ; Sht wears a garland on her ffuied brow. Now Auburn, now, absolve impartial Pate, Which, if it makes thee wretched, makes thee great So unobserved, some humble plant may. bloom. Till crush' d it fills the air with sweet perfume : So had thy swains in ease and plenty slept, The poet had not sung, nor Britain wept. Nor let Britannia mourn her drooping bay, Unhonour'd genius, and her swift decay : O, patron of the poor! it can not be, While one one poet yet remains like thee. Nor can the Muse desert our favour' d isle, Till thou desert the Muse, and scorn her smile. TO SIR JOSHUA pEYNOLDS. Dear Sir, I CAN have no expectations, in an address of this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to establish my own. You can gain nothing from my admira- tion, as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel ; and I may lose much by the severity of your judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest therefore aside, to which I never paid much attention, I must be indulged at present in following my affections. The only dedication 1 ever made was to my bro- ther, 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 versifica- tion and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to inquire ; but I know you will ob- ject (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion,) that the depopu- lation it deplores is no where to be seen, and the dis- orders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can scarcely make any other answer than that I sincerely believe what I have written ; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I alledge; and that all my views and inquiries have led me to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt to dis- play. But this is not the place to enter into an in- quiry, whether the country be depopulating or not ; the discussion would take up much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indifferent politi- cian, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to a long poem. In regretting the depopulation of the country, 1 inveigh against the increase of our luxuries; and here also I expect the shout of modem 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 wis- dom of antiquity in that particular, as erroneous. Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and continue to think those luxuries POEMS. l&S prejudicial to states by which so many vices are in- troduced, 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. DESERTED VILLAGE. Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain. Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain. Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid. And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd: Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease. Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have 1 loiter'd o'er thy green. Where humble happiness endear' d each scene! How often have I paused on every charm, The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm. The never-failing brook, the busy mill. The decent church that topp'd the neighb'ring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made ! How often have I blest the coming day. When toil remitting lent its turn to play. And all the village train from labour free. Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; While many a pastime circled in the shade. The young contending as the old survey'd ; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground. And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ; And still as each repeated pleasure tired. Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; The dancing pair that simply sought renown. By holding out to tire each other down; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter titter' d round the place; The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these. With sweet succession, tau^t 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 wayj Along thy glades, a solitary guest. The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall ; And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand Far, far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : Princes and lords may flourish or may fade : A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. A time there was. ere England's griefs began. When every rood of ground maintain'd its man; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more : His best companions, innocence and health. And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth, and cumbrous pomp repose ; And every want to luxury allied, Ajid every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom. Those calm desires that asked bul little room, Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene. Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green ; These, far daparting, 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 1 take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew. Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs and God has given my share I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the close. And keep the flame from wasting by repose : I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past. Here to return and die at home at last. 154 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 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, Ex[)lore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep; Nor surly porter stands in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate : But on he moves to meet his latter end, A ngels around befriending virtue's friend ; Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay. While resignation gently slopes the way ; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past. Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, Up j'onder hill the village murmur rose; There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow. The mingling notes came soften' d from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung; The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool ; The playful children just let loose from school ; The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, Arwl the loud lau^h that spoke the vacant mind ; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale. No busy steps the grass -grown foot- way tread, But all the bloomy flush of life is fled : All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy pring; 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 plai i'.. Near yonder copse, where once the arden smil' d, 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 chang'd, nor wish'd t change his place; UnskilfiU he to fawn, or seek for power. By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn' d to prize. More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; The long remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd ; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder' d his crutch and show'd how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow. And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; Careless their merits, or their faults to scan. His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledged oflfspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, \y And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay' d, The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praiso At church, with meek and unaflTected grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools, who came to scoflf, remain'd to pray. The service past, around the pious man. With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliflT that lifts its awful form. Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its brea#t the rolling clouds are Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay. There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule. The village master taught his little school: A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's disasters in his morning fac;e; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; Full well the busy whisper circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd* POEMS. 155 Yet he was kind, or, if gevere in aught. The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew, *Twas certain he could write, and cipher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. And e'en the story ran that he could gauge: In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill. For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around, And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot "Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired. Where gray-beard mirth, and smiling toil retired. Where village statesmen talk' d with looks profound. And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place; The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor. The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; The hearth, except when winter chill' d the day, With aspin boughs, and flowers and fennel gay, While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show. Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. Vain transitory splendours ! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; Thither no more the peasant shall repair, To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale. No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear. Relax his pond'rous strength, and learn to he^r; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train. To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art : Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play. The soul adopts, and own their first-born sway; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain : And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy. The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy t 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 robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their growth ; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies. While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure, all In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrow' d charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail. She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd; In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, But verging to decline, its splendours rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; While, scourged by famine from the smiling land The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms a garden, and a grave. Where then, ah ! where shall poverty reside. To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd. He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And e'en the 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 ; 156 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps dis- play, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train; Tumultuous grandeur crowns the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare, Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! Sure these denote one universal joy! Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, And 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. And shuddering still to face the distant deep, Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. The good old sire, the first prepared to go To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; But for himself in conscious virtue brave, He only 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 her father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blest the cot where every pleasure rose ; And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear j While her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene. Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altaraa 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 crown' d Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattUng terrors of the vengeful snake ; W here crouching tigers wait their hapless prey. And savage men more murderous still than they ; Wnile oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies, Far different these from every former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy vested green. The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that part- ing day That call'd them from their native walks away ; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past. Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, And took a long farewell, and wished in vain For seats like these beyond the western main ; O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree. How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! How do thy potions with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigour not their own ; At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. E'en now the devastation is begun. And half the business of destruction done ; E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land, Down where yon anchoring vessels 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 those degenerate times ofshame. To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride. Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime; Aid, slighted truth, with thy persuasive strain. Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; Teach him, that states of native strength possest. Though very poor, may still be very blest ; POEMS. IS*: That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole aWay ; "^VTiile self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky. THE GIFT. TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN. Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake. Dear mercenary beauty, What annual offering shall 1 make Expressive of my duty 1 My heart, a victim to thine eyes. Should I at once deliver. Say, would the angry fair one prize The gift, who slights the giver 1 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 ofterings 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. This tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name. May speak our gratitude, but not his fame, What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, That leads to truth through pleasure's flow'ry way! Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid ; And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. Needless to him the tribute we bestow, The transitory breath of fame below . More lasting rapture from his works shall rise. While converts thank their poet in the skies. EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS. What? five long acts and all to make us wiser? Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. Had she consulted me, she should have made Her moral play a speaking masquerade; Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain ol thinking: Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, What if I give a masquerade 7 I will. But how? ay, there's the rub! [pa^ising] I've got my cue; The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, you, you. [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. Lud ! what a group the motley scene discloses False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses ! Statesmen with bridles on ; and close beside 'em, Patriots in party -colour' d suits that ride 'em. There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore : These in their turn, with appetites as keen, Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen. Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon. Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman j The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure. And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure : Thus 'tis with all their chief and constant care Is to seem every thing but what they are. Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on. Who seems t'have robb'd his vizor from the lion; Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade. Looking, as who should say, dam'me ! who's afraidl [Mimicking. Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am You'll find his lionship a very lamb. Yon politician, famous in debate. Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state; Yet, when he deigns his real shape t'assume, He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom. Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight, And seems, to every gazer, all in white, If with a bribe his candour you attack. He bows, turns round, and whip ^the man in black! Yon critic, to ^but whither do I run? If I proceed, our bard will be undone ! Well then a truce, since she requests it too : Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you. EPILOGUE, SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY. Enter Mrs. Bulhley, who courtesies very low as beginning to spealc Then enter Miss Catleij, who stands full before her, and courtesies to the AucUence. MRS. BULKLEY. Hold, ma'am, your pardon. What's your buM- ness here ? ->s OLDSMITH'S WORKS. Miss catley. Thfe Epilogue. MRS. BULKLEY. The Epilogue? MISS CATLEi'. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear. MRS. BULKLEY. Sure you mistake, ma'am. The Epilogue, /bring it. MISS CATLEY. Excuse me, ma'am. The author bid me sing it. Recitative. Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, Suspend your conversation while I sing. MRS. BULKLEY, Why, sure the girl's beside herself! an Epilogue of singing, A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning Besides, a singer in a comic set Excuse me, ma'am, I know the etiquette. MISS CATLEY. What if we leave it to the house 7 MRS. BULKLEY. The house ! Agreed. MISS CATLEY. Agreed. MRS. BULKLEY. And she whose party's largest shall proceed. And first, I hope you'll readily agree I've all the critics and the wits for me; They, I am sure, will answer my commands : Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands. What ! no return 1 1 find too late, 1 fear, That modern judges seldom enter here. MrSS CATLEY. I'm for a diflferent set. Old men whose trade is Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies. Recitative. Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smihng, Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling. Air Cotillon. Turn my fairest, turn, if ever Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye, Pity take on your swain so clever, Who without your aid must die. Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu, Yes, 1 shall die, ho, ho, ho, ho. Da capo. MRS. BULKLEY. Let all the old pay homage to your merit ; Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. Ye traveird tribe, ye macaroni train. Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain, W^ho 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 heoids are only lent to the Heinelle. MISS CATLEY. Ay, take your travellers ^travellers indeed ! Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed. Where are the chielsl Ah! Ah, I well discern The smiUng 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 ; When you with your bagpij-jcs 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. BULKLEY. Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit. Make but of all your fortune one va toute : Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, " 1 hold the odds. Done, done, with you, with you.** Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, " My lord, Your lordship misconceives the case." Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner, " I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner :" Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, Come end the contest here, and aid my party. Miss CATLEY. Air Ballinamony. 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 m6. MRS. BULKLEY. Well, madam, what if, after all this sparring, We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring? MISS CATLEY. And that our friendship may remain unbroken, What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken? MRS. BULKLEY, Agreed. MISS CATLEY. Agreed. MRS. BULKLEY. And now with late repentance, Un-epilogued the poet waits his sentence. Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit. [Exeunt AN EPILOGUE, INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY. There is a place, so Ariosto sings, A treasury for lost and missing things : Lost human wits have places there assign'd them, And they who lose their senses, there may find them. But Where's this place, this storehouse of the agef The Moon, says he ; but I affirm, the Stage : At least in many things, I think, 1 see His lunar, and our mimic world agree. POEMS. 159 Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alonej 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, citSj Come thronging to collect their scatter' d witSi The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, Comes here at night, and goes a prude awsty. Hither the affected city dame advancing. Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing, Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on, Cluits 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 ;" Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating. Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. Here comes the sons of scandal and of news. But find no sense for they had none to lose. Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser, Our author's the least likely to grow wiser ; Has he not seen how you your favour place On sentimental queens and lords in lace7 Without a star, a coronet, or garter, Flow 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.* HAUNCH OF VENISON; A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. Thanks, 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: I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view, To be shown to ray 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. * This Epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy (late Bishop of Dromore); but for what comedy it was intended ie not remembered. But hold let me pause don't I hear you pro- nounce, 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 undrest. To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Mon- roe's : But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There's H d, and C y, and H rth, and H ff, I think they love venison 1 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 is a very good treat; Such dainties to them their health it might hurt, It's like sending them ruffles, when v/anting a shirt. While thus I debated, in reverie centred. An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, en- ter' d; An under-bred, fine spoken fellow was he. And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison and me. " What have we got here? Why this is good eating ! Your own, I suppose or is it in waiting ?" " Why whose should it be?" cried I with a flounce; "I get these things often " but that was a bounce : " Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the na- tion, 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 1 insist on't precisely at three; We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits wHl be there; My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner ! We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. What say you a pasty? it shall, and it must. And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Here, porter this venison with me to Mile-end : No stirring I beg my dear friend my dear friend!" Thus snatching his hat, hebrush'd off like the wind, And the porter and eatables followed behind. Lord Clare's nephew 160 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And "nobody with me at sea but myself;"* Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were things that I never disliked in my life. Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife, So next day in due splendour to make my approach, I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. When come to the place where we all were to dine, (A chair-lumlKjr'd closet, just twelve feet by nine,) My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb, With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come; " For I knew it," he cried; " both eternally lail, 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 ownstoPanurge." While thus he described them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner v/as served as they came. At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen ; At the sides there was spinage, and pudding made hot; In the middle a place were the pasty ^was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion. And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round : But what vex'd me most was that d d Scottish rogue. With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue. And ' Madam," quoth he, " may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on : Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." " The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, " I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week : I like these here dinners, so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." "O ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice. He's keeping a corner for something that's nice; There's a pasty" " A pasty!" repeated the Jew, " I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness, Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor. 12m(^ " 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 delay 'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid: A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her? That she came with some terrible news from the baker : And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus but let similes drop And now that I think on't, the story may stop. To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced To send such^ood verses to one of your taste; You' ve got an odd something a kind of discerning, A relish a taste sicken'd over by learning; At least, it's your temper, as very well known. That you think very slightly of all that's your own: So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTTVITY. SONG. The wretch condemn'd with life to part, Still, still on hope relies ; And every pang that rends the heart, Bids expectation rise. Hoj)e, like the glimmering taper's light, Adorns and cheers the way; And still, as darker grows the night. Emits a brighter ray. SONG. O Memory! thou fond deceivqi-^ Still importunate and vain, To former joys recurring ever, And turning all the past to pain: Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe; And he who wants each other blessing, In thee must ever find a foe. THE CLOWN'S REPLY. John Trott was desired by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had ears; poeMs. 161 ' An't please you," quoth John, " I'm riot given to letters, Kor 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." Edinburgh, 1753. EPITAPH ON EDWARD PUHDON.* Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, Who long was a bookseller's hack; He led such a damnable life in this world, I don't think he'll v/ish to come back. AN ELEGY O.V THE GLORY OP HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE. Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, , Who never wanted a good word, From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom pass'd her door, And always found her kind ; She freely lent to all the poor, Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighbourhood to please With manners wondrous winning; And never follow' d wicked ways, Unless when she was sinning At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size; She never slumber' d in her pew, But when she shut her eyes. Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The king himself has follow'd her, When she has walk'd before. But now her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all ; The doctors found, when she was dead, Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent-street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more, She had not died to-day. This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted hia patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers He translated 'V^oltaire's Henriade. 11 RETALIATION; A POEM. [Dt. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dinei I at the SL James's Coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write 6pitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for Re- taliation, and at their next meeting produced the following poem) Of old, when Scarroh his companions invited. Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united ; If our landlord* supplies us with beef, and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish ; Our Deant shall be venison, just fresh from the plains; Our Burket shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains ; Our Will shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour, And Dickll with his pepper shall heighten the sa- vour; Our Cumberland' sTT sweet-bread its place shall obtain. And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain j Our Garrick'stt a sallad ; for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : To make out the dinner, full certain I am, That Ridgett is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb; That Hickey'sllll 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 Pm 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.. The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, where th doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this poem, oc- casionally dined. t Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland. + The Right Hon. Edmund Burke, Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin. II Mr. Richard Burke, coMector of Granada. ITMr. Richard Cumberland, author of " The West Indian." "Fashionable Lover," "The Brothers," and various other productions. ' Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor, (afterwards bishop of Salisbury), an Ingenious Scotch gentleman, who no less dis- tinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forge- ries) of his countrymen ; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes. 1t David Garrick. Esq. tf Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to Om Irish bar. | Sir Joshua Reynolds, in An eminent attomey. 163 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. Here lies the good dean,* re-united to earth, Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth : If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, At least in six weeks I could not find 'em out ; Vet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, . That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. Here lies our good Edmund, t whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind. And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat To persuade Tommy Townshendt to lend him a vote: Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refin- ing, 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 rig}^ to pursue the expedient. in short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in' t; The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; Still aiming at 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, II 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 Umb! Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball! Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all! In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, That we wish'd him full ten times a-day at old Nick; But missing his mirth and agreeable vein, As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; * Doctor Bernard. tThe Right Hon. Edmund Burke. J Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch. Mr. William Burke. I Mr. Richard Burlce ; (vide page 161.) This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs at different tlmee, the doctor had rallied him on those accidents, as a kind erf retriWtivfe justice ftw breaking his Jests upon other people. 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; liike a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feeling, that folly grows proud; And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own;- Say, where has our poet this malady caught. Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault? Say, was it that vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, Ctuite 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 di\ineig, Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines : When satire and censure encircled his throne, I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own ; But now he is gone, and we want a detector, Our Dodds* shall be pious, our Kenrickst shall lecture; Macphersont write bombast, and call it a style, Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall com- pile: New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over. No countryman living their tricks to discover Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark. Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; As a wit, if not first, in the very first line ; Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural,' simple, affecting; 'Twas only that when he was off, he was actiiig 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. * The Rev, Dr. Dodd. t Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of " The School of Shakspeare." I James Macpherson, Esq. who lafely, from the mere forot of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. POEMS. 169 Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame; Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease, Who pepper' d the highest, was surest to please. But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks, ye Kelly s,* and Woodfallst so grave, What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ! How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that y'ou raised, While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be- praised ! But peace to his spirit wherever it flies, To act as an an^el and mix with the skies : Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,- Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will, Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love, And Beaumonts and Bens.be his Kellys a;bove.$ Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature. And slander itself must allow him good nature ; He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper, Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser? I answer no, no, for he always was wiser. * Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, etc. etc. t Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle, t The following poems by Mr. Garrick, may in some mea sure account for the severity exercised by Dr. Goldsmith in respect to that gentleman. JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE. Here Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow, Go fetch me some clay I will make an oddfellow ! Right and wrong shall be jumbled, much gold and some dross; Without cause be he pleased, without cause be he cross; Be siire, as I work, to throw in contradictions, A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions; Now mix these ingredients, which, warm'd in the baking, Turn'd to learning and gaming, religion and raking. With the love of a wench let his writings be chaste ; Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste; That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail, Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail : For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it, This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, arApoet; Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame, And among brother mortals be Goldsmith his name ; When on 6arth this strange meteor no more shall appear, You, Hermes, shall fetch him to make us sport here. ON DR. GOLDSMITH'S CHARACTERISTICAL COOKERY. A JEU D'ESPRIT. Are these the choice dishes the doctor has sent usl' la this the great poet whose works so content usl This Goldsmith's fine feast, who has written fine booksl Heaven sends us gu)d meat, but the Devil sends cooks. Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flaf? 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! T hen what was his failing? come tell it, and bum ye f 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 otif faces, his manners our heart : To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing : When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregiosy and stuff. He shifted his trumpet,"' and only took snuff POSTSCRIPT. After the fourth edition of tliis poem was printed, the pub- lisher received the following Epitaph on Mr. Whitcfoord,f from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith. Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man :i Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun ! Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun ; Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear ; Who scatter' d around wit and humour at will; Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill : A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. What pity, alas ! that so liberal a mind Should so long be to newspaper essays confined ! Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar^ Yet content " if the table he set in a roar;" Whose talents to fill any station were fit, Yet happy if Woodfall confess' d him a wit. Ye newspaper witlings ! ye pert scribbling folks ! Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes; Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, Stdl follow your master, and visit his tomb. To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, And copious libations bestow on his shrine; Then strew all around it (you can do no lees) Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press.lt * Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be un der the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company. t Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. + Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without, being infected with the hch of punning. Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. B Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town withh*- moroua pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser, 164 GOLDSMITH'S WQRKS. Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for thy sake I ad- mit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit. This debt to thy mem'ry I can not refuse, "Thou best humour' d man with the worst hu- mour'd Muse." SONG: INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.* Ah me! when shall I marry me? Lovers are plenty ; but fail to relieve me. He, fond youth, that could carry me, Offers to love, but means to deceive me. But I will rally, and combat the miner; Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her. Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover. PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE; A TRAGEDY: WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, ESa. ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROyAL, COVENT GARDEN, MDCCLXXII. SPOKEN BY MR. auICK. In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore. The distant climates, and the savage shore; When wise astronomers to India steer, And quit for Venus many a brighter here; While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, Forsake the fair, and patiently go simpUng; 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 order'd me before, To make an observation on the shore. Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost! This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. Lord, what a sultry climate am I under! Yon ill foreboding cloud seems big with thunder: [Upper Gallery, There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em [Pit. Here trees of stately size and billing turtles in 'em, [Balconies Here ill-condition'd oranges abound [Stage. And apples, bitter apples strew the ground : [Tasting thera. The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear : I heard a hissing there are serpents here ! O, there the people are best keep my distance: Our captain, gentle natives! craves assistance ; Our ship's well stored in yonder creek we've laid her, His honour is no mercenary trader. This is his first adventure, lend liim 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. * SIR I send you a small production of the late Dr. Gold smith, which has never been published, and which might per- haps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admi- rable comedy of " She Sioops to Conquer," but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called " The Humours of Balamagairy," to which, he told mej he found it very difficult to adapt words ; but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own hajvd-writing, with an affectionate care. I am, Sir, your humble servant, James Boswell. EPILOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEaUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT Hold ! Prompter, hold ! a word before your non- sense : I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. My pride forbids it ever should be said, My heels eclipsed the honours of my head ; That I found humour in a piebald vest. Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. [Takes off his mask. Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth ? Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth ; In thy black aspect every passion sleeps, The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps. How hast thou fiU'd the scene w'ih all thy brood .Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued ! Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses. Whose only plot it is to break our noses ; Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise, And from above the dangling deities ; And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew 1 May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do ! No I will act, I'll vindicate the stage : Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. Off! off! vile trappings ! a new passion reigns ! The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins. Oh ! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme: Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds ! soft 'twas but a dream. Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreat- ing, If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 'Twas thus that JEsop's stag, a creature blameless, Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless^ POEMS. 165 Once on the margin of a fountain stood, And cavill'd at his image in the flood. " The deuce confound," he cries, " these drumstick shanks, They never have my gratitude nor thanks ; They're perfectly disgraceful ! strike me dead ! But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head. How piercing is that eye, how sleek that brow! My horns ! I'm told horns are the fashion now." Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view, Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew ; Hoicks ! hark forward ! came thund'ring from be- hind, He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind : He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways ; He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze. At length, his silly head, so prized before, Is taught his former folly to deplore ; Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free. And at one bound he saves himself, like me. [Takiug a jump through the stage door. THE LOGICIANS REFUTED, IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT. Logicians have but ill defined As rational the human mind ; Reason, they say, belongs to man, But let them prove it if they can. Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, By ratiocinations specious. Have strove to prove with great precision, With definition and division. Homo est ratione prcEditum ; But for ray soul I can not credit 'em ; And must in spite of them maintain, That man and all his ways are vain ; And that this boasted lord of nature Is both a weak and erring creature. That instinct is a surer guide, Than reason, boasting mortals' pride ; And that brute beasts are far before '.em, Deus est anima hrutorum. Who ever knew an honest brute At law his neighbour prosecute. Bring action for assault and battery, Or friend beguile with lies and flattery 1 O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd, No politics disturb their jmind ; 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 Pater-Noster Row; No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, No pickpockets or poetasters, Are known to honest quadrupeds, No single brute his fellow leads. Brutes never meet in bloody fray Nor cut each other's throats for pay. Of beasts, it is confest, 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 masters' manners still contract. And footmen, lords, and dukes can act. Thus at the court, both great and small Behave aUke, for all ape all. STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF aUEBEC. Amidst the clamour of exulting joys, Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice. And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. O Wolfe ! to thee a streaming flood of woe. Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Ctuebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart- wrung tear. AUve, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled. And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead ! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING. Sure 'twas by Providence design'd, Rather in pity, than in hate, That he should be, like Cupid, blind, To save him from Narcissus' fate. A SONNET Weeping, murmuring, complaining, Lost to every gay delight ; Myra, too sincere for feigning. Fears th' approaching bridal night. Yet why impair thy bright perfection 7 Or dim thy beauty with a tear 1 Had Myra follow'd my direction. She long had wanted cause of fear. ^mm iS)=srii^wiBai2) m^^\ ^ eomeirg; AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN. PREFACE. When I undertook to write a comedy, I confess 1 was strongly prepossessed in favour of the poets of tne 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 charac- ter has been his principal aim. Those who know any thing of composition, are sensible that, in pur- suing humour, it will sometimes lead us into the recesses of the mean; I was even tempted to Ipok for it in the master of a spunging-house ; but in deference to the public taste, grown of late, per- haps, too delicate, the scene of the bailiffs was re- trenched in the representation. In deference also to the judgment of a few friends, who think in a particular way, the scene is here restored. The author submits it to the reader in his closet ; and hopes that too much refinement will not banish hu- mour and character from ours, as it has already done from the French theatre. Indeedj the French comedy is now become so very elevated and senti- mental, that it has not only banished humoyr and Moliere from the stage, but it has banished all spectators too. Upon the whole, the author returns his thanks to the public for the favourable reception which * The Good-Natured Man^' has met with ; and to Mr. Colman in particular, for his kindness to it. It may not also be improper to assure any, who shall hereafter write for the theatre, that merit, or supposed merit, will ever be a sufficient passport to his protection. PROLOGUE WRITTEN BY DR. JOHNSON, AND SPOKEN BY MR. BENSLEY. PREST by the load of life, the weary mind Surveys the general toil of human kind ; With cool submission joins the lab' ring train, And social sorrow loses half its pain ; Our anxious bard without complaint, may share This bustling season's epidemic care. Like Csesar's pilot, dignified by fate, Tost in one common storm with all the great ; Distrest 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 bear all taunts, and hear without reply. Uncheck'd, on both loud rabbles vent their rage, As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. Th' offended burgess holds his angry tale, For that blest year when all that vote may rail ; Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss. Till that glad night, when all that hate may hiss. " This day the powder'd curls and golden coat," Says swelling Crispin, " begg'd a cobbler's vote." " This night our wit," the pert apprentice cries, " Lies at my feet I hiss him, and he dies."^ The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe ; The bard may supplicate, but can not 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, THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 1C7 DRAMATIS PERSONiE. MEN. Mr. HoNEywooD .... Mr. Powell. Croaker Mr. Sirtter. Lofty Mr. Woodward. Sir William HoNEYwooD . Mr. Clarke. Leontine Mr. Bensley. Jarvis Mr. Dunstall. Butler Mr. Gushing. Bailiff Mr. R. Smith. Dubardieu Mr. Holtam. Postboy . . .... Mr. CIuick. WOMEN. M'ss Richland .... Mrs. Bulklet. Olivia Mrs. Mattocks. Mrs. Croaker Mrs. Pitt. GrARNET Mrs, Green. Landlady Mrs. White. Scene London. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. ACT I. scene an apartment in young honeywood' HOUSfi. Enter SIR WILLIAM HONEYWOOD, 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, when I hear you talk of disinheriting so good, so worthy a young gentleman as your ne- chew, my master. All the world loves him. Sir William. Say rather, that he loves all the world ; that is his fault. Jarvis. I am sure there is no part of it more dear to him than you are, though he has not seen you since he was a child. Sir William. What signifies his affection to me ; or how can I be proud of a place in a hearty where every sharper and coxcomb finds an easy entrance 1 Jarvis. I grant you that he is rather too good- natured ; that he's too much every man's man ; that he laughs this minute with one, and cries the next with another ; but whose instructions may he thank for all this? Sir William. Not mine, sure ? My letters to him during my employment in Italy, taught him only that philosophy which might prevent, not de- fend his errors. Jarvis. Faith, begging your honour's pardon, Iim sorry they taught him any philosophy at all; it my friends this morning' 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 William. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his philosophy, I entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good-nature arises rather from his fears of offending the importunate, than his desire of making the de- serving happy. Jarvis. What it arises from, I don't know. But to be sure, every body has it, that asks it. Sir William. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have been now for some time a concealed spectator of his follies, and find them as boundless as his dis- sipation. Jarvis. 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 se- curity for a fellow whose face he scarce knew, and that he called an act of exalted mu mu munifi- cence ; ay, that was the name he gave it. Sir William. And upon that I proceed, as my last effort, though with very little hopes to reclaim him. That very fellow has just absconded, and i have taken up the security. Now, my intention is to involve him in fictitious distress, before he has plunged himself into real calamity : to arrest him for that very debt, to clap an officer upon him, and then let him see which of his friends will come to his relief Jarvis. Well, if I could but any way see hira thoroughly vexed, every groan of his would be mu- sic 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-dreseer. Sir William. We must try him once more, however, and I'll go this instant to put my scheme into execution : and I don't despair of succeeding, as, by your means, I can have frequent opportuni- ties of being about him without being known. What a pity it is, Jarvis, that any man's good- will to others should produce so much neglect of him- self, 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. [E.vit. Jarvis. Well, go thy ways, Sir William Ho- neywood. 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. Honeywood. Well, Jarvis, what mes.<efore me. Could Miss Richland have set him at liberty? . Enter HONEYWOOD. Mr, Honeywood, I'm glad to see you abroad again, I find my concurrence was not necessary in your unfortunate affairs, I had put things in a train to do your business; but it is not for me to say what I intended doing, Honeywood. It was unfortunate indeed, sir. But what adds to my uneasiness is, that while you seem to be acquainted with my misfortune, I my- self continue still a stranger to my benefactoi*. Lofty. How ! not know the friend that served you? Honeywood. Can't guess at the person. Lofty. Inquire. 182 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. Honeywood. I have; but all I can learn is, that he chooses to remain concealed, and that all in quiry must be fruitless. Lofty. Must be fr\iitless! Honeywood. Absolutely fruitless. Lofty. Sure of that? Honeyicood. Very sure. Lofty. Then I'll be damn'd if you shall ever know it from me. Honeywood. Howr, sir? Lofty. I suppose now, Mr. Honeywood, you think my rent-roll very considerable, and that 1 have vast sums of money to throw away ; I know you do. The world, to be sure, says such things of me. Honeywood. The world, by what I learn, is no stranger to your generosity. But where does this tend? Lofty. To nothing; nothing in the world. The town, to be sure, when it makes such a thing as me the subject of conversation, has arsserted, that I never yet patronised a man of merit. Honeywood. I have heard instances to the con- trary, even from yourself Lofty. Yes, Honeywood; and there are in- stances to the contrary, that you shall never hear from myself Honeywood. Ha! dear sir, permit me to ask you but one question. Lofty. Sir, ask me no questions; I say, sir, ask me no questions ; I'll be damn'd if I answer them. Honeywood. I will ask no further. My friend ! my benefactor ! it is, it must be here, that I am in- debted for freedom, for honour. Yes, thou wor- thiest of men, from the beginning I suspected it, but was afraid to return thanks ; which, if unde- served, might seem reproaches. Lofty. 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 per- mitted to enjoy the luxury of his own feehngs, without all this parade? Honeywood. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an action that adds to your honour. Your looks, your air, your manner, all confess it. Lofty. Confess it, sir! torture itself, sir, shall never bring me to confess it. Mr. Honeywood, I have admitted you upon terms of friendship. Don't let us fall out ; make me happy, and let this be buried in oblivion. You know I hate ostentation ; you know I do. Come, come, Honeywood, you know I always loved to be a friend, and not a pa- tron. I beg this may make no kind of distance between us. Come, come, you and I must be more familiar Indeed we must. Honeywood. Heavens! Can I ever repay such friendship? Is there anyway? Thou best of men, can I ever return the obligation? Lofty. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle! But I see your heart is labouring to be grateful. You shall be grateful. It would be cruel to disappoint you. Honeywood. How! teach me the manner. Is there any way? Lofty. From this moment you're mine. Ye my friend, you shall know it I'm in love. Honeywood. And can I assist you? Lofty. Nobody so well. Honeywood. In what manner ? I'm all impa tience. Lofty. You shall make love for me. Honeywood. And to whom shall I speak in your favour ? Lofty. To a lady with whom you have great in- terest, I assure you ; Miss Richland. Honeyicood. Miss Richland! Lofty. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck the blow up to the hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter. Honeywood. Heavens! was ever any thing more unfortunate ? It is too much to be endured. Lofty. Unfortunate, indeed! And yet can I en- dure it, till you have opened the affair to her for me. Between ourselves, I think she likes me. I'm not apt to boast, but I think she does. Honeywood. Indeed ! but do you know the per- son you apply to ? Lofty. Yes, I know you are her friend and mine : that's enough. To you, therefore, I commit the success of my passion. I'll say no more, let friend- ship 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 tune. No apologies, my friend, I'll not be answered ; it shall be so. {Exit. Honeywood. Open, generous, unsuspecting man! He little thinks that I love her too ; and with such an ardent passion ! But then it was ever but a vain and hopeless one ; my torment, my persecu- tion ! What shall I do ? Love, friendship ; a hope- less passion, a deserving friend ! Love, that has been my tormentor ; a friend that has, perhaps, dis- tressed himself to serve me. It shall be so. Yes, 1 will discard the fondling hope from my bosom, and exert all my influence in his favour. And yet to see her in the possession of another ! In- upportable ! But then to betray a generous, trust- ing friend ! Worse, worse ! Yes, I'm resolved. Let me but be the instrument of their happiness, and then quit a country, where I must for ever de- spair of finding my own. [Exit. Enter OLIVIA, and GARNET, who carries a milliner's box. Olivia. Dear me, I wish this journey were over. No news of Jar vis yet? I believe the old peevish creature'uelays purely to vex me. Garnet. Why, to be sure, madam, I did hear him say, a little snubbing before marriage would teach you to bear it the better afterwards. Olivia. To be gone a full hour, though he liad THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 183 nly to get a bill changed in the city ! How pro voking. Garnet. I'lllay my life, Mr. Leontine, that had twice as much to do, is setting off by this time from his inn ; and here you are left behind. Olivia. Well, let us be prepared for his coming, however. Are you sure you have omitted nothing, Garnet ? Garnet. Not a stick, madam all's here. Yet I wish you would take the white and silver to be married in. It's the worst luck in the world, in any thing but white. I knew one Bett Stubbs of our town that was married in red; and, as sure as eggs is eggs, the bridegroom and she had a miff before morning. Olivia. No matter. I'm all impatience till we are out of the house. Garnet. Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot the wedding ring ! The sweet Uttle thing I don't think it would go on my little finger. And what if I put in a gentleman's night-cap, in case of ne- cessity, madam? But here's Jarvis. Enter JARVIS. Olivia. O Jarvis, are you come at last 1 We have been ready this half hour. Now let's be go- ing. Let us fly ! Jarvis. Ay, to Jericho; for we shall have no going to Scotland this bout, I fancy. Olivia. How ! what's the matter? Jarvis. Money, money, is the matter, madam. We have got no money. What the plague do you send me of your fool's errand for? My master's bill upon the city is not worth a rush. Here it is ; Mrs. Garnet may pin up her hair with it. Olivia. Undone ! How could Honeywood serve us so ? What shall we do ? Can't we go without it? Jarvis. 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, Olivia, Such a disappointment ! What a base msincere man was your master, to serve us in this manner ! Is this his good-nature ? Jarvis Nay, don't talk ill of my master, madam. I won't bear to hear any body talk ill of him but myself. Garnet. Bless us! now I think on't, madam, you need not be under any uneasiness : I saw Mr. Leontine receive forty guineas from his father just before he set out, and be can't yet have left the inn. A short letter will reach him there. Olivia. Well remembered, Garnet; I'll write immediately. How's this! Bless me, jny hand trembles so, I can't write a word. Do you write, Garnet ; and, upon second thought, it will be bet- ter from you. Garnet. 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 ! Olivia. Whatever you please. Garnet [writing.] Muster Croaker Twenty guineas, madam? Olivia. Ay, twenty will do. Garnet. At the bar of the Talbot till called for. Expedition Will be blown up All of a flame auick dispatch Cupid, the little god of love. I conclude it, madam, with Cupid : I love to see a love-letter end like poetry. Olivia. Well, well, what you please, any thing. But how shall we send it ? I can trust none of the servants of this family. Garnet. Odso, madam, Mr. Honeywood' s but- ler is in the next room: he's a dear, sweet man, he'll do any thing for me. Jarvis. He ! the dog, he'll certainly commit some blunder. He's drunk and sober ten times a-day. Olivia. No matter. Fly, Garnet; any body we can trust will do. [Exit Garnet.] Well, Jarvis, now we can have nothing more to interrupt us ; you may take up the things, and carry them on to the inn. Have you no hands, Jarvis ? Jarvis. Soft and fair, young lady. You that are going to be married, think things can never be done too fast ; but we, that are old, and know what we are about, must elope methodically, madam. Olivia. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were Xq be done over again Jarvis. My life for it, you would do them ten times over. Olivia. Why will you talk so? If you knew how unhappy they made me Jarvis. Very unhappy, no doubt : I was once just as unhappy when I was going to be married myself, I'll tell you a story about that Olivia. A story! when I'm all impatience to be away. Was there ever such a dilatory creature ! Jarvis. Well, madam, if we must march, why we will march, that's all. Though, odds-bobs, we have still forgot one thing : we should never travel without a case of good razors, and a box of shav- ing powder. But no matter, I believe we shall be pretty well shaved by the way. [Going. Enter GARNET, Garnet. Undone, undone, madam. Ah, Mr. Jarvis, you said right enough. As sure as death, Mr. Honey wood's rogue of a drunken butler drop- ped the letter before he went ten yards from the door. There's old Croaker has just picked it up, and is this moment reading it to himself in the hall. Olivia. Unfortunate ! we shall be discovered. Garnet. No, madam ; don't be uneasy, he can make neither head nor tail of it. To be sure he looks as if he was broke loose from Bedlam about it, but he can't find what it means for all that. O lud, he is coming this way all in the horrors! 184 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. Olivia. Then let us leave the house this instant for fear he should ask further questions. In the mean time, Garnet, do you write and send off just such another. [Exeunt. Enter CROAKER. Croaker. Death and destruction! Are all the horrors of air, fire, and water, to be levelled only at jne7 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 speUing, 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 guineas at the bar of the Talboot tell called for, or yowe and yower experetion will be all 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. [Reads.] " It is but a short time you have to consider ; for if this takes wind, the house will quickly be all of a flame." Inhuman monsters ! blow us up, and then burn us ! The earthquake at Lisbon was but a bonfire to it. [Reads.] " Make quick dispatch, and so no more at present. But may Cupid, the little god of love, go with you wherever you go." The little god of love ! Cupid, the little god of love go with me ! Go you to the devil, you and your little Cupid together. I'm so frightened, I scarce know whether I sit, stand, or go. Perhaps this moment I'm treading on lighted matches, blazing brimstone, and barrels of gunpowder. They are preparing to blow me up into the clouds. Murder ! We shall be all burnt in our beds ; we shall be all burnt in our beds. Enter MISS RICHLAND. Miss Richland. Lord, sir, what's the matter? Croaker. Murder's the matter. We shall be all blown up in our beds before morning. Miss Richland. I hope not, sir. Croaker. What signifies what you hope, madam, when I have a certificate of it here in my hand 1 Will nothing alarm my family? Sleeping and eat- ing, sleeping and eating is the only work from morning till night in my house. My insensible crew could sleep though rocked by an earthquake, and fry beef-steaks at a volcano. Miss Richland. But, sir, you have alarmed them so often already ; we have nothing but earthquakes, 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 kep^ the family a week upon potatoes. Croaker. And potatoes were too good for them. But why do I stand talking here with a girl, when I should be facing the enemy without ? Here, John, Nicodemus, search the house. Look into the cel- lars, to see if there be any combustibles below; and above, in the apartments, that no matches be thrown in at the windows. Let all the fires be put out, and let the engine be drawn out in the yard, to play upon the house in case of necessity. [Exit. Miss Richland [alone.] What can he mean by all this? Yet why should I inquire, when he alarms us in this manner almost every day. But Honeywood has desired an interview with me in private. What can he mean? or rather, what means this palpitation at his approach ? It is the first time he ever showed any thing in his conduct that seemed particular. Sure he can not mean ta but he's here. Enter HONEYWOOD. Honeywood. I presumed to solicit this interview madam, before I left town, to be permitted Miss Richland. Indeed ! Leaving town, sir ? Honeywood. Yes, madam; perhaps the king- dom. I have presumed, I say, to desire the favour of this interview, in order to disclose something which our long friendship prompts. And yet my fears Miss Richland. His fears ! What are his fears to mine ! [Aside.] We have indeed been long ac- quainted, sir ; very long. If I remember, our first meeting was at the French ambassador's. Do you recollect how you were pleased to rally me upon my complexion there? Honeywood. Perfectly, madam; I presumed to reprove you for painting ; but your warmer blushes soon convinced the company, that the colouring was all from nature. Miss Richland. And yet you only meant it in your good-natured way, to make me pay a compli- ment to myself In the same manner you danced that night with the most awkward woman in com- pany, because you saw nobody else would take her out. Honeywood. Yes, and was rewarded the next night, by dancing with the finest woman in com- pany, whom every body wished to take out. Miss Richland. Well, sir, if you thought so then, I fear your judgment has since corrected the errors of a first impression. We generally show to most advantage at first. Our sex are like poor tradesmen, that put all their best goods to be seen at the windows, Honeywood. The first impression, madam, did indeed deceive me. 1 expected to find a woman with all the faults of conscious flattered beauty : I expected to find her vain and insolent But every THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. l day has since taught me, that it is possible to pos- sess sense without pride, and beauty without affec- tation. Miss Richland. 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. Honeywood. I ask pardon, madam. Yet, from our long friendship, [ presumed I might have some right to offer, without ofi'ence, what you may re- fuse, without offending. Miss Richland. Sir ! I beg you'd reflect : though, I fear, I shall scarce have any power to refuse a request of yours, yet you may be precipitate : con- sider, sir. Honeywood. I own my rashness ; but as I plead the cause of friendship, of one who loves Don't be alarmed, madam who loves you with the most ardent passion, whose whole happiness is placed in you Miss Richland. I fear, sir, I shall never find whom you mean, by this description of him. Honeywood. Ah, madam, it but too plainly points him out ; though he should be too humble himself to urge his pretensions, or you too modest to understand them. Miss Richland. Well; it would be affectation any longer to pretend ignorance ; and I will own, sir, I have long been prejudiced in his favour. It was biit natural to wish to make his heart mine, as he seemed himself ignorant of its value. Honeywood. I see she always loved him. [ilstrfe.] 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 Richland. Your friend, sir ! What friend ? Honeywood. My best friend my friend Mr. Lofty, madam. Miss Richland. He, sir! Honeywood. Yes, he, madam. He is, indeed, what your warmest wishes might have formed him; and to his other qualities he adds that of the most passionate regard for you. Miss Richland. Amazement ! No more of this, I beg you, sir. Honeywood. 1 see your confusion, madam, and know how to interpret it. And, since I so plainly read the language of your heart, shall I make my friend happy, by communicating your sentiments? Miss Richland. By no means. Honeywood. Excuse me, I must ; I know you desire it. Miss Richland. Mr. Honeywood, let me tell jou, that you wrong my sentiments and yourself. When I first appUed to your friendship, I expected advice and assistance ; but now, sir, I see that it is in vain to expect happiness from him who has been 80 bad an economist of his own ; and that I must disclaim his friendship who ceases to be a friend to himself [Exit. Honeywood. How is this ! she has confessed she loved him, and yet she seemed to part in displea- sure. Can I have done any thing to reproach my self with 7 No ; I believe not : yet after all, these things should not be done by a third person : I should have spared her confusion. My friendship carried me a little too far. Enter CROAKER, with the letter in his hand, and MRS CROAKER. Mrs. Croaker. Ha! ha! ha! And so, my dear, it's your supreme wish that I should be quite wretched upon this occasion? ha! ha! Croaker [Mimicking^ Ha! ha! ha! And so, my dear, it's your supreme pleasure to give me n( better consolation? Mrs. Croaker. Positively, my dear ; what is this incendiary stuff and trumpery to me ? our house may travel through the air hke the house of Loret- to, for aught I care, if I am to be miserable in it. Croaker. Would to Heaven it were converted into a house of correction for your benefit. Have we not every thin^ to alarm us? Perhaps this very moment the tragedy is beginning. Mrs. Croaker. Then let us reserve our distress till the rising of the curtain, or give them the mo- ney they want, and have done with them. Croaker. Give them my money! And pray, what right have they to my money? Mrs. Croaker. And pray, what right then have you to my good-humour? Croaker. And so your good-humour advises me to part with my money 1 Why then, to tell your good-humour a piece of my mind, I'd sooner part with my wife. Here's Mr. Honeywood, see what he'll say to it. My dear Honeywood, look at thi 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. Croaker. Yes, and so will Mr. Honey- wood. Croaker. If he does, I'll suffer to be hanged the next minute in the rogue's place, that's all. Mrs. Croaker. Speak, Mr. Honeywood; is there any thing more foolish than my husband's fright upon this occasion ? Honeywood. It would not become me to decide, madam ; but doubtless, the greatness of his terrors now will but invite them to renew their villany another time. Mrs. Croaker. I told you, he'd be of my opinion. Croaker. How, sir! do you maintain that I shojild lie down under such an injury, and show, neither by my tears nor complaints, that I have something of the spirit of a man in me ? Honeywood. Pardon me, sir. You ought to make the loudest complaints, if you desire redress. 186 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. The surest way to have redress, is to be earnest in the pursuit of it. Croaker. Ay, whose opinion is he of now? Mrs. Croaker. But don't you think that laugh- ing off our fears is the best way 7 ' Honerjwood. What is the best, madam, few can say ; But I'll maintain it to be a very wise way. Croaker. But we're talking of the best. Surely the best way is to face the enemy in the field, and not wait till he plunders us in our very bed-chamber. HoneyiDood. Why sir, as to the best, that that's a very wise way too. Mrs. Croaker. But can any thing be more ab- surd, than to double our distresses by our appre- hensions, and put it in the power of every low fel- low, that can scrawl ten words of wretched spelling to torment us. Honeywood. Without doubt, nothing more ab- surd. Croaker. How ! would it not be more absurd to despise the rattle till we are bit by the snake? Honeywood. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. Croaker. Then you are of my opinion 1 Honeywood. Entirely. Mrs. Croaker. And you reject mine? Honeywood. Heavens forbid, madam ! No sure, no reasoning can be more just than yours. AVe ought certainly to despise malice if we can not op- pose it, and not make the incendiary's pen as fatal to our repose as the highwayman's pistol. Mrs. Croaker. O! then you think I'm quite right. Honeywood. Perfectly right. Croaker. A plague of plagues, we can't be both right. I ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. My hat must be on my head, or my hat must be off. Mrs. Croaker. Certainly, in two opposite opin- ions, if one be perfectly reasonable, the other can't be perfectly right. Honeywood. And why may not both be right, madam? Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking redress, and you m waiting the event with good-humour? Pray, let me see the letter again. I have it. This letter requires twenty guineas to be lefl 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 hira. Croaker. My dear friend, it's the very thing ; the very thing. While I walk by the door, you shall plant yourself in ambush near the bar ; burst out upon the miscreant like a masked battery ; ex- tort a confession at once, and so hang him up by surprise. Honeywood. Yes, but I would not choose to ex- ercise too much severity. It is my maxim, sir, that crimes generally punish themselves. Croaker. Well, but we may upbraid him a little, I suppose 1 ^Ironically. Homy wood. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. Croaker. Well, well, leave that to my own be- nevolence. HoneyxDood. Well, I do; but remember that universal benevolence is the first law of nature. [Exeunt Honeywood and Mrs. Croaker Croaker. Yes; and my universal benevolence will hang the dog, if he had as many necks as a hydra. ACT V SCENE AN INN. Enter OLIVIA, JARVI3. Olivia. Well, we have got safe to the inn, however. Now, if the post-chaise were ready Jarvis. The horses are just finishing their oats ; and, as they are not going to be married, they choose to take their own time, Olivia. You are for ever giving wrong motives to my impatience. Jarvis. Be as impatient as you will, the horses must take their own time ; besides, you don't con- sider we have got no answer from our fellow tra- veller yet. If we hear nothing from Mr. Leontine, we have only one way left us. Olivia. What way? Jarvis. The way home again. Olivia. Not so. I have made a resolution to go, and nothing shall induce me to break it. Jarvis. Ay; resolutions are well kept, when they jump with inclination. However, I'll go hasten things without. And I'll call, too, at the bar, to see if any thing should be left for us there. Don't be in such a plaguy hurry, madam, and we shall go the faster, I promise you. [Exit Jarvis. Enter LANDLADY. Landlady. What! Solomon, why don't you move? Pipes and tobacco for the Lamb there. Will nobody answer? To the Dolphin; quick. The Angel has been outrageous this half hour. Did your ladyship call, madam? Olivia. No, madam. Landlady. I find as you're for Scotland, madam, But that's no business of mine ; married, or not married, I ask no questions. To be sure we had a sweet little couple set off from this two days ago for the same place. The gentleman, for a tailor, was, to be sure, as fine a spoken tailor as ever blew froth from a full pot. And the young lady so bash- ful, it was near half an hour before we could get her to finish a pint of raspberry between us. Olivia. But this gentleman and I are not going to be married, I assure you. Landlady. May-be not. That's no business of mine; for certain, Scotch marriages seldom turn THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. ly; out. There was, of my own knowledge, Miss Mac- fag, that married her father's footman Alack-a- day, she and her husband soon parted, and now keep separate cellars in Hedge-lane, Olivia. A very pretty picture of what lies before me ! [Aside. Enter LEONTINE. Leontine. My dear Olivia, my anxiety, till you were out of danger, was too great to be resisted. I could not help coming to see you set out. though it exposes us to a discovery. Olivia. May every thing you do prove as fortu- nate. Indeed, Leontine, we have been most cru- elly disappointed. Mr. Honeywood's bill upon the city has, it seems, been protested, and we have been utterly at a loss how to proceed. Leontine. How ! an offer of his own too. Sure, he could not mean to deceive us ? Olivia. Depend upon his sincerity ; he only mis- took the desire for the power of serving us. But let us think no more of it. I believe the post-chaise is ready by this. Landlady. Not quite yet; and, begging your 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-full to keep the wind off your stomach. To be sure, the last couple we had here, they said it was a perfect nosegay. Ecod, 1 sent them both away as good-natured Up went the blinds, round went the wheels, and drive away post-boy was the word. Enter CROAKER. Croaker. Well, while my friend Honey wood is upon the post of danger at the bar, it must be my business to have an eye about me here. I think I know an incendiary's look ; for wherever the devil makes a purchase, he never fails to set his mark. Ha ! who have we here 7 My son and daughter ! What can they be doing here 1 Landlady. I tell you, madam, it will do you good ; I think I know by this time what's good for the north road. It's a raw night, madam. Sir Leontine. Not a drop more, good madam. I should now take it as a greater favour, if you hasten the horses, for I am afraid to be seen myself. Landlady. That shall be done. Wha, Solo- mon ! are you all dead there 7 Wha, Solomon, I say! [Exit, bawling. Olivia. Well, I dread lest an expedition begun in fear, should end in repentance, Every moment we stay increases our danger, and adds to my ap- prehensions. Leontine. There's no danger, trust me, my dear; there can be none. If Honey wood has acted with honour, and kept my father, as he promised, in employment till we are out of danger, nothing can interrupt our journey. Olivia. I have no doubt of Mr, Honeywood's sincerity, and even his desires to serve us. My fears are from your father's suspicions. A mind so disposed to be alarmed without a cause, will be but too ready when there's a reason. Leontine. Why let him when we are out of his power. But believe me, Olivia, you have no great reason to dread his resentment. His repining tem- per, as it does no manner of injury to himself, so will it never do harm to others. He only frets to keep himself employed, and scolds for his private amusement, Olivia. I don't know that; but, I'm sure, on some occasions it makes him look most shockingly. Croaker [discovering himself.] How does he look now 7 How does he look now 7 Olivia. Ah! Leontine. Undone. Croaker. How do I look now 7 Sir, I am your very humble servant. Madam, I am yours. What, you are going off, are you 7 Then, first, if you please, take a word or two from me with you before you go. Tell me first where you are going ; and when you have told me that, perhaps I shall know as little as I did before. Leontine. If that bo so, our answer might but increase your displeasure, without adding to your information. Croaker. I want no information from you, puppy: and you too, good madam, what answer have you got 7 Eh! [A cry without, stop him,] I think I heard a noise. My friend Honey wood without has he seized the incendiary 7 Ah, no, for now I hear no more on't, Leontine. Honey wood without ! Then, sir, it was Mr. Honey wood that directed you hither 7 Croaker. No, sir, it was Mr. Honey wood con- ducted me hither. Leontine. Is it possible 7 Croaker. Possible ! Why h'^'s in the house now, sir ; more anxious about me than my own son, sir. Leontine. Then, sir, he's a villain. Croaker. H9W, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes most care of your father 7 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. Leontine. I shall study to repay his friendship as it deserves. Croaker. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly he entered into my griefs, and pointed out the mean? to detect them, you would love him as I do. [^4 cry without, stop him.] Fire and fury ! they have seized the incendiary : they have the villain, the incendiary in view. Stop him ! stop an incendia- ry ! a murderer ! stop him ! [E-xit. Olivia. O, my terrors ! What can this tumuU 1^ GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. Honeywood's sincerity. But we shall have satis faption : he shall give me instant satisfaction. Olivia. It must not be, my Leontine, if you yalue my esteem or my happiness. Whatever be our fate, let us not add guilt to our misfortunes Consider that our innocence will shortly be all that we have left us. You must forgive him. Leontine. Forgive him ! Has he not in every instance betrayed us ? Forced to borrow money from him, which appears a mere trick to delay us; promised to keep my father engaged till we were out of danger, and here brought him to the very scene of our escape 7 Olivia. Don't be precipitate. We may yet be mistaken Enter POSTBOY, dragging in JARVIS; HONEYWOOD entering soon after. Postboy. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. Here is the incendiary dog. I'm entitled to the reward ; I'll take my oath I saw him ask for the money at the bar, and then run for it. Honeywood. Come, bring him along. Let us see him. Let him learn to blush for his crimes. [Discovering his mistake.] Death ! what's here 1 Jarvis, Leontine, Olivia ! What can all this mean? Jarvis. Why, I'll tell you what it means : that I was an old fool, and that you are my master that's all. Honeywood. Confusion ! Leontine. Yes, sir, I find you have kept your word with me. After such baseness, I wonder how you can venture to see the man you have in- jured? Honeywood. My dear Leontine, by my life, my honour Leontine. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not continue to aggravate baseness by hypocrisy. I know you, sir, 1 know you. Honeywood. Why won't you hear me 7 By all that's just, I know not Leontine. Hear you, sir, to what purpose? 1 now see through all your low arts; your ever com- plying 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 contemptible to the world, and are now perfectly so to me. Honeywood. Ha! contemptible to the world! that reaches me. [Aside. Leontine. All the seeming sincerity of your professions, I now find, were only allurements to betray; and all your seeming regret for their con- sequences, only calculated to cover the cowardice of your heart. Draw, villain! Leontine. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr. incendiary? [Seizing the Postboy.] Hold him fast, the dog : he has the gallows in his face. Come, you dog, confess ; confess all, and hang yourself. Postboy. Zounds! master, what do you throttle me for? Croaker [beating him.] Dog, do you resist? do you resist ? Postboy. Zounds! master, I'm not he: there's the man that we thought was the rpgue, and turns out to be one of the company. Croaker. How! Honeywood. Mr. Croaker, we have all been un- der a strange mistake here; I find there is nobody guilty ; it was all an error; entirely an error of our own. Croaker. And I say, sir, that you're in an error ; for there's guilt and double guilt, a plot, a damned Jesuitical, pestilential plot, and I must have proo' of it. Honeywood. Do but hear me. Croaker. What, you intend to bring 'em oflf, I suppose? I'll hear nothing. Honeywood. Madam, you seem at least cahn enough to hear reason. Olivia. Excuse me. Honeywood. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it to you. Jarvis. What signifies explanations when the thing is done ? Honeywood. Will nobody hear me? Was there ever such a set, so blinded by passion and preju- dice ! [ To the Postboy.] My good friend, I be^ lieve, you'll be surprised when I assure you Postboy. Sure me nothing I'm sure of nothing but a good beating. Croaker. Come then you, madam, if you ever hope for any favour or forgiveness, tell me sincere- ly all you know of this affair. Olivia. Unhappily, sir, I'm but too much the cause of your suspicions : you see before you, sir, one that with false pretences has stepped into your family to betray it ; not your daughter Croaker. Not my daughter ? Olivia. Not your daughter but a mean de- ceiver who support me, I can not Honeywood. Help, she's going; give her air. Croaker. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the air ; I would not hurt a hair of her head, whosever daughter she may be not so bad as that neither. [Exeunt all but Croaker. Croaker. Yes, yes, all's out; I now see the whole affair ; my son is either married, or going to be so, to this lady, whom he 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 he- forehand, we never feel them when they come. Enter MISS RICHLAND and SIR WILLIAM. Sir William. But how do you know, madam Enter CROAKER, out of breath. Croaker. Where is the villain ? Where is the THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 189 that my nephew intends setting off from this place) Miss Richland. My maid assured me he was come to this inn, and my own knowledge of his in- tending 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 jrou here 1 to what accident do we owe this plea- sure 7 Croaker. To a fool, I believe. Miss Richland. But to what purpose did you come? Croaker. To play the fool. Miss Rkhland. But with whom 1 Croaker. With greater fools than myself. Miss Richland. Explain. Croaker. Why, Mr. Hone3rwood brought me here to do nothing now I am here ; and my son is oing to be married to I don't know who, that is nere : so now you are as wise as I am. Miss Richland. Married ! to whom, sir 1 Croaker. To Olivia, my daughter, as I took her to be ; but who the devil she is, or whose daughter she is, I know no more than the man in the moon. Sir William. Then, sir, I can inform you ; and, though a stranger, yet you shall find me a friend to your family. It will be enough, at present, to assure you, that both in point of birth and fortune the young lady is at least your son's equal. Being left by her father, Sir James Woodville Croaker. Sir James Woodville ! What, of the west? Sir William. Being left by him, I say, to the care of a mercenary wretch, whose only aim was to secure her fortune to himself, she was sent to Prance, under pretence of education; and there every art was tried to fix her for life in a convent, Contrary to her inclinations. Of this I was inform- ed upon my arrival at Paris ; and, as I had been ^nce her father's friend, 1 did all in my power to fifustrate her guardian's base intentions. I had even meditated to rescue her from his authority, when your son stepped in with more pleasing vio- lence, gave her liberty, and you a daughter. Croaker. But I intend to have a daughter of my own choosing, sir. A young lady, sir, whose for- tune, 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 William. Yes, sir ; and know that you are deceived in him. But step this way, and I'll con- vince you. [Croaker and ^ir William seem to confer. Enter HONEYWGOD. Honeywdod. Obstinate man, still to persist in his outrage ! Insulted by him, despised by all, I now begin to grow' eoiitemptible even to myself, tlofw Have I sunic* by tO) great tin akiiduity 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 repu- tation, my fortune, my friendships, and nothing remains henceforward for me but solitude and re- pentance. Miss Richland. Is it true, Mr. Honey wood, tha you are setting off, without taking leave of your friends? The report is, that you are quilting En gland: Can it be? Honeywood. Yes, madam ; and though I am so unhappy as to have fallen under your displeasure, yet, thank Heaven ! I leave you to happiness ; to one who loves you, and deserves your love ; to one who has power to procure you affluence, and gene- rosity to improve your enjoyment of it. Miss Richland. And are you sure, sir, that the gentleman you mean is what you describe him ? Honeywood. I have the best assurances of it his serving me. He does indeed deserve the high- est 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? Miss Richland. , A thousand ! to live among friends that esteem you, whose happiness it will be to be permitted to obUge you. Honeywood. No, madam, my resolution is fixed. Inferiority among strangers is easy; but among those that once were equals, insupportable. Nay, to show you how far my resolution can go, I can now speak with calmness of my former follies, my vanity, ray dissipation, my weakness. I will even confess, that, among the number of my other pre- sumptions, I had the insolence to think of loving you. Yes, madam, while I was pleading the pas- sion of another, my heart was tortured with its own. But it is over: it was unworthy our friend- ship, and let it be forgotten. Miss Richland. You amaze me! Honeywood. But you'll forgive it, I know you will; since the confession should not have come from me even now, but to convince you of the sin- cerity of my intention of -never mentioning it more. [Going. Miss Richland. Stay, sir, one moment Ha! he here Enter LOFTY. Lofty. Is the coast clear ? None but friends? I have followed you here with a trifling piece of in- telligence ; but it goes no farther, things are not yet ripe for a discovery. I have spirits working at a certain board ; your aflair at the treasury will be done in less than a thousand years. Mum ! Miss Richland. Sooner, sir, I should hope. Lqfly. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into proper hands, that know where to push and 190 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. wrhere to parry ; that know how the land lies eh, Honey wood 1 Miss Rkhland. It has fallen into yours. Lofty. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, your thing is done. It is done, I say that's all. I have just had assurances from Lord Neverout, that the claim has been examined, and found ad- missible. Quietus is the word, madam. Honeywood. But how 7 his lordship has been at Newmarket these ten days. Lofty. Indeed ! Then Sir Gilbert Goose must have been most damnably mistaken. I had it of * him. Miss Richland. He ! why Sir Gilbert and his family have been in the country this month. Lofty. This month ! it must certainly be so Sir Gilbert's letter did come to me from New- market, 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 Mar- quis of Squilachi. Have you a mind to see a letter from Count Poniatowski, now King of Poland 7 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 Wil- liam Honeywood, you may return it. The thing will do without him. Sir William. Sir, I have delivered it ; and must inform you, it was received with the most mortify- ing contempt. Croaker. Contempt ! Mr. Lofty, what can that mean? Lofty. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You'll find it come to something presently. Sir William. Yes, sir; I believe you'll be amazed, if after waiting some time in the ante- chamber, after being surveyed with insolent curi- osity by the passing servants, I was at last assured, that Sir William Honeywood knew no such per- son, and 1 must certainly have been imposed upon. Lofty. Good! let me die; very good. Ha! ha! ha! Croaker. Now, for my life, I can't find out half the goodness of it. Lofty. You can't. Ha! ha! Croaker. No, for the soul of me! I think it was as confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from one private gentleman to another. Lofty. And so you can't find out the force of the message '? Why, 1 was in the house at that very time. Ha! ha! It was I that sent that very an- swer to my own letter. Ha! ha! Croaker. Indeed! How? Why? Lofty. In one word, things between Sir William and me must be behind the curtain. A party has many eyes. He sides with Lord Buzzard, I side with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the mystery. Croaker. And so it does, indeed ; and all my sus- picions are over. Lofty. Your suspicions ! What, then, you have been suspecting, you have been suspecting, have you ? Mr. Croaker, you and I were friends ; we are friends no longer. Never talk to me. It's over; I say, it's over. Croaker. As I hope for your favour I did not mean to offend. It escaped me. Don't be discom* Lofty. Zounds ! sir, but I am discomxx)sed, anJ will be discomposed. To be treated thus ! Who am I ? Was it for this I have been dreaded both by ins and outs? Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer, and praised in the St. James's? have 1 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'? Croaker. My dear sir, be pacified. What can you have but asking pardon ? Lofty. Sir, I will not be pacified Suspects f 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 William. Since, sir, you are so pressing for an answer, I'll tell you who you are: A gentle- man, as well acquainted with politics as with men in power ; as well acquainted with persons of fash- ion as with modesty ; with lords of the treasury as with truth; and with all, as you are with Sir Wil- liam Honeywood. I am Sir William Honeywood. [Discovering his ensigns of the Bath. Croaker. Sir William Honeywood ! Honeywood. Astonishment! my uncle! [Aside^ Lofty. So then, my confounded genius has been all this time only leading me up to the garret, in order to fling me out of the window. Croaker. What, Mr. Importance, and are these your works ? Suspect you ! You, who have been dreaded by the ins and outs ; you, who have had your hands 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. ,Lofty. Ay, stick it where you will; for by the lord, it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks at present. Sir William. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope yov now see how incapable this gentleman is of serv- ing you, and how httle Miss Richland has to ex- pect from his influence. Croaker. Ay, sir, too well I see it; and I can't but say I have had some boding of it these ten days. So I'm resolved, since my son has placed his affections on a lady of moderate fortune, to be satisfied with his choice, and not run the hazard ot another Mr. Lofty in helping him to a better. Sir William. I approve your resolution; and THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 191 here they come to receive a confirmation of your pardon and consent. Enter MRS. CROAKER, .lARVlS, I.E0NT1NE, and OLIVIA. Mrs. Croaker. "Where's my husband? Come, come, lovey, you must forgive them. Jarvis here has been to tell me the whole affair; and I say, you must forgive them. Our own was a stolen match, you know, my dear ; and we never had any reason to repent of it. Croaker. I wish we could both say so. Howev- er, this gentleman. Sir William Honeywood, has been beforehand with you in obtaining their pardon. So if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, I think we can tack them together without crossing the Tweed for it. [Joining their hands. Leontine. How blest and unexpected! What, what can we say to such goodness? But our fu- ture obedience shall be the best reply. And as for this gentleman, to whom we owe Sir William. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your thanks, as I have here an interest that calls me. [ Turning to Honeywood.] Yes, sir, you are sur- prised to see me ; and I own that a desire of cor- recting your follies led me hither. I saw with in- dignation the errors of a mind that only sought ap- plause from others; that easiness of disposition which, though inclined to the right, had not cou- rage 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 weak- ness ; and your friendship but credulity. I saw with regret, great talents and extensive learning only employed to add sprightliness to error, and in- crease your perplexities. 1 saw your mind with a thousand natural charms ; but the greatness of its beauty served only to heighten my pity for its prostitution. Honeywood. Cease to upbraid me, sir: I have for some time but too strongly felt the justice of your reproaches. But there is one way still left me. Y'es, sir, 1 have determined this very hour to quit forever a place where I have made myself the volun- tary 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 de- part, permit me to solicit favour for this gentle- man; who, notwithstanding what has happened, has laid me under the most signal obligations. Mr, Lofty Lofty. Mr. Honeywood, I'm resolved upon a re- formation as well as you. I now begin to find that the man who first invented the art of speaking truth, was a much cunninger fellow than I thought him. And to prove that 1 design to speak truth for the future, 1 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. Honeyxcood. How have 1 been deceived ! Sir William. 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 Richland. After what is past it would be but affectation to pretend to indifference. Yes, I will own an attachment, which 1 find was more than friendship. And if my entreaties can not alter his resolution to quit the country, I will even try if my hand has not power to detain him. [Giving her hand.] Honeywood. Heavens! how can I have deserved all this 7 How express my happiness, my gratitude? A moment like this overpays an age of apprehen- sion. Croaker. Well, now I see content in every face j but Heaven send we be all better this day three months ! Sir William. Henceforth, nephew, learn to re- spect yourself. He who seeks only for applause from without, has all his happiness in another's keeping. Honeywood! Yes, sir, I now too plainly per- ceive my errors; my vanity in attempting to please all by fearing to offend any ; my meanness, in ap- proving 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 j. and my love for her, who first taught me what it is to be happy EPILOGUE.* SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY. As puflSng quacks some caitiff wretch procure To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure ; Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights still depend For epilogues and prologues on some friend, Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, And make full many a bitter pill go down. Conscious of this, our bard has gone about. And 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. * The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at Oxford, deferred writing one himself till the very last hour. What is here offered, owes all its success to the graceful man- ner of the actress who siwke it. 193 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS 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. 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 eye* Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise : He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grimace ; But not a soul will budge to give him place. Since then, unhelp'd our bard must now conform " To 'bide the pelting of this pit'less storm." Blame where you must, be candid where you call. And be each critic the Good-natured Man. I THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. AS ACTED AT THE THEATRE-^ROYAL, CO VENT-GARDEN. DEDICATION. TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, L. L. D. t)EAR 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 in- form them, that the greatest wit may be found in a character without impairing the most unaffected piety. I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to this performance. The under taking a Comedy, not merely sentimental, was very dangerous; and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured to trust it to the public ; and, though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason to be grateful. I am, Dear Sir, Your most sincere friend and admirer, Oliver Goldsmith. PROLOGUE. BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. Enter MR. WOODWARD, dreaeed in black, and holding a handkerchief to his eyee. Excuse me, sirs, I pray, I can't yet speak, I'm crying now and have been all the week. " 'Tis not alone this mourning suit," good masters : " I've that within" for which there are no plasters! Pray, would you know the reason why I'm crying ? The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying ! And if she goes, my tears will never stop j For, as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop : 13 I am undone, that's all shall lose my b^ead 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 clown a hearty cup. What shall we do ? If Comedy forsake us, They'll turn us out, and no one else will take Uif. But why can't I be moral ? Let me try My heart thus pressing fix'd my face and eye With a sententious look that nothing meansj (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 ign'rance enters, folly is at hand : Learning is better far than house or land. Let not your virtue trip ; who trips may stumble And virtue is not virtue if she tumble." I give it up morals won't do for me ; To make you laugh, I must play tragedy. One hope remains hearing the maid was ill, A Doctor comes this night to show his skill. To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motioi^ He, in five draughts prepared, presents a potion r A kind of magic charm for be assured, If you will swallow it the maid is cured ; But desperate the Doctor, and her case is. If you reject the dose, and make wry faces ! This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives,- No pois'nous drugs are mix'd in what he gives. Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree? If not, within he will receive no fee ! The college, you, must his pretensions back, Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Cluacfc. l94 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. DRAMATIS PERSONS. MEN, Sir Charles Marlow . . Mr. Gardner. YoDNG Marlow (his son) . Mr. Lewis. Hardcastle Mr. Shuter. Hastings Mr. Dubellamy, ToNy Lumpkin . . . Mr. GIoick. DiGGORY Mr. Saunders. WOMEN. Mrs. Hardcastle Miss Hardcastle Miss Neville Maid Mrs. Greene. Mrs. Bulkley. Mrs. Kniveton. Miss Willems. Landlord, Servants, &c. &c. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; OR, THE mSTAKES OF A NIGHT. ACT L SCENE A CHAMBER IN AN OLD-FASHIONED HOUSE. Enter amS. HARDCASTLE and MR. HARDCASTLE. Mrs. Hardcastle. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're very particular. Is there a creature in the whole country but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town now and then, to rub ofl" the rust a little 7 There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every winter. Hardcastle. Ay, and bring back vanity and affec- tation to last them the whole year. I wonder why London can not keep its own fools at home ! In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach. Its fopperies come down not only as inside passen- gers, but in the very basket. Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, your times were fine times indeed '; you have been telling us of them for many a long year. Here we live in an old rumbhng mansion, that looks for all the world Wke an inn, but that we never see company. Our best visiters are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's wife, and Httle 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. Hardcastle. And I love it. I love every thing that's old ; old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wines ; and, I believe, Dorothy, [taking her hand] you'll own I have been pretty fond of an old wife. Airs. Hardcastle. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for ever at your Dorothys and your old wives. You may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I promise you. I'm not so old as you'd make me, by more than ontf good year. Add twenty to twenty, and make mo- ney of that. Hardcastle. Let me see : twenty added to twen-. ty makes just fifty and seven. Mrs. Hardcastle. It's false. Mr. Hardcastle ; I was but twenty when I was brought to bed of To- ny, that I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband ; and he's not come to years of discretion yet. Hardcastle. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have taught him finely. Mrs. Hardcastle. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. I don't think a boy wants much learn- ing to spend fifteen hundred a-year. Hardcastle. Learning quotha ! a mere composi- tion of tricks and mischief. Mrs. Hardcastle. Humour, my dear, nothing but humour. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little humour. Hardcastle. I'd sooner allow him a horsepond. 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. Hardcastle. And am I to blame? The poor boy was always too dckly to do any good. A school would be his death. When he comes to be a little stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin may do for him? Hardcastle. Latin for him! A cat and fiddle. No, no; the alehouse and the stable are the only schools he'll ever go to. Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long among us. Any body that looks in his face may see he's consumptive. Hardcastle. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms. Mrs. Hardcastle. He coughs sometimes. Hardcastle. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way. Mrs. Hardcastle. I'm actually afraid of his lungs. Hardcastle. And truly so am I ; for he some- times whoops like a speaking trumpet [ Tony hal- looing' behind the scenes.]- O, there he goes a very consumptive figure, truly. Enter TONY, crossing the ptage. Mrs. Hardcastle. Tony, where are you going, my charmer 1 Won't you give papa and I a little of your company, lovey 7 Tony. I'm in haste, mother; I can not stay. Mrs. Hardcastle. You shan't venture out this raw evening, my dear ; you look most shockingly. Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me down every moment. There's some fun going forward. SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER. 195 Hardcasiie. Ay; the alehouse, the old place; I thought so. Mrs. Hardcastle. A low, paltry set of fellows. Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Mug- gins the exciseman. Jack Slang the horse doctor, little Aminidab that grinds the music box, and Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter. Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray, my dear, disappcdnt them for one night at least. Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not so much mind; but I can't abide to disappoint myself. Mrs. Hardcastle \detainirtg himl. You shan't go- Tony, I will, I tell you. Mrs. Hardcastle. I say you shan't. Tony. We'll see which is strongest, you or I. [Exit^ hauling her out. Hardcastle [aZoTie]. 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 fash- ions 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 MSS HARDCASTLE. Hardcastle. Blessings on my pretty innocence ! dressed out as usual, my Kate. G oodness ! What a quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got about thee, girl ! I could never teach the fools of this age, that the indigent world could be clothed out of the trimmings of the vain. Miss Hardcastle. You know our agreement, sir. You allow me the morning to receive and pay visits, and to dress in my own manner; and in the evening I put on my housewife's dress to please you. Hardcastle. Well, remember I insist on the terms of our agreement ; and by the by, I believe I shall have occasion to try your obedience this very evening. Miss Hardcastle. I protest, sir, 1 don't compre- hend your meaning. Hardcastle. Then to be plain with you, Kate, I expect the young gentleman I have chosen to be your husband from town this very day. I have his father's letter, in which he informs me his son is set out, and that he intends to follow himself shortly after. Miss Hardcastle. Indeed! 1 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 hke a thing of business, that I shall find no room for friendship or esteem. Hardcastle. 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 mo. talk so often. The young gentleman has been bred a scholar, and is designed for an employment in the service of his country. 1 am told he's a man of an excellent understanding. Miss Hardcastle. Is he ? Hardcastle. Very generous. Miss Hardcastle, 1 believe I shall like him. Hardcastle. Young and brave. Miss Hardcastle. I'm sure I shall Hke liim. Hardcastle. And very handsome. Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, say no more, [kissing his hand] he's mine; I'UJhave him. Hardcastle. And to crown all, Kate, he's one of the most bashful and reserved young fellows in all the world. Miss Hardcastle. Eh ! you have frozen me to death again. That word reserved has undone all the rest of his accomplishments. A reserved lover, it is said, always makes a suspicious husband. Hardcastle. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides in a breast that is not enriched with nobler virtues. It was the very feature in his character that first struck me. Miss Hardcastle. He must have more striking features to catch me, I promise you. However, if he be so young, so handsome, and so every thing as you mention, I beUeve he'll do still. I think I'll have him. Hardcastle. Ay, Kate, but there is still an ob- stacle. It's more than an even wa^er he may not have you. Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, why will you mortify one so? Well, if he refuses,^ instead of break- ing my heart at his indifference, I'll only break my glass for its flattery, set my cap to some newer fashion, and look out for some less difficult admirer. Hardcastle. Bravely resolved ! In the mean time I'll go prepare the servants for his reception : as we seldom see company, they want as much training as a company of recruits the first day's muster. [^xit. Miss Hardcastle [aloriel. Lud, this news of papa's puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome; these he put last; but I put them foremost. Sen- sible, good natured ; I like all that. But then re- served 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 cant I But I vow I'm disposing of the husband before I have se- cured the lover. Enter MISS NEVILLE. Miss Hardcastle. I'm glad you're come, Ne- ville, my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this evening? Is there any thing whimsical about 196 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. me 7 Is it one of my well-looking days, child 1 Am I in face to-day? Miss Neville. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look again bless me ! sure no accident has hap- pened among the canary birds or the gold fishes. Has your brother or the cat been meddling 1 or has the last novel been too moving? Miss Hardoastle. No ; nothing of all this. I nave been threatened I can scarce get it out I have been threatened with a lover. Miss Neville. And his name yiiss Hardcastle. Is Marlow. Miss Neville. Indeed! Miss Hardcastle. The sou of Sir Charles Mar- low. Miss Neville. As I live, the most intimate friend of Mr. Hastings, my admirer. They are never asunder. I believe you must have seen him when we lived in town. Miss Hardcastle. Never- Mi^s Neville. He's a very singular character, I assure you. Among women of reputation and virtue he is the modestest man alive; but his ac- quaintance give him a very different character among creatures of another stamp : you understand me. Miss Hardcastle. An odd character indeed. I shall never be able to manage him. What shall I do? Pshaw, think no more of him, but trust to oc- currences for success. But how goes on your own affair, my dear? has my mother been courting you for my brother Tony as usual? Miss Neville. I have just come from one of our agreeable tete-d-ietes. She has been saying a hun- dred tender things, and setting off her pretty mon- ster as the very pink of perfection. Miss Hardcastle. And her partiality is such, that she actually thinks him so. A fortune like yours is no small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole management of it, I'm not surprised to see her unwilling to let it go out of the family. Miss Neville. A fortune like mine, which chiefly consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. But, at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but con- stant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at last. However, I let her suppose that I am in love with her son ; and she never once dreams that my affections are fixed upon another. Miss Hardcastle. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost love him for bating you so. Miss Neville. It is a good-natured creature at bottom, and I'm sure would wish to see me married to any body but himself. But my aunt's bell rings for our afternoon's walk round the improvements. Allans! Courage is recessary, as our affairs are critical. Miss Hardcastle. "Would it were bed -time, and all were well." ''Exeunt. SCENE AN ALEHOUSE ROOM. Several shabby Fellows with punch and tobacco. TONY at the head of the table, a little higher than the rest, a mallei in his hand. Omnes. Ilui-rea ! hurrea ! hurrea 1 bravo ! First Fellow. Nov/, gentlemert, silence for a song. The 'Squire is going to knock himself down for a song. Omnes. Ay, a song, a song ! Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon this alehouse, the Three Pigeons. SONG. Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain, With grammar, and nonsense, and learning, Good liquor, I stoutly maintain. Gives genus a better discerning. Let them brag of their heathenish gods. Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians, Their quis, and their quffis, and their quods, They're all but a parcel of pigeons. Tctt-^ddle, toroddle, toroll. When methodist preachers come down, A-preaching that drinkmg 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, toroli 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 gay birds in the air, Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons, Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. Omnes. Bravo ! bravo ! First Fellow. The 'Squire has got spunk in him. Second Fellow. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays he never gives us nothing that's low. Third Fellow. O damn any thing that's low, I can not bear it. Fourth Fellow. The genteel thing is the gen- teel thing at any time : if so be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly. Third Fellow. I like the maxum of it, Mister Muggins. What, though I am obligated to danc* a bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that May this be my poison, if ray bear ever dances but SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER. 197 to the very genteelest of tunes ; " Water Parted," or " The minuet in Ariadne." Second Fellow. What a pity it is the 'Squire is not come to his own. It would be well for all the publicans within ten miles round of him. Tony. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. . I'd then show what it was to keep choice of com- pany. Second Fellow. O he takes after his own father for that. To be sure old ' Squire Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For wind- ing the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a hare, or a wench, he never had his fellow. It was a saying in the place, that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls, in the whole county. Tony. Ecod, and when I'm of age, I'll be no bastard, I promise you. I have been thinking of Bet Bouncer and the miller's gray mare to begin with. But come, my boys, drink about and be merry, for you pay no reckoning. Well, Stingo, what's the matter '] Enter LANDLORD. Landlord. There be two gentlemen in a post- chaise at the door. They have lost their way upo' the forest ; and they are talking something about Mr. Hardcastle. Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentleman that's coming down to court my sis- ter. Do they seem to be Londoners 7 Landlord. I believe they may. They look woundily like Frenchmen. Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I'll set them right in a twinkling. [Exit Land- lord.] 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 grum- bletonian. But then I'm afraid afraid of what 7 I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a-year, and let him frighten me out of that if he can. Enter LANDLORD, conducting MARLOW and HASTINGS. Marlow. What a tedious uncomfortable day have we had of it ! We were told it was but forty miles across the country, and we have come above threescore. Hastings. And all, Marlow, from that unac- countable reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire more frequently on the way. Marlow. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay myself under an obligation to every one I meet, ' and often stand the cliance of an unmannerly an- swer. Hastings. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any answer. Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told you have been inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle in these parts. Do you know what part of the coun- try you are in ? Hastings. Not in the least, sir, but should thank you for information. Tony. Nor the way you came ? Hastings. No, sir ; but if you can inform us Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, the first thing I have to inform you is, that you have lost your way. Marlow. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask the place from whence you came 7 Marlow. That's not necessary towards directing us where we are to go. Tony. No offence ; but question for question is all fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face, a daughter, and a pretty son 7 Hastings. We have not seen the gentleman ; but he has the family you mention. Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, troUop- ing, talkative maypole the son, a pretty, well- bred, agreeable youth, that every body is fond of 7 Marlow. Our information differs in this. The daughter is said to be well-bred, and beautiful; the son an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at his mother's apron-string. Tony. He-he-hem! Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr. Hard- castle's house this night, I believe. Hastings. Unfortunate ! Tony. It's a damned long, dark, boggy, dirty, dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle' s ! [Winking upon the Landlord.] Mr. Hardcastle' s, of Cluagmire Marsh, you understand me. Landlord. Master Hardcastle's! Lack-a-daisy. my masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong! When you came to the bottom of the hill, you should have crossed down Squash-Lane. Marlow. Cross down Squash Lane ! Landlord. Then you were to keep straight for- ward, till you came to four roads. Marlow. Come to where four roads meet! Tony. Ay, but you must be sure to take only one of them. Marlow. O, sdr, you're facetious. Tony. Then keeping to the right, you are to go sideways, till you come upon Crack-skull Com- mon : there you must look sharp for the track of 198 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. the wheel, and go forward till you come to Farmer Murrain's barn. Coming to the farmer's barn, you are to turn to the right, and then to the left, and then to the right about again, till you find out the old mill. Marlow. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out the longitude ! Hastings. What's to be done, Marlow? MarloiD. This house promises but a poor re- ception ; though perhaps the landlord can accom- modate us. Landlord. Alack, master, we have but one spai*e bed in the whole house. Tony. And to my knowledge, that's taken up by three lodgers already. [After a pause, in which the rest seem disconcerted.] I have hit it. Don't you think. Stingo, our landlady could ac- commodate the gentlemen by the fire-side, with three chairs and a bolster ? Hastings. I hate sleeping by the fire-side. MarloiD. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster. Tomj. 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 1 Hastings. O ho! so we have escaped an adven- ture for this night, however. Landlord [apart to Tony.] Sure, you ben't sending them to your father's as an inn, be you 1 Tony. Mum, you fool you. Let them find that out. [To them.] You have only to keep on straight forward, till you come to a large old house by the road side. You'll see a pair of large horns over the door. That's the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly about you. Hastings. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants can't miss the way 7 Tony. No, no : but I tell you, though, the land- lord is rich, and going to leave oflT business ; so he wants to be thought a gentleman, saving your pre- sence, he ! he ! he ! He'll be for giving you his company ; and, ecod, if you mind him, he'll per- suade you that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of peace. Landlord. A troublesome old blade, tCx be sure ; but a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole country. Marlow. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no further connexion. We are to turn to the right, did you say 1 Tony. No, no; straight forward. I'll just step myself, and show you a piece of the way. J To the Landlord.] Mum ! Landlord. Ah, bless your heart, for a s^eet, pleasant damn'd mischievous son of a whfre, Exeu7\t. ACT II. SCENE AN OLD-FASHIONED HOUSE. Enter HARDCASTLE, followed by three or four awkward servants. Hardcastle. Well, I hope you are perfect in the table exercise I have been teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places, and can show that you "have been used to good company, without ever stirring from home. Omnes. Ay, ay. Hardcastle. When company comes, you are not to pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frighted rabbits in a warren. Omncs. No, no. Hardcastle. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make a show at the side-ta- ble ; 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 pock- ets, Roger; and from your head, you blockhead you. See how Diggory carries his hands. They're a little too stiff indeed, but that's no great matter. Diggory. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being upon drill Hardcastle. You must not be so talkative, Dig- gory. You must be all attention to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of talking ; you must see us drink, and not think of drinking ; you must see us eat and not think of eating. Diggory. By the laws, your worship, that's parfectly unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod he's always wishing for a mouthful himself. Hardcastle. Blockhead ! Is not a belly-full in the kitchen as good as a belly-full in the parlour ? Stay your stomach with that reflection. Diggory. Ecod, I thank your worship, I'll make a shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantr3^ Hardcastle. Diggory, you are too talkative, Then, if I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not all burst out a- laughing, as if you made part of the company. Diggory. Then ecod your worship must not tell the story of ould Grouse in the gun-room : I can't help laughing at that he ! he ! he ! for the soul of me. We have laughed at that these twen- ty years ha ! ha ! ha ! Hardcastle. Ha! ha! ha! The story is a good one. Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that ^but still remember to be attentive. Suppose one of the company should call for a glass of wine, SHE STOOPS TO Ct)NaUER. 199 liow will you behave 1 A glass of wine, sir, if you please [to Diggory] eh, why don't you move? Diggory. Ecod, your worship, I never have cou- Tage till I see the eatables and drinkables brought upo' the table, and then I'm as bauld as a lion. Hardcastle. What, will nobody move? First Servant. I'm not to leave this place. Second Servant. I'm sure it's no place of mine. Tfiird Servant. Nor mine, for sartin. Diggory. Wauns, and I'm sure it canna be mine. Hardcastlc. You numskulls ! and so while, like your betters, you are quarreling 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 mean time and give my old friend's son a hearty reception at the gate. [Exit Hardcastle. Diggory. By the elevens, my place; is gone quite out of my head. Roger. I know that my place is to be every where. First Servant. Where the devil is mine? Second Servant. My place is to be nowhere at all; and so I'ze go about my business. [Exeu7it Servants, running about as if/righted, different ways. Enter SERVANT with candles, showing in MARLOW and HASTINGS. Servant. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome! This way. Hastings. Afterthe 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. Marlow. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master by good house-keep- ing, it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn Hastings. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good sideboard, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame a reckoning confoundedly, Marlow. Travellers, George, must pay in all places ; the only diflference is, thut I'd rather ride, forty miles after a fox than ten with such varment. Hastings. Well, but where have you left the ladies? I die with impatience. . Tony. Left them ! Why where should I leave them but where I found them, Hastings. This is a riddle. Tony. Riddle me this then. What's that goes round the house, and round the house, and never touches the house ? Hastings. I'm still astray, Tony. Why, that's it, mon. I have led them Sir Charles. And how did he behave, madam ? astray. By jingo, there's not a pond or a slougb SHE STOOPS TO CONUUER. 217 within five miles of the place but they can tell the Caste of. Hastings. Ha! ha ! ha ! 1 understand: you took them in a round, while they supposed them- selves 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. 1 then rattled them crack over the stones of Up-and-down Hill. I then introduced them to the gibbet on Heavy-Tree Heath; and from that, with a circumbendibus, 1 fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at the bottom of the garden. Hastings. But no accident, I hope 1 Tony. No, no, only mother is confoundedly trightened. She thinks herself forty miles off. She's sick of the journey; and the cattle can scarce crawl. So if your own horses be ready, you may whip off with cousin, and I'll be bound that no soul here can budge a foot to follow you. Hastings My dear friend, how can I be grateful ? Tony. Ay, now it's dear friend, noble 'Squire. Just now, it was all idiot, cub, and run me through the guts. Damn your way of fighting, I say. After we take a knock in this part of the country, we kiss and be friends. But if you had run me through the guts, then I should be dead, and you might go kiss the hangman. Hastings. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten to relieve Miss Neville : if you keep the old lady employed, I promise to take care of the young one. Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. Va- nish ! [Exit Hastings.] She's got from the pond, and draggled up to the waist like a mermaid. Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE. Mrs.Hardcastle. Oh, Tony, I'm killed ! Shook! Battered to death. I shall never survive it. That last jolt, that laid us against the quickset hedge, has done my business. Tony. Alack, mamma, it was all your own fiiult. You would be for running away by night, \^ithout knowing one inch of the way. Mrs. Hardcastle. I wish we were at home again. I never met so many accidents in so short a journey. Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and a^1^|ast to lose our way. Whereabouts do you think we are, Tony'? Tony. By my guess we should come upon CrackskuU Common, about forty miles from home. Mrs. Hardcastle. O lud! O lud! The most notorious spot in all the country. We only want a robbery to make a complete night on't. T'ony. Don't be afrain, 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 you. afraid. Is that a man that's galloping behind us? No; it's only a tree. Don't be afraid. Mrs. Hardcastle. The fright will certainly kill me. Tony. Do you see any thing like a black hat moving behind the thicket? Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, death ! Tony. No; it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, mamma, don't be afraid. Mrs. Hardcastle. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man coming towards us. Ah ! I'm sure on't. If he perceives us we are undone. Tony [a^de]. Father-in-law, by all that's un- lucky, come to take one of his night walks. [ To her]. Ah ! it's a highwayman with pistols as long as my arm. A damn'd ill- looking fellow. Mrs. Hardcastle. Good Heaven defend us ! He approaches. Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave me to manage him. If there be any danger, I'll cough, and cry hem. When I cough, be sure to keep close. [Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind a tree in the back scene. Enter HARDCASTLE. Hardcastle. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of people in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you? I did not expect you so soon back. Are your mo- ther and her charge in safety ? Tony. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's. Hem. Mrs. Hardcastle [from behind]. Ah, death I I find there's danger. Hardcastle. Forty miles in three hours; sure that's too much, my youngster. Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make short journeys, as they say. Hem. Mrs. Hardcastle [from behind]. Sure he'll do the dear boy no harm. Hardcastle. But I heard a voice here; I should be glad to know from whence it came. Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I was saying that forty miles in four hours was very good going. Hem. As to be sure it was. Hem. 1 have got a sort of cold by being out in the air. We'll go in if you please. Hem. Hardcastle. But if you talked to yourself you did not answer yourself I'm certain I heard two voices, and am resolved [raising his voice] to find the other out. Mrs. Hardcastle [from behind]. Oh ! he's coming to find me out. Oh ! Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you 7 Hem. I'll lay down my life for the trutii hem I'll tell you all, sir. [Detaining him. Hardcastle. I tell you I will not be detained. I insist on seeing. It's in vain to expect I'll believe S18 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. Mrs. Hardcastle [running forward from be- hind]. O lutl ! he'll murder my poor boy, my dar- ling! Here, good gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my money, my hfe, but spare that young gentleman ; spare my child, if you have any mercy. Hardcastle. My wife, as I'm a Christian. From whence can she come 7 or what does she mean 7 Mrs. Hardcastle [kneeling]. Take compassion on us, good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, our watches, all we have, but spare our lives. We will never bring you to justice, indeed 've won't, good Mr. Highwayman. Hardcastle. 1 believe the woman's out of her senses. What, Dorothy, don't you know me. Mrs. Hardcastle. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive! My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could have expected to meet you here, in this frightful place, so far from home? What has brought you to follow us 7 Hardcastle. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lostyour wits 7 So far from home, when you are within for- ty 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 mul- berry tree; and don't you remember the horse- pond, my dear 7 Mrs. HardcoMle. Yes, I shall remember the horse-pond as long as 1 live ; I have caught my death in it. [ To Tony.] And is it to you, you graceless varlet, I owe all this 7 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. Hardcastle. I'll spoil you, I will. [Follows him off the Stage. Exit. Hardcastle. There's morality, however, in his reply. " [Exit. Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE. Hastings. 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 Neville. I find it impossible. My spirits are so sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that I am unable to face any new danger. Two or three years' patience will at last crown us with happiness. Hastings. Such a tedious delay is worse than 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 pre- vail. Miss Neville. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence once more comes to my relief, and I will obey its dictates. In the moment of passion, fortune may be despised, but it ever produces a lasting repent- ance. I'm resolved to apply to Mr. Hardcastle's compassion and justice for redress. Hastings. But though he had the will, he haa not the power to relieve you. Miss Neville. But he has influence, and upon that I am resolved to rely. Hastings. I have no hopes. But since you per- sist, I must reluctantly obey you. [Exeunt SCENE 'CHANGES. Enter SIR CHARLES MARLOW and MISS HARD. CASTLE. Sir Charles. What a situation am I in ! If what you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If what he says be true, I shall then lose one that, of all others, I most wished for a daughter. Miss Hardcastle. I am proud of your approba- tion ; and to show I merit it, if you place your- selves as I directed, you shall hear his explicit de- clarations. But he comes. Sir Charles. I'll to your father and keep him to the appointment. [Exit Sir Charles. Enter MARLOW. Marlow. Though prepared for setting out, I come once more to take leave ; nor did I till this moment, know the pain I feel in the separation. Miss Hardcastle [in her own natural manner]. I believe these sufferings can not be very great, sir, which you can so easily remove. A day or two longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by showing the little value of what you think proper to regret. Marlow [aside]. This girl every moment im- proves upon me. [ To her.] It must not be, madam. I have already trifled too long with my heart. My very pride begins to submit to my passion. The 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 Hardcastle. Then go, sir: I'll urge nothing more to detain you. Though my family be as good as hers you came down to visit, and my education, I hope, not inferior, what are these advantages without equal affluence 7 I must remain contented with the slight approbation of imputed merit ; I must have only the mockery of your addresses, while all your serious aims are fixed on fortune. Enter HARDCASTLE and SIR CHARLES MARLOW from behind. ^^ Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. Hardcastle. Ay, ay ; make no noise. I'll en- gage my Kate covers him with confusion at last. Marlow. By Heavens! madam, fortune was ever my smallest consideration. Your beauty at first caught my eye, for who could see that without emotion 7 But every moment that I converse with you, steals in some new grace, heightens the pic- ture, and gives it stronger expression. AVhat at SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER. 2111 first seemed rustic plainness, now appears refined simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, now strikes me as the result of courageous innocence and conscious virtue. Sir Charles. What can it mean? He amazes me ! Hardcastle. I told you how it would be. Hush! Marlow. I am now determined to stay, madam, and I have too good an opinion of my father's dis- cernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approba- tion. Miss Hardcastle. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, can not detain you. Do you think I could suffer a connexion in which there is the smallest room for repentance 7 Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a transient passion to load you with confusion? Do you think 1 could ever relish that happiness which was acquired by lessening yours? Marlow. By all that's good, I can have no hap- piness but what's in your power to grant me ! Nor shall 1 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 Hardcastle. Sir, I must entreat you'll de- sist. As our acquaintance began, so let it end, in indifference. I might have given an hour or two to levity; but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think I could ever submit to a connexion where I must appear mercenary, and you imprudent ? Do you think I could ever catch at the confident addresses of a secure admirer? Marlow [kneeling]. Does this look like securi- ty ? Does this look like confidence ? No, madam, every moment that shows me your merit, only serves to increase my diffidence and confusion. Here let me continue Sir Charles. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how hast thou deceived me ! Is this your indifference, your uninteresting conversation ? Hardcastle. Your cold contempt; your formal interview! What have you to say now ? Marlow. That I'm all amazement! What can it mean ? Hardcastle. It means that you can say and un- say 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. 4fh,rloxD. Daughter ! This lady your daughter? Hardcastle. Yes, sir, my only daughter: my Kate ; whose else should she be ? Marlow. Oh, the devil ! Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, that very identical tall squinting lady you were pleased to take me for ; \courtcsylng\ she that you addresi^ed as the mild, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, forward, agreeable Rattle of the ladies' club. Ha! ha! ha! Marlow. Zounds, there's no bearing this ; it'jj worse than death ! Miss Hardcastle. 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! Marlow. O, curse on iny noisy head ! I never attempted to be impudent yet that I was not taken down ! I must be gone. Hardcastle. By the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am re- joiced to find it. You shall not, sir, I tell you. I know she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive hira, Kate ? We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. [ They retire, she tormenting him to the back scene. Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE, TONY. Mrs. Hardcastle. So, so, they're gone off. Let them go, I care not. Hardcastle. Who gone ? Mrs. Hardcastle. My dutiful niece and her gen- tleman, Mr. Hastings, from town. He who came down with our modest visiter here. Sir Charles. Who, my honest George Hast- ings ? As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice. Hardcastle. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm proud of the connexion. Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not taken her fortune ; that re- mains in this family to console us for her loss. Hardcastle. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary ? Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. Hardcastle. But you know if your son, when of age, refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune is then at her own disposal. Mrs, Hardcastle. Ay, but he's not of age, and she has not thought proper to wait for his refusal. Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE. Mrs. Hardcastle [aside]. What, returned so soon ! I begin not to like it. Hastings [to Hardcastle]. For my late attempt to fly off with your niece, let my present confusion be my punishment. We are now come back, to appeal from your justice to your humanity. By her father's consent I first paid her my addrtsscs, and our passions were first founded in duty. Miss ycvillc. Since his death, I have been obliged to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppres- sion. In an hour of levity. 1 was ready even tc give up my fortune to secure my choice : but I'm now recovered from the delusion, and hope frojn your tenderness what is denied me from a nearc connexion. 220 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. Mrs. Uardcastle. Pshaw, pshaw; this is all but the whining end of a modern novel. Hardcastle. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand whom I now offer you. Tony. What signifies my refusing ? You know I can't refuse her till I'm of age, father. Hardcastle. While I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely to conduce to your improve- ment, 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 1 Hardcastle. Above three months. Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my liberty. [Taking Miss Neville's hand.'] Wit- ness all men by these presents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, esquire, of blank place, refuse you, Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So Constance Neville may marry vi^hom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again. Sir Charles. O brave 'Squire ! Hastings. My worthy friend. Mrs. Hardcastle. My undutiful offspring ! Marlow. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sincerely. And could I prevail upon my little ty- rant here to be less arbitrary, I should be the hap- piest man alive, if you would return me the favour. Hastings \to Miss Hardcastle]. Come, madam, you are now driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm sure Jie loves you, and you must and shall have him. Hardcastle [joining their hands]. And I say ^o 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 ^fe. [Exeunt omnes. EPILOGUE, BY DR. GOLDSMITH, RPOKEN BY MRS, BULKLEY, IN THE CHARACTER OF MISS HARDCASTLE. Well, having stoop'd to conquer with success, And gain'd a husband without aid from dress, Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too. As I have conquer'd him to conquer you: And let me say, for all your resolution. That pretty bar-maids have done execution. Our life is all a play, composed to please, " We have our exits and our entrances." The first act shows the simple country maid, Harmless and young, of every thing afraid; Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning actioiv " I hopes as how to give you satisfaction." Her second act displays a Uvelier scene The unblushing bar-maid of a country inn, Who whisks about the house, at market caters, Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, The chop-house toast of ogling conTiowseitr*. On 'squires and cits she there displays her arts. And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, E'en common-council men forget to eat. The fourth acts shows her wedded to the 'squire, And madam now begins to hold it higher; Pretends to taste, at operas cries caro ! And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che Faro: Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside: Ogles and lears with artificial skill. Till, having lost in age the power to kill, She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille. Such, through our lives the eventful history The fifth and last act still remains for me. The bar-maid now for your protection prays. Turns female Barrister, and pleads for Bays. EPILOGUE,* To he spoken in the character of Tony Lnimpkin, BY J. CRADOCK, ESQ. Well now all's ended and my comrades gone, Pray what becomes of mother's nonly son? A hopeful blade! in town I'll fix my station. And try to make a bluster in the nation : As for my cousin Neville, I renounce her, Off in a crack I'll carry big Bet Bouncer. Why should not I in the great world appear? I soon shall have a thousand pounds a-year ! No matter what a man may here inherit, In London 'gad, they've some regard to spirit. I see the horses prancing up the streets, And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets ; Then hoiks to jigs and pastimes, every night Not to the plays they say it a' n't polite ; To Sadler's Wells, perhaps, or operas go, 4||h And once, by chance, to the roratorio. Thus here and there, for ever up and down, We'll set the fashions too to half the town; f And then at auctions money ne'er regard, Buy pictures like the great, ten pounds a-yard : Zounds! we shall make these London gentry say We know what's damn'd genteel as well as they This came too late to be spoken. AN ORATOtelO. THE PERSONS. First Jewish Prophet. Second Jewish Prophet. ISRAELITISH WoMAN. First Chaldean Priest. Second Chaldean Priest. Chaldean "Woman. Chorus op Youths and Virgins. Scene. The Banks op the River Euphrates, near Babylon. ACT 1. first prophet. recitative. Ye captive tribes, that hourly work and weep Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep, Suspend your woes awhile, the task suspend,/ And turn to God, your father and your friend. Insulted, chain'd, and all the world our foe, Our God alone is all we boast below. AIR. FIRST PROPHET. Our God is all we boast below, To him we turn our eyes ; And every added weight of woe Shall make our homage rise. SECOND PROPHET. And though no temple richly dressed. Nor sacrifice are here ; We'll make his temple in our breast. And offer up a tear. [The first Stanza repeated by the CHORUS. ISRAELITISH WOMAN. recitative. That strain once more; it bids remembrance rise, And biings my long-lost country to mine eyes. Ye fields of Sharon, dressed in flowery pride. Ye plains where Kedron rolls its glassy tide. Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd. Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around, How sweet those groves, that plain how wondrous fair, How doubly sweet when Heateii was with us there! air. O memory, thou fond deceiver, Still importunate and vain ; To former joys recurring ever. And turning all the past to pain. Hence intruder most distressing. Seek the happy and the free : The wretch who wants each other blessing, Ever wants a friend in thee. SECOND PROPHET. recitative. Yet why complain 7 What though by bonds con- fined. Should bonds repress the vigour of the mind? Have we not cause for triumph, when we see Ourselves alone from idol worship free 1 Are not this very morn those feasts begun Where prostrate error hails the rising sun 7 Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain For superstitious rites and mirth profane ? And should we mourn 1 Should coward virtue fly, When vaunting folly lifts her head on high 7 No; rather let us triumph still the more, And as our fortune sinks, our spirits soar. AIR. The triumphs that on vice attend Shall ever in confusion end ; The good man suffers but to gain. And every virtue springs from pain : As aromatic plants bestow No spicy fragrance while they grow ; But crush'd, or trodden to the ground,. Diffuse their balmy sweets around. FIRST PROPHET. RECITATIVE. But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near, The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mineeaff 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 322 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. The sun calls us out on this festival day, And our monarch partakes in the joy. SECOND PRIEST. Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture sup- plies, Both similar blessings bestow ; The sun with his splendour illumines the sides, And our monarch enUvens 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 e:^citing, Whither shall my choice incline 1 SECOND PRIEST. I'll waste no longer thought in choosing, But, neither this nor that refusing, I'll make them both together mine. FIRST PRIEST. RECITATIVE. But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the land. This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band? Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrungi Or why those harps on yonder willows hung? Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along. The day demands it; sing us Sion's song. Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir, For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre? Every moment as it flows. Some peculiar pleasure owes. Come then, providently wise. Seize the debtor as it flies. SECOND PRIEST. Think not to-morrow can repay The debt of pleasure lost to-day, Alas ! to-morrow's richest store Can but pay its proper score. SECOND PROPHET RECITATIVE. Chain'd as we are, the scorn of all mankind, fo want, to toil, and every ill consign'd. Is this a time to bid us raise the strain. Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain? No, never. May this hand forget each art That wakes to finest joys the human heart, Ere I forget the land that gave me birth, Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth ! SECOND PRIEST. Rebellious slaves! if soft persuasion fail. More formidable terrors shall prevail. FIRST PROPHET. Why, let them come, one good remains to cheer- We fear the Lord, and scorn all other fear. [Exeunt Chaldeans. CHORUS OF ISRAELITES. Can chains or tortures bend the mind On God's supporting breast recUned? Stand fast, and let our tyrants see That fortitude is victory. [Exeunt, ACT IL ISRAELITES and CILA.LDEANS, as before. FIRST PROPHET. AIR. O peace of mind, angelic guest. Thou soft companion of the breast, Dispense thy balmy store ! Wing all our tlioughts to reach the skieii, Till earth receding from our eyes. Shall vanish as we soar. FIRST PROPHET RECITATIVE. No more. Too long has justice been delay'd, The king's commands must fully be obey'd ; Compliance with his will your peace secures, Praise but our gods, and every good is yours. But if, rebellious to his high command, You spurn the favours offer'd from his hand Think, timely think, what terrors are behind; Reflect, nor tempt to 'rage the royal mind. Fierce is the tempest howling Along the furrow'd main. And fierce the whirlwind rolling 0'6r 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 ragiftg. ORATORIO. 