i A r- f ■^!- w ■■«! ■,- . f*' , M.< ' . ■ y; / ' ^ r'' : * \ r ' '■^"- ■- - \ THE MISCELLANEOUS WORKS OF LIVER GOLDSMITH Londin : iV. Clay, Sons, and Taylor, Printers Bread Street Hill. (Globe IBbitton THE MISCELLANEOUS WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH IV/r// BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION By professor MASSON fl j MACMILLAN AND CO. fOSTON COLLEGE LIBRARE71. ^CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. PR, 3 122970 CONTENTS. • • ^ . ix Chap. XX. The History of a philosophic Vagabond, pursuing Novelty, but losing Con- tent P -43 XXI. The short Continuance of Friendship amongst the Vicious, which is coeval only with mutual satisfaction .... p. 49 XXII. Offences are easily pardoned, where there is Love at bottom P- 53 XXIII. None but the Guilty can be long and completely miserable P -55 XXIV. Fresh Calamities P- 57 XXV. No Situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort of comfort attending it •••;•. P- 59 XXVI. A Reformation in the Gaol : to make Laws complete, they should reward as well as punish p. 61 XXVII. The same subject continued . . p. 63 XXVIII. Happiness and Misery rather the result of Prudence than of Virtue in this life ; ■- . temporal evils or felicities being regarded by Heaven as things merely in themselves trifling, and unworthy its care in .the dis- tribution p. 65 XXIK. The equal dealings of Providence demon- strated with regard to the Happy and the Miserable here below. That, from the nature of Pleasure and Pain, the wretched must be repaid the balance of their suffer- ings in the life hereafter . . . p. 70 XXX. Happier Prospects begin to appear. Let us be inflexible, and Fortune will at last change in our favour P- 72 XXXI. Former Benevolence now repaid with un- expected Interest P- 75 XXXII. The Conclusion p. 82 MEMOIR OF goldsmith THE VICAP. OF WAKEFIELD. 0/iap. I The Description of the Family of Wake- field, in which a kindred Likeness pre- vails, as well of Minds as of Persons p. i II. Family Misfortunes. The Loss of For- tune only serves to increase the Pride of the Worthy p. 3 III. A Migration. The fortunate Circum- stances of our Lives are generally found at last to be of our own procuring p. 4 IV. A Proof that even the humblest Fortune may grant Happiness, which depends, not on Circumstances, but Constitu- tion p. 8 V. A new and great Acquaintance intro- duced. What we place most Hopes upon, generally proves most fatal . p. 9 VI. The Happiness of a Country Fire- side p. II VII. A Town Wit described. The dullest Fellows may learn to be comical for a Night or Two ........ p. la VIII. An Amour, which promises little good Fortune, yet may be productive of much P- 14 IX. Two Ladies of great Distinction intro- duced. Superior Finery ever seems to confer superior Breeding ... p. 17 X. The Family endeavour to cope with their Betters. The Miseries of the Poor, when they attempt to appear above their Cir- cumstances p. 18 XI. The Family still resolve to hold up their Heads p. 20 XII. Fortune seems resolved to 'humble the Family of Wakefield. Mortifications are often more painful than real Calami- ties P-23 XIII. Mr. Burchell is found to be an Enemy, for he has the confidence to give disagree- able Advice p. 25 XIV. Fresh Mortifications, or a Demonstration that seeming Calamities may be real Blessings p. 26 XV. All Mr. Burch ell’s Villany at once detected. The Folly of being overwise . . p. 29 xvt. The Family use Art, which is opposed with still greater P- 3 t XVII. Scarcely any Virtue found to resist the Power of long and pleasing Tempta- tion P- 34 XViii. The Pursuit of a Father to reclaim a Lost Child to Virtue P-37 XIX. The Description of a Person discontented ■with the present Government, and appre- hensive of the loss of our Liberties p. 39 THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. Letter I. To Mr. , Merchant in Lon- don p. 88 II. From Lien Chi Altangi to , Mer- chant in Amsterdam . . . . p. 88 III. From Lien Chi Altangi to the care of Fipsihi, resident in Moscow, to be for- warded by the Russian caravan to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremo- nial Academy at Pekin, in China p. 90 y'lv. To the same P-92 V. To the same P -93 VI. Fum Hoam, First President of the Cere- monial Academy at Pekin, to Lien Chi Altangi, the Discontented Wanderer ; by the way of Moscow P- 95 a VI CONTENTS. Letter VII. From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremoni; demy in China P- 96 LVII. VIII. To the same . P- 97 IX. To the same . P- 98 X. To the same . P- 99 LVIII. To the same . p. 100 LIX. xir. To the same p. lOI L-^in- To the same . p. 103 LX. xiv. To the same p- 105 LXI. XV. To the same . p- 107 LXII. XVI. To the same . 0. ro8 LXIII. XVII. To the same p. 109 XVIII. To the same . p. Ill XIX. To the same . P- 113 LXIV. XX. To the same . P- LXV. XXI. To the same p. 1 16 LXVI. XXII. From the same P- 1 19 XXIII. To the same . p. 1.20 LXVII. XXIV. To the same . p. I 2 I LXVIII. XXV. To the same . p. 122 ■ ,.xxvi. To the same . p- 125 /.XXVII. To the same . p. 126 LXIX. ' XXVIII. To the same . p. 129 LXX. XXIX. To the same p- 131 -~^xxx. To the same . p- 132 XXXI. To the same . p- 135 XXXII. To the same . p. 136 XXXIII. To the same . p. 138 ^XXII. XXXIV. To the same . p. 140 LXXIII. XXXV. From Hingoo, a Slave in Persia, to Altangi, a travelling Philosopher of LXXIV. China ; by the way of Moscow p- 142 XXXVI. From, the same . . p- 143 XXXVII. Prom the same p- 144 LXXV. XXXVIII. From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, LXXVI. al Aca- XXXIX. XL. XLI. XLII. XLIV. XLV. XLVI. XLVII. XLIX. L. LI. LI I. LIII. LIV. LV. First President of the Ceremonial Aca- demy at Pekin, in China . . . p. 146 From Lien Chi Altangi to , Mer- chant in Amsterdam . . . . p. 148 From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Aca- demy at Pekin, in China . . . p. 150 To the same p. 151 From Fum Hoam to Lien Chi Altangi, the Discontented Wanderer ; by the way of Moscow p. 153 From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Aca- demy at Pekin, in China . . . p. 154 From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, a Slave in Persia p. 156 From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Aca- demy at Pekin, in China . . . p. 158 To the same p. 160 From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, a Slave in Persia p. 162 From Lien Chi Altangi to , Mer- chant in Amsterdam . . . . p. 163 To the same p. 163 From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Aca- demy at Pekin in China . . . p. 167 To the same To the same . From the same From the same To the same . 168 170 172 174 17s Letter LVI. 1 8c From Fum Hoam to Altangi, the Dis- contented Wanderer . . . . p. 177 From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoai First President of the Ceremonial Aci demy at Pekin in China . . . p. 17! To the same p. 180 From Hingpo to Lien Chi Altangi, by the way of Moscow p. 182' From the same p. 183 From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo p. 185 To the same p. 187 From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoamp First President of the Ceremonial Acai demy at Pekin in China . . . p. To the same p. 191 To the same p. 192 From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, by the way of Moscow p. 193 To the same P- 195 From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Aca- demy at Pekin in China . . . p. ig6 To the same p. 198 From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, by the way of Moscow p. 20a From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Aca- demy at Pekin in China . . . p, To the same p. 204 From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, by the way of Moscow p. 206 From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Aca- demy at Pekin in China . . . p. 207 To the same p. 209 From Hingpo to Lien Chi Altangi, by the way of Moscow p. 211 From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Aca- demy at Pekin in China . . . p. 215 Lxxvni. LXXIX. LXXX. I.XXXI. I.XXXII. LXXXIII. To the same To the same To the same To the same To the same p. 213 P- 21S p. 216 P- 217 p. 219 LXXXV. LXXXVI. LXXXVII. LXXXIX. XC. XCI. XCII. XCIII. XCIV. From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, by the way of Moscow p. 22-1 From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Aca- demy at Pekin in China . . . p. To the same . . . . . . . p, To the same p. From Fum Hoam to Lien Chi taugi p. • From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Aca- demy at Pekin in China . . . p. 228 To the same p. 230 224 226 Al- 227 To the same To the same To the same To the same xcv. p. 232 ..... P..234 P- 235 P- 236 From Hingpo, in Moscow, to Lien Chi Altangi, in London p. 237 From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, at hloscow p. 238 From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Aca- demy at Pekin in China . . . p. 239 CONTENTS. vir Essay xvni. Versification p. 335, XIX, Schools of Music p, 341 XX. Carolan, the Irish Bard . . . . p. 343 XXI. On the Tenants of the Leasowes . p. 344 *««xii. Sentimental Comedy p. 346 XXIII. Scottish Marriages . . ... . p. 347 THE BEE : A SELECT COLLECTION OF ESSaYS ON THE MOST INTERESTING AND ENTERTAINING SUBJECTS. Letter xcvii. To the same ........ p. 241 xcviii. To the same p. 242. xcix. To the same p. 243 c. From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, bj- the way of Moscow p. 245 Cl. From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Aca- demy at Pekin in China . . . p. 246 cii. To the same p. 247 cm. From Lien Chi Altangi to , Mer- chant in Amsterdam . . . . p. 248 CIV. From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Aca- demy at Pekin in China . . . p. 249 CV. To the same . cvi. To the same . evil. To the same . Gviii. To the same . cix. To the same . cx. To the same . CXI. To the same p. 259 cxii. To the same p. 261 cxiii. To the same p. 262 exiv. To the same p. 264 cxv. To the same p. 266 cxvi. To the same p. 268 CXVH. To the same p. 269 cxviii. From Fum Hoam to Lien Chi Altangi, the Discontented Wanderer, by the way of Moscow p. 270 ••SXIX. From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Aca- demy at Pekin in China 250 252 253 P- 254 p. 256 p. 258 P- P- P- cxx. To the same cxxi. To the same cxxii. To the same cxxiii. Tothe-same . p. 272 ■ p. 274 • P- 275 . p. 276 . p. 278 Essay I. II. , ^>fn. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. ESSAYS. Preface; p. 283 Description of various Clubs . . p. 284 Specimen of a Magazine in Minia- ture p. 288 Asem, an Eastern Tale ; or a Vindication of the- Wisdom of Providence in the M oral Government of the World . . . p. 289 On the English Clergy and popular Preachers p. 293 A Reverie at the Boar’s Head Tavern, Easttheap p. 295 Adventures of a strolling Player . p. 302 Rules enjoined to be observed at a Russian Assembly p. 306 Biographical Memoir, supposed to be written by the Ordinary of New- S?*-® •. A • • P- 3°7 National Concord . Female Warriors . National Prejudices Taste Cultivation of Taste Origin of Poetry . Poetry distinguished ing Metaphor Hyperbole from . . p. 308 . . p. 309 • • p. 311 • • P- 313 ■ • P- 317 • • p. 321 other Writ- • ■ p. 326 • • P- 330 • ■ P- 338 No. II. A. Saturday, October (>, 1759. . . p. 353 On a beautiful Youth struck blind with Lightning. Imitated from, the- Spanish P -355 Remarks on our Theatres . . . p. 355 The Story of Alcander and Septimius. Translated from a Byzantine Histo- rian p. 357 A Letter'from a Traveller . . . p. 359 A short Account of the late Mr. Maur pertuis p. 360 Saturday, October 13, 1759. — On Dress p. 360 Some Particulars relative to Charles XI I . not commonly known . . . . p. 363 Happiness in a great measure dependent on Constitution p. 365 On our Theatres p. 367 Sattirday, October 20, 1759. — On the Use of Language . . The History of Hypatia . . On Justice and Generosity . Some' Particulars relating to Feyjoo p Saturday, October 27, 1759. — Miscellaneous p. 374 A Flemish Tradition p. The; Sagacity of some Insects . p. The Characteristics of Greatness . p. A City Night Piece p, Saturday, November 3, 1759. — Upon Political Frugality . . . p. A Reverie p. A Word or two on the late Farce called “High Life below Stairs ” . . . p. 390 Upon Unfortunate Merit . . . p. 391 Saturday, November 10, 1759.— On Education p. 392 On the Instability of Worldly Gran- deur Some Account of the Italy p, Sat 7 (rday, Novemberij, — Of Eloquence p. 400 Custom and Laws compared . . p. 404 Of the Pride and Luxury of the Middling Class of People p. ,j.o5 Sabinus and Olinda p. 406 The Sentiments of a Frenchman on the Temper of the English . . . . p. 407 Sattirday, November 24, 1759. — On Deceit and Falsehood . . . p. 408 An Account of the Augustan Age of England p. 411 Of the Opera in England . . , p. 415 p. 368 P- 370 P- 372 Father 374 376 378 380 381 382 387 . .. . p. 397 Academies of 399 vm CONTENTS. AN INQUIRY INTO THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. Chap. Introduction p. 419 I. The Causes which contribute to the Decline of Learning p. 419 II. A View of the Obscure Ages . . p. 423 in. Of the present State of Polite Learning in Italy p. 424 Of Polite Learning in Germany . p. 426 V. Of Polite Learning in Holland and some other Countries of Europe . p. 427 VI. Of Polite Learning in B'rance . . p. 429 VII. Of Learning in Great Britain . . p. 432 • Of rewarding Genius in England . p. 433 Of the Marks of Literary Decay in France and England p. 437 X. Of the Stage p. 440 XI. On Universities p. 442 XII. The Conclusion p. 444 BIOGRAPHIES. The Life of Lord Bolingbroke . The Life OF Dr. Parnell . . . Memoirs of M. de Voltaire . . The Life of Richard Nash, Esq. P- 447 P- 473 p. 487 P- 513 POEMS. v" v/ The Traveller ; or, a Prospect of Society p. 571 The Deserted Village p. 580 The Hermit ; a Ballad p. 589 The Haunch of Venison. A Poetical Epistle to Lord Clare p. 592 .-Retaliation : a Poem p. 594 The Captivity. An Oratorio . . . . p. 599 DRAMAS. Thf. Good-natured Man ; a Comedy . p. 609 -She Stoops to Conquer ; or, the Mistakes of a Night. A Comedy p. 643 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. | Prologue. Written and spoken by the Poet) Laberius, a Roman Knight whom CsesaM forced upon the Stage. — Preserved by Ma- crobius p. 679) The Double Transformation. A Tale . . p. 679 A New Simile. In the manner of Swift . p. 680J Description of an Author’s Bedchamber . p. 681 Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog. . . p. 681 Stanzas on Woman p. 682 The Gift. To Iris, in Bow-stre.et, Covent-garden.' Imitated from the French p. 682 Epitaph. On Thomas Parnell . . . . p. 682 Epilogue to “The Sister.” Spoken by Mrs.') Bulkley p. 683 Intended Epilogue to “ She Stoops to Con- quer” p- 684) Another intended Epilogue to “ She Stoops to Conquer.” To be spoken by Mrs. Bulk ley . . p. From the Oratorio of “The Captivity” . p. Song, from the same p. The Clown’s Reply p Epitaph on Edward Purdon p. An Elegy on that Glory of her Sex, .Mrs. Mary) Blaize p. 687) Song : intended to have bean sung by Miss Hard- castle in the Comedy of “ She Stoops to Con- quer” p. 687I Prologue to “Zobeide,” a Tragedy. Spoken by Mr. Quick in the character of a Sailor . p. 688' Epilogue. Spoken by Mr. Lee Lewes, in the] character of Harlequin,, at his Benefit . p. 689) The Logicians refuted. In imitation of Dean) Swift p. 690I Stanzas on the Taking of Quebec, and jDeath of General Wolfe p. 690! Epigram on a beautiful Youth struck blind by|, Lightning p. 691 A Madrigal p. 691 Verses in reply to an Invitation to Dinner at Dr. Baker’s p. 6gi Threnodia Augustalis p. 692 INDEX OF FIRST LINES TO SMALLER POEMS. What ! no way left to shun th’ inglorious stage p. 679 Secluded from domestic strife . . . . p, 679 Long had I sought in vain to find . . . p. 680 Where the Red Lion, flaring o’er the way p. 681 Good people all, of .every sort . . . . p. 681 When lovely Woman stoops to folly . . p. 682 Say, cniel Iris, pretty rake p 682 This tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell’s name 682 What? five long acts — and all to make us wiser ! p. 683 Mrs. Bul. Hold, Ma’am, yourpardon. What’s your business here ? p. 684 There is a place, so Ariosto sings . . . p. 686 The wretch condemned with life to part . p. 686 O Memory, thou fond deceiver . . . . p. 687; John Trot was desired by two witty paers p. 687 Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed P- 6^7 Good people all, with one accord . . . p. 687 Ah me ! when shall I marry me ? . . . p. 687 In these bold times, when Learning’s sonsi explore P- fiSSji Hold, Prompter, hold ! a word before your non- sense P- bSpj Logicians have but ill defined . . . . p. 6goi Amidst the clamour of exulting joys . . p. 690) Sure ’twas by Providence desi.gned . . . p. 691 Weeping, murmuring, complaining . . • p. 6gi Your mandate I got P- 691 Arise, ye sons of worth, arise . .... p. 692 ! MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. The Life of Oliver Goldsmith by Mr. (now Sir James) Prior, published in 1837, in two volumes 8vo, was the first really careful biography of a writer who had already for seventy years been among the most popular and fascinating of our English classics. To the results of Mr. Prior’s researches it can hardly be said that there has been any material addition. Mr. John Forster’s well known Life and Advetttures of Oliver Goldsmith, published in 1848, superseded, however, for most purposes, the work of Mr. Prior, and, from its greater vivacity and its abundant deliciousness of literary anecdote, will probably remain the standard biography of Goldsmith to all time coming. Washington Irving’s Oliver Goldsmith: A Biography, published in 1849, was avowedly a compilation from Prior and Forster, but has an independent interest, as the work of one who delighted, all his life, in acknowledging Goldsmith as his literary master, and has been named, in consequence, “The American Goldsmith.” Of smaller Memoirs of Goldsmith the number is past counting. Perhaps, therefore, no better reason can be given for here adding one more than that it will be convenient for possessors of this edition of Goldsmith’s Works to have some account of the Author bound up with it. Oliver Goldsmith was born, on the loth of November, 1728, at the obscure, and then almost inaccessible, village of Pallas, or Pallasmore, in the county of Longford, in the very midmost solitude of Ireland. His father, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, was the poor Protestant clergyman of that Irish parish. He was one of a family of Goldsmiths, noted for worth and goodness of heart rather than worldly prudence, who were originally from the South of England, and in whom, since their first coming to Ireland, the clerical profession, in its Protestant form, had been almost hereditary. Goldsmith’s mother, Ann Jones, w'as also of a clerical and Protestant family that had been naturalized in Ireland. She was one of the daughters of the Rev. Oliver Jones, master of the diocesan school of Elphin in Roscommon. From this maternal grandfather young Oliver derived his Christian name. He used afterwards to maintain, however, that it had come into the line of his maternal ancestry through some connexion with Oliver Cromwell. Four children, three of them daughters, and one a son, named Henry, had been born to the clergyman of Pallasmore and his wife before the appearance of the a * MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. ! X i “ Oliver” that was to make them famous ; and the family was ultimately completed by the birth of three sons younger than Oliver, named Maurice, Charles, and John. The eldest of this family of eight (a daughter), and this last-named John, died in childhood. Effectively, therefore, Oliver grew up as one of a family of six, three of whom were older, and two younger, than himself. A native of the rural heart of Ireland, Goldsmith, till his seventeenth year, received his entire education, whether of scenery and circumstance, or of more formal schooling, within the limits of that little-visited region. Not, however, without some changes of spot and society within those limits. In 1730, while he was yet but an infant, his father, after having been about twelve years minister of Pallas, removed to the better living of Kilkenny West, a parish some miles south of Pallas, and situated not in the county of Longford, but in the adjacent county of West Meath. Thenceforward, accordingly, the head-quarters of the family were no longer at Pallas, but at Lissoy, a quaint Irish village within the bounds of the new parish. Here, in a pretty and rather commodious parsonage-house, on the verge of the village, and on the road between Athlone and Ballymahon, the good clergyman set himself to bring up his children on his paltry clerical income, eked out by the farming of some seventy acres of land. He was himself a mild eccentric of the, Dr. Primrose type, kindly to all about him, and of pious, confused ways. But the immortal oddity of Lissoy, and the incarnation of all that had been pecidiar for some generations in the race of the Goldsmiths, was the parson’s young son, Oliver. In book-learning, for one thing, he was, from the first, a little blockhead. “Never was so dull a boy” was the report of a kinswoman, who, having lived in the Lissoy household, had been the first to try to teach him his letters, and who afterwards,; under her married name of Elizabeth Delap, kept a small school at Lissoy, and survived to be proud of her pupil, and to talk of him in her extreme old age, after he was dead. Hardly different seems to have been the report of the Lissoy schools master, Thomas Byrne, more familiarly known as “Paddy Byrne,” — a veteran who had returned to his original vocation of teaching after having served in the war| under Marlborough and risen to the rank of. quartermaster to a regiment in Spainij And yet of this “ Paddy Byrne ” Goldsmith seems to have retained to the last an affectionate recollection : — A man severe he was, and stern to view ; I knew him well, and every truant knew. Well had the boding tremblers learnt to trace The day’s disasters in his morning face : Full vlell they laughed with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught. The love he bore to learning was in fault : The village all declared how much he knew : ’Twas certain he could write, and cypher too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage ; And even the story ran that he could gauge. / r MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. xi Better than all, he had a stock of tales, not only of his own campaigning ad- ventures, but also from old Irish ballads, chap-books, and fairy lore, and a knack of versifying, which he was fond of exercising in the form of extempore Irish translations from Virgil. From this “Paddy Byrne,” in short, if from any one. Goldsmith caught his first notions of literary invention and rhyming. But the poor little fellow was always unfortunate. Hardly had he become aware of the wealth that was in Paddy Byrne, and hardly had Paddy Byrne had time to discern the spark of genius that lay somewhere in his awkward little pupil, when the two were separated. The boy was not more than nine years of age when an attack of confluent small-pox stopped his attendance at Lissoy school ; and, when he recovered, it was with his naturally plain face disfigured into such a grotesque of ugliness that it was difficult to look at him without laughing. Whether to get him out of sight for a time, or because better instruction than Paddy Byrne’s was now thought necessary for him, he was sent away from Lissoy to Elphin, a distance of about thirty miles. The purpose was that he should attend the school at Elphin which had formerly been taught by his grandfather, the Rev. Oliver Jones, but was now under the care of a Rev. Mr. Griffin. Eor about two years, accordingly, he did attend this school, boarding all the while with his uncle, Mr. John Gold- s nith of Ballyoughter, who lived near Elphin. But in 1739, when he was eleven years old, he was brought back to a school of some reputation nearer home — one which had been set up in Athlone, about five miles from Lissoy, by a Rev. Mr. Campbell. Two years here, and four years more at the school of a Rev. Patrick Hughes at Edgeworthstown, county Longford, some seventeen miles from Lissoy, completed his school education and brought him to his seventeenth year. The accounts of young Goldsmith during this time when he was tossed about from school to school in his native part of Ireland, generally coming home to Lissoy and its neighbourhood for the holidays, correspond singularly with what he was all through life. At every school we hear of him as a shy, thick, awkward boy, the constant butt of his companions because of his comically ugly face, and thought by most of them to be “little better than a fool.” And yet everywhere there seems to have been a liking for him as an innocent simple-hearted fellow, who, though sensitive to the jokes made at his expense, and liable to fits of the sulks on account of them, would be all right again on the least beckoning of kindliness, and capital company in the playground at fives or ball with those who had been his tormentors. Of his success in school -work we hear little. We are to suppose him gradually getting on in Latin and other things in preparation for the University; and something is said as to his fondness for Ovid and Horace, his peculiar delight in Livy, his liking for Tacitus after a while, and his little care for Cicero. There are bints also to the effect that he excelled in the style of his translations, and that be had more credit for talent with the masters than among the boys. On the whole, Johnson’s often-quoted saying about Goldsmith, “He was a plant that flowered late : there was nothing remarkable 'about him when young,” seems true Only in a very obvious and rough sense. The “flower” of Goldsmith was the T xii MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. | exquisite variety of English writing which eventually he gave to the world; andl till this came, there was nothing “remarkable” about him to those who could' not discern that it might come, unless they chose, with his schoolfellows, to think his very queerness and confused-headedness remarkable. What Goldsmith wa^ as a man, we repeat, he was as a boy. The amount of difference produced in hi" case by growth and experience was even less than is usual. What was the opinion* of him among his schoolfellows at Elphin, Athlone, and Edgeworthstown, but an | anticipation, even to identity in the mode of its expression, of that opinion which Johnson, Burke, Garrick, and others avowed they would have been obliged to form of Goldy in all his glory, if they had judged of him personally and apart from hi| writings? “He is little better than a fool,” they all said; and yet they liked him,' Nor were there wanting, in his boyhood, any more than in his manhood, those; occasional gleams and flashes which challenged the current verdict, drew suddeifl attention to the absurd creature with the scarred face, and made people wonder" whether, if he were a fool, he might not be a fool extraordinary, an inspired fool, ! one of Shakespeare’s fools. Without insisting on the fact that the earliest letters] of Goldsmith extant (not written till several years after our present date) have aljj the easy humour and grace of style of his later writings, we might revert to the tradition of the superior finish of his boyish exercises in translation. But ther|| is more than this. All through his school-day.s, it is known, young Goldsmit^ remembered the trick of rhyming which he' had learnt from Paddy Byrne, and not- only read such English poetry as came in his way, but wrote verses of his owi^ which made his mother and others think that something after all might be made of “Noll.” None of these verses, of any value for comparison with what he wrote}, afterwards, have been preserved. But there is an extempore metrical repartee of