229 ISRAELTTISH WOMAN. RECITATIVE. Ah me ! what angry terrors round us grow, How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten'd blow ! Ye prophets, skill' d in Heaven's eternal truth, Forgive my sex's fears, forgive my youth ! Ah ! let us one, one little hour obey ; To-morrovir's tears may wash the stain away Fatigued with life, yet loth to part, On hope the wretch relies ; And every blow that sinks the heart Bids the deluder rise. Hope, like the taper's gleamy light, Adorns the wretch's way ; And still, as darker grows the night, Emits a brighter ray. SECOND PRIEST. RECITATIVE. Why this delay 1 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 suppUes. Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre, The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire. CHALDEAN WOMAN- See the ruddy morning smiling. Hear the grove to bliss beguiling ; Zephyrs through the woodland playing, Streams along the valley straying. FIRST PRIEST. While these a constant revel keep, Shall reason only teach to weep 7 Hence, intruder ! we'll pursue Nature, a better guide than you. SECOND PRIEST. RECITATIVE. But hold! see, foremost of the captive choir, The master-prophet grasps his full-toned lyre. Mark where he sits with executing art, Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart ; See how prophetic rapture J&Us 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. Prom north, from south, from east, from west, Conspiring nations come ; Tremble, thou vice-polluted breast ; Blasphemers, all be dumb. The tempest gathers all around, On Babylon it lies ; Down with her ! down, down to the ground She sinks, she groans, she dies. SECOND PROPHET. Down with her. Lord, to lick the dust, Before yon setting sun ; Serve her as she hath served the just ! Tis fix'd It shall be done. FIRST PRIEST. 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 7 To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes ; See where dethroned your captive monarch lies. Deprived of sight, and rankUng in his chain ; See where he mv)urns his friends and children slain. Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind More ponderous chains, and dungeons more con- fined. CHORUS OF ALL. Arise, all potent ruler, rise. And vindicate thy people's cause ; Till every tongue in every land Shall oifer up unfeign'd applause. [Exeunt. ACT III. RECITATIVE. FIRST PRIEST. Yes, my companions. Heaven's decrees are pass*^ And our fix'd empire shall for ever last; In vain the madd'ning prophet threatens woe, In vain rebellion aims her secret blow ; Still shall our name and growing power be spread, And still our justice crush the traitor's head. Coeval with man Our empire began, And never shall fall Till ruin shakes all. When ruin shakes all. Then shall Babylon fall. SECOND PROPHET. RECITATIVE. 'Tis thus the proud triumphant rear the head, A little while, and all their power is fled. But, ha ! what means yon sadly plaintive train, That onward slowly bends along the plain"? 224 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. And now, behold, to yonder bank they bear A pallid corse, and rest the body there. Alas ! too well mine eyes indignant trace The last remains of Judah's royal race. Fall'n is our King, and all our fears are o'er, Unhappy Zedekiah is no more. Ye wretches who by fortune's hate In want and sorrow groan, Come ponder his severer fate, And learn to bless your own. FIRST PROPHET. Vou 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 Hmbs by ponderous fetters torn ; Those eyeless orbs that shock with ghastly glare, Those unbecoming rags, that matted hair ! And shall not Heaven for this avenge the foe, Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low 1 How long, how long. Almighty God of all, Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall ! ISRAELITISH WOMAN. As panting flies the hunted hind. Where brooks refreshing stray ; And rivers through the valley wind, That stop the hunter's way. Thus we, O Lord, alike distressed. For streams of mercy long ; Streams which cheer the sore oppressed. And overwhelm the strong. FIRST PROPHET. RECITATIVE. But whence that shout 7 Good heavens amaze- ment all ! See yonder tower just nodding to the fall : Behold, an army covers all the ground, 'Tis Cyrus here that pours destruction round : And now behold the battlements recline O God of hosts, the victory is thine ! CHORUS OF CAPTIVES. Down with them, Lord, to lick the dust ; Thy vengeance be begun ; Serve them as they have served the just, And let thy will be done. FIRST PRIEST. RECITATIVE. All, all is lost. The Syrian army fails, Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails. The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along, How low the proud, how feeble are the strong ! Save us, O Lord ! to Thee, though late, we pray; And give repentance but an hour's delay. FIRST AND SECOND PRIE.ST AIR. O happy, who in happy hour To God their praise bestow, And own his all-consuming power Before they feel the blow ! SECOND PROPHET. RECITATIVE. Now, now's our time ! ye wretches bold and blind, Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind, Ye seek in vain the Lord unsought before. Your wealth, your lives, your kingdom are no more. AIR. O Lucifer, thou son of morn. Of Heaven alike and man the foe ; Heaven, men and all. Now press thy fall, And sink thee lowest of the low. FIRST PROPHET. O Babylon, how art thou fallen ! Thy fall more dreadful from delay ! Thy streets forlorn To wilds shall turn, Where toads shall pant, and vultures prey. SECOND PROPHET. RECITATIVE. Such be her fate. But hark ! how from afar The clarion's note proclaims the finish'd war! Our great restorer, Cyrus, is at hand, And this way leads his formidable band. Give, give your songs of Sion to the wind, And hail the benefactor of mankind ; IJ.e comes pursuant to divine decree. To chain the strong, and set the captive free CHORUS OF YOUTHS. Rise to transports past expressing, Sweeter by remember'd woes ; Cyrus comes our wrongs redressing, Comes to give the world repose. ORATORIO. CHORUS OP VIRGINS. Cyrus comes, the world redressing, Love and pleasure in his train; Comes to heighten every blessing, Comes to soften every pain. SEMI-CHORUS. Hail to him with mercy reigning, Skill'd in every peaceful art j Who from bonds our limbs unchaining Only binds the willing heart. THE LAST CHORUS. But chief to thee, our God, defender, friend. Let praise be given to ail eternity ; O Thou, without beginning, ';vithout end, Let Us and all begin, and end, in Thee. IB ^tefaccestji anti tittctein. THE PREFACE TO DR. BROOKES'S NEW AND ACCURATE SYSTEM OF NATURAL HISTORY. [Published in 1753.] Of all the studies which have employed the in- dustrious or amused the idle, perhaps natural his- tory deserves the preference : other sciences gene- rally terminate in doubt, or rest in bare specula- tion ; but here every step is marked with certainty ; and, while a description of the objects around us teaches to supply our wants, it satisfies our cu- riosity. The multitude of nature's productions, how- ever, seems at first to bewilder the inquirer, rather than excite his attention ; the various wonders of the animal, vegetable, or mineral world, seem to exceed all powers of computation, and the science appears barren from its amazing fertility. But a nearer acquaintance with this study, by giving method to our researches, points out a similitude in many objects which at first appeared different; the mind by degrees rises to consider the things before it in general lights, till at length it finds na- ture, in almost every instance, acting with her usual simplicity. Among the number of philosophers who, un- daunted by their supposed variety, have attempted to give a description of the productions of nature, Aristotle deserves the first place. This great phi- losopher, was furnished, by his pupil Alexander, with all that the then known world could produce to complete his design. By such parts of his work as have escaped the wreck of time, it appears, that he understood nature more clearly, and in a more comprehensive manner, than even the present age, enlightened as it is with so many later dis- coveries, can boast. His design appears vast, and his knowledge extensive; he only considers things in general lights, and leaves every subject when it becomes too minute or remote to be useful. In his History of Animals, he first describes man, and makes him a standard with which to compare the deviations in every more imperfect kind that is to follow. But if he has excelled in the history of each, he, together with Pliny and Theophrastus, has failed in the exactness of their descriptions. There are many creatures, described by those nato ralists of antiquity, which are so imperfectly cha- racterized, that it is impossible to tell to what ani- mal now subsisting we can refer the description. This is an unpardonable neglect, and alone suffi- cient to depreciate their merits ; but their creduli- ty, and the mutilations they have suffered by time, have rendered them still less useful, and justify each subsequent attempt to improve what they have left behind. The most laborious, as well as the most voluminous naturalist among the mo- derns, is Aldrovandus. He was furnighed with every recjuisite for making an extensive body of natural history. He was learned and rich, and during the course of a long life, indefatigable and accurate. But his works are insupportably tedious and disgusting, filled with unnecessary quotations and unimportant digressions. Whatever learning he had he was willing should be known, and un- wearied himself, he supposed his readers could never tire : in short, he appears a useful assistant to those who would compile a body of natural his- tory, but is utterly unsuited to such as only wish to read it with profit and delight. Gesner and Jonston, willing to abridge the vo- luminous productions of Aldrovandus, have at- tempted to reduce natural history into method, but their efforts have been so incomplete as scarcely to deserve mentioning. Their attempts were improv- ed upon, some time after, by Mr. Ray, whose me- thod we have adopted in the history of quadrupeds*, birds, and fishes, which is to follow. No systema- tical writer has been more happy than he in reduc- ing natural history into a form, at once the shortest, yet most comprehensive. The subsequent attempts of Mr. Klein and Lin- naeus, it is true, have had their admirers, but, as all methods of classing the productions of nature are calculated merely to ease the memory and en- lighten the mind, that writer who answers such ends with brevity and perspicuity, is most worthy of regard. And, in this respect, Mr. Ray undoubt- edly remains still without a rival : he was sensible that no accurate idea could be formed from a mere distribution of animals in particular classes; he has therefore ranged them according to their most obvious qualities; and, content with brevity in his distribution, has employed accuracy only in the particular description of every animal. This in PREFACES AND CRITICISM. 227 tentional inaccuracy only in the general system of Ray, Klein aiid Linnseus have tindertaken to amend ; and thus by multiplying divisions, instead f impressing the mind with distinct ideas, they only serv6 to confound it, making the larlguage of the science more difficult than even the science it- self. All order whatsoever is to be used for the sake of brevity and perspicuity } we have therefore fol- lowed that of Mr. Ray in preference to the rest, whose method of classing animals, though not so accurate, perhaps, is yet more obvious, and being shorter, is more easily remembered. In his life- time he published his " Synopsis Methodica Gluad- rupedum et Serpentini Generis, " and, after his death, there came out a posthumous work under the care of Dr. Derham, which, as the title-page in- forms us, was revised and perfected before his death. Both the one and the other have their merits ; but as he wrote currente calamo, for sub- sistence, they are consequently replete with errorSj and though" his manner of treating natural history be preferable to that of all others, yet there was \ still room for a new work, that might at once retain his excellencies, and supply his deficiencies. As to the natural history of insects, it has not been so long or so greatly cultivated as other parts of this science. Our own countryman Moufett is the first of any note that I have met with who has treated this subject with success. However, it was not till lately that it was reduced to a regular system, which might be, in a great measure, owing to the seeming insignificancy of the animals them- selves, even though they were always looked upon as of great use in medicine ; and upon that account only have been taken notice of by many medical writers. Thus Dioscorides has treated of their use in physic ; and it must be owned, some of them have been well worth observation on this account. There were not wanting also tliose who long since had thoughts of reducing this kind of knowledge to a regular form, among whom was Mr. Ray, who was discouraged by thedifiiculty attending it : this study has been pursued of late, however, with diligence and success. Reaumur and Swammer- dam have principally distinguished themselves on this account j and their respective treatises plainly show, that they did not spend their labour in vain. Since their time, several authors have published their systems, among whom is Linnaeus, whose method being generally esteemed, I have thought I proper to adopt. He has classed them in a very regular manner, though he says but little of the insects themselves. However, 1 have endeavoured t to supply that defect from other parts of his works, and from other authors who have written upon : this subject ; by which means, it is hoped, the curi- f osity of such as delight in these studies will be in some measure satisfied. Such of them as have been more generally admired, have been longest in- sisted upon, and particularly caterpillars and but- terflies, relative to which, perhaps, there is the largest catalogue that has ever appeared in the EngUsh language; Mr. Edwards and Mr. Buffbn, one in the His- tory of Birds, the other of Gluadrupeds, have un- doubtedly deserved highly of the pubUc, as far as their labours have extended ; but as they have hitherto cultivated but a small part in the wide field of natural history, a comprehensive system in this most pleasing science has been hitherto wanting. Nor is it a little surprising, when every oihet branch of literature has been of late cultivated with so much success among us, how this most interest- ing department should have been neglected. It has been long obvious that Aristotle was incom- plete, and Phny credulous, Aldrovandus too prohx,- and Linnaeus too short, to afford the proper enter- tainment ; yet we have had no attempts to supply their defects, or to give a history of nature at once' complete and concise, calculated at once to please' and improve. How far the author of the present performancer has obviated the wants of the public in these re- spects, is left to the world to determine ; this much,- however, he may without vanity assert, that wheth- er the system here presented be approved or not,- he has left the science in a better state than he found it. He has consulted every author whom ho imagined might give him new and authentic infor- mation, and painfully searched through heaps of lumber to detect falsehood ; so that many parts ot the following work have exhausted much labour in the execution, though they may discover little to' the superficial observer. Nor have I neglected any opportunity that offer- ed of conversing upon these subjects with travel- lers, upon whose judgments and veracity I could rely. Thus comparing accurate narrations with what has been already written, and following either, as the circumstances or credibility of the witness led me to believe. But I have had one advantage over almost all former naturalists, name- ly, that of having visited a variety of countries my- self, and examined the productions of each upon? the spot. Whatever America or the known parts- of Africa have produced to excite curiosity, has- been carefully observed by me, and compared with the accounts of others. By this I have made some improvements that will appear in their place, and' have been less liable to be imposed upon by the hearsay relations of creduUty. A complete, cheap, and commodious body of natural history being wanted in our language, it was these advantages which prompted me to this undertaking. Such, therefore, as choose to range 228 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. in the delightful fields of nature, will, 1 flatter my self, here find a proper guide ; and those who have a design to furnish a cabinet, will find copious in structions. With one of these volumes in his hand, a spectator may go through the largest mu seum, the British not excepted, see nature through all her varieties, and compare her usual operations with those wanton productions in which she seems to sport with human sagacity. I have been spar- ing, however, in the description of the deviations from the usual course of production ; first, because such are almost infinite, and the natural historian, who should spend his time in describing deformed nature, would be as absurd as the statuary, who should fix upon a deformed man from whom to take his model of perfection. But I would not raise expectations in the reader which it may not be in my power to satisfy : he who takes up a book of science must not expect to acquire knowledge at the same easy rate that a reader of romance does entertainment ; on the con- trary, all sciences, and natural history among the rest, have a language and a manner of treatment peculiar to themselves; and he who attempts to dress them in borrowed or foreign ornaments, is every whit as uselessly employed as the German apothecary we are told of, who turned the whole dispensatory into verse. It will be sufficient for mej if the following system is found as pleasijig as the nature of the subject will bear, neither obscured by an unnecessary ostentation of science, nor lengthened out by an afl^ected eagerness after need- less embellishment. The description of every object will be found as clear and concise as possil^le, the design not being to amuse the ear with well-turned periods, or the imagination with borrowed ornaments, but to im- press the mind with the simplest views of nature. To answer this end more distinctly, a picture of such animals is given as we are least acquainted with. All that is intended by this is, only to guide the inquirer with more certainty to the object itself, as it is to be found in nature. I never would ad- vise a student to apply to any science, either anato- my, physic, or natural history, by looking on pic- tures only; they may serve to direct him more readily to the objects intended, but he must by no means suppose himself possessed of adequate and distinct ideas, till he has viewed the things them- selves, and not their representations. Copper-plates, therefore, moderately well done, answer the learner's purpose every whit as well as those which can not be purchased but at a vast ex- pense ; they serve to guide us to the archetypes in nature, and this is all that the finest picture should be permitted to do, for nature herself ought al- ways tx> be examined by the learner before he has done. INTRODUCTION TO A NEW HISTORY OF THE WORLD. [Intended to have been published in twelve volumes, octavo, by J. Newberry, 1764.] TO THE PUBLIC. Experience every day convinces us, that no part of learning affords so much wisdom upon such easy terms as history. Our advances in most other studies are slow and disgusting, acquired with ef- fort, and retained with difficulty; but in a well- written history, every step we proceed only serves to increase our ardour : we profit by the experience of others, without sharing their toils or misfortunes; and in this part of knowledge, in a more particular manner, study is but relaxatioc Of all histories, however, that which is not con- fined to any particular reign or country, but which extends to the transactions of all mankind, is the most useful and entertaining. As in geography we can have no just idea of the situation of one country, without knowing that of others ; so in his- tory it is in some measure necessary to be ac- quainted with the whole thoroughly to comprehend a part. A knowledge of universal history is there- fore highly useful, nor is it less entertaining. Ta- citus complains, that the transactions of a few reigns could not afford him a sufficient stock of ma-' terials to please or interest the reader ; but here that^ objection is entirely removed; a History of thOj World presents the most striking events, with the greatest variety. These are a part of the many advantages which universal history has over all others, and which have encouraged so many writers to attempt com- piling works of this kind among the ancients, well as the moderns. Each invited by the manifest utility of the design, yet many of them faiUng through the great and unforeseen difficulties of the undertaking ; the barrenness of events in the early periods of history, and their fertility in modem times, equally serving to increase their embarrass- ments. In recounting the transactions of remote ntiquity, there is such a defect of materials, that the willingness of mankind to supply the chasm has given birth to falsehood, and invited conjecture. The farther we look back into those distant pe- riods, all the objects seem to become more (*scure, or are totally lost, by a sort of perspective diminu- tion. In this case, therefore, when the eye of truth could no longer discern clearly, fancy undertook to form the picture; and fables were invented where truths were wanting. For this reason, we have PREFACES AND CRITICISM. declined enlarging on such disquisitions, not for want of materials, which offered themselves at every step of our progress, but because we thought hem not worth discussing. Neither have we en- cumbered the beginning of our work with the va- rious opinions of the heathen philosophers con- cerning the creation, which may be found in most of our systems of theology, and belong more pro- perly to the divine than the historian. Sensible how liable we are to redundancy in this first part of our design, it has been our endeavour to unfold ancient history with all possible conciseness ; and, solicitous to improve the reader's stock of know- ledge, we have been indifferent as to the display of our own. We have not stopped to discuss or confute all the absurd conjectures men of specula- tion have thrown in our way. We at first had even determined not to deform the page of truth with the names of those, whose labours had only been calculated to encumber it with fiction and vain speculation. However, we have thought proper, upon second thoughts, slightly to mention them and their opinions, quoting the author at the bot- tom of the page, so that the reader, who is curious about such particularities, may know where to have recourse for fuller information. As, in the early part of history, a want of real facts hath induced many to spin out the little that was known withr'conjecture, so in the modern part, the superfluity of trifling anecdotes was equally apt to introduce confusion. In one case, history has been rendered tedious, from our want of knowing the truth ; in the other, from knowing too much of truth not worth our notice. Every year that is added to the age of the world, serves to lengthen the thread of its history; so that, to give this branch of learning a just length in the circle of human pursuits, it is necessary to abridge several of the least important facts. It is true, we often at pre- sent see the annals of a single reign, or even the transactions of a single year, occupying folios : but can the writers of such tedious journals ever hope to reach posterity, or do they think that our de- scendants, whose attention will naturally be turned to their own concerns, can exhaust so much time in the examination of ours ? A plan of general his- tory, rendered too extensive, deters us from a study that is perhaps, of all others, the most useful, by rendering it too laborious ; and, instead of alluring our curiosity, excites our despair. Writers are un- pardonable who convert our amusement into la- bour, and divest knowledge of one of its most pleasing allurements. The ancients have repre- sented history under the figure of a woman, easy, graceful, and inviting : but we have seen her in our days converted, like the virgin of Nabis, into an instrument of torture. How far we have retrenched these excesses, and uteered between the opposites of exuberance and abridgment, the judicious are left to determine. We here ofier the public a History of mankind, from the earliest accounts of time to the present age, in twelve volumes, which, upon mature de- liberation, appeared to us the proper mean. It has been our endeavour to give every fact its full scope ; but, at the same time, to retrench all disgusting superfluity, to give every object the due proportion it ought to maintain in the general picture of man- kind, without crowding the canvass. We hope, therefore, that the reader will here see the revolu- tions of empires without confusion, and trace arts and laws from one kingdom to another, without losing his interest in the narrative of their other transactions. To attain these ends with greater certainty of success, we have taken care, in some measure, to banish that late, and we may add Gothic, practice, of using a multiplicity of notes ; a thing as much unknown to the ancient histo- rians, as it is disgusting in the moderns. Balzac somewhere calls vain erudition the baggage of an- tiquity; might we in turn be permitted to make an apophthegm, we would call notes the baggage of a bad writer. It certainly argues a defect of method, or a want of perspicuity, when an author is thus obliged to write notes upon his own works; and it may assuredly be said, that whoever undertakes to write a comment upon himself, will for ever remain without a rival his own commentator. We have, therefore, lopped off such excrescences, though not to any degree of affectation ; as sometimes an ac- knowledged blemish may be admitted into works of skill, either to cover a greater defect, or to take a nearer course to beauty. Having mentioned the danger of affectation, it may be proper to observe, that as this, of all defects, is most apt to insinuate itself into such a work, we have, therefore, been upon our guard against it. Innovation, in a per- formance of this nature, should by no means be at- tempted : those names and spellings which have been used in our language for time immemorial, ought to continue unaltered ; for, like states, they acquire a sort of jiis diuturnce possessionis, as the civilians express it, however unjust their original claims might have been. With respect to chronology and geography, the one of which fixes actions to time, while the other assigns them to place, we have followed the most approved methods among the moderns. All that was requisite in this, was to preserve one system of each invariably, and permit such as chose to adopt the plans of others to rectify our deviations to their own standard. If actions and things are made to preserve their due distances of time and place mutually with respect to each other, it matters little as to the duration of them all with respect to eternity, or their situation with regard to the uni- i verse. Thus much we have thought proper to premise 230 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. concerning a work which, however executed, has cost much labour and great expense. Had we for our judges the unbiassed and the judicious alone, few words would have served, or even silence would have been our best address ; but when it is considered we have laboured for the public, that miscellaneous being, at variance within itself, from the differing influence of pride, prejudice, or inca- pacity; a public already sated with attempts of this nature, and in a manner unwilling to find out merit till forced upon its notice, we hope to be pardoned for thus endeavouring to show where it is presumed we have had a superiority. A His- tory of the World to the present time, at once satis- factory and succinct, calculated rather for use than curiosity, to be read rather than consulted, seeking | applause from the reader's feelings, not from his \ ignorance of learning, or affectation of being! thought learned, a history that may be purchased at an easy expense, yet that omits nothing mate- rial, delivered in a style correct, yet familiar, was wanting in our language, and though, sensible of our own insufficiency, this defect we have attempted to supply. Whatever reception the present age or posterity may give this work, we rest satisfied vvith our own endeavours to deserve a kind one. The completion of our design has for some years taken up all the time we could spare from other occupa- tions, of less importance indeed to the public, but probably more advantageous to ourselves. We are unwilling, therefore, to dismiss this subject without observing, that the labour of so great a part of life should, at least, be examined with candour, and not carelessly confounded in that multiplicity of daily publications, which are conceived without effort, are produced without praise, and sink with- out censure. THE PREFACE TO THE ROMAN HISTORY. BY DR. GOLDSMITH. [First printed in the year 1769.] Ther are some subjects on which a writer must decline all attempts to acquire fame, satisfied with being t)bscurely useful. After such a num- ber of Roman Histories, in almost all languages, ancient and modern, it would be but imposture to pretend new discoveries, or to expect to offer any thing in a work of this kind, which has not been often anticipated by others. The facts which it relates have been a hundred times repeated, and every occurrence has been so variously considered that learning can scarcely find a new anecdote, or genius give novelty to the old. I hope, therefore, for the reader's indulgence, if, in the following at tempt, it shall appear, that nay only aim was to supply a concise, plain, and unaffected narrative of the rise and decUne of a well-known empire. I was contented to make such a book as could not fail of being serviceable, though of all others the most unlikely to promote the reputation of the writer. Instead, therefore, of pressing forward among the ambitious, I only claim the merit of knowing my own strength, and falling back among the hindmost ranks, with conscious inferiority. I am not ignorant, however, that it would be no difficult task to pursue the same art by which many dull men, every day, acquire a reputation in history : such might easily be attained, by fixing on some obscure period to write upon, where much seeming erudition might be displayed, almost un- known, because not worth remembering ; and many maxims in politics might be advanced, entirely new, because altogether false. But 1 have pur- sued a contrary method, choosing the most noted period in history, and offering no remarks but such as I thought strictly true. The reasons of my choice were, that we had no history of this splendid period in our language but what was either too voluminous for common use, or too meanly written to please. Catrou and Rouille's history, in six volumes folio, translated into our language by Bundy, is entirely unsuited to the time and expense mankind usually choose to bestow upon this subject. RoUin and his con- tinuator Crevier, making nearly thirty volumes oc- tavo, seem to labour under the same imputation ; as hkiewise Hooke, who has spent three quartos upon the Republic alone, the rest of his under- taking remaining unfinished.* There only, there- fore, remained the history by Echard, in five vo- lumes octavo, whose plan and mine seem to coin- cide; and, had his execution been equal to his de sign, it had precluded the present undertaking. But the truth is, it is so poorly written, the facts sc crowded, the narration so spiritless, and the charac- ters so indistinctly marked, that the most ardent curiosity must cool in the perusal; and the noblest transactions that ever warmed the human heart, as described by him, must cease to interest. 