his,' attributed to the time when he was at Elphin, and not more than eleven years of age, which shows that there was wit in the little fellow even thus early. At his uncle’s house,* it seems, as Oliver was dancing a hornpipe to the violin-playingfl of a certain Mr. Gumming, his droll face and figure so struck the player that he burst into laughter and pointed to the dancer as a fac-simile of “ ugly *Esop.” AIsop at once retorted by calling out this couplet : — j Our herald hath proclaimed this saying : 1 “ See iEsop dancing, and his monkey playing.” i Now that he was come to the age of seventeen, what was to be done with this lumpish, ill-favoured lad, whom everybody laughed at as a fool, and who yet waj evidently no fool ? The understanding had been that he was to go to the UniversityJ of Dublin, where his elder brother, Henry, had already concluded his course with nredit. But there were difficulties in the way. The family circumstances, never' very good, had been recently much straitened by a particular cause. Goldsmith’s eldest sister, Catherine, having been privately married to a Mr. Daniel Hodson,j to whom Henry Goldsmith was then acting as tutor, and who was the son of a gentleman of good property, her father thought himself bound to prove that he^ family had not meanly brought about the match for their own interests. Accord; MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. xiii ingly, lie entered into an engagement, Sept. 1 744, to pay 400/. as her marriage- portion. By this arrangement for the credit of Mrs. Hodson all the rest of the family were pinched at the time, and some of them permanently. If Oliver were to go to the University now, it must be not as a “pensioner,” like his brother Henry, but in the lower grade of a “ sizar ” or “ poor scholar, ” wearing a coarse stuff gown and a red cap, and performing menial offices about college in return for his tuition and board. At this prospect Goldsmith recoiled. He would rather, he declared, be bound to some trade. At length, however, the remonstrances of a relative, whom he had every reason to respect, persuaded him to yield. This was “Uncle Contarine” — i.e. the Rev. Thomas Contarine (originally Contarini, for his grandfather was a refugee from Venice), clergyman of Oran, near Ros- common. This worthy man, who had been the college-companion of Bishop Berkeley, had married a sister of Goldsmith’s father ; and, during her life, Oliver had been a frequent visitor at their house. No one had liked the boy better all along, or better discerned what was in him, than Uncle Gontarine. Already he had helped to maintain him at school ; and, the recent death of his wife having left him a widower with one daughter, whatever affection would have gone to a son of his own was transferred to his nephew Oliver. He insisted that Oliver must go to college. What mattered being a sizar ? He had been a sizar himself, and had he fared the worse for it ? After some kind of examination. Goldsmith was admitted at Trinity College, Dublin, on the iith of June, 1745, the last in a list of eight sizars, of whom a John Beatty, his schoolfellow at Edgeworthstown, Mns another. These two chummed together during the entire four years of Goldsmith’s college-course. Among fellow- | students who knew him well at college were Lauchlan Macleane, and some others j who afterwards rose to some distinction in politics or in the church: Flood and Edmund Burke were both then in the college, but barely remembered, in after life, having seen Goldsmith there. No contrast can have been greater than between the college-life of Burke and that of Goldsmith. There was nothing, indeed, very distinguished, according to formal academic estimation, in Burke’s college-career ; but we have glimpses of him as a “ terrible fellow ” in a set of his own, domineering in a private debating society, and storing his ample mind with all sorts of information, acquired in his own way. In poor Goldy’s case we find what might have been expected — “no specimens of genius,” according to the report of one of his college- acquaintances, but “only squalid poverty, and its concomitants, idleness and de- spondence.” He was better known as “lounging about the college-gates,” and getting into any row that was at hand, or as playing the flute and singing Irish songs in his rooms, than as making any figure in the classes. Two causes probably con- tributed_ to make his college-career more reckless and miserable than it need have been. One was that he had for his tutor a strong-bodied brute, named Wilder, of whose savageness to all about him there are yet traditions, and who seems to have I had all the more delight in tormenting the poor sizar because he had come from his j own part of the country and had been specially recommended to him. “ Male, XIV MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. male, ” he would say when Oliver was under examination, though sometimes he wa^: forced to end with ^Malde benel'' But the death of Oliver’s father early in 1747, in the very middle of Oliver’s college-course, was a greater cause of break-down than Wilder’s rough tutorship. The main income of the family thus failed, and the family-group was scattered — Mr. and Mrs. Hodson remaining, indeed, in possession of the house at Lissoy; but Goldsmith’s mother settling in Ballymahon, and his brother Henry taking the curacy of his father’s old parish of Pallasmore, with 40/. a year of salary and the chance of pupils. In these circumstances, such small supplies as had till now reached Oliver from home were no longer forthcoming. Uncle Contarine seems to have done what he could ; but, with such lax husbandry as Oliver’s, it was like putting water in driblets into a sieve. The latter half of his stay at the University was, consequently, worse than the first. It was one series of mishaps and hardships. In May 1747, a month or two after the death of Oliver’s father, there was a college riot in Dublin against the police, in retaliation for the arrest of a student ; and it ended in an attempt to break open the prison and the deaths of several townsmen. Four of the ringleaders were expelled from the University; and among four others who were publicly rebuked for their share in the affair was Oliver Goldsmith— the Latin record in the University-books bearing that he had “favoured- the sedition and given aid to the rioters.” The next month he tried for a scholarship and failed. He did obtain a small exhibition, worth about thirty shillings a yeaif but even this he lost by subsequent negligence. He had to pawn his books, and resort to every other haggard shift for raising now and then a half-crowm. Nothin|| can be more doleful than the account of the poor sizar’s life at this time. But he was blessed, as he himself said afterwards, with ‘ ‘ a knack at hoping. ” A copy of Scapula’s Greek Lexicon, which was one of his college class-books, and is still preserved somewhere, attests this very characteristically. It is scribbled over with his signature in various forms, and especially in such forms as these — ‘Hree: Oliver Goldsmith.’’'' '''' I promise to pay, : Oliver Goldsmith ” — showing how, in his college-rooms, the poor fellow would dream of one day being a member 01 Parliament and being able to frank letters, or of being in a position to be accom; modated easily with any desired sum. Meanwhile, too, at least one of his actual shifts for instant money-making had a relish of superior pleasure in it. This wa^ the writing of ballads, to be sold, at a particular shop he knew of, for five shillings^ each, and thence retailed, in coarse print, to the Dublin ballad-singers. Every five shillings was something in itself ; but to go out at nights, and, leaning against a lamp-post, feel one of the shillings still in your pocket, and at the same time hear a ballad of your own sung to a ragged crowd of men and girls, and be able to buy a copy of it for a penny — this was a delight worth all the pains of sizarship, and the tyranny of ten Wilders ! So sometimes Oliver felt ; but the one Wilder had almost proved more than enough. One evening, in the flush of some little success, Oliver was giving a supper and a dance in his rooms to “ a party of young friends of both sexes from the city,” when the tutor, hearing of the breach of rule, burst in, and not! only abused him in gross terms before his guests, but actually collared and thrashed MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. XV him. Next day Oliver was off. He sold his books and spare clothes, hung about Dublin till he had but a single shilling left, and then set out to walk to Cork, meaning to get to America. He subsisted on the shilling for three days; after which he wandered about, living no one knows how — save that he used afterwards to tell that the most delicious meal he had ever tasted was a handful of grey peas given him in this wild walk by a girl at a wake after twenty-four hours of fasting. At length he was sensible enough to think of going home ; his brother Henry met him by appointment ; and after a little time they went back to Dublin together, and made it up so far with Wilder that Oliver was re-admitted into college. Things then went on very much as before — Oliver again and again “ cautioned,” and fines appearing against him in the buttery-books. Once more we hear of an encounter between him and Wilder, and not so unsuccessfully for Goldsmith this time. The tutor had been lecturing on the subject of the Centre of Gravity, and had asked Goldsmith for a restatement of what had been said. Utterly in the dark, Goldsmith had groped in vain for some answer that would pass, when the tutor took the trouble to go over the explanation again, winding up, “And now, you blockhead, where is your centre of gravity?” As if not doubting that the question was intended literally, “ Why, Doctor, from your definition,” said Goldy in a slow voice, “ I should think — ” and he went on to name, in the frankest possible manner, the supposed whereabouts of the point required. There was a roar of laughter from the class; and, furious as Wilder was, he could only call Oliver impertinent as well as ignorant, and turn him down to the lowest place. The date of this incident, which Goldsmith used afterwards to relate with glee, is ascertained to have been May 9, 1748. Less than a year afterwards, i.e. ra. February 1749, he reached the end of his University-course and was admitted to the B.A. degree. He was the lowest in the list of those who took the degree. The wonder is that, having been so often in the black books, he obtained it at all. And now, at the age of one-and-twenty. Goldsmith could go forth to the w'orld as a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin. Of what use had his four years at the University been to him? Apparently, in his own opinion, of very little. Not only did he never forget the indignities attached to sizarship in those days, but he seems to have formed a theory that much of the education received at Universities Was quite unnecessary. “ A boy,” he afterwards wrote, “who understands perfectly well Latin, F.rench, arithmetic, and the principles of civil law, and can write a fine hand, has an education that may qualify him for any undertaking.” And yet, with all his hardships at college and all his indolence, he had probably got a good deal there that remained useful to him. In mathematics he did nothing, consoling himself with the odd opinion that “this seems a science to which the meanest intellects are equal ;” and to all forms of metaphysical or philosophical study — the cold logic of Burgersdicius, or the dreary subtleties of Smiglesius ” — he pro- fessed a dislike. But in scholarship and general literary accomplishment he cannot have been among the worst. He cotild ‘ ‘ turn an ode of Horace into English better than any of them,” he afterwards told Malone, and there is no reason to doubt it. xvi MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. In Greek, too, he must have sometimes been rewarded with a Valde bene. In short, at college, as previously at school, though the general opinion of Goldsmith always expressed itself in the phrase, quoted by himself more than once, “ that he was very good-natured and had not the least harm in him,” there must have been occasional flashes from him causing people to doubt whether he was not a much cleverer fellow than he looked. And then there were his private scribblings in prose and verse for his own amusement at nights, and those precious and now unknown ballads that were hawked about the Dublin streets. For about two years, after leaving college. Goldsmith led what Thackeray calls “the life of a buckeen,” hanging on his relatives. He lived chiefly in his I mother’s house in Ballymahon — close to which there was a convenient inn, where [ he could be jovial in the evenings, and sing songs and tell stories to the choice . rustic spirits that gathered round him. But sometimes he was with his sister and brother-in-law at Lissoy, fishing, otter-hunting, or lounging about the farm ; and at other times he went over to his brother Henry’s at Pallasmore, and tried his hand for a week or two at helping that good man with his pupils. This vaga- bondage of Oliver seems to have been a sore trouble to all the family. They hadj looked forward to his taking holy orders ; but, to his own secret satisfaction, that project had failed through the refusal of the Bishop of Elphin to ordain him. Some said the refusal was because of reports of his conduct that had reached the bishop ; others thought it was because he had stupidly gone to the bishop in flaming scarlet breeches. Anyhow, the Established Church of Ireland lost the services of Oliver Goldsmith. Uncle Contarine, who had been the chief hand in persuading him so far to the clerical project, next suggested a tutorship, and did at length get him, as tutor, into the family of a Mr. Flinn in Roscommon county. Here he seemed to be all right for about a year ; but, suddenly tiring of the work, or quarrelling with the family, he set out, on a good horse and with thirty pounds in his pocket, bound a second time (so he gave out) for America vi& Cork. Nothing i was heard of him for six weeks, when unexpectedly he turned up at his mother’s ' door, without a penny, and riding on a bony animal which he called Fiddleback. there seems to have been much talk in Leyden circles about this remarkable man, the reputed creator of modeim Danish literature, and especially about the hardships and adventures of his early life. A Norwegian by birth, he had , come, after a boyhood of great privation, to Copenhagen, and had struggled on there in singular ways. “But his ambition,” as Goldsmith himself tells us, “was not to be restrained, or his thirst of knowledge satisfied, till he had seen the world. Without money, recommendations, or friends, he undertook to set out upon his travels and make the tour of Europe on foot. A good voice and a trifling skill in music were the only finances he had to support an undertaking so extensive ; so he travelled by day, and at night sang at the doors of peasants’ houses, to get himself a lodging.” With great admiration Goldsmith goes on to tell what countries young Holberg travelled through, and how at length, returning to Copenhagen,, he became popular as an author, was honoured with a title and enriched by the king, “ so that a life begun in contempt and penury ended in. opulence and esteem.” What Holberg had done Goldsmith resolved to do ; and the description he gives of Holberg’s tour and his means of subsistence during it is almost an exact description of his own tour and its shifts. Leaving Leyden in February 1755, he contrived, we cannot tell how, to visit Louvain, Antwerp, Brussels, and Maestricht, and other towns of Flanders, remaining some little while in each. Then, passing into France, he seems to have fluted his way through the provincial villages of that country, much as Holberg had done, greatly charmed with the gay and simple sociability of the poor French peasants, and making himself at home among them with Irish ease. Reaching Paris, he remained there some time, attending the chemical lectures of M. Rouelle, and had the honour of seeing Voltaire, and listening to a splendid conversation in which the great Frenchman, then past his sixtieth year, took the chief part. It was an argu- ment about England and the English, in which Voltaire, after being long silent^ XX MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. burst into a magnificent defence of them against Diderot and Fontenelle, “his meagre face” gathering beauty as he spoke, “his eye beaming with unusual bright ness,” and “strokes of the finest raillery falling from him thick and fast.” So Goldsmith afterwards described the interview, the scene of which he certainly makes to have been Paris, though Mr. Forster thinks this a mistake, and that it must have been in Switzerland. Through Switzerland, at all events, with a touch of Germany on the way, Goldsmith did go, visiting Geneva, Basle, and Berne, and making foot- excursions among the hills and valleys. Then, crossing the Alps, he descended into Italy by Piedmont and went to Florence, Verona, Mantua, Milan, Venice, and ■ Padua ; at which last city, on account of the reputation of its medical school, he remained some time. In Italy, he gives us incidentally to understand, his flute-; jolaying stood him in less stead than in Fjance, every peasant in Italy being a better musician than himself ; but he had another resource in the old custom of philo- sophical disputations at universities and convents, followed by dinner, a night’s lodging, and a small gratuity to the successful disputant. But, indeed, the mode of Goldsmith’s existence during his extraordinary tour is a mystery. Letters he had sent to Ireland once or twice for remittances appear to have brought no reply; borrowings from Irish friends, met casually in Paris or elsewhere, may have helped ; gambling, in which Goldsmith alw'ays did a little, is mentioned as probably helping too ; and once or twice he seems to have hooked himself on to somebody, travelling like himself, who did not object to a companion. There is a dim tradition that he had committed to him in Switzerland the charge of a young gentleman, the son of a wealthy London pawnbroker, who had been sent abroad for mental improvement, and that the young gentleman, preferring cash to the mental improvement he was getting, cut the connexion rather suddenly. Back through France, at any rate, Goldy seems to have made his return journey quite alone, fluting gaily as he had come. On the ist of Februaiy, 1756, he landed at Dover, after an absence of nearly two years in all. Having, it is believed, not a farthing in his pockets, it took him about a fortnight, and some comic singing in country barns, to pull himself on to London. He was twenty-seven years and three months old when he first set his foot in the London streets, and he was to be a Londoner and nothing else all the rest of his life. Ah ! London, London ! thou breaker of hearts from of old, thou wrecker ofi generations of lives, thou insatiable maw of the bones and brains of men, vastj over thy flat acres, then as now, spread thy fabric of brick and stone, of square^ and alleys and streets, with rising steeples among them and iron-railed church- yards — divided, then as now, by the flowing and ebbing river, and on either side the river the same roar of traffic and wFeels, and the same rush and skurry of myriads, all competing for existence, and some for its prizes and sweets! Didst thou note, thou half-brutal London of that day, a certain few of those myriads, on either bank of the river, whose occupation seemed to be the most foolish and peculiar of any — a constant coming down to the river with lighted nnatches, papers, tapers, torches, oil-pots, and all sorts of combustibles, in their , MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. xxi 1 - - I hands, and trying to set the moving tide on fire? Not one of them succeeded; j and the Thames flows yet an unburnt, and apparently unburnable, river, hissing at the biggest torch that can be flung into it. But the attempt to set it on fire has been a traditional employment from time immemorial, and so fascinating that Englishmen born far away from London, and even Scotchmen and Irishmen, have left their own native, and probably more combustible, streams, and set : themselves down, each with his new trick for inflaming water, on the banks of j this large one. Poor fellows ! it does the Thames no harm, and it amuses them! ! Strange, however, that it is precisely those Londoners, native or naturalized, who have been engaged in this hopeless occupation, that the world cares to- remember afterwards ! All their contemporary myriads, otherwise occupied, are forgotten; and the very history of London is a record of the successive groups ' of men that have laboured at setting fire to the Thames. Well, thou big half- bnital London of February 1756, here is another young fellow, footsore from- Dover, on his return from a wild continental tour, who enters thee on thy south side, and is staring about him confusedly. Fie has himself no notion in the world what he is to do ; but, from his looks, one may prophesy that he will have to attach himself to your existing group of Thames-kindlers. He seems fit for : nothing else. True, he has a diploma of M.B. from some foreign University (whether Leyden, Louvain, or Padua, no one knows), and may practise medicine, and even call himself, by courtesy, “Dr.” Goldsmith. But who would trust such a short, mean-visaged, odd-looking fellow, to bleed him or prescribe for him? Clearly, whatever he may try, he can be irothing else eventually than one of the lucifer-match brigade. Meanwhile receive him as gently as you can ! He is one of the best-hearted creatures that ever came out of Ireland, without a bit of harm in him, and indeed a great deal wiser and cleverer than he looks. A little information will be more welcome than farther exclamation or the overworking of a hackneyed image. — Well, the population of London in 1756' was about yoo,ooo. Ihe reign of George II., which had already extended over’ nearly thirty years, was approaching its close. In home-politics what was chiefly interesting was the persistence in office of the Duke of Newcastle’s unpopular ministry — opposed, however, by Pitt (afterwards Lord Chatham), and soon to give way before the genius of that statesman, and to be succeeded by that blaze of Pitt’s ascendancy which makes the last years of George II. so brilliant a period in British annals. For Britain and Frederick the Great of Prussia were already on an under- standing with each other, and the Seven Years’ War was beginning. Not till 1757, : indeed, when Pitt became Prime Minister, did the alliance begin to promise its splendid results— Clive’s conquests in India, Wolfe’s in America, &c. Just at pre- sent, while Newcastle was in power, things had a blacker look. Byng’s blundering at Minorca, the all but certain loss of Hanover, and the like — these were the topics for the 700,000 Londoners ; unless they chose to talk rather of such matters nearer- home, as the building of the new chapel for Whitefield in Tottenham Court Road, or the opening of the Foundling Hospital, or the proposed taking down of the old I xxii MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. i houses on London Bridge. To assist them to proper opinions on these and all other subjects, there were the London newspapers of that date — daily, weekly, and bi-weekly. Whig, Tory, and what not ; and, in addition to the newspapers, quite an abundance of critical journals, reviews, and magazines. For it .was beginning to be a very busy time in British literature. That organization of literature into a commerce which the Tonsons may be said to have commenced had now been pretty well improved and regularized. It was no longer on the Court, or' on Whig and Tory Ministers, or on the casual patronage of noblemen of taste, that men of letters depended, but on the demand of the general public of readers and book- purchasers, as it could be ascertained and catered for by booksellers making publishing their business. The centre of this book-trade was naturally London ; and here, accordingly, hanging on the booksellers, and writing for the newspapers and magazines, but with side-glances also to the theatres and their managers, were now congregated such a host of authors and critics by profession as had never been known in London before. To borrow from Mr. Forster a convenient list of those whom we have now dismissed into oblivion as the smaller fry of this Grub Street world of London in the latter days of George II., there were the “Purdons, Hills, Willingtons, Kenricks, Kellys, Shiels, Smarts, Bakers, Guthries, Wotys, Ryders, Collyers, Joneses, Francklins, Pilkingtons, Huddleston Wynnes, and Hiffernans.” They did not consider themselves small fry, but rvere busy and boisterous enough — the Irish among them fighting with the Scotch, and both with the English; and perhaps the last-na.med Irishman, Hiffernan, ought to have a place in literary history still, as the inventor of the grand word “impecuniosity.” But in the midst of these less-known or forgotten one would seek out now the figures of those who were undoubtedly the Thames-kindlers in chief. And first among these comes Johnson, now forty-seven years of age, and a Londoner already for nearly twenty years — not yet “Dr.,” and not in possession of his literary dictatorship, though advancing towards it. The poet Young was alive in old age, and at least occasionally in London ; and Londoners confirmed were Richardson, approaching his seventieth year, and with all his novels published, and Smollett, not past his thirty-seventh year, but with some of his best novels published, and now working hard at histories, reviews, and all sorts of things. Fielding had been dead two years, and Steme, though some years over forty, had not yet been heard of. The poet Collins was dying, in madness, at Chichester. Slump together the veteran and not much-liked Mallet, and Armstrong, Glover, Akenside, Garrick, Foote, Murphy, and the Wartons, without being too particular in inquiring whether they were all in London habitually at the exact time under consideration; remember also that Chesterfield, Warburton, Dyer, Shenstone, Gray, Horace Walpole, and; Mason were alive here or there in England, and could be in London if they liked, and that away in Scotland, only dreaming of London in the distance, were a feff northern lights, with Allan Ramsay still surrdving among them; finally imagine; Burke, who was Goldsmith’s junior, already an adventurer in London, and such ^ other men of about Goldsmith’s own age as Percy of the Ballads, the satirist. MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. , xxiii Churchill, and the elder George Colman, either come to London or tending thither; — and you will have an idea of the state of the world of British letters at the end of the Second George’s reign, and also some rough notion of the extent to which that world and its interests interpenetrated London when Goldsmith first gazed about in the crowded streets. And who was the nominal chief or laureate? Who but Colley Cibber, of whom Johnson had written — Great George’s acts let tuneful Cibber sing, For Nature formed the poet for the king. But Cibber, who was now eighty-four years of age, did not live beyond 1757. He was succeeded by a William Whitehead, whose laureateship extended from 1757 to 1 788. The whole of Goldsmith’s literary career, as it happened, and large portions also of the lives of Johnson, Smollett, Burke, Garrick, Reynolds, and others whom we now associate with Goldsmith, fell within the laureateship of this memorable Whitehead. We have been attaching Goldsmith to the London world of letters somewhat in anticipation of his own efforts at any such connexion. Not to set the Thames on