1 have endeavoured, therefore, in the present work, or rather compilation, to obviate the incon^ veniences arising from the exuberance of the for- mer, as v/ell as from the unpl^santness of the latter. It was supposed, that two volumes might be made to comprise all that was requisite to be known, or pleasing to be read, by such as only ex- amined history to prepare them for more important studies. Too much time may be given even to laudable pursuits, and there is none more apt than * Mr. Hooke's three quartos above mentioned reach only to the end of the Galhc war. A fourth volume, to the end of the Republic, was afterwards published in 1771. Dr. Gold smith's preface was written in 1769. Mr. Hooke's quartg edition has been republished in eleven volumes octavo. PREFACES AND CRITICISM. S31 this to allure the student from the necessary branch- es of learning, and, if I may so express it, entirely to engross his industry. What is here offered, therefore, may be sufficient for all, except such who make history the peculiar business of their lives : to such, the most tedious narrative will seem but an abridgment, as they measure the merits of a work, rather by the quantity than the quality of its contents : others, however, who think more so- berly, will agree, that in so extensive a field as that of the transactions of Rome, more judgment may be shown by selecting what is important than by adding what is obscure. The history of this empire has been extended to six volumes folio; and I aver, that, with very little learning, it might be increased to sixteen more ; but what would this be, but to load the subject with unimportant facts, and so to weaken the nar- ration, that, like the empire described, it must necessarily sink beneath the weight of its own acquisitions. But while I thus endeavoured to avoid prolixity, it was found no easy matter to prevent crowding the facts, and to give every narrative its proper play. In reality, no art can contrive to avoid op- posite defects; he who indulges in minute particu- larities will be often languid ; and he who studies conciseness will as frequently be dry and unenter- taining. As it was my aim to comprise as much as possible in the smallest compass, it is feared the worji will often be subject to the latter imputation ; but it was impossible to furnish the public with a cheap Roman History in two volumes octavo, and at the same time to give all that warmth to the narrative, all those colourings to the description, which works of twenty times the bulk have room to exhibit. I shall be fully satisfied, therefore, if it furnishes an interest sufficient to allure the reader to the end; and this is a claim to which few abridgments can justly make pretensions. To these objections there are some who may add, that I have rejected many of the modern im- provements in Roman History, and that every character is left in full possession of that fame or infamy which it obtained from its contemporaries, or those who wrote immediately after. I acknowledge the charge, for it appears now too late to rejudge the virtues or the vices of those anen, who were but very incompletely known even to their own historians. The Romans, perhaps, upon many occasions, formed wrong ideas of vir- tue; but they were by no means so ignorant or abandoned in general, as not to give to their bright- est characters the greatest share of their applause; and I do not know whether it be fair to try Pagan actions by the standard of Christian morality. But whatever may be my execution of this work, I have very little doubt about the success of the undertaking : the subject is the noblest that ever employed human attention; and, instead of re- quiring a writer's aid, will even support him with his splendour. The Empire of the "World, rising from the meanest origin, and growing great by a strict veneration for religion, and an implicit con- fidence in its commanders ; continually changing the mode, but seldom the spirit of its government; being a constitution, in which the military power, whether under the name of citizens or soldiers, al- most always prevailed ; adopting all the improve- ments of other nations with the most indefatigable industry, and submitting to be taught by those whom it afterwards subdued this is a picture that must affect us, however it be disposed ; these materials must have their value, under the hand of the meanest workman. THE PREFACE TO THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND BY DR. GOLDSMITH. [First printed in 1771.] From the favourable reception given to my abridgment of Roman History, published some time since, several friends, and others whose busi- ness leads them to consult the wants of the public, have been induced to suppose, that an English History, written on the same plan, would be ac- ceptable. It was their opinion, that we still wanted a work of this kind, where the narrative, though very con- cise, is not totally without interest, and the facts, though crowded, are yet distinctly seen. The business of abridging the works of others has hitherto fallen to the lot of very dull men ; and the art of blotting, which an eminent critic calls the most difficult of all others, has been u.sually prac- tised by those who found themselves unable to write. Hence our abridgments are generally more tedious than the works from which they pretend to relieve us; and they have effectually embarrassed that road which they laboured to shorten. As the present compiler starts with such humble competitors, it will scarcely be thought vanity in him if he boasts himself their superior. Of the many abridgments of our ovvri history, hitherto pubUshed, none seems possessed of any share of merit or reputation ; some have been written in dialogue, or merely in the stiffness of an index, and some to answer the purposes of a party. A very small share of taste, therefore, was sufficient to keep the compiler from the defects of the one, and a very small share of philosophy from the misrepre- sentations of the other. It is not easy, however, to satisfy the different expectations of piankirjjjl in a work of this kind, 333 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. calculated for every apprehension, and on which all are consequently capable of forming some judg ment. Some may say that it is too long to pass under the denomination of an abridgment; and others, that it is too dry to be admitted as a history; it may be objected, that reflection is almost entirely banished to make room for facts, and yet, that many facts are wholly omitted, which might be necessary to be known. It must be confessed, that all those objections are partly true ; for it is impos- sible in the same work at once to attain contrary advantages. The compiler, who is stinted in room, must often sacrifice interest to brevity ; and on the other hand, while he endeavours to amuse, must frequently transgress the limits to which his plan should confine him. Thus, all such as desire only amusement may be disgusted with his brevity ; and such as seek for information may object to his dis- placing facts for empty description. To attain the greatest number of advantages with the fewest inconveniences, is all that can be attained in an abridgment, the name of which im- pUes imperfection. It will be sufficient, therefore, to satisfy the writer's wishes, if the present work be found a plain, unaflfected narrative of facts, with just ornament enough to keep attention awake, and with reflection barely sufficient to set the read- er upon thinking. Very moderate abilities were equal to such an undertaking, and it is hoped the performance will satisfy such as take up books to be informed or amused, without much considering who the writer is, or envying any success he may have had in a former compilation. As the present publication is designed for the benefit of those who intend to lay a foundation for future study, or desire to refresh their memories upon the old, or who think a moderate share of his- tory sufficient for the purposes of Ufe, recourse has been had only to those authors which are best known, and those facts only have been selected which are allowed on all hands to b^rue. Were an epitome of history the field for displaying erudi- tion, the author could show that he has read many books which others have neglected, and that he also could advance many anecdotes which are at present very little known. But it must be remembered, that all these minute recoveries could be inserted only to the exclusion of more material facts, which it would he unpardonable to omit. He foregoes, therefore, the petty ambition of being thought a read- er of forgotten books ; his aim being not to add to our present stock of history, but to contract it. The books which have been used in this abridge ment are chiefly Rapin, Carte, Smollett, and Hume, They have each their peculiar admirers, in proportion as the reader is studious of historical antiquities, fond of minute anecdote, a warm par- tisan or a deliberate reasoner. Of these I have particularly taken Hume for my guide, as far as he goes ; and it is but justice to say, that wherever was obliged to abridge his work, I did it with re- luctance, as I scarcely cut out a single line that did not contain a beauty. But though I must warmly subscribe to the learn- ing, elegance, and depth of Mr, Hume's history, yet I can not entirely acquiesce in his principles. With regard to religion, he seems desirous of play- ing a double part, of appearing to some readers as if he reverenced, and to others as if he ridiculed it. He seems sensible of the political necessity of religion in every state ; but at the same time, he would every where insinuate that it owes its authority to no higher an origin. Thus he weakens its influence, while he contends for its utility ; and vainly hopes, that while free-thinkers shall applaud his scepti- cism, real believers will reverence him for his zeal. In his opinions respecting government, perhaps also he may sometimes be reprehensible ; but in a country like ours, where mutual contention con- tributes to the security of the constitution, it will be impossible for an historian who attempts to have any opinion to satisfy all parties. It is not yet decided in politics, whether the diminution of kingly power in England tends to increase the happiness or the freedom of the people. For my own part, from seeing the bad effects of the tyran- ny of the great in those republican states that pre- tend to be free, I can not help wishing that our monarchs may still be allowed to enjoy the power of controlling the encroachments of the great at home. A king may easily be restrained from doing wrong, as he is but one man; but if a number of the great are permitted to divide all authority, who can punish them if they abuse it? Upon this princi- ple, therefore, and not from empty notions of divine or hereditary right, some may think I have leaned towards monarchy. But as, in the things 1 have hitherto written, 1 have neither allured the vanity of the great by flattery, nor satisfied the malignity of the vulgar by scandal, as I have endeavoured to get an honest reputation by liberal pursuits, it is hoped the reader will admit my impartiality. THE PREFACE TO A HISTORY OF THE EARTH AND ANIMATED NATURE. BY DR. GOLDSMITH. [First printed in the year 1774.] Natural History, considered in its utmost ex- tent, comprehends two objects. First, that of dis- covering, ascertaining, and naming all the various PREFACES AND CRITICISM. 233 productions of nature. Secondly, that of describ- 1 history may, in some measure, be compared to ing the properties, manners, and relations, which they bear to us, and to each other. The first, which is the most difficult part of the science, is systematical, dry, mechanical, and incomplete. The second is more amusing, exhibits new pictures to the imagination, and improves our relish for exist- ence, by widening the prospect of nature around us. Both, however, are necessary to those who would understand this pleasing science in its utmost ex- tent. The first care of every inquirer, no doubt, should be, to see, to visit, and examine every ob- ject, before he pretends to inspect its habitudes or its history. From seeing and observing the thing itself, he is most naturally led to speculate upon its uses, its delights, or its inconveniences. Numberless obstructions, however, are found in this part of his pursuit, that frustrate his diligence and retard his curiosity. The objects in nature are so many, and even those of the same kind are exhibited in such a variety of forms, that the in- quirer finds himself lost in the exuberance before him, and, like a man who attempts to count the stars unassisted by art, his powers are all distracted in barren superfluity. To remedy this embarrassment, artificial systems have been devised, which, grouping into masses those parts of nature more nearly resembling each other, refer the inquirer for the name of the single object he desires to know, to some one of those general distributions where it is to be found by fur- ther examination. If, for instance, a man should in his walks meet with an animal, the name, and consequently the history of which he desires to know, he is taught by systematic writers of natural history to examine its most obvious qualities, wheth- er a quadruped, a bird, a fish, or an insect. Having determined it, for explanation sake, to be an insect, he examines whether it has wings; if he finds it possessed of these, he is taught to examine whether it has two or four; if possessed of four, he is taught to observe, whether the two upper wings are of a shelly hardness, and serve as cases to those under them ; if he finds the wings composed in this man- ner, he is then taught to pronounce, that this in- sect is one of the beetle kind : of the beetle kind there are tkree different classes, distinguished from each other by their feelers ; he examines the insect before him, and finds that the feelers are elevated o knobbed at the ends ; of beetles, with feelers thus formed, there are ten kinds, and among those, he is taught to look for the precise name of that which is before him. If, for instance, the knob be divided at the ends, and the belly be streaked with white, it is no other than the Dor or the May-bug, an animal, the noxious qualities of which give it a very distinguished rank in the history of the insect creation. In this manner, a system of natural dictionary of words. Both are solely intended to explain the names of things; but with this differ- ence, that in the dictionary of words, we are led from the name of the thing to its definition, where- as, in the system of natural history, we are led from the definition to find out the name. Such are the efibrts of writers, who have com- posed their works with great labour and ingenuity, to direct the learner in his progress through na- ture, and to inform him of the name of every ani- mal, plant, or fossil substance, that he happens to meet with; but it would be only deceiving the reader to conceal the truth, which is, that books alone can never teach him this art in perfection ; and the solitary student can never succeed. With- out a master, and a previous knowledge of mam of the objects in nature, his book will only serve t( confound and disgust him. Few of the individual plants or animals that he may happen to meet with are in that precise state of health, or that ex- act period of vegetation, whence their descriptions were taken. Perhaps he meets the plant onlj with leaves, but the systematic writer has describee it in flower. Perhaps he meets the bird before ii has moulted its first feathers, while the systematic description was made in the state of full perfection. He thus ranges without an instructor, confused and with sickening curiosity, from subject to sub- ject, till at last he gives up the pursuit in the mul- tiplicity of his disappointments. Some practice, therefore, much instruction, and diligent reading, are requisite to make a ready and expert natural- ist, who shall be able, even by the iu Ip of a sys- tem, to find out the name of every object he meets with. But when this tedious, though requisite part of study is attained, nothing but delight and variety attend the rest of hisjouq3ey. Wherever he travels, like a man in a country where he hat many friends, he meets with nothing but acquaint- ances and allurements in all the stages of his way. The mere uninformed spectator passes on in gloomy solitude, but the naturalist, in every plant, in every insect, and every pebble, finds something to enter- tain his curiosity, and excite his speculation. Hence it appears, that a system may be con- sidered as a dictionary in the study of nature. The ancients, however, who have all written most de- lightfully on this subject, seem entirely to have re- jected those humble and mechanical helps of sci- ence. They contented themselves with seizing upon the great outUnes of history ; and passing over what was common, as not worth the detail, they only dwelt upon what was new, great, and sur- prising, and sometimes even warmed the imagina- tion at the expense of truth. Suo i of th^ moderns as revived this science in Europe, undertook the task more methodically, though not in a manner so pleasing. Aldrovandus, Gesner, and Jonston, 234 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. seemed desirous of uniting the entertaining and rich descriptions of the ancients with the dry and systematic arrangement of which they were the first projectors. This attempt, however, was ex- tremely imperfect, as the great variety of nature was, as yet, but very inadequately known. Never- theless, by attempting to carry on both objects at once ; first, of directing us to the name of the thing, and then giving the detail of its history, they drew out their works into a tedious and unreasonable length; and thus mixing incompatible aims, they have left their labours rather to be occasionally consulted, than read with delight by posterity. The later moderns, with that good sense which they have carried into every other part of science, have taken a different method in cultivating na- tural history. They have been content to give, not only the brevity, but also the dry and disgusting air of a dictionary to their systems. Ray, Klein, Brisson, and Linnseus, have had only one aim, that of pointing out the object in nature, of discov- ering its name, and where it was to be found in those authors that treated of it in a more prolix and satisfactory manner. Thus, natural history, at present, is carried on in two distinct and separate channels, the one serving to lead us to the thing, the other conveying the history of the thing, as supposing it already known. The following natural history is written with only such an attention to system as serves to re- move the reader's embarrassments, and allure him to proceed. It can make no pretensions in direct- ing him to the name of every object he meets with; that belongs to works of a very different kind, and written with very different aims. It will fully answer my design, if the reader, being already possessed of the name of any animal, shall find here a short, thoi%h satisfactory history of its habi- tudes, its subsistence, its manners, its friendships, and hostilities. My aim has been to carry on just as much method as was sufficient to shorten my descriptions by generalizing them, and never to follow order where the art of writing, which is but another name for good sense, informed me that it would only contribute to the reader's embarrass ment. Still, however, the reader will perceive, that I have formed a kind of system in the history ot every part of animated nature, directing myself by the great and obvious distinctions that she herself seems to have made, which, though too few to point exactly to the name, are yet sufficient to il- luminate the subject, and remove the reader's per- plexity. M. Buflbn, indeed, who has brought greater talents to this part of learning than any other man, has almost entirely rejected method in classing quadrupeds. This, with great deference to such a character, appears to me running into the opposite extreme; and, as some moderns have of late spent much time, great pains, and some leariv ing, all to very Uttle purpose, in systematic arrange- ment, he seems so much disgusted by their trifling, but ostentatious efforts, that he describes his ani- mals almost in the order they happen to come be- fore him. This want of method seems to be a fault, but he can lose little by a criticism which every dull man can make, or by an error in arrangement, from which the dullest are the most usually free. In other respects, as far as this able philosopher has gone, I have taken him for my guide. The warmth of his style, and the brilliancy of his imagi- nation, are inimitable. Leaving him, therefore, without a rival in these, and only availing myself of his information, I have been content to describe things in my own way, and though many of the materials are taken from him, yet I have added, re- trenched, and altered, as I thought proper. It was my intention, at one time, whenever I differed from him, to have mentioned it at the bottom of the page; but this occurred so often, that I soon found it would look like envy, and might, perhaps, convict me of those very errors which I was want- ing to lay upon him. I have, therefore, as being every way his debtor, concealed my dissent, where my opinion was differ- ent ; but wherever I borrow from him, I take care at the bottom of the page to express my obliga- tions. But, though my obligations to this writer are many, they extend but to the smallest part of the work, as he has hitherto completed only the history of quadrupeds. I was, therefore, left to my reading alone, to make out the history of birds, fishes, and insects, of which the arrangement was so difficult, and the necessary information so wide- ly diffused, and so obscurely related when found, that it proved by much the most laborious part of the undertaking. Thus, having made use of M. Buffon's lights in the first part of this work, I may, with some share of confidence, recommend it to the public. But what shall I say of that part, where I have been entirely left without his assistance 1 As I would affect neither modesty nor confidence, it will be sufficient to say, that my reading upon this part of the subject has been very extensive; and that I have taxed my scanty circumstanc<;s in procuring books, which are on this subject, of all others, the most expensive. In consequence of this industry, I here offer a work to the public, oi' a kind which has never been attempted in ours, oi any other modern language that I know of. The ancients, indeed, and PUny in particular, have an- ticipated me in the present manner of treating na- tural liistory. Like those historians who described the events of a campaign, they have not conde- scended to give the private particulars of every in- dividual that formed the army; they were content with characterising the generals, and describing PREFACES AND CRITICISM. 23d their operations, while they left it to meaner hands to carry the muster-roll. I have followed their manner, rejecting the numerous fables which they adopted, and adding the improvements of the mod- erns, which are so numerous, that they actually make up the bulk of natural history. The deHght which I found in reading Pliny, first inspired me with the idea of a work of this nature. Having a taste rather classical than sci- entific, and having but little employed myself in turning over the dry labours of modern system- makers, my earliest intention was to translate this agreeable writer, and, by the help of a commentary, to make my work as amusing as I could. Let us dignify natural history ever so much with the grave appellation of a useful science, yet still we must confess, that it is the occupation of the idle and the speculative, more than of the ambitious part of mankind. My intention was to treat what I then conceived to be an idle subject, in an idle manner ; and not to hedge round plain and simple narrative with hard words, accumulated distinc tions, ostentatious learning, and disquisitions that produced no conviction. Upon the appearance, however, of M. BufFon's work, I dropped my former plan and adopted the present, being con- vinced by his manner, that the best imitation of the ancients was to write from our own feelings, and to imitate nature. It will be my chief pride, therefore, if this work may he found an innocent amusement for tho?e who have nothing else to employ them, or who re- quire a relaxation from labour. Professed natu- i ralists will, no doubt, find it superficial ; and vet 1 should hope, that even these will discover hints ' and remarks, gleaned from various reading, not | wholly trite or elementary ; I would wish for their i approbation. But my chief ambition is to drag up the obscure >nd gloomy learning of the cell to open inspe^:J%n ; to strip it from its garb of aus- terity, and osaow the beauties of -that form, which only tb >nimsirious and the inquisitive have been hth'*yV xirmitted to approach. PREFACE TO THE ^eAUTIES OF ENGLISH POETRY. [First printed in the year 1767.] My bookseller having informed me that there vas no collection of English Poetry among us, of Any estimation, I thought a few hours spent in making a proper selection would not be ill be- rtowed. Compilations of this kind are chiefly designed >r such as either want leisure, skill, or fortune, to choose for themselves ; for persons whose profes- sions turn them to different pursuits, or who, not yet arrived at sufficient maturity, require a guide ^^ to direct their application. To our youth, particu- larly, a publication of this sort may be useful; since, if compiled with any share of judgment, it may at once unite precept and example, show them what is beautiful, and inform them why it is so ; I therefore offer this, to the best of my judgment, as the best collection that has as yet appeared; though, as tastes are various, numbers will be of a very different opinion. Many, perhaps, may wish to see it in the poems of their favourite authors, others may wish that I had selected from works less generally read, and others still may wish that I had selected from their own. But my design was to give a useful, unaffected compilation ; one that might tend to advance the reader's taste, and not *^ impress him with exalted ideas of mine. Nothing is so common, and yet so absurd, as affectation in ^^^ criticism. The desire of being thought to have a more discerning taste than others, has often led writers to labour after error, and to be foremost in promoting deformity. In this compilation, I run but few risks of that kind ; every poem here is well known, and possessed, or the pubUc has been long mistaken, of peculiar merit ; every poem has, as Aristotle expresses it, a ^ beginning, a middle, and an end, in which, how- ever trifling the rule may seem, most of the poetry in our language is deficient. I claim no merit in the choice, as it was obvious, for in all languages best productions are most easily found. As to the >^ short introductory criticisms to each poem, they are rather designed for boys than men ; for it will be seen that I dechned all refinement, satisfied with being obvious and sincere. In short, if this work be useful in schools, or amusing in the closet, the merit all belongs to* others ; I have nothing to boast, and at best can expect, not applause but pardon. Oliver Goldsmith. THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. This seems to be Mr. Pope's most finished pro- duction, and is, perhaps, the most perfect in oui language. It exhibits stronger powers of imagi- nation, more harmony of numbers, and a greater knowledge of the world than any other of this poet's works ; and it is probable, if our country were called upon to show a specimen of their genius to foreigners, this would be the work fixed upon. IL PENSEROSO. I have heard a very judicious critic say, that he had a higher idea of Milton's stvle in poetry, froni GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. the two following poems, than from his Paradise Lost. It is certain, the imagination shown in them is correct and strong. The introduction to both in irregular measure is borrowed from the Italians, and hurts an English ear. AN ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. This is a very fine poem, but overloaded with epithet. The heroic measure, with alternate rhyme, is very properly adapted to the solemnity of the subject, as it is the slowest movement that our language admits of, , The latter part of the poem is pathetic and interesting. LONDON, IN IMITATION OF THE THIRD SATIRE OF JUVENAL. This poem of Mr, Johnson's is the best imita- tion of the original that has appeared in our lan- guage, being possessed of all the force and satirical resentment of Juvenal. Imitation gives us a much truer idea of the ancients than even translation could do. THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS, IN IMITATION OF SPENSER. This poem is one of those happinesses in which a poet excels himself, as there is nothing in all Shenstone which any way approaches it in merit ; and, though I dislike the imitations of our old English poets in general, yet, on this minute sub- ject, the antiquity of the style produces a very ludicrous solemnity. COOPER'S HILL. This poem by Denham, though it may have been exceeded by later attempts in description, yet deserves the highest applause, as it far surpasses all that went before it; the concluding part, though a little too much crowded, is very masterly. ELOISA TO ABELARD. The harmony of numbers in this poem is very fine. It is rather drawn out to too tedious a length, although the pas^ons vary with great judgment. It may be considered as superior to any thing in the epistolary way ; and the many translations which have been made of it into the modern languages, are in some measure a proof of this. AN EPISTLE FROM MR. PHILIPS TO THE EARL OF DORSET. The opening of this poem is incomparably fine. The latter part is tedious and trifling. A LETTER FROM ITALY TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES LORD HALIFAX, 1701. Few poems have done more honour to English genius than this. There is in it a strain of politi- cal thinking that was, at that time, new in our poetry. Had the harmony of this been equal to that of Pope's versification, it would be incontesta- bly the finest poem in our language ; but there is a dryness in the numbers, which greatly lessens the pleasure excited both by the poet's judgment and imagination. ALEXANDER'S FEAST; or, THE POWER OF MUSIC. AN ODE IN HONOUR OF ST.. CECILIA'S DAY. This ode has been more applauded, perhaps, than it has been felt; however, it is a very fine one, and gives its beauties rather at a third or fourth, than at a first perusal. ODE FOR MUSIC ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY. This ode has by many been thouglit equal to the former. As it is a repetition of. Dry den's man- ner, it is so far inferior to him. The whole hint of Orpheus, with many of the lines, has been taken from an obscure Ode upon Music, published in Tate's Miscellanies. THE SHEPHERD'S WEEK, IN SIX PASTORALS. These are Mr. Gay's principal performance. They were originally intended, I suppose, as a burlesque on those of Phillips ; but perhaps, with- out designing it, he has hit the true spirit of pasto- ral poetry. In fact he more resembles Theocritus than any other English pastoral writer whatsoever. There runs through the whole a strain of rustic pleasantry, which should ever distinguish this spe- cies of composition ; but how far the antiquated expressions used here may contribute to the hu- mour, I will not determine ; for my own part, I could wish the simplicity were preserved, without recurring to such obsolete antiquity for the manner of expressing it. MAC FLECKNOE. The severity of this satire, and the excellence of its versification, give it a distinguished rank in this species of composition. At present, an ordinary reader would scarcely suppose that Shadwell, who is here meant by Mac Flecknoe, was worth being PREFACES AND CRITICISM. 237 chastised; and that Dryden, descending to such game, was hke an eagle stooping to catch flies. The truth however is, Shadwell at one time held divided reputation with this great poet. Every age produces its fashionable dunces, who, by following the transient topic or humour of the day, supply talkative ignorance with materials for conversation. ON POETRY. A Rhapsody. Here follows one of the best versified poems in our language, and the most masterly production of its author. The severity with which Walpole is here treated, was in consequence of that minister's having refused to provide for Swift in England, when applied to for that purpose, in the year 1725 (If I remember right). The severity of a poet, however, gave Walpole very little uneasiness. A man whose schemes, like this minister's, seldom extended beyond the exigency of the year, but little regarded the contempt of posterity. OF THE USE OF RICHES. This poem, as Mr. Pope tells us himself, cost much attention and labour; and from the easiness that appears in it, one would be apt to think as much. FROM THE DISPENSARY. Canto VI. This sixth canto of the Dispensary, by Dr. Garth, has more merit than the whole preceding part of the poem, and, as I am told, in the first edi- tion of this work, it is more correct than as here exhibited ; but that edition I have not been able to find. The praises bestowed on this poem are more than have been given to any other ; but our appro- bation at present is cooler, for it owed part of its fame to party. SELIM; OR, THE SHEPHERD'S MORAL. The following eclogues, written by Mr. Collins, are very pretty ; the images, it must be owned, are not very local ; for the pastoral subject could not well admit of it. The description of Asiatic mag- nificence and manners is a subject as yet unat- tempted among us, and, I believe, capable of fur- nishing a great variety of poetical imagery. THE SPLENDID SHILLING. This is reckoned the best parody of Milton in our language : it has been a hundred times imi- tated without success. T he truth is, the first thing in this way must preclude all future attempts ; for nothing is so easy as to burlesque any man's man- ner, when we are once showed the way. A PIPE OF TOBACCO. IN IMITATION OF SIX SEVERAL AUTHORS. Mr. Hawkins Browne, the author of these, as I am told, had no good original manner of his own, yet we see how well he succeeds when he turns an imitator; for the following are rather imitations than ridiculous parodies. A NIGHT PIECE ON DEATH. The great fault of this piece, written by Dr. Parnell, is, that it is in eight syllable lines, very improper for the solemnity of the subject ; other- wise, the poem is natural, and the reflections just. A FAIRY TALE. By Dr. Parnell. Never was the old manner of speaking more hap- pily applied, or a tale better told, than this. PALEMON AND LAVINIA. Mr. Thomson, though in general a verbose and affected poet, has told this story with unusual sim- plicity : it is rather given here for being much es- teemed by the public than by the editor. THE BASTARD. Almost all things written from the heart, as this certainly was, have some merit. The poet here describes sorrows and misfortunes which were by no means imaginary ; and thus there runs a truth of thinking through this poem, without which it would be of little value, as Savage is, in other re- spects, but an indifferent poet. THE POET AND HIS PATRON. Mr. Moore was a poet that never had justice done him while living ; there are few of the mo- derns have a more correct taste, or a more pleasing manner of expressing their thoughts. It was upon these fables he chiefly founded his reputation, yet they are by no means his best production. AN EPISTLE TO A LADY. This little poem, by Mr. Nugent, is very pleas- ing. The easiness of the poetry, and the justice of the thoughts, constitute its principal beauty. HANS CARVEL. This bagatelle, for which, by the by, Mr. Prior has got his greatest reputation, was a tale told in all the old Italian collections of jests, andborro\yed from thence by Fontaine. It had been translated once or twice before into English, yet was never re- garded till it fell into the hands of Mr. Prior. A strong instance how much every thing is improved in the hands of a man of genius. BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. This poem is very fine, and, though in the same strain with the preceding, is yet superior. 238 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF MR, ADDISON. This elegy ( by Mr. Tickell ) is one of the finest in our language : there is so little new that can be said upon the death of a friend, after the complaints of Ovid and the Latin Italians in this way, that one is surprised to see so much novelty in this to strike us, and so much interest to affect. COLIN AND LUCY. A Ballad. Through all Tickell's Works there is a strain of ballad-thinking, if I may so express it ; and in this professed ballad he seems to have surpassed himself. It is, perhaps, the best in our language in this way. THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. This ode, by Dr. Smollett, does rather more honour to the author's feelings than his taste. The mechanical part, with regard to numbers and lan- guage, is not so perfect as so short a work as this requires; but the pathetic it contains, particularly in the last stanza but one, is exquisitely fine. ON THE DEATH OF THE LORD PRO- TECTOR. Our poetry was not quite harmonized in Wal- ler's time; so that this, which would be now look- ed upon as a slovenly sort of versification, was, with respect to the times in which it was written, almost a prodigy of harmony. A modern reader will chiefly be struck with the strength of think- ing, and the turn of the compliments bestowed up- on the usurper. Every body has heard the answer our poet made Charles 11. who asked him how his poem upon Cromwell came to be finer than his panegyric upon himself 7 "Your Majesty," re- plies Waller, "knows that poets always succeed best in fiction. ' ' THE STORY OF PHCEBUS AND DAPHNE, APPLIED. The French claim this as belonging to them. To whomsoever it belongs, the thought is finely turned. NIGHT THOUGHTS. By Dr. Young. These seem to be the best of the collection; from whence only the first two are taken. They are gpoken of differently, either with exaggerated ap- plause or contempt, as the reader's disposition is cither turned to mirth or melancholy. SATIRE I. Young's Satires were in higher reputation when published than they stand in at present. He seems fonder of dazzling than pleasing ; of raising our ad* miration for his wit than our dislike of the follies he ridicules. A PASTORAL BALLAD. The ballads of Mr. Shenstone are chiefly com- mended for the natural simplicity of the thought^ and the harmony of the versification. However, they are not excellent in either. PHCEBE. A Pastoral TUls, by Dr. Byron, is a better effort than the preceding. A SONG. "Despairing beside a clear stream. " This, by Mr. Rowe, is better than any thing of the kind in our language. AN ESSAY ON POETRY. This work, by the Duke of Buckingham, is en- rolled among our great English productions. The precepts are sensible, the poetry not indifferent, but it has been praised more than it deserves. CADENAS AND VANESSA. This is thought one of Dr. Swift's correctest pieces ; its chief merit, indeed, is the elegant ease with which a story, but ill conceived in itself, is told. ALMA; OR, THE PROGRESS OF THE MIND. UavroL yiXai, kai tuvitci. xuv/f, Ka.i TroMTH to (Ji.nS'tr YldLVTO. yup i^ ctKoyav tan tu yiyvo/Aiva.. What Prior meant by this poem I can't under- stand : by the Greek motto to it, one would think it was either to laugh at the subject or his reader. There are some parts of it very fine; and let them, save the badness of the rest. PREFACE TO A COLLECTION OF POEMS, FOR YOUNG LADIES, DEVOTIONAL, MORAL, AND ENTERTAINING. [First Printed in the year 1767.] Dr. Fordyce's excellent Sermons for Young Women in some measure gave rise to the follow- ing compilation. In that work, where he so judi ciously points out all the defects of female conduce to remedy them, and all the proper studies whici PREFACES AND CRITICISM. they should pursue, with a view to improvement^ poetry is one to which he particularly would at- tach them. He only objects to the danger of pur- suing this charming study through all the immo- raUties and false pictures of happiness with which it abounds, and thus becoming the martyr of inno- cent curiosity. In the following compilation, care has been taken to select not only such pieces as innocence may read without a blush, but such as will even tend to strengthen that innocence. In this little work, a lady may find the most exquisite pleasure, while she is at the same time learning the duties of life; and, while she courts only entertainment, be de- ceived into wisdom. Indeed, this would be too great a boast in the preface to any original work; but here it can be made with safety, as every poem in the following collection would singly have pro- cured an author great reputation. They are divided into Devotional, Moral, and Entertaining^ thus comprehending the three great duties of life; that which we owe to God, to our neighbour, and to ourselves. In the first part, it must be confessed, our Eng- lish poets have n(jt very much excelled. In that department, namely, the praise of our Maker, by which poetry began, and from which it deviated by time, we are most faultily deficient. There are one or two, however, particularly the Deity, by Mr. Boyse; a poem, when it first came out, that lay for some time neglected, till introduced to pub- lic notice by Mr. Hervey and Mr. Fielding. In it the reader will perceive many striking pictures, and perhaps glow with a part of that gratitude which seems to have inspired the writer. In the moral part I am more copious, from the same reason, because our language contains a large number of the kind. Voltaire, talking of our poets, gives them the preference in moral pieces to those of.any other nation ; and indeed no poets have bet- ter settled the bounds of duty, or more precisely determined the rules for conduct in life than ours. In this department, the fair reader will find the Muse has been solicitous to guide her, not with the allurements of a syren, but the integrity of a friend. In the entertaining part, my greatest difficulty was what to reject. The materials lay in such plenty, that I was bewildered in my choice : in this case, then, I was solely determined by the tenden- cy of the poem : and where I found one, hov/ever well executed, that seemed in the least tending to distort the judgment, or inflame the imagination, it was excluded without mercy. I have here and there, indeed, when one of particular beauty offer- ed with a few blemishes, lopped off the defects and thus, like the tyrant who fitted all strangers to the bed he had prepared for them, I have inserted bome, by first adapting them to my plan : we only differ in this, that he mutilated with a bad design, I from motives of a contrary nature. It will be easier to condemn a compilation of this kind, than to prove its inutility. While young la- dies are readers, and while their guardians are so- licitous that they shall only read the best books, there can be no danger of a work of this kind be- ing disagreeable. It offers, in a very small com- pass, the very flowers of our poetry, and that of a kind adapted to the sex supposed to be its readers. Poetry is an art which no young lady can or ought to be wholly ignorant of. The pleasure which it gives, and indeed the necessity of knowing enough of it to mix in modern conversation, will evince the usefulness of my design, which is to supply the highest and the most innocent entertainment at the smallest expense ; as the poems in this collection, if sold singly, would amount to ten times the price of what I am able to afford the present. CRITICISM ON MASSEY'S TRANSLATION OF THE FASTI OF OVID. [Published in the year 1757.] It was no bad remark of a celebrated French lady,* that a bad translator was Uke an ignorant footman, whose blundering messages disgraced his master by the awkwardness of the delivery, and frequently turned compliment into abuse, and politeness into rusticity. We can not indeed see an ancient elegant writer mangled and misrepre- sented by the doers into English, without some degree of indignation ; and are heartily sorry that our poor friend Ovid should send his sacred kalen- dar to us by the hands of Mr. William Massey, who, like the valet, seems to have entirely forgot his master's message, and substituted another in its room very unlike it. Mr. Massey observes in his preface, with great truth, that it is strange that this most elaborate and learned of all Ovid's works should be so much neglected by our English transla- tors; and that it should be so little reader regarded, whilst hisTristia, Epistles, and Metamorphoses, are in almost every schoolboy's hands. "All the critics, in general," says he, "speak of this part of Ovid's writings with a particular applause ; yet 1 know not by what unhappy fate there has not been that use made thereof, which would be more beneficial, in many respects, to young students of the Latin tongue, than any other of this poet's works. For though Pantheons, and other books that treat of ' Madame La Fayett*. 240 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. the Roman mythology, may be usefully put into the hands of young proficients in the Latin tongue, yet the richest fund of that sort of learning is here to be found in the Fasti. I am not without hopes, therefore, that by thus making this book more fa- miliar and easy, in this dress, to English readers, it will the more readily gain admittance into our public schools; and that those who become better acquainted therewith, will find it an agreeable and instructive companion, well stored with recondite learning. I persuade myself also, that the notes which I have added to my version will be of ad- vantage, not only to the mere English reader, but likewise to such as endeavour to improve them- selves in the knowledge of the Roman language. "As the Latin proverb says, Jacta est alea; and my performance must take its chance, as those of other poetic adventurers have done before me. I am very sensible, that I have fallen in many places far below my original; and no wonder, as I had to copy after so fertile and polite a genius as Ovid's; who, as my Lord Orrery, somewhere in Dean Swift's Life, humorously observes, could make an instructive song out of an old almanack. 'That my translation is more diffuse, and not brought within the same number of verses contain- ed in my original, is owing to two reasons ; firstly, because of the concise and expensive nature of the Latin tongue, which it is very difficult (at least I find it so) to keep to strictly, in our language; and secondly, I took the liberty, sometimes to expatiate a little upon my subject, rather than leave it in obscurity, or unintelligible to my English readers, being indififerent whether they may call it transla- tion or paraphrase; for, in short, I, had this one design most particularly in view, that these Roman Fasti might have a way opened for their entrance into our grammar-schools." What use this translation may be of to gram- mar-schools, we can not pretend to guess, unless, by way of foil, to give the boys a higher opinion of the beauty of the original by the deformity of so bad a copy. But let our readers judge of Mr. Massey's performance by the following specimen. For the better determination of its merit, we shall subjoin the origineJ of every quotation. " The calends of each month throughout the year, Are under Juno's kind peculiar care ; But on the ides, a white lamb from the field, A grateful sacrifice, to Jove is kill'd; But o'er the nones no guardian god presides; And the next day to calends, nones, and ides, Is inauspicious deem'd ; for on those days The Romans suflfered losses many ways; And from those dire events, in hapless war, Those days unlucky nominated are." Vindicat Ausonias Junonis cura kalendas: Idibus alba Jovi grandior agna cadit. Nonarum tutela Deo caret. Omnibus istis (Ne fallere cave) proximus Ater erit. Omen ab eventu est : illis nam Roma diebua Damna sub adverse tristia Marte tulit. Ovid's address to Janus, than which in the ori- ginal scarce any thing can be more poetical, is thus familiarized into something much worse than prose by the translator " Say, Janus, say, why we begin the year In winter'? sure the spring is better far: All things are then renew'd ; a youthful dress Adorns the flowers, and beautifies the trees; New swelling buds appear upon the vine. And apple-blossoms round the orchard shine; Birds fill the air with the harmonious lay, And lambkins in the meadows frisk and play; The swallow then forsakes her wint'ry rest. And in the chimney chatt'ring makes her nest; , The fields are then renew'd, the ploughman's care; Mayn't this be call'd renewing of the year? To my Ipng questions Janus brief repUed, And his whole answer to two verses tied. The winter tropic ends the solar race. Which is begun again from the same place ; And to explain more fully what you crave, The sun and year the same beginning have. But why on new-year's day, said I again, Are suits commenced in courts? The reason'* plain, Replied the god ; that business may be done, And active labour emulate the sun. With business is the year auspiciously begun ; But every artist, soon as he was tried To work a little, lays his work aside. Then I ; but further, father Janus, say. When to the gods we our devotions pay, Why wine and incense first to thee are given? Because, said he, I keep the gates of heaven; That when you the immortal powers address, By me to them you may have free access. But why on new-year's day are presents made, And more than common salutations paid? Then, leaning on his staflT, the god replies, In all beginnings there an omen lies ; From the first word, we guess the whole design, And augurs, from the first-seen bird, divine ; The gods attend to every mortal's prayer, Their ears and temples always open are." Die, age, frigoribus quare novus incipit annusi Qui melius per ver incipiendus erat? Omnia tunc florent : tunc est nova temporifl aetaa* Et nova de gravido pabnite gemma lumeU Et modo formatis amicitur vitibus arbos: Prodit et in sunrmium seminis herba solum: Et tepidum volucres concentibus aera mulcent: Ludit et in pratis, luxuriatque pecua. Turn blandi soles; ignotaque prodit hirundo; Et luteum celsa sub trabe fingit opus. Tum patitur cultus ager, et renovatur aratro. HsBc anni novitas jure vocanda fiiit. PREFACES AND CRITICISM. 841 Quaesieram multis : non multis ille moratus, Contulit in versus sic sua verba duos. Bruma novi prima est, veterisque novissima soils: Principium capiunt Phoebus et annus idem. Post ea mirabar, cur non sine litibus esset Prima dies. Causam [)ercipe, Janus ait. fempora commisi nascentia rebus agendis; Totus ab auspicio ne foret anus iners. iuisque suas artesob idem delibat agendo: Nee plus quam si>litum testiflcatur opus. Mox ego; cur, quamvis aliorura numina placem, Jane, tibi priino thura merumque fero"? Ut per me possis aditum, qui limina servo, Ad quoscunque velim prorsus, habere deos At cur lasta tuis dicunlur verba kalendis; Et damus alternas accipimusque preces? Tum deus incumbens baculo, quern dextra gerebat; Omnia principiis, inquit, inesse solent. Ad priraam vocem timidas adverlitis aures: Et visum primum consulit augur avem. Templa patent auresque deum ; iiec lingua caducas Concipit ulla preces ; dictaque pondus habent. Is there a possibility that any thing can be more different from Ovid in Latin than this Ovid in English? Quam sibi dispar ! The translation is indeed beneath all criticism. But let us see what Mr. Massey can do with the sublime and more animated parts of the performance, where the sub- ject might have given him room to show his skill, and the example of his author stirred up the fire of poetry in his breast, if he had any in it. To- wards the end of the second book of the Fasti, Ovid has introduced the most tender and interest- ing story of Lucretia. The original is inimitable. Let us see what Mr. Massey has made of it in his translation. After he has described Tarquin re- turning from the sight of the beautiful Lucretia, he proceeds thus : " The near approach of day the cock declared By his shrill voice, when they again repair'd Back to the camp ; but Sextus there could find Nor peace nor ease for his distempered mind ; A spreading fire does in his bosom burn, Fain would he to the absent fair return ; The image of Lucretia fills his breast, Thus at her wheel she sat ! and thus was dress'd ! What sparkling eyes, what pleasure in her look ! i How just her speech, and how divinely spoke! Like as the waves, raised by a boisterous wind, Sink by degrees, but leave a swell behind : So, though by absence lessen'd was his fire, There still remain'd the kindlings of desire; Unruly lust from hence began to rise, Which how to gratify he must devise; All on a rack, and stung with mad designs, He reason to his passion quite resigns ; Whatever' s th' event, said he, I'll try my fat6, Suspense in all things is a wretched state ; Let some assistant god, or chance, attend, All bold attempts they usually befriend : This way, said he, I to the Gabii trod ; Then girding on his sword, away he rode. The day was spent, the sun was nearly set, When he arrived before Collatia's gate; Like as a! friend, but with a sly intent. To CoUatinus' house he boldly went; There he a kind reception met within From fair Lucretia, for they were akin. What ignorance attends the human mind! How oft we are to our misfortunes blind ! Thoughtless of harm, she made a handsome feast^' And o'er a cheerful glass regaled her guest With lively chat ; and then to bed they went ; But Tarquin still pursued his vile mtent; All dark, about the dead of night he rose, Arid softly to Lucretia's chamber goes ; His naked sword he carried in his hand. That what he could not win he might command? With rapture on her bed himself he threw. And as approaching to her lips he drew, Dear cousin, ah, my dearest life, he said, 'Tis I, 'tis Tarquin ; why are you afraid? Trembling with fear, she not a word could say, Her spirits fled, she fainted quite away ; Like as a lamb beneath a wolf's rude paws, Appall'd and stunn'd, her breath she hardly draws',' What can she do ? resistance would be vain, She a weak woman, he a vigorous man. Should she cry out ? his naked sword was by; One scream, said he, and you this instant die : Would she escape 7 his hands lay on her breast, Now first by hands of any stranger press'd : The lover urged by threats, rewards, and prayers ; But neither prayers, rewards, nor threats, she hears : Will you not yield ? he cries ; then know my will ' When these my warm desires have had their fill. By your dead corpse I'll kill and lay a slave, And in that posture both together leave ; Then feign myself a witness of your shame, And fix a lasting blemish on your fame. Her mind the fears of blemished fame control, And shake the resolutions of her soul ; But of thy conquest, Tarquin, never boast. Graining that fort, thou hast a kingdom lost ; Vengeance thy complicated guilt attends. Which both in thine, and fam'ly's ruin ends. With rising day the sad Lucretia rose. Her inward grief her outward habit shows; Mournful she sat in tears, and all alone, As if she'd lost her only darUng son ; Then for her husband and her father sent, Who Ardea left in haste to know th' intent; Who, when they saw her all in mourning dress'd To know the occasion of her grief, request; Whose funeral she mourn'd desired to know, Or why she had put on those robes of woe? She long conceal'd the melancholy cause. While from her eyes a briny fountain flow^s : Her aged sire, and tender husband strive To heal her grief, and words of comfort give* 249 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. If et dread some fatal consequence to hear, And begg'd she would the cruel cause declare." Jam dederat cantum lucis praenuncius ales Cum referunt juvenes in sua castra pedem. Carpitur attonitos absentis imaghte sensua Ille : recordanti plura magisqire placent. Sic sedit : sic culta fuit : sic stamina nevit : Neglectae collo sic jacuere comae; Hoe habuit vultus : hie illi verba fuere : Hie decor, hcec facies, hie color oris erat. Ut solet a magno fluctus languescere flatu ; Sed tamen a vento, qui fuit ante, tumet: Sic, quamvis aberat placitae praesentia formae, Quern dederat praesens forma, manebat amor. Ardet ; et injusti stimulis agitatus amoris Comparat indigno vimque dolumque toro. Exitus in dubio est : audebimus ultima, dixit : Viderit, audentis forsne deusne juvet. Cepimus audendo Gabios quoque. Talia fatus Ense latus cingit : tergaque pressit equi. Accipit aBrata juvenem Collatia porta: Condere jam. vultus sole parante suos. Hostis, ut hospes, init penetralia Collatina : Comiter excipitur: sanguine junctus erat. Quantum aninjis eiToris inest ! parat inscia rerum Infelix epulas hostibus ilia suis. Functus erat dapibus : poscunt sua tempora somni, Nox erat ; et tota lumina nulla domo. Surgit, et auratum vagina deripit ensem; Et venit in thalamos, nupta pudica, tuos. Utque torum pressit; ferrum, Lucretia, mecuni est, Natus, ait, regis, Tarquiniusque vocor. nia nihil : neque enim vocem viresque loquendi, Aut aliquid toto pectore mentis habet. Sed iremit, ut quondam stabulis deprensa relicti^ Parva sub infesto cum jacet agne lupo. Quid facial ? pugnetl vincetur femina pugna. Clamet? at in dextra, qui necet, ensisadest. EfTugiat? positis urgetur pectora palmis; Nunc primum externa pectora facta manu. Instat amans hostis precibus, pretioque, minisque . Nee prece, nee pretio, nee movet ille minis. Nil agis; eripiam, dixit, per crimina vitam: Falsus udullerii testis adulter ero. Interimam famulum ; cum quo deprensa fereris. Succubuit famee victa puella meta Quid, victor, gaudes? ha^c te victoria perdet. Heu quanto regnis nox stetit una tuis ! Jamque erat orta dies: passis sedet ilia capillis; Ut solet ad nati mater itura rogum. Grandaivumque patrem fidocum conjuge castris Evocat; et posita venit uterque mora. Utque vident habitum; quae luctus causa, requirunt: Cui paret exsequias, quove sit icta malo, Ela diu retieet, pudibundaque celat amictu Ora. Fluunt lacrymae more perennis aqua?. Hinc pater, hinc conjux lacrymas solantur, et orant Indicet: et caeco flentque paventque metu, Ter conata loqui, etc. Our readers will easily perceive by this short specimen, how very unequal Mr. Massey is to a translation of Ovid. In many places he has deviated entirely from the sense, and in every part fallen infi- nitely below the strength, elegance, and spirit of the original. We must beg leave, therefore, to remind him of the old Italian proverb,* and hope he will never for the future traduce and injure any of those poor ancients who never injured him, by thus pes- tering the world with such translations as even' his own school- boys ought to be whipped for. ' n Tradattores Tradatore. CRITICISM ON BARRET'S TRANSLATION OF OVID'S EPISTLES. [Published in 1759.] The praise which is every day lavished upon Virgil, Horace, or Ovid, is often no more than an indirect method the critic takes to compliment his own discernment. Their works have long been considered as models of beauty ; to praise them now is only to show the conformity of our tastes to theirs; it tends not to advance their reputation, but to promote our own. Let us then dismiss, for the present, the pedantry of panegyric ; Ovid needs it not, and we are not disposed to turn encomiasts on ourselves. It will be sufficient to observe, that the multi- tude of translators which have attempted this poet serves to evince the number of his admirers ; and their indifferent success, the difficulty of equalling his elegance or his ease. Dry den, ever poor, and ever willing tx>be obliged, solicited the assistance of his friends for a transla- tion of these epistles. It was not the first time his miseries obliged him to call in happier bards to his aid ; and to permit such to quarter their fleeting performances on the lasting merit of his name. This eleemosynary translation, as might well be- expected, was extremely unequal, frequently unjust to the poet's meaning, almost always so to his fame. It was published without notes ; for it was not at that time customary to swell every performance cf this nature with comment and scholia. The rea(^ er did not then choose to have the current of hi* passions interrupted, his attention every moment called off from pleasure only, to be informed why he was so pleased. It was not then thought neces- sary to lessen surprise by anticipation, and, like some spectators we have met at the play-house, to take off our attent' )n from the performance, by telling in our ear, what will follow next. Since this united effort, Ovid, as if born to mis- fortune, has undergone successive metamorphoses, being sometimes transposed by schoolmasters un* acquainted with English, and sometimes transversed by ladies who knew no Latin : thus he has alter- nately worn the dress of a pedant or a rake ; either crawling in humble prose, or having his hints ex- PREFACflS AND CRITICISM. 343 flained into unbashful meaning. Schoolmasters, who knew all that was in him except his gtaces, give the names of places and towns at full length, and he moves along stiffly in their literal versions, as the man who, as we are told in the Philosophi- cal Transactions, was afflicted with a universal anchilbsis. His female imitators, on the other hand, regard the dear creature only as a lover; ex- press the delicacy of his passion b}'^ the ardour of their oWh ; and if now and then he is found to grow a little too warm, and perhaps to express himself a little indelicately, it must be impUted to the more poignant sensations of his fair admirers. In a word, we have seen him stripped of all his beauties in the versions of Stirling and Clark, and talk like a debauchee in that of Mrs. ; but the sex should ever be sacred from criticism ; perhaps the ladies have a right to describe raptures which none but themselves can bestow. A poet, like Ovid, whose greatest beauty lies rather in expression than sentiment, must be ne- cessarily difficult to translate. A fine sentiment may be conveyed several different ways, without impairing its vigour; but a sentence delicately ex- pressed will scarcely admit the least variation with- out losing beauty. The performance before us will serve to convince the public, that Ovid is more easily admired than imitated. The translator, in his notes, shows an ardent zeal for the reputation of his poet. It is possible too he may have felt his beauties; however, he does not seem possessed of the happy art of giving his feelings expression. If a kindred spirit, as we have often been told, must animate the translator, we fear the claims of Mr. Barret will never receive a sanction in the heraldry of Parnassus. His intentions^ even envy must own, are laud- able : nothing less than to instruct boys, school- masters, grown gentlemen, the public, in thspnin- ciples of taste (to use his own expression), both by precept and by example. His manner it seems is, "to read a course of poetical lectures to his pu- pils one night in the week ; which, beginning with this author, running through select pieces of our own, as well as the Latin and Greek writers, and ending -with Longinus, contributes no little to- wards forming their taste." No little,, reader ob- serve that, from a person so perfectly master of the force of his own language : what may not be ex- pected from his comments on the beauties of an- other'? But, in order to show in what nfanner he has executed these intentions, it is proper he should first march in review as a poet. We shall select the first epistle that offers, which is that from Pene- lope to Ulysses, observing beforehand, that the whole translation is a most convincing instance, If that English words may be placed in Latin order, without being wholly unintelligible.. Such forced tl^iispositions serve at once to give an idea of the translator's learning, and of difficulties surnwunted. PENELOPE TO ULYSSES. "This, still your wife, my ling' ring lord ! I send; Yet be your answer personal, not penn'd." These lines seem happily imitated from Taiylori the water-poet, who has it thus ; "To thee, deaf Ursula, these lines I send, Not with my hand, but with my heart, they're penn'd." But not to make a pause in the reader's pleasure, we proceed. "Sunk now is Troy, the curse of Grecian dames I ( Her king, her all, a worthless prize ! ) in flames. O had by storms (his fleet to Sparta bound) Th' adult'rer perished in the mad profound! Here seems some obscurity in the translation} we are at a loss to know what is meant by the mad profound. It can certainly mean neither Bedlam nor Fleet- Ditch ; for though the epithet mad might agree with one^ or profound with the other, yet when united they seem incompatible with either. The profound has frequently been used to signify bad verses; and poets are sometimes said to be mad: who knows but Penelope wishes that Paris might have died in the very act of rhyming; and as he was a shepherd, it is not improbable to sup-f pose but that he was a poet also. "Cold in a widow'd bed I ne'er had lay. Nor chid with weary eyes the hng'ring day." Lay for lain, by the figure ginglimus. translator makes frequent use of this figure. Th^ "Nor the protracted nuptials to avoid, By night unravell'd what the day employed. When have not fancied dangers broke my rest? Love, tim'rous passion! rends the anxious breasts In thought I saw you each fierce Trojan's aim; Pale at the mention of bold Hector's name!" Ovid makes Penelope shudder at the name of Hector. Our translator, with great proprietyy transfers' the fright from Penelope to Ulysses him- self: it is he who grows pale at the name of Hec- tor; and well indeed he might; for Hector is repre- sented by Ovid, somewhere else, as a terrible fel* low, and Ulysses as little better than a poltroon, "Whose spear when brave Antilochus imbrued. By the dire news awoke, my fear renew'd Clatl in dissembled arms Patroclus died; And "Oh the fate of stratagem 1" 1 cried. Tlepolemus, beneath the Lycian dart, His breath resign'd, and roused afresh my smart. 244 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. Thus, when each Grecian press' d the bloody field, Cold icy horrors my fond bosom chill'd." Here we may observe how epithets tend to strengthen the force of expression. First, her hor- rors are cold, and so far Ovid seems to think also; but the translator adds, from himself, the epithet icy, to show that they are still colder a fine climax of frigidity ! "But Heaven, indulgent to my chaste desire, Haswrapp'd (my husband safe) proud Troy in fire." The reader may have already observed one or two instances of our translator's skill, in parentheti- cally clapping one sentence within another. This contributes not a little to obscurity ; and obscurity, we all know, is nearly allied to admiration. Thus, when the reader begins a sentence which he finds pregnant with another, which still teems with a third, and so on, he feels the same surprise which a countryman does at Bartholomew-fair. Hocus shows a bag, in appearance empty; slap, and out come a dozen new-laid eggs; slap again, and the number is doubled ; but what is his amazement, when it swells with the hen that laid them! "The Grecian chiefs return, each altar shines, And spoils of Asia grace our native shrines. Gifts, for their lords restored, the matrons bring ; The Trojan fates o'ercome, triumphant sing; Old men and trembling maids admire the songs, And wives hang, list'ning, on their husbands' iongties." Critics have expatiated, in raptures, on the deli- cate use the ancients have made of the verb pen- dere. Virgil's goats are described as hanging on the mountain side; the eyes of a lady hang on the looks of her lover. Ovid has increased the force of the metaphor, and describes the wife as hanging on the lips of her husband. Our translator has gone still farther, and described the lady as pendent from his tongue. A fine picture ! "Now, drawn in wine, fierce battles meet their eyes, And llion's towers in miniature arise: There stretch'd Sigean plains, here Simois flow'd: And there old Priam's lofty palace stood. Here Peleus' son encamp'd, Ulysses there; Here Hector's corpse distain'd the rapid car." "Of this the Pylian sage, in quest of thee Embark'd, your son inform'd his mother he." If we were permitted to offer a correction upon the two last lines,i^ we would translate them into plain EngUsh thus, still preserving the rhyme en- tire. The Pylian sage inform'd your son embark'd in quest of thee Of this, and he his mother, that is me. " He told how Rhesus and how Dolon fell, By your wise conduct and Tydides' steel ; That doom'd by heavy sleep oppress'd to die, And this prevented, a nocturnal spy ! Rash man ! undmindful what your friends you owe, Night's gloom to tempt, and brave a Thracian foe By one assisted in the doubtful strife ; To me how kind ! how provident of life ! Still throbb'd my breast, till, victor, from the plain, You join'd, on Thracian steeds, th' allies again. " But what to me avails high Ilium's fall, ^ Or soil continued o'er its ruin'd wall ; If still, as when it stood, my wants remain ; If still I wish you in these arms in vain? "Troy, sack'd to others, yet to me remains. Though Greeks, with captive oxen, till her plains, Ripe harvests bend where once her turrets stood; Rank in her soil, manured with Phrygian blood; Harsh on the ploughs, men's bones, half buried, sound, And grass each ruin'd mansion hides around. Yet, hid in distant climes, my conq'ror stays; Unknown the cause of these severe delays ! " No foreign merchant to our isle resorts. But question'd much of you, he leaves our ports ; Hence each departing sail a letter bears To speak (if you are found) my anxious cares. "Our son to Pylos cut the briny wave; But Nestor's self a dubious answer gave ; To Sparta next nor even could Sparta tell What seas you plough, or in what region dwell I " Better had stood Apollo's sacred wall : could I now my former wish recall ! War my sole dread, the scene I then should know. And thousands then would share the common woe : But all things now, not knowing what to fear, 1 dread ; and give too large a field to care. Whole lists of dangers, both by land and sea, Are muster'd, to have caused, so long delayi "But while your conduct thus I fondly cle^ Perhaps (true man !) you court some foreign fail ; Perhaps you rally your domestic loves, Whose art the snowy fleece alone improvefli.i|j#'''^jjH No ! may I err, and start at false alarms ; ^ May nought but force detain you from my arms. "Urged by a father's right again towed, Firm I refuse, still faithful to your bed ! Still let him urge the fruitless vain design; I am I must be and I will be thine. Though melted by my chaste desires, of late His rig'rous importunities abate. , PREFACES AND CRITICISM. 245 *' Of teasing suitors a luxurious train, From neighbouring isles, have cross'd the liquid plain. Here uncontroU'd the audacious crews resort, Rifle in your wealth, and revel in your court. Pisander, Polybus, and Medon lead, Anlinous and Eurymachus succeed. With others, whose rapacious throats devour The wealth you purchased once, distained with gore. Melanthius add, and Irus, hated name ! A beggar rival to complete our shame. " Three, helpless three! are here ; a wife not strong, A sire too aged, and a son too young. He late, hy fraud, embark'd for Pylos' shore, Nigh from my arms for ever had been tore." These two Unes are replete with beauty: nigh, which implies approximation, and from, which implies distance, are, to use our translator's expres- sions, drawn as it were up in line of battle. Tore is put for torn, that is, torn by fraud, from her arms; not that her son played truant, and embark- led by fraud, as a reader who does nbt understand Latin might be apt to fancy. "Heaven grant the youth survive each parent's date. And no cross chance reverse the course of fate. Your nurse and herdsman join this wish of mine. And the just keeper of your bristly swine." Our translator observes in a note, that " the sim- plicity expressed in these lines is so far from being a blemish, that it is, in fact, a very great beauty ; and the modern crjtic, who is offended with the mention of a sty, however he may pride himself upon his false delicacy, is either too short-sighted to penetrate into real nature, or has a stomach too nice to digest the noblest relics of antiquity. He means, no doubt, to digest a hog-sty ; but, antiquity apart, we doubt if even Powel the fire-eater him- self could bring his appetite to relish so unsavoury a repast. " By age your sire disarm' d, and wasting woes. The helm resigns, amidst surrounding foes. This may your son resume (when years allow), But oh ! a father's aid is wanted now. Nor h^ve I strength his title to maintain, Haste, then, our only refuge, o'er the main." " A son, and long may Heaven the blessing granl. You have, whose years a sire's instruction want. Think how Laertes drags an age of woes, In hope that you his dying eyes may close; And 1, left youthful in my early bloom. Shall aged seem ; how soon soe'er you come." But let not the reader imagine we can find plea- si^e in thus exposing absurdities, which are too ludicrous for serious reproof. While we censure as critics, we feel as men, and could sincerely wish that those, whose greatest sin, is perhaps, the ve- nial one of writing bad verses, would regard their failure in this respect as ws do, not as faults, but foibles ; they may be good and useful members of society, without being poets. The regitms of tasto can be travelled only by a few, and even those often find indifferent accommodation by the way. Let such as have not got a passport from nature be content with happiness, and leave the poet the un- rivalled possession of his misery, his garret, and his fame. We have of late seen the republic of letters crowded with some, who have no other pretensions to applause but industry, who have no other merit but that of reading many books, and making long quotations ; these we have heard extolled by sym- pathetic dunces, and have seen them carry off the rewards of genius; while others, who should have been born in better days, felt all the wants of pov- erty, and the agonies of contempt. Who then that has a regard for the public, for the literary honours of our country, for the figure we shall one day make among posterity, that would not choose to see such humbled as are possessed only of talents that might have made good cobblers, liad fortune turned them to trade 7 Should such prevail, the real interests of learning must be in a reciprocal proportion to the power they possess. Let it be then the character of our periodical endeavours, and hitherto we flatter ourselves it has ever been, not to permit an ostentation of learning to pa^s for merit, nor to give a pedant quarter upon the score of his industry alone, even though he took refuge behind Arabic, or powdered his hair with hieroglyphics. Authors thus censured may accuse our judgment, or our reading, if they please, but our own hearts will acquit us of envy or ill-nature, since we re- prove only with a desire to reform. But we had almost forgot, that our translator is to be considered as a critic as well as a poet ; and in this department he seems also equally unsuc- cessful with the former. Criticism at present is different from what it was upon the revival of taste in Europe; all its rules are now well known ; the only art at present is, to exbibit them in such lights as contribute to keep the attention alive, and excite a favourable audience, it must borrow graces from eloquence, and please while it aims at instruc- tion : but instead of this, we have a combination of trite observations, delivered in a style hi which those who are disposed to make war upon words, will find endless opportunities of trium})h. He is sometimes hypercritical ; thus, page 9. " Pope in his excellent Essay on Criticism (as will, in it? place, when you come to be lectured upon it, atfullbe explained,) terms this making the sound an echo to the sense. But I apprehend that definition 246 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. Jtakes in but a part, for the best ancient poets ex- celled in thus painting to the eye as well as to the ear. Virgil, describing his housewife preparing her wine, exhibits the act of the fire to the eye. ' Aut dulcis musU Vulcano decoquit humorera, Et foliis undam trepidi dispumai aheni.' " For the line (if I may be allowed the expres- Bion) boils over; and in order to reduce it to its proper bounds, you must, with her, skim off the redundant syllable." These are beauties, which, doubtless, the reader is displeased he can not discern. Sometimes confused : " There is a deal of artful and concealed satire in what CEnone throws out against Helen : and to speak truth, there was fair scope for it, and it might naturally be expected. Her chief design was to render his new mistress suspected of meretricious arts, and make him ap- prehensive that she would hereafter be as ready to leave him for some new gallant, as she had be-' fore, perfidiously to her lawful husband, followed hii." Sometimes contradictory : thus, page 3. " Style (says he) is used by some writers, as synonymous with diction, yet in my opinion, it has rather a complex sense, including both sentiment and dic- tion." Oppose to this, page 135. "As to con- cord and even style, they are acquirable by most youth in due time, and by many with ease ; but the art of thinking properly, and choosing the best sentiments on every subject, is what comes later." And sometimes he is guilty of false criticism : as when he says, Ovid's chief excellence lies in de- scription. Description was the rock on which he always split ; Nescivit quod bene cessit Telinquere^ as Seneca says of him : when once he embarks in description, he most commonly tires us before he has done with it. But to tire no longer the reader, or the translator with extended censure ; as acntiCf this gentleman seems to have drawn his knowledge from the remarks of others, and not his own reflec- tion ; as a translator, he understands the language of Ovid, but not his beauties ; and though he may- be an excellent schoolmaster, he has, howev^ ito pretensions to taste. LETTERS FROM A m^m^^ IF' ^^^ wiBEfliB FRTEXTDS IN THIS EAST. THE EDITOR'S PREFACE. The schoolmen had formerly a very exact way ^f computing the abilities of their saints or authors. Escobar, for instance, was said to have learning as five, genius as four, and gravity as seven. Cara- muel was greater than he. His learning was as eight, his genius as six, and his gravity as thir- teen. Were I to estimate the merits of our Chi- nese Philosopher by the same scale, I would not hesitate to state his genius still higher; but as to his learning and gravity, these, 1 think, might safely be marked as nine hundred and ninety-nine, within one degree of absolute frigidity. Yet, upon his first appearance here, many were angry not to find him as ignorant as a Tripoline ambassador, or an envoy from Mujac. They were surprised to find a man born so far from London, that school of prudence and wisdom, endued even with a moderate capacity. They expressed the same surprise at his knowledge that the Chinese do at ours. *How comes it, said they, that the Europeans so remote from China, think with so much justice and precision? They have never read our books, they scarcely know even oar let- ters, and yet they talk and reason just as we do. The truth is, the Chinese and we are pretty much alike. Different degrees of refinement, and not of distance, mark the distinctions among mankind. Savages of the most opposite climates have all but one character of improvidence and rapacity ; and tutored nations, however separate, make use of the very same method to procure refined enjoy- ment. The distinctions of polite nations are few, but such as are peculiar to the Chinese, appear in every page of the following correspondence. The me- taphors and allusions are all drawn from the East. Le Comte, voL i. p. 2ia Their formality our author carefully preserves. Many of their favourite tenets in morals are illus- trated. The Chinese are always concise, so is he. Simple, so is he. The Chinese are grave and sen- tentious, so is he. But in one particular the resem- blance is peculiarly striking : the Chinese are often dull, and so is he. Nor has any assistance been wanting. We are told in an old romance, of a certain knight errant and his horse who contracted an inti- mate friendship. The horse most usually bore the knight; but, in cases of extraordinary dispatch, the knight returned the favour, and carried his hors '. 1 hus, in the intimacy between my author and me, he has usually given me a lift of his east- ern sublimity, and I have sometimes given him a return of my colloquial ease. Yet it appears strange, in this season of pane- gyric, when scarcely an author passes unpraised, either by his friends or himself, that such merit as our Philosopher's should be forgotten. While the epithets of ingenious, copious, elaborate, and re- fined, are lavished among the mob, like medals at a coronation, the lucky prizes fall on every side, but not one on him. I could, on this occasion, make myself melancholy, by considering the ca- priciousness of public taste, or the mutability of fortune : but, during this fit of morality, lest my reader should sleep, I'll take a nap myself, and when I awake tell him my dream. 1 imagined the Thames was frozen over, and I stood by its side. Several booths were erected upon the ice, and I was told by one of the specta- tors, that Fashion Fair was going to begin. He added, that every author who would carry his works there, might probably find a very good re- ception. I was resolved, however, to observe the humours of the place in safety from the shore; sensible that the ice was at best precarious, and I having been always a httle cowardly in my sleeu '248 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. Several of my acquaintance seemed much more hardy than I, and went over the ice with intrepidi- ty. Some carried their works to the fair on sledges, some on carts, and those which were more volu- minous, were conveyed ^n wagons. Their te- merity astonished me. I Igiew their cargoes were heavy, and expected every moment they would have gone to the bottom. They all entered the fair, however, in safety, and each soon after re- turned to my great surprise, highly satisfied with his entertainment, and the bargains he had brought away. The success of such numbers at lasf began to operate upon me. If these, cried I, meet with fa- vour and safety, some luck may, perhaps, for once, attend the unfortunate. I am resolved to make a new adventure. The furniture, frippery, and fire- works of China, have long been fashionably bought up. I'll try the fair with a small cargo of Chinese morality. If the Chinese haye contributed to viti- ate our taste, I'll try how far they can help to im- prove our understanding. But as others have driven into the market in wagons, I'll cautiously begin by venturing with a wheelbarrow. Thus resolved, I baled up my goods, and fairly ventured ; when, upon just entering the fair, I fancied the ice that had supported a hundred wagons before, cracked under me, and wheelbarrow and all went to the bottom. Upon awaking from my reverie with the fright, I can not help wishing that the pains taken in giv- ing this correspondence an English dress, had been employed in contriving new political systems, or new plots for farces. 1 might then have taken my station in the world, either as a poet or a philoso pher, and made one in those little societies where men club to raise each other's reputation. But at present I belong to no particular class. I resemble one of those animals that has been forced from its forest to gratify human curiosity. My earliest wish was to escape unheeded through life ; but I have been set up for halfpence, to fret and scamper at the end of my chain. Though none are injured by my rage, I am naturally too savage to court any friends by fawning ; too obstinate to be taught new tricks ; and too improvident to mind what may hap- pen. I am appeased, though not contented. Too indolent for intrigue, and too fimid to push for fa- vour, I am ^but what signifies what I am. ExiTiff }CM ou Tv^n fAiryct ^ajptTi' toy Kijuiv supor. OvS'tv ifJioi ^ v/uir TTcti^iTi Tovi y.tnr' t/xi. Fortune and Hope, adieu! I see my Port: Too long your dupe ; be others now your sport. LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD TO HIS FRIENDS IN THE EAST. LETTER I. To Mr. * * * *, Merchant in London. Sir, Amsterdam. Yours of the 13th instant, covering two bills, one on Messrs. R. and D. value 478/. 10s. and the other on Mr. ****, value 285Z., duly came to hand, the former of which met with honour, but the other has been trifled with, and I am afraid will be re- turned protested. The bearer of this is my friend, therefore let him be yours. He is a native of Honan in China, and one who did me signal services, when he was a mandarine, and I a factor, at Canton. By fre- quently conversing with the English there, he has learned the language; though he is entirely a stran- ger to their manners and customs. I am told he is a philosopher ; I am sure he is an honest man : that to you will be his best recommendation, next to the consideration of his being the friend of, sir, Yours, etc. LETTER IL From Lien Chi Altangi, to Merchant in Amsterdam. Friend op my Heart, London. May the wings of peace rest upon thy dwelling-^ and the shield of conscience preserve thee from rice and misery I For all thy favours accept my gratitude and esteem, the only tributes a poor phi- losophic wanderer can return. Sure, fortune is resolved to make me unhappy, when she gives others a power of testifying their friendship by ac- tions, and leaves me only words to express the sin- cerity of mine. I am perfectly sensible of the delicacy with which you endeavour to lessen your own merit and my obligations. By caUing your late instances of friendship only a return for former favours, you would induce me to impute to your justice what I owe to your generosity. The services I did you at Canton, justice, hu- manity, and my office, bade me perform : those you have done me since my arrival at Amsterdam, no laws obliged you to, no justice required, even half CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. your favours would have been greater than my most sanguine expectations. The sum of money, therefore, which you pri- vately conveyed into my baggage, when I was leaving Holland, and which I was ignorant of till my arrival in London, I must beg leave to return. You have been bred a merchant, and I a scholar ; you consequently love money better than I. You can find pleasure in superfluity; 1 am perfectly con- tent with what is sufficient. Take therefore what is yours, it may give you some pleasure, even though you have no occasion to use it ; my happi- ness it can not improve, for I have already all that I want. My passage by sea from Rotterdam to England was more painful to me than all the journeys I ever made on land. I have traversed the immea- surable wilds of Mogul Tartary; felt all the ri- gours of Siberian skies : I have had my repose a hundred times disturbed by invading savages, and have seen, without shrinking, the desert sands rise like a troubled ocean all around me : against these calamities I was armed with resolution ; but in my passage to England, though nothing occurred that gave the mariners any uneasiness, to one who was never at sea before, all was a subject of astonish- ment and terror. To find the land disappear, to see our ship mount the waves, swift as an arrow from the Tartar bow, to hear the wind howling through the cordage, to feel a sickness which de- presses even the spirits of the brave ; these were xmexpected distresses, and consequently assaulted me unprepared to receive them. You men of Europe think nothing of a voyage by sea. With us of China, a man who has been from sight of land is regarded upon his return with admiration. I have known some provinces where there is not even a name for the Ocean. What a strange people, therefore, am I got amongst, who have founded an empire on this unstable element^ who build cities upon billows that rise higher than the mountains of Tipertala, and make the deep more formidable than the wildest tempest ! Such accounts as these, I must confess, were my first motives for seeing England. These induced me to undertake a journey of seven hundred pain- ful days, in order to examine its opulence, build- ings, sciences, arts, and manufactures, on the spot. Judge then my disappointment on entering Lon- don, to see no signs of that opulence so much talked of abroad : wherever I turn, I am presented with a gloomy solemnity in the houses, the streets, and the inhabitants; none of that beautiful gilding which makes a principal ornament in Chinese ar- chitecture. The streets of Nankin are sometimes strewed with gold-leaf; very different are those of London . in the midst of their pavements, a great lazy puddle moves muddily along ; heavy laden ma- chines, with wheels of unwieldy thickness, crowd up every passage; so that a stranger, instead of find- ing time for observation, is often happy if he has time to escape from being crushed to pieces. The houses borrow very few ornaments from ar- chitecture ; their chief decoration seems to be a pal- try piece of painting hung out at their doors or windows, at once a proof of their indigence and vanity : their vanity, in each having one of those pictures exposed to public view; and their indi- gence, in being unable to get them better painted. In this respect, the fancy of their painters is also deplorable. Could you believe it 7 I have seen five black lions and three blue boars, in less than the circuit of half a mile ; and yet you know that ani- mals of these colours are no where to be found ex- cept in the wild imaginations of Europe. From these circumstances in their buildings, and from the dismal looks of the inhabitants, I am in- duced to conclude that the nation is actually poor; and that, like the Persians, they make a splendid figure every where but at home. The proverb of Xixofou is, that a man's riches may be seen in his eyes : if we judge of the Enghsh by this rule, there is not a poorer nation under the sun. 1 have been here but two days, so will not be hasty in my decisions. Such letters as I shall write to Fipsihi in Moscow, 1 beg you'll endeavour to forward with all diligence ; 1 shall send them open, in order that you may take copies or transla- tions, as you are equally versed in the Dutch and Chinese languages. Dear friend, think of my ab- sence with regret, as I sincerely regret yours ; even while I write, 1 lament our separation. Farewell. LETTER in. From Lien Chi Altangi, to the care of Fipsihi, resident in Moscow, to be forwarded by the Russian caravan to Fund Hoana, First President of the Ceremonial Academy at Pe. Icin in China, Think not, O thou guide of my youth ! that ab-. sence can impair my respect, or interposing track- less deserts blot your reverend figure from my memory. The farther I travel I feel the pain of separation with stronger force ; those ties that bind me to my native country and you, are still un- broken. By every remove, I only drag a greater length of chain. * Could I find aught worth transmitting from so remote a region as this to which 1 have wandered, 1 should gladly send it; but, instead of this, you must be contented with a renewal of my former professions, and an imperfect account of a people We iind a repetition of this beautiful and affecting image in the Traveller: "And drags at each remove a lengthening chain." 250 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. with whom I am as yet but superficially acquaint ed. The remarks of a man who has been but three days in the country, can only be those obvi- ous circumstances which force themselves upon the imagination. I consider myself here as a newly- created being introduced into a new world ; every object strikes with wonder and surprise. The imagination, still unsated, seems the only active principle of the mind. The most trifling occur- rences give pleasure till the gloss of novelty is worn away. When I have ceased to wonder, I may possibly grow wise ; I may then call the reasoning principle to my aid, and compare those objects with each other, which were before examined without reflection. Behold me then in London, gazing at the strangers, and they at me : it seems they find some what absurd in my figure; and had I been never from home, it is possible I might find an infinite fund of ridicule in theirs; but by long travelling I am taught to laugh at folly alone, and to find no- thing truly ridiculous but villany and vice. When 1 had just quitted my native country, and crossed the Chinese wall, I fancied every deviation from the customs and manners of China was a de- parting from nature. I smiled at the blue lips and red foreheads of the Tonguese; and could hardly contain when I saw the Daures dress their heads with horns. The Ostiacs powdered with red earth ; and the Calmuck beauties, tricked out in all the finery of sheep-skin, appeared highly ridiculous : but I soon perceived that the ridicule lay not in them but in me ; that I falsely condemned others for absurdity, because they happened to differ from a standard originally founded in prejudice or parti- ality. I find no pleasure therefore in taxing the Eng- lish with departing from nature in their external appearance, which is all! yetknowof their charac- ter: it is possible they only endeavour to improve her simple plan, since every extrayagance in dress proceeds from a desire of becoming more beautiful than nature made us; and this is so harmless a vanity, that I not only pardon but approve it. A desire to be more excellent than others, is what ac- tually makes us so ; and as thousands find a liveli- hood in society by such appetites, none but the ig- norant inveigh against them. You are not insensible, most reverend Fum Hoam, what numberless trades, even among the Chinese, subsist by the harmless pride of each other. Your nose-borers, feet-swathers, tooth-stain- ers, eyebrow-pluckers, would all want bread, should their neighbours want vanity. These vanities, however, employ much fewer hands in China than in England ; and a fine gentleman or a fine lady here, dressed up to the fashion, seems scarcely to have a single limb that does not suffer some distor- tions from art To make a fine gentleman, several trades are re- quired, but chiefly a barber. You have undoubt- edly heo.xd of the Jewish champion, whose strength lay in his hair. One would think that the English were for placing all wisdom there. To appear wise, nothing more is requisite here than for a man to borrow hair from the heads of all his neighbours, and clap it like a bush on his own ; the distributors of law and physic stick on such quantities, that it is almost impossible, even in idea, to distinguish between the head and the hair. Those whom I have been now describing affect the gravity of the lion ; those 1 am going to de- scribe, more resemble the pert vivacity of smaller animals. The barber, who is still master of the ceremonies, cuts their hair close to the crown ; and then with a composition of meal and hog's-lard, plasters the whole in such a manner as to make it impossible to distinguish whether the patient wears a cap or a plaster ; but, to make the picture more perfectly striking, conceive the tail of some beast, a greyhound's tail, or a pig's tail, for instance, ap- pended to the back of the head, and reaching down to that place where tails in other animals are gener- ally seen to begin ; thus betailed and bepowdered, the man of taste fancies he improves in beauty, dresses up his hard-featured face in smiles, and at- tempts to look hideously tender. Thus equipped, he is qualified to make love, and hopes for success more from the powder on the outside of his head, than the sentiments within. Yet when I consider what sort of a creature the fine lady is to whom he is supposed to pay his ad- dresses, it is not strange to find him thus equipped in order to please. She is herself every whit as fond of powder, and tails, and hog's-lard, as he. To speak my secret sentiments, most reverend Fum, the ladies here are horribly ugly; I can hardly endure the sight of them; they no way re- semble the beauties of China : the Europeans have quite a diflferent idea of beauty from us. When 1 reflect on the small-footed perfections of an Eastern beauty, how is it possible I should have eyes for a woman whose feet are ten inches long 1 I shall never forget the beauties of my native city of Nan- few. How very broad their faces ! how very short their noses ! how very httle their eyes ! how very thin their lips ! how very black their teeth I the snow on the tops of Bao is not fairer than their cheeks ; and their eyebrows are small as the line by the pencil of Cluamsi. Here a lady with such perfections would be frightful ; Dutch and Chinese beauties, indeed, have some resemblance, but Eng- lish women are entirely different ; red cheeks, big eyes, and teeth of a most odious whiteness, are not only seen here, but wished for; and then they have such ' masculine feet, as actually serve some for walking! Yot uncivil as nature has been, they seem re- CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 261 Bolved to outdo her in unkindness ; they use white powder, blue powder, and black powder, for their hair, and a red powder for the face on some parti- cular occasions. They like to have the face of various colours, as among the Tartars of Koreki, frequently sticking on, with spittle, little black patches on every part of it, except on the tip of the nose, which I have never seen with a patch. You'll have a better idea of their manner of placing these spots, when I have finished the map of an English face patched up to the fashion, which shall shortly be sent to increase your curious collection of paintings, medals, and monsters. But what surprises more than all the rest is what I have just now been credibly informed by one of this country. "Most ladies here, " says he, "have two faces; one face to sleep in, and another to show in company : the first is generally reserved for the husband and family at home ; the other put on to please strangers abroad : the family face is often in- difl^erent enough, but the out-door one looks some- thing better; this is always made at the toilet, where the looking-glass and toad-eater sit in coun- cil, and settle the complexion of the day." I can't ascertain the truth of this remark ; how- ever, it is actually certain, that they wear more clothes within doors than without ; and I have seen a lady, who seemed to shudder at a breeze in her own apartment, appear half naked in the streets. Farewell. LETTER IV. To the same. ,;^ The English seem as silent as the Japanese, yet vainer than the inhabitants of Siam. Upon my arrival, I attributed that reserve to modesty, which I now find has its origin in pride. Condescend to address them first, and you are sure of their ac- quaintance ; stoop to flattery, and you conciliate their friendship and esteem. They bear hunger, cold, fatigue, and all the miseries of life without shrinking ; danger only calls forth their fortitude ; they even exult in calamity ; but contempt is what they can not bear. An Englishman fears contempt more than death ; he often flies to death as a^efuge from its pressure ; and dies when he fancies the world has ceased to esteem him. Pride seems the source not only of their nation- al vices, but of their national virtues also. An Englishman is taught to love his king as his friend, but to acknowledge no other master than the laws which himself has contributed to enact. He de- spises those nations, who, that one may be free, are all content to be slaves ; who first lift a tyrant into terror, and then shrink under his power as if delegated from Heaven. Liberty is echoed in all their assemblies; and thousands might be found ready to oflfer up their lives for the sound, though perhaps not one of all the number understands its meaning. The lowest mechanic, however, looks upon it as his duty to be a watchful guardian of his country's freedom, and often uses a language that might seem haughty, even in the mouth of the great emperor, who traces his ancestry to the moon. A few days ago, passing by one of their prisons, I could not avoid stopping, in order to listen to a dialogue which I thought might aflford me some entertainment. The conversation was carried on between a debtor through the grate of his prison, a porter, who had stopped to rest his burden, and a soldier at the window. The subject was upon a threatened invasion from France, and each seemed extremely anxious to rescue his country from the impending danger. '^For my part," cries the prisoner, " the greatest of my apprehensions is for our freedom ; if the French should conquer, what would become of English liberty? My dear friends, Liberty is the Englishman's preroga- tive ; we must preserve that at the expense of our lives ; of that the French shall never deprive us ; it is not to be expected that men who are slaves themselves would preserve our freedom should they happen to conquer.''^ " Ay, slaves," cries the porter, " they are all slaves, fit only to carry burdens, every one of them. Before I would stoop to slave- ry, may this be my poison (and he held the goblet in his hand), may this be my poison but I would sooner list for a soldier." The soldier, taking the goblet from his friend, with much awe fervently cried out, "/f ts not so much our liberties as our religion, that would suf- fer by such a change : ay, our religion, my lads. May the devil sink me into fames (such was the solemnity of his adjuration), if the French should come over, but our religion would be utterly un- done. " So saying, instead of a libation, he applied the goblet to his lips, and confirmed his sentiment* with a ceremony of the most persevering devo- tion. In short, every man here pretends to be a politi- cian ; even the fair sex are sometimes found to mix the severity of national altercation with the bland- ishments of love, and often become conquerors, by more weapons of destruction than their eyes. This universal passion for politics, is gratified by daily gazettes, as with us at China. But as in ours the emperor endeavours to instruct his people, in theirs, the people endeavour to instruct the admin- istration. You must not, however, imagine, that they who compile these papers have any actual knowledge of the politics, or the government of a state ; they only collect their materials from the oracle of some coflee-house ; which oracle has him- self gathered them the night before from a bf au at 252 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. a gaining-table, who has pillaged his knowledge from a great man's porter, who has had his infor- mation from the great man's gentleman, who has invented the whole story for his own amusement the night preceding. The English, in general, seem fonder of gaining the esteem than the love of those they converse with. This gives a formality to their amusements ; their gayest conversations have something too wise for innocent relaxation : though in company you are seldom disgusted with the absurdity of a fool, you are seldom lifted into rapture |^ those strokes of vivacity, which give instant, though not perma- nent pleasure. What they want, however, in gaiety, they make up in politeness. You smile at hearing me praise the English for their politeness; you who have heard very different accounts from the missionaries at Pekin, who have seen such a different behaviour in their merchants and seamen at home. But I must still repeat it, the English seem more polite than any of their neighbours : their great art in this respect lies in endeavouring, while they oblige, to lessen the force of the favour. Other countries are fond of obliging a stranger ; but seem desirous that he should be sensible of the obligation. The Eng- lish confer their kindness with an appearance of indifference, and give away benefits with an air as if they despised them. Walking a few days ago between an English and a Frenchman into the suburbs of the city, we were overtaken by a heavy shower of rain. 1 was unprepared ; but they had each large coats, which defended them from what seenied to be a perfect inundation. The Englishman, seeing me shrink from the weather, accosted me thus : ^'Psha, man, what dost shrink at ? here, take this coat ; I don't want it ; lj\,nd it no way useful to me; I had as lief be without it^ The Frenchman began to show his politeness in turn. "iV/y dear friend,''^ cries he, ^^ why won't you oblige me by making use of my coat ? you see how well it defends me from the rain; I should not choose to part with it to others, but to such a friend as you I could even part with my skin to do him service. " From such minute instances as these, most reve- rend Fum Hoam, I am sensible your sagacity will (Collect instruction. The volume of nature is the book of knowledge; and he becomes most wise, who makes the most judicious selection. Fare- well. LETTER V. To the same. I HAVE already informed you of the singular passion of this nation for politics. An English- man not satisfied with finding, by his own pros- perity, the contending powers of Europe properly balanced, desired also to know the precise value of every weight in either scale. To gratify this curi- osity, a leaf of political instruction is served up every morning with tea : when our politician has feasted upon this, he repairs to a coffee-house, in order to ruminate upon what he has read, and in- crease his collection ; from thence he proceeds to the ordinary, inquires what news, and, treasuring up every acquisition there, hunts about all the evening in quest of more, and carefully adds it to the rest. Thus at night he retires home, full of the important advicel*of the day : when lo! awaking next morning, he finds the instructions of yeterday a collection of absurdity or palpable falsehood. This one would think a mortifying repulse in the pursuit of wisdom ; yet our politician, no way dis- couraged, hunts on, in order to collect fresh ma- terials, and in order to be again disappointed. I have often admired the commercial spirit which prevails over Europe ; have been surprised to see them carry on a traffic with productions that an Asiatic stranger would deem entirely useless. It is a proverb in China, that a European suffers not even his spittle to be lost ; the maxim, however, is not sufficiently strong, since they sell even their lies to great advantage. Every nation drives a considerable trade in this commodity with their neighbours. An English dealer in this way, for instance, has only to ascend to his workhouse, and manufacture a turbulent speech, averred to be spoken in the senate ; or a report supposed to be dropped at court; a piece of scandal that strikes at a popular manda- rine; or a secret treaty between two neighbouring powers. When finished, these goods are baled up, and consigned to a factor abroad, who sends in re- turn too battles, three sieges, and a shrev^'d Itett^r filled with dashes blanks and stars **** of great importance. Thus you perceive, that a single gazette is the joint manufacture of Europe; and he who would peruse it with a philosophical eye, might perceive in every paragraph something characteristic of the nation to which it belongs. A map does not ex- hibit a more distinct view of the boundaries and situation of every country, than its news does a picture of the genius and the morals of its inhabi- tants. The superstition and erroneous delicacy of Italy, the formality of Spain, the cruelty of Portu- gal, the fears of Austria, the confidence of Prussia, the levity of France, the avarice of Holland, the pride of England, the absurdity of Ireland, and the national partiality of Scotland, are all consj)icuous in every page. But, perhaps, you may find more satisfaction in a real newspaper, than in my description of one ; I therefore send a specimen, which may serve to ex- hibit the manner of their being written, and dis- CITIZEN OF TKE WORLD. tinguish the characters of the various nations which are united in its composition. Naples. We have lately dug up here a curious Etruscan monument, broke in two in the raising. The characters are scarce visible ; but Lugosi, the learned antiquary, supposes it to have been erected in honour of Picus, a Latin King, as one of the lines may be plainly distinguished to begin with a P. It is hoped this discovery will produce some- thing valuable, a5k:.the literati of our twelve acade- mies are deeply engaged in the disquisition. Pisa. Since Father Fudgi, prior of St. Gil- bert's, has gone to reside at Rome, no miracles have been performed at the shrine of St. Gilbert : the devout begin to grow uneasy, and some begin ac- tually to fear that St. Gilbert has forsaken them with the reverend father. Lucca. The administrators of our serene re- public have frequent conferences upon the part they shall take in the present commotions of Eu- rope. Some are for sending a body of their troops, consisting of one company of foot and six horse- men, to make a diversion in favour of the empress- queen ; others are as strenuous assertors of the Prussian interest : what turn these debates may take, time only can discover. However, certain it IS, we shall be able to bring into the field, at the opening of the next campaign, seventy-five armed men, a commander-in-chief, and two drummers of great experience. Spain. Yesterday the new king showed him- self to his subjects, and, after having staid half an hour in his balcony, retired to the royal apartment. The night concluded on this extraordinary occasion with illuminations, and other demonstrations of joy. The queen is more beautiful than the rising sun, and reckoned one of the first wits in Europe ; she had a glorious opportunity of displaying the readi- ness of her invention and her skill in repartee, lately at court. The Duke of Lerma coming up to her with a low bow and a smile, and presenting a nosegay set with diamonds. Madam, cries he, 1 am your most obedient humble servant. Oh, sir, replies the queen, without any prompter, or the least hesitation, Tm very proud of the very great honour you do me. Upon which she made a low courtesy, and all the courtiers fell a-laughing at the readiness and the smartness of her reply. Lisbon. Yesterday wc had an auto da fe, at which were burned three young women, accused of heresy, one of them of exquisite beauty; two Jews, and an old woman, convicted of being a witch : one of the friars, who attended this last, re- ports, that he saw the devil fly out of her at the stake in the shape of a flame of fire. The popu- lace behaved on this occasion with great good hu- mour, joy, and sincere devotion. Our merciful Sovereign has been for some time past recovered of his fright : thougL so atrocic^d an attempt deserved to extirminate half the nation, yet he has been graciously pleased to spare the lives of his subjects, and not above five hundred have been broke upon the wheel, or otherwise executed, upon this horrid occasion. Vienna. We have received certain advices that a party of twenty thousand Austrians, having at- tacked a much superior body of Prussians, put them all to flight, and took the rest prisoners of war. Berlin. We have received certain advices that a party of twenty thousand Prussians, having at- tacked a much superior body of Austrians, put them to flight, and took a great number of prisoners, with their military chest, cannon, and baggage. Though we have not succeeded this campaign to our wishes, yet, when we think of him who com- mands us, we rest in security : while we sleep, our king is watchful for our safety. Paris. We shall soon strike a signal blow. We have seventeen flat-bottomed boats at Havre. The people are in excellent spirits, and our minis- ters make no difficulty in raising the supplies. We are all undone ; the people are discontented to the last degree ; the ministers are obliged to have recourse to the most rigorous methods to raise the expenses of the war. Our distresses are great ; but Madame Pompa- dour continues to supply our king, who is now growing old, with a fresh lady every night. His health, thank Heaven, is still pretty well ; nor is he in the least unfit, as was reported, for any kind of royal exercitation. He was so frightened at the aflfair of Damien, that his physicians were appre- hensive lest his reason should suffer; but that wretch's tortures soon composed the kingly ter- rors of his breast. England. Wanted an usher to an academy. N. B. He must be able to read, dress hair, and must have had the small-pox. Dublin. We hear that there is a benevolent subscription on foot among the nobility and gentry of this kingdom, who are great patrons of merit, in order to assist Black and All Black in his contest with the Padderen mare. We hear from Germany that Prince Ferdinand has gained a complete victory, and taken twelve kettle-drums, five standards, and four wagons of ammunition, prisoners of war. Edinburgh. We are positive when we say that Saunders M'Gregor, who was lately executed for horse-stealing, is not a Scotchman, but born in Carrickferwus. Farewell. LETTER VL Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, to Lien Ciii Altangi, the Discontented Wanderer; by the way of Moscow. Whether sporting on the flowery banks of the river Irtis, or scaling the steepy mountains of 254 GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. Douchenour ; whether traversing the black deserts of Kobi, or giving lessons of politeness to the savage inhabitants of Europe ; in whatever country, what- ver climate, and whatever circumstances, all hail! May Tien, the Universal Soul, take you under his protection, and inspire you with a superior portion of himself! How long, my friend, shall an enthusiasm for knowledge continue tp obstruct your happiness, and tear you from all the connexions that make life pleasing 1 How long will you continue to rove from climate to climate, circled by thousands, and yet without a friend, feeling all the inconveniencies of a crowd, and all the anxiety of being alone 7 1 know you reply, that the refined pleasure of growing every day wiser, is a sufficient recompense for every inconvenience. I know you will talk of the vulgar satisfaction of soliciting happiness from tiensual enjoyment only; and probably enlarge up- on the exquisite raptures of sentimental bliss. Yet, i)elieve me, friend, you are deceived ; all our pleas- ures, though seemingly never so remote from sense,