fire, but to get anything whatever to do by which he could earn sheer bread for his own teeth and mouth, with a daily gulp of beer, wms the poor fellow’s one object during a whole year after his arrival in London. It was desperate work, and the details w-ere locked irp, for the most part, in his own memory, and never told connectedly to anybody. “ When I lived among the beggars in Axe Lane,” he would sometimes afterwards say with a laugh ; and there are traces of him in various capacities just above Axe Lane and its beggars. He was, for some time, an usher somewhere under a false name; he was then employed in the shop of a druggist in Fish-street Hill ; next he is heard of as having set up for himself as a physician among the poor of Bankside, and as wearing a miserable second-hand suit of green and gold ; and again he is found as reader for the press to Richai'dson, the novelist and printer, in his printing-office in Salisbury Court, Fleet Street. Of this last con- nexion, in which one might have fancied some likelihood, nothing more came than some acquaintance with Richardson himself and a sight of the poet Y oung ; and Goldsmith had some glorious project of getting appointed to go out to the East, on a salary of 300/. a year, to decipher the inscriptions on “ the Written Mountains ” (the necessary Arabic to be learnt in the process), when an ushership in a boarding- school of the better sort turned up at Beckham. Here he lived for some time with Dr. Milner, a Dissenting mirrister, the proprietor of the school, and was apparently not worse off than other ushers. One day, however, Griffiths, the bookseller of Paternoster Row, dined with the Milners, and, from something he saw or had heard of the Irish usher, fancied he might be useful for hackwork on the Monthly Review — a periodical which had been started by Griffiths in 1 749 on- Whig principles, but against which a Tory rival had recently been set up in the Critical Review, edited by Smollett. After getting some specimens of w'hat Goldsmith could do in the kind of work wanted, Griffiths was discerning enough to engage him. Accordingly, in April 1757, he took up his quarters in the house of Griffiths, over the shop in XXIV MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. Paternoster Row, on the understanding that, for board, lodging, and some small | salary besides, he was to write such articles and reviews of books as might be ! required from him. Griffiths, and (what was worse for Goldy) Mrs. Griffiths, were to be judges of the articles, and were to clip and doctor them to suit. Behold Goldsmith at last with the pen put into his hand — his one predestined instrument in the world ! In the circumstances, however, he does not seem to have taken to it kindly. For five months, indeed, he sat daily in his room in the bookseller’s house from nine o’clock till two, and sometimes later, writing, or sup- posed to be writing, notices of books and such-like for the Mo 7 tthly Review. His contributions, longer and shorter, in the successive numbers of the Review from April to September 1757, have been picked out from among the articles supplied by , other members of the Griffiths staff — Griffiths himself, Ruffhead, Grainger, Ralph, Kippis, Langhorne, &c. They include a paper on Mallet’s ‘ ‘ Mythology of the Celts,” and reviews of Flome’s “Douglas,” Burke’s “Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful,” Smollett’s “History of England,” Voltaire’s “Universal History,” Wilkie’s “ Epigoniad,” and the “ Odes ” of Gray. They were fair magazine-articles of the kind then going, and something of Goldsmith’s lightness and ease of style is discernible in all or most of them. But, whether because Goldsmith’s rate of ' industry did not satisfy the methodical bookseller, or because Mrs. Griffiths did not like his ways, or because the tampering of both with what he wrote and their general treatment of him hurt his sensitiveness, the engagement, which had been for a year, was broken short at the end of the five months. A new hand, nanjed Kenrick, took Goldsmith’s place as Griffiths’s resident hack ; and Goldsmith was again adrift — -not absolutely cashiered by Griffiths, and indeed still writing for him, though they were not on the best of terms, but at liberty to take other work. . Why dwell over the particulars of the next year or two of Goldsmith’s anonymous drudgery? Let the merest sketch suffice: — In or about September 1757, after leaving Griffiths, he went into a garret somewhere near Salisbury Square ; and here it was that his youngest brother, Charles, came in upon him, and lived for a day or two with him ruefully, on his way to Jamaica. He was then living on translations from the French and other things, still chiefly for Griffiths, with the Temple Exchange! Coffee blouse, near Temple Bar, as his daily house of call, where letters eould be addressed to him, and where he could meet and talk with a few fellow-craftsmen like himself, or somewhat more flourishing. Then he is traced going back for a little while, in his despair, to his ushership at Peckham — only, however, to emerge j again and resume literary hackwork. In 1758 he is found living in No. 12, Green Arbour Court, Old Bailey — a dingy little old square, approached from Farringdon Street by a passage called Break-Neck Steps, now all demolished, and surviving only in Washington Irving’s description of it when he visited it for Goldsmith’s sake, and found it a colony of washerwomen, and slovenly with wash-tubs on the pavement and clothes hung to diy on lines from the windows. Here, when it was much in the same state. Goldsmith lived from some time in 1758 till late in 1760 — i.e. till George II. was king no longer, but young George HI. reigned MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. xxv in his stead. Here, through part of 1758 and part of 1759, he was at his very- worst. Never having quite ceased to hope something from his medical studies and his degree of M.B., he had set his heart on going out to India as a medical' officer in the Company’s service, and had actually, through Dr. Milner, obtained the promise of some such appointment on the Coromandel coast. This prospect failing in some unexplained way, he resolved to try for an appointment as surgeon’s mate in the Army or Navy. The result appears from an entry in the books of the College of Surgeons. At a Court of the Examiners for the College, held on the 2ist of December, 1758, in the Old Bailey, not far from Goldsmith’s lodging, various candidates were found qualified for appointments. Among them was a James Barnard, who passed as “ mate to an hospital ; ” after the record of which fact there is this brief entry, “Oliver Goldsmith, found not qualified for ditto.” It was a dreadful blow, not only on account of the shame should the fact become known (it was pretty well kept secret during Goldy’s lifetime), but also on account of some immediate consequences. To appear becomingly before the examiners he had wanted a new suit of clothes ; and, though by this time he had begun to have dealings with other publishers than Griffiths — with Newbeiy, the proprietor of the Literary Magazine, and with Archibald Hamilton, the proprietor of the Critical Review, which Smollett edited — yet it was to Griffiths that he had ap- plied in his difficulty. For four articles contributed in advance for the Monthly Review Griffiths had become his security to the tailor for the new suit, on condition that the suit should be returned or paid for within a certain time. But, four days after Goldsmith’s rejection at Surgeons’ Hall, his landlord, to whom he was in arrears, was hauled off to prison for debt, and, to help somewhat in the landlady’s distress, not only the new suit went into pawn, but the books of Griffiths which Goldsmith had for review. Griffiths, learning the fact, and probably all the angrier with Goldsmith because he had written for Hamilton and the rival Review, demanded his books, called Goldsmith a “sharper” and a “villain,” and threatened all sorts of horrors. “Sir,” wrote Goldsmith in reply, “I know of no misery “but a jail to which my own imprudences and your letter seem to point. I have “seen it inevitable these three or four weeks, and, by heavens! request it as a “favour — as a favour that may prevent somewhat more fatal. I have been some “ years struggling with a wretched being, with all that contempt which indigence “ brings with it, with all those strong passions which make contempt insupportable.” But Griffiths’s bark was worse than his bite, and Goldsmith was let live on in Green Arbour Court. An extract or two from letters written by him to his Irish relatives and friends, either shortly before or shortly after his rejection by the College of Surgeons, will picture him better in this time of his deepest distress than any mere description. “Whether I eat or starve,” he writes to his brother-in-law Hodson at Lissoy, “live “ in a first floor or four pair of stairs high, I still remember them [his Irish friends] with “ pleasure ; nay, my very country comes in for a share of my affection. Unaccountable ‘fondness for country, this maladie du pays, as the French call it ! Unaccountable XXVI MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. “that he should still have an affection dor a place who never, when in. it, received “ above common civility ; who never brought anything out of it but his brogue and “ his blunders ! Surely my affection is equally ridiculous with the Scotchman’s, who “ refused to be cured of the itch, because it made him unco’ thoughtful of his wife “and bonny Inverary.” He goes on to say that, if he went to the opera, where Signora Columba was pouring forth all the mazes of melody, it only made him sigh for Lissoy fireside and “Johnny Armstrong’s Last Good Hight ” from the lips of Peggy Golden, and that, if he climbed Hampstead Hill, the magnificent prospect thence only made him think of the dearer landscape from the little mount before Lissoy Gate. .Again in a letter to an old college friend, Bryanton, whom he jocosely takes to task for having forgotten him : “ God’s curse. Sir ! vrho am I ? Eh ! what “am I? Do you know whom you have offended? A man whose character may “one of these days be mentioned with profound respect in a German comment. or “Dutch Dictionary; whose name you will probably hear ushered in by a ‘doctis- “ simus doctissimorum,’ or heel-pieced with a long Latin termination. . . . There will “ come a day, no doubt it wdll — I beg you may live a couple of hundred years longer “ only to see the day — when the Scaligers and Daciers will vindicate my character, “ give learned editions of my labours, and bless the times with copious comments on “ the text. You shall see how they will fish up the heavy scoundrels who disregard “ me now, or will then offer to cavil at my productions. How will they bewail the “times that suffered so much genius to lie neglected ! If ever my works find their “ way to Tartary or China, I know the consequence. Suppose one of your Chinese “ Owanowitzers instructing one of your Tartarian Chian obacchi — you see I use “ Chinese names to show my erudition, as I shall soon make our Chinese talk like “an Englishman to show his. This may be the subject of the lecture, ‘Oliver “ Goldsmith flourished in the iSth and 19th centuries. He lived to be an hundred “ and three years old, and In that age may be justly styled the Sun of Literature and “ the Confucius of Europe,”’ &c. Again, in a letter to his cousin. Uncle Contarine’s daughter, now Mrs. Lauder: “Alas ! I have many a fatigue to encounter before that “ happy time arrives when your poor old simple friend may again give a loose to the “luxuriance of his nature, sitting by Kilmore fireside, recount the various adventures- “ of a hard-fought life, laugh over the follies of the day, join his flute to your harp- “ sichord, and forget that ever he starved in those streets where Butler and Otway “ starved before him.” And, best of all, in a long letter to his brother Henry : “B “ 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 illness since I saw you, I 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 I dare venture to say that, if ^ “ stranger saw us both, he would pay me the honours of seniority. Imagine to your- “ self a pale melancholy visage, with two great wninkles between the eyebrow's, with “ an eye disgustingly severe, and a big wig; and you have a perfect picture of rof “ present appearance. ... I can neither laugh nor drink ; have contracted a hesi - 1 MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. xxvii “ tating, . disagreeable manner of speaking, and a visage that looks ill-nature itself ; ‘tin short, I have thought myself into a settled melancholy, and an utter disgust of “all that life brings with it. . . . Your last letter, I repeat it, was too short; you “should have given me your opinion of the design of the heroi-comical poem which “ I sent you. You remember I intended to introduce the hero of the poem as lying “ in a paltry alehouse. You may take the following specimen of the manner, which “I flatter myself is quite original. The room in which he lies may be described ‘ ‘ somewhat in this way — y “ ‘ The window, patched' with paper, lent a ray “ That feebly showed 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 showed his lamp-black face. “ The morn was cold ; he views with keen desire “ A rusty grate unconscious of a fire ; “ An unpaid reckoning on the frieze was scored, “ And five cracked teacups dressed the chimney-board.’” This last letter was written in February 1759, and within a month or two after 1 that date things took a turn for the better with Goldsmith. His writings, hitherto, I had been but anonymous hackwork in the Monthly Review, the Literary Magazine, and the Critical Review, with two translations from the French, both for Griffiths — one a novel ; the other entitled ‘ ‘ Memoirs of a Protestant condemned to the Galleys of France for his Religion,” published in two volumes in February 1758, under the borrowed name of James Willington. But one consequence of his quarrel with Griffiths had been an engagement to pay off his unsettled score with that bookseller for the suit of clothes, and earn something besides, by writing A Life of Voltaire, to be published along with a new translation of the Henriade. The life and the translation, v/ere advertised by Griffiths in February 1759, as then about to aj^pear ; and, though this intention was not carried into effect, and both remained to be published in another form, the Life was probably ready'by March, if not earlier. But, better still, Goldsmith had for some time been engaged on a little treatise of his own designing, which he intended to be his first aTOwed publication, and on which, accordingly, he was bestowing pains. The batch of lettei's to his Irish friends and relatives from which we have quoted had been in great part occasioned by his desire to announce to them this forthcoming perform- ance, and to obtain through them Irish subscribers for English copies in advance, so as to prevent the Dublin booksellers from reprinting it and thus depriving him of the benefits of an Irish sale. Little or nothing seems to have been done in the desired way by his Irish friends when, in April 1759, the book was published in London by the Dodsleys, in a respectable duodecimo, and with the title Inquiry into the Present' State of Polite Lear 7 iing m E 7 tro 1 )e." It is the first I publication of Goldsmith’s in which one need now look for anything of his real xxviii MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. | mind, and is still well worth reading. Though his name did not appear on the title-page, he had no wish, to conceal the authorship, but quite the contrary ; and, as the notices of it that immediately or soon appeared were on the whole very favourable (with the exception of one in Grif&ths’s Mo 7 ithly Review, written by Kenrick, his successor as the hack for that periodical, and full of personal scurrility),, the publication attracted attention to Goldsmith and won him some reputation even in the crowded London market of letters. From that date his connexion with Hamilton, the publisher of the Ciltical Review, and with Smollett, its editor, became closer, and his services as a contributor more in demand with them ; and towards the end of the. year 1759 there appears even to have been some competition by knowing ones in “the trade” for the use of the light and easy pen which Griffiths had not sufficiently valued. Thus, when in October I 759 v bookseller Wilkie started The Bee, a weekly periodical of essays, dramatic criticisms, &c., price '^d., and also a new magazine called The Lady's Magazine, nominally intended chiefly for' lady-readers, who but Goldsmith was the chief essayist and critic in the one, and the principal writer' in the other? Not the less for this association with Wilkie in these two periodicals was he a contributor to a third periodical. The Busy Body, started at the same time by another bookseller, Pottinger, and published, thrice a week. To be sure, both The Bee and The Busy Body were short-lived — the one reaching but its eighth number, and the other its twelfth. But Goldsmith’s papers in them were noted at the time, and those in The Bee were in such demand afterwards that they had to be I'eprinted ; and, after both periodicals- had ceased, there were still the Critical Revieio and the Lady's Magazme to write for. Acquaintances, too,, 'were multiplying round ■ Goldsmith. Even in his worst distress the sociable creature had made himself at home with his landlord’s family ; his flute, and sweetmeats, when he had them, were, at the service of the children of Green Arbour Court, some of whom, grew up to remember him and tell anecdotes of him ; and we hear of one person, an ingenious watchmaker of the neighbourhood, who used to spend evenings-, with him. Then, according to Thackeray’s observation that there never was- an Irishman so low in circumstances but there was some other Irishman lower still and looking up to him and going errands for him, there were several fellow-countrymen of Goldsmith clinging to him, to be helped by him when he could hardly help himself — especially a certain Ned Purdon, who had been his schoolfellow. At the Temple Coffee House, also, there were opportunities for something like general society. But in the course of 1759 we have moi'e distinct traces of Goldsmith’s contact with known men in London. It was in March in that year,, just before the publication of Goldsmith’s Inquhy into the State of Polite Learning, that the Rev. Mr. Percy, afterwards Bishop Percy of the Ballads, paid that first memorable visit, to him in Green Arbour Court, the queer incidents of which he used afterwards to describe. From that day Percy and Goldsmith were fiiends for life. Garrick.’s first encounter with Goldsmith was several months later, and much, less pleasant. The secretaiyship of the Society of Arts being vacant. MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. xxix Goldsmitli was anxious to obtain the post, and waited on the great actor to solicit his vote and interest. Garrick, it is said, reminded him of a passage in his Polite Learning, and asked how he could expect his support after that. It was a passage in which, while disciissing the prospects of the drama, Goldsmith had expressed rather sharply the common complaint then made against theatre-managers, that they neglected contemporary talent and lived on old stock-plays which cost them nothing. “Indeed,” said Goldy bluntly, “I spoke my mind, and believe I said what was very right.” And so they parted civilly, and it was long before Garrick and Goldsmith came really together. Quite otherwise it was between Goldsmith and Smollett. It is pleasant to think of these two, perhaps the most strongly contrasted humorists and men of genius of their day — the simple, gentle- hearted, sweet-styled Irishman, and the bold, splenetically-independent, irascible, richly-inventive, rough-writing, but sombre and melancholic Scotchman — to think of these two as, knit together by some mutual regard, when Smollett was already in the full bustle of his fame and industry, and Goldy was struggling and needed employment. During the whole of 1759, as we have seen, they had been, to some extent, fellow-workmen. And in the end of that year there was a visit of Smollett, along with the bookseller Newbery of St. Paul’s Churchyard, to Goldsmith’s lodgings in Green Arbour Court, which led to important results. Though London already swarmed with periodicals, the indefatigable Smollett, then recently released from his three months’ imprisonment for libel, had projected a new sixpenny monthly, to be called The British Magazine; and Newbery, besides having an interest in this magazine, had resolved on the larger attempt of a daily newspaper, price to be called The Public Ledger. It was to secure Goldsmith’s services in both these undertakings that they had called upon him. Accordingly, from the first appearance of the British Magazme, on the ist of January, 1760, with a fervid dedication to Pitt, and the unusual distinction of a royal licence to Dr. Smollett as its editor. Goldsmith was a regular contributor to its pages— his essays and criticisms forrhing perhaps the chief attraction of the magazine after Smollett’s novel of “ Sir Lancelot Greaves, ” which appeared there in successive instalments till its conclusion in December 1761. Goldsmith’s contributions to this magazine extended even into 1762, and included at least twenty separate essays, of which some were in his most charming style. But it was in the Public Ledger that he made his great hit. He had been engaged by Newbery to furnish for this newspaper an article of some amusing kind twice a week, to be paid for at the rate of a guinea per article. He had already written one or two articles to suit, when the idea struck him of bringing on the scene an imaginary philosophic Chinaman, resident in London after long wanderings from home, and of making the adventures of this Chinaman, and his observations of men and things in the Western world, as recorded in letters supposed to be written by him to friends in China, together with the replies of these friends, the material for a series of papers which should consist of character-sketches, social satire, and whimsical reflection on all sorts of subjects, connected by a slight thread of story. He had always had a fancy for China and the Chinese, and an anticipation XXX MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH:^ of this idea will be found in one of his letters from which we have already quoted. The first of Goldsmith’s “ Chinese Letters,” as they came soon to be called,' appeared in the Ledger on the 24th of Jan. 1760, with no intimation that there was to be a series of them the second appeared on the 29th ;,the third on the 31st ; and from that date so eagerly were they expected, and so much did they contribute to the sale of the Ledger, that Newbery gave them the most conspicuous place in the paper. Ninety-eight letters in all appeared in the course of 1760 ; and these, completed, b)’* subsequent stragglers in the Ledger, and by the incorporation of other papers in the same vein published elsewhere, formed eventually that delightful, if somewhat too lengthy. Citizen of the World, whose place among our English classics is now sure after more than a hundred years. It was while all London was reading the “ Chinese Letters” and becoming fond of the philosophic Chinaman, and his friends, the Gentleman in Black, Beau Tibbs, and the i-est, that George II. died, and his grand- son, George III., began his reign. The glorious ministry of Pitt was brought to an abrupt end soon afte-r, and the favourite Bute came into power, drawing Scotchmen in his train, and rousing the unanimous execration of all England against everything that was. or could be called Scottish. ' A change probably as important to Goldsmith personally as the change of king and of ministry was his removal, towards the end of 1760, from Green Arborrr Court to superior lodgings in Wine Office Court, Fleet Street. Here, through the rest of 1760 and through 1761 and 1762, his work for the Public Ledger and the Bi'itish Magazine continued to be a considerable part of his occupation. Not the whole, i however. He had not quitted his hold of the Ladfs Magazme; of which periodical, indeed, he appears to have become virtual editor some time in 1760. Among his contributions to ut in 1761 were successively-published portions of that Life of Voltaire which he had written for Griffiths two years before, but which had, for some reason or other, remained in manuscript. But, naturally, it was for Newbery that Gold- smith’s literary services were now chiefly reserved. This worthy publisher, whose red face, bustling benevolence, and zeal in getting up nice children’s books. Goldsmith has celebrated in a well-known passage, did not confine himself merely to children s books and periodicals, but had a flourishing general business besides. He had been for many a year paymaster and advancer of loans to needy men of the literary tribe, including his own son-in daw Christopher Smart, and also Johnson. He was not the man to let Goldsmith, who had done such a stroke of work for him in the Ledger, rust for want of employment: He seems, indeed, to have taken Goldy under a kind of charge, partly for Goldy’s benefit, and partly with a view to his own profit. The very lodging in Wine Office Court to which Goldy had removed was in a house the tenant of which was a' relative of Newbery’s. Here Newbery could have him at command, not only for the Ledger, but for all kinds of miscellaneous work — compilations,- pamphlets on this and that, revisions of other people’s books, prefaces to such; abridgments of such books as Plutarch’s Lives, conclusions of historical manuals- left unfinished, translations from the French, and even occasional moral articles for the Christians Magazine, then edited for Newbery, MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. xxxi for circulation among the religious, by poor, unhanged Dr. Dodd. The amount of such work done for Newbery by Goldsmith between 1760 and 1763, and traceable still in cash-accounts between them, is very large ; and much remains imtraceable. On the whole, though it was dreadful task-work, Goldy found it worthwhile, in respect of the money it brought him. His receipts at this time, and chiefly from Newbery, may be calculated at what would be equivalent now to about 250/. or 300/. a year; andj though he was generally on the debtor side in Newbeiy’s books, for work paid for in part beforehand, there is yet evidence that the Goldsmith of Wine Office Court' was, socially, in a different plight from the Goldsmith of Green Arbour Square. Not only does he frequent the theatres and taverns, attend meetings of the Society of Arts, and drop in on Monday evenings at the famous Robin Hood Debating Society in Butcher Row, where, under the presidency of “the eloquent baker” Caleb Jeacocke, young lawyers and fledgling wits discussed religion and politics ; he even “receives” in his own lodging, is sponged upon there for guineas and half-guineas by rascals that know his good nature, and sometimes gives literary suppei's. One such supper, given by him in Wine Office Court, is memorable. It was on the 31st of May, 1761. Whether Johnson had met Goldsmith before is uncertain ; most probably he had, for the author of the Inqtiiry into Polite Learning and the Chinese Letters can hardly have remained a stranger to' him ; but this, at all events, was their first meeting not merely casual. Johnson had accepted Goldsmith’s invitation to meet a largish party of friends, and Percy was to accompany him. As the two were walking to Wine Office Court, Pfercy observed, to his surprise, that Johnson had on “a new suit of clothes,” with “a new wig nicely powdered,” and everything in style to match. Struck with such a variation from Johnson’s usual habits, he ventured a remark on the subject. “ Why, sir,” said Johnson in reply, “I hear that Gold- smith, who is a very great sloven, justifies his disregard' of cleanliness and decency by quoting my practice, and I am desirous this night to show him a better example.” And so the two went to Gbldy’s rooms, and the door was shut behind them and the others ; and there was, no doubt, much noise and splendid talk far into the night ; but it has not been reported, for there was no Boswell there. But from that day began the immortal intimacy of the gentle Goldsmith with the great Johnson, and all that peculiar radiance over the London of the eighteenth century which we still trace to the conjunction of their figures in its antique streets. Of only three of his contemporaries in the English world of letters had Goldsmith written with admiration approaching to enthusiasm — Smollett, the poet Gray, and Johnson. A recluse at Cambridge, Gray was inaccessible. With Smollett an acquaintance had already been established ; but the resident London life of the overworked and , melancholic novelist was nearly over, and he was about to be a wanderer thenceforth in search of health. But atlast Goldsmith had'happened on that most massive and central of the three, towards whom in any case all intellectual London consciously or unconsciously gravitated. Johnson was then im his fifty- second year, living in chambers in Inner Temple I.ane — not yet “Dh,” and not yet pensioned, though xxxii MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. on the point of being so ; but already with much of his greatest work done, and firm in his literary dictatorship. Goldsmith was nineteen years younger, and with the best of his work before him. The convenient bondage of Goldsmith to the bookseller Newbery continued till the end of 1764, or even beyond that. In May 1762 Newbery published the Citizen of the World in its completed form, giving Goldsmith five guineas for the new copyright. Som.ewhat later in the same year Goldsmith, whose health had suffered from his recent laboriousness, went to Tunbridge and Bath for recreation ; and from Bath he brought back to London materials for a memoir of Beau Nash, the famous master of the ceremonies or King of the Fashion at Bath, then just dead. This curious and rather amusing little book, for which Newbery gave him fourteen guineas, was published in October 1762, under the title of The Life of Richaj-d Nash, Esq. It was immediately popular; Johnson, who was by no means a book- buyer, is found purchasing a copy ; and there was a second edition in December. By this time Goldsmith had made a new arrangement in the matter of domicile, or Newbery had made a new arrangement for him. The lodging in Wine Office Court was either given up or retained for occasional use only, and apartments were taken in the suburban neighbourhood of Canonbury, Islington, in the house of a Mrs. Elizabeth Fleming, close to Canonbury House, where Newbery himself resided. The terms with Mrs. Fleming were to be 50/. a. year for Goldsmith’s board and lodging — equivalent to about 100/. a year now; and Newbery undertook to make the regular quarterly payments, deducting them fi'om whatever might be Goldsmith’s ■ earnings. Thus saved all trouble on the main point, and with only his incidental expenses to care for — which, however, were considerable enough, for a guinea could never remain a day whole in his pocket, and he had begun to have a gaudy taste in dress, and to have extensive dealings with Mr. Filby, the tailor, at the Harrow in Water Lane — Goldsmith went on compiling for Newbery, touching up books for him, writing prefaces where they were w'anted, and furnishing papers for his magazines. For each bit of work so done Goldsmith was credited for so much in Newbery’s books — one guinea, two guineas, three guineas, or higher sums, according to the extent of the work ; and Goldsmith drew, or overdrew, for what he w'anted as he went along, leaving the bookseller to look at the state of affairs every quarter when he came to pay Mrs, Fleming her 12/. lor., together with any little extras for wine, sassafras, cakes, &c., incurred with her by Goldsmith. That lady, to do her justice, kept most punctual accounts, and does not seem to have been at all exacting ' in the extras ; for, when Goldsmith brought a friend home to dinner and tea, ' especially if it was the Irish physician Dr. Redmond, her practice was to charge nothing on that account, but only to make such an entry as this in the bill — “Dr. • Reman’s dinner and tea, o/. oj. od. ” There is some reason to believe that among ! the friends who sometimes visited Goldsmith in his Islington lodgings, but are not recorded to have had gratis dinners from Mrs. Fleming, was the painter Hogarth, then in the last years of his life. Altogether, in these lodgings Goldsmith seems to have been tolerably comfortable and tolerably industrious through 1763 and 1764. MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. xxxiii Among the fruits of his industry, in addition to a great deal of miscellaneous work which need not be inquired after particularly (though, if Goody Two Shoes were really his, one would like to know it), was a History of England m a series of Letters from a .Nobleman to his Son. This work, which must not be confounded with a subsequent History of England from his pen, was published by Newbery in two pocket volumes in June 1764. The title was a ruse to attract attention to the book, and it succeeded. It was attributed to Lord Chesterfield or Lord Orrery, and then very generally to Lord Lyttelton, and became very popular. Goldsmith, having received 21/., which remained as the balance due to him for the work, did not wish to undeceive 'the public. He had, indeed, by him, finished or nearly finished, certain things of his own, not written to Newbery’s order, but for private pleasure, and for which he ca.red more thair for any compilation. But of these presently. Islington, though more out of the bustle of central London then than it is now, was not so far off but that a walk every other day would bring Goldsmith into Fleet Street and its purlieus. And more and more now there were attractions for Goldsmith tn that cosy heart of London. His acquaintance with Johnson had led to his introduction to Mr. (not yet Sir Joshua) Reynolds, then forty years of age, living in his mansion in Leicester Square, and hospitable, with his kind serenity of disposition and his 6,000/. a year of income, to the largest circle of attached friends that any man ever drew around him. At those noctes ccenceque Deum at Reynolds’s in Leicester Square, long afterwards remembered with such relish by Boswell, Goldsmith was certainly welcome even thus early. Elere he would meet Burke, who barely remembered him at Trinity College, Dublin ; and sometimes he and Johnson, leaving Reynolds’s, and parting with Burke at the door, would go down the Strand to Johnson’s chambers in Inner Temple Lane, or perhaps (for Johnson hated early hours) drop in, for more talk, at the Mitre Tavern in Fleet Street. Just at this time, too, Boswell’s visage does begin to be seen on the skirts of the group of which he was to be so singularly intimate a member, and whose history he was to write for the whole world. He had been up to London for* the first time in 1760, a mere lad of twenty years, but already a devoted worshipper of Johnson, and possessed with a passion for being introduced to him. Ele had failed in that object then ; but in the end of 1762 he was again in London on his way to Utrecht to study law. Tw'O chapters in his “ Life of Johnson” — two as interesting chapters of anecdote as ever man wrote — preserve the particulai's of that visit,, which extended over more than six months, or to August 1 763. Early in the visit, it appears, he met Goldsmith at dinner at the house of Thomas Davies, the ex-actor and bookseller, in Russell Street, Covent Garden — whose shop was perhaps then the most noted , afternoon rendezvous in London for poets, wits, dramatists, and literary gossips. Improving this meeting, he had even, he tells us, become “ pretty well acquainted” with Goldsmith before he made that greater acquaintanceship for which his soul panted. What mattered it to know Goldsmith, with Wilkes, Churchill, Lloyd, Robert Dodsley, and others — to all of whom the eager young fellow ^ad somehow pushed his way — so long as Johnson was unknown? At last the c xxxiv MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. momentous day came — Monday the i6th May, 1763. Boswell was sitting with Mr. and Mrs. Davies in the back-parlour behind their shop, where indeed he seems to have been for some time on the watch for the apparition that now presented itself. It was Johnson at last, rolling into the shop, as large as life, to have a talk with Davies. “Mr. Davies,” says Boswell, “mentioned my name “ and respectfully introduced me to him. I was much agitated ; and, recollecting “ his prejudice against the Scotch, of which I had heard much, I said to Davies, “ ‘ Don’t tell him where I come from.’ ‘ From Scotland,’ cried Davies, roguishly. “ ‘ Mr. Johnson,’ said I, ‘ I do indeed come from Scotland, but I cannot help it.’ “ ‘That, Sir, I find, is what a very great many of your countrymen cannot help.’ “ This stroke stunned me a good deal ; and, when we sat down, I felt myself “ not a little embarrassed, and apprehensive of what might come next. He then “ addressed himself to Davies, ‘ What do you think of Garrick ? He has refused “ me an order for the play for Miss Williams, because he knows that the house “ will be full, and that an order will be worth three shillings.’ Eager to take “ any opening to get into conversation with him, I ventured to say, ‘ O Sir, I “cannot think Mr. Garrick would grudge such a trifle to you.’ ‘Sir,’ said he “ with a stern look, ‘ I have known David Garrick longer than you have done, “ and I know no right you have to talk to me on the subject.’ ” Here was ,, a knock-down for the young enthusiast — only two-and-twenty years of age, it is to be remem.bered in his favour. But one of the best things ever said of Boswell was what Goldsmith said of him not long afterwards. Some one had called him a “ Scotch cur.” “No, no,” replied Goldsmith, “you are too severe; he is only a Scotch bur. Tom Davies threw him at Johnson in sport, and he has the faculty of sticking.” He showed this faculty by the way in which he took Johnson’s first rebuff. Much as it discomposed him, it did not prevent him from calling on Johnson a week afterwards; he called again on the 13th of June, and was delighted to hear Johnson ask why he had not returned sooner ; and, in fact, within a week or two from that time the queer Scotch lad had wound himself into Johnson’s affections in a way that surprised everybody. Sixteen different meetings and conversations with Johnson, besides those already mentioned, are duly chronicled by Boswell as having made him happy during the six or seven weeks longer he remained in town — some in Johnson’s chambers, some in Boswell’s, some at supper at the Mitre or another tavern, and one, which lasted a whole day, at Greenwich down the river. At most of these meetings Boswell kept Johnson all to himself; but on the 1st of July Goldsmith was with them at the Mitre; and on the 6th, when Boswell gave Johnson a formal supper at the Mitre, Goldsmith was again there, with two other guests. Something like a jealousy of Goldsmith, indeed, on account of his established intimacy with Johnson, and Johnson’s professed regard for him, seems to have mingled with the pleasure of Bozzy’s first revel of six weeks in Johnson’s society. It is exactly at this point of his “ Life of Johnson,” at all events, that he introduces his general sketch of Goldsmith with a view to his frequent appearances thereafter in the narrative ; and in the ' XXXV MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. depreciating tone of this sketch, with its often-quoted statements as to Goldsmith’s vanity and his ridiculous ways of showing it, we have the anticipation of all that Boswell would let himself feel or think about Goldsmith to the very end. With Boswell, Goldsmith was but the foil to Johnson. And yet — for, though jealous, Bozzy could not but be honest— there are passages, even in this first sketch he gives of Goldsmith, which make amends. He tells us what Johnson said to him of Goldsmith when his name was first mentioned between them. “ Dr. Goldsmith,” said J ohnson, “ is one of the first men we now have as an author, and he is a very worthy man too ” — praise which, as Goldsmith was then known only or chiefly by his Inquiry into the State of Polite Learnmg and his Citizen of the World, seemed rather over the mark to the hearer. Again he informs us how “ Goldsmith’s respectful attachment to Johnson” equally struck him, and how Goldsmith’s incidental remarks about Johnson increased his admiration of Johnson’s goodness of heart. For example, when some reference was made to Mr. Levett, whom Johnson maintained as a pensioner under his own roof. Goldsmith said to Boswell, “ He is poor and honest, which is recommendation enough to Johnson and again, when Boswell referred to some man of known bad character with surprise that Johnson should be kind to such a person, “ He is now become miserable,” said Goldsmith, “ and tliat ensures the protection of Johnson.” On the whole, the relations between Johnson and Goldsmith were so cordial that Boswell must have thought with a pang how much they would be together, and w’hat talk of Johnson’s Goldsmith would hear, when he should be in London no longer to partake of such happiness, but away in Utrecht, studying law. If anything could have reconciled him to the coming absence, it was the extraordinary proof given, before he went, how thoroughly he, an unknown Scotch lad, whom Johnson had never seen till he met him in Davies’s shop, had won the big mairs heart. To have heard Johnson say to him, “There are few people whom I take so much to as you,” was much; but to hear him farther say, as the day for his departure approached, “ I must see thee out of England ; I will accompany you to Harwich,” was sheer ecstasy. And actually to Harwich Johnson, while all London wondered, did accompany the young cub, giving him good advices all the way, and at last seeing him off. “ My revered friend,” says Boswell, “walked down with me to “ the beach, where we embraced and parted with tenderness, and engaged to . “ correspond by letters. I said, ‘ I hope. Sir, you will not forget me in my “ absence.’ ‘ Nay, Sir, it is more likely you should forget me than that I should “ forget you.’ As the vessel put out to sea, I kept my eyes upon him for a “ considerable time, while he remained rolling his majestic frame in his usual “ manner ; and at last I perceived him walk back into the town, and he “ disappeared.” An event of real importance in the Johnsonian world, which happened shortly after Johnson’s return from seeing Boswell off at Harwich, and the rumour of which, if it reached Utrecht, must have greatly interested Boswell, was the foundation of the famous club, unnamed at first, but afterwards called “The Literary Club,” which I i I — / C 2 / I xxxvi MEMOIR 01 GOLDSMITH. met at the Turk’s Head, in Gerrard Street, Soho. The original members of this club were Johnson, Reynolds, Burke, Goldsmith, Topham Beauclerk, Bennet Langton, Sir John Hawkins, and Dr. Nugent — to whom were soon added Mr. Chamier, Mr. Dyer, and others. They met one evening a week — Monday evening at first, but it was changed to Friday evening — for supper and talk. The club may have been founded in 1763, but it was certainly in full operation in 1764. From that date, accordingly, Goldsmith’s attendances at its meetings, and his enjoyment of what passed there,, have to be remembered in our imaginations of the routine of his life. It appears even that, for the convenience of these attendances, or for other reasons, Goldsmith, early in 1764, had a share of some rough chambers in the Temple, “on the library staircase,” in addition to his Islington lodging. Possibly, this was by way of removal from the rooms in Wine Office Court, hitherto retained for sleeping- purposes when he was in town. It was either at some now unknown lodging in town, occupied for some little time, or, more probably, at the Islington apartments in Mrs. Fleming’s house, that there occurred, late in 1764, an incident in Goldsmith’s life, of which very varying versions have been given, but of which the true account is indubitably Dr. Johnson’s. “ I “ received one morning,” Johnson long afterwards told Boswell, “ 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 directly. 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 got a bottle of Madeira and a glass before him. I put the cork into the “ bottle, desired he would be calm,_^ and began to talk to him of the means by “which he might be extricated. He then told me that he had a novel ready for “ the press, which he produced to me. I looked into it, and saw its merit ; told the “landlady I should soon return ; and, having gone to a bookseller, sold it for 60/. “ I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his ‘ ‘ landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill. ” If, as appears all but certain, it was to Islington that Johnson had trudged, and the harsh landlady was Mrs. Fleming, the explanation probably is that, owing to some break-down between Goldsmith and Newbery, Mrs. Fleming saw no chance of getting her last quarter’s rent and board paid her in the usual mannei'. What renders this likelier is that Newbery’s advances to Goldsmith are found about this date dwindling to very small sums, and that, as if Newbery were proving a broken reed, Goldsmith had recently been negotiating, or proposing to negotiate, with other booksellers, such as Dodsley/, Tonson, and Griffin. It was, possibly, for this last bookseller, whose shop was the Garrick’s Head in Catherine Street, Strand, and who speculated in music, that the libretto for an intended Oratorio, on the subject of the Captivity in Babylon, was originally written by Goldsmith early in 1764, although afterwards it was sold by him to Dodsley and Newbery conjointly. But what most confirm.s the conjecture of some coolness between Goldsmith and Newbery at the time in Question is that the book- MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. xxxvii,' seller to whom Johnson carried the manuscript was not Newbeiy himself — who, if all had been right between him and Galdsmith, would naturally have been first applied to — but his nephew, Francis Newbery, of Paternoster Row. In giving 6o/. for it this younger bookseller must have been influenced as much by Johnson’s recommendations as by any notion he could have had for himself of the worth of what he had bought. For, though it was the manuscript of the Vicar of Wakefield, it was thrown aside as soon as purchased, to wait young Mr. Newbery’s convenience. For the present, therefore, all the satisfaction Goldsmith derived from the exquisite little tale which for a year or two he had been quietly and carefully writing at in- tervals, by way of relief from his compilations and task-work, was the immediate 6o/. brought him by Johnson. Fortunately, however, he had another thing by him, similarly written for his own pleasure, and according to his own best ideas of literary art. This was his poem of the Traveller, the idea of which had occurred to him nine years before during his own continental wanderings, and some fragments of which he had then written and sent home from Switzerland to his brother Henry. On this poem, as well as on the Vicar of Wakefield, he had been for some time engaged in his Islington lodgings, writing it slowly, and bringing it to the last degree of finish, but so diffident of its success as to say nothing about it to his friends. Reynolds, indeed, once visiting him, found him bending over something at his desk, and at the same time holding up his finger in rebuke every now and then to a little dog he was teaching to sit on its haunches in a corner of the room ; and, on looking over his shoulder at the manuscript, he could see that it was a poem and was able to read and remember one couplet. At length, probably at the very time of Johnson’s visit of rescue. Goldsmith took Johnson into his confidence in the matter of the poem. too. It was highly approved by that judge, who even added a line or two of his own ; the elder Newbery, who may already have been spoken to about it, did not mind promising twenty guineas for it; and on the 19th of December, 1764, it was published, price one shilling and sixpence, with this title, “ The Traveller; or a Prospect of Society ; A Poem. By Oliver Goldsmith, M.B.” It was the first publi- cation of Goldsmith’s that bore his name, and it was dedicated, in terms of beautiful affection, to his brother, the Rev. Flenry Goldsmith. The publication of the Traveller was an epoch in Goldsmith’s life. Now, at last, at the age of six-and-thirty, he stood forth, not as an essayist, compiler, and miscellaneous prose-humorist, half-hidden by a habit of the anonymous, but avowedly as a can- didate for those higher and finer honours that belong to the name of English Poet. The time was unusually favourable. Poor as Britain had been, during the whole of the preceding portion of the eighteenth century, in poetry, at it had once been understood and as it came to be understood again — with Pope as its all -ruling tradition in the world of verse, and only Thomson and one or two more recollected as powers of variation — there was perhaps no point in the century when the British Muse, such as she had come to be, was doing less, or had so nearly ceased to do anything, or to have any good opinion of herself, as precisely about the year 1764. Young was dying ; Gray was recluse and indolent ; Johnson had long given over his xxxviii MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. metrical experimentations on any except the most inconsiderable scale ; Akenside, Armstrong, Smollett, and others less known, had pretty well revealed the amount of their worth in poetry ; and Churchill, after his ferocious blaze of what was really rage and declamation in metre, though conventionally it was called poetry, was prema- turely dead and defunct. Into this lull came Goldsmith’s short, but carefully-finished, poem» It was no innovation in apparent form, for the verse was that heroic rhymed couplet which the eighteenth century had adopted as the one and only true form, save for such lesser themes as would run into stanzas or gurgle into the mechanical paroxysms that were called Pindarics. But Goldsmith, as the dedication to his brother shows, really meant the poem as something new in spirit and in style— a return to simplicity and truth of feeling, and, above all, a protest against Churchill, and the wretched reduction of poetry, as in his case, to the one principle, indignatio facit versusF And the public was wonderfully ready for such an appeal to its finer literary instincts, and welcomed Goldsmith’s poem beyond his utmost expectations. It was widely and highly praised in the Reviews, the general verdict being that there had been nothing so fine in verse since the time of Pope ; even poems were published in commendation of it ; and the author’s high-mindedness in dedicating it to his brother, a poor Irish parson, rather than to any noble or wealthy patron, did not escape notice. A second edition was called for in March 1765, and a third in the following August; and, before Goldsmith died, he was to revise it again and again, with slight corrections throughout, till it reached its ninth edition. Of course, by all this Goldsmith benefited socially. The author of the Traveller was not a man to be thought of or looked at with indifference. People who had known him before, but to whom he had been little more than a laughing-stock, began to see what it was in him that deeper observers, like Johnson and Burke, had all along recognised. “I shall never more think Mr. Goldsmith ugly, ” said Miss Reynolds, Joshua’s sister, after Johnson had read the poem aloud in her hearing from beginning to end. But even the deeper observers themselves were roused to a higher opinion of Goldy’s genius. When Reynolds afterwards hinted to Johnson that perhaps the w'arm reception of the poem was due to the partiality of Goldsmith’s friends, “Nay, Sir,” Said Johnson candidly, in a reply which reflected even on himself, “ the partiality of his friends was always against him: it was with difficulty we could give him a hearing.” Johnson’s own opinion of Goldy from this time forward was that he was distinctly one of the chiefs of British Literature. While the Traveller was passing through the press. Goldsmith had written his pretty ballad of “ Edwin and Angelina,” afterwards introduced into the Vicar of Wakefield, under its present title of “The Hermit.” This little composition was occasioned by his interest in the collection of ballads and other old English poems which his friend, the Rev. Thomas Percy, was then busy with, and which was published in 1765 under its ever famous name of The Reliques. Goldsmith had shown his ballad to Percy, who was then chaplain to the Earl, afterwards Duke, of Northumberland ; and the Countess of Northumberland had taken such a fancy to it as to have copies privately printed for herself and her friends. It was expected MEMOIR OF GOLDSMIIH. xxxix that something advantageous to Goldy might arise from this introduction to the Northumberland family— especially as the Earl was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, had all sorts of offices on the Irish establishment at his disposal, and might easily, with public approval, have given some sinecure to one who was not only a popular author, but an Irishman to boot. Goldsmith did have an interview with the Earl at Northumberland House, received compliments from, him on his Traveller, and was informed that the Earl had heard he was a native of Ireland, and would be glad to do him any kindness. Instead of improving the occasion fur himself, “this idiot in the affairs of the world,” as Sir John Hawkins calls him, only told the Earl he had a brother in Ireland, a poor clergyman, who stood in much need of help. “As for myself,” he said afterwards in telling the story to Sir John, “I have no dependence on the promises of great men : I look to .the booksellers for support.” This was no mere affectation on Goldy’s part ; it was really true. With the excep- tion of Mr. Robert Nugent, afterwards Lord Nugent, Viscount Clare and Earl Nugent— a jovial, elderly Irishman, of great wealth, and free-and-easy politics, who admired Goldsmith, and was always glad to see him at his seat at Gosheld Hall, Essex — Goldsmith never cared to trouble any of the “great people” with his intimacy. And the utmost that came to him from this friendship, besides a week of country air now and then, was the appearance, once or twice, of a haunch of venison in his chambers in town. For, of course. Goldsmith was now done with Islington and Mrs. Fleming. The Temple, now and thenceforth, was his established place of residence. He had had rough temporary accommodation here, as we have seen, “on the library staircase,” in 1764; and this he is found exchanging, in or about 1765, for superior chambers in the same court — i.e., Garden Court. These he retained till 1 768. In June 1765 Goldsmith, to take advantage of his new popularity, published, with his name, and under the title of Essays, and with the motto “ Collecta Revirescunt,” a selection from his anonymous papers in the Bee, the Busy-Body, the Lady’s Magazine, the British Magazine, &c. Other people, he says in the preface, had been reprinting these trifles of his, and living on the pillage, and now he reclaimed the best of them. The republication was in one duodecimo volume, for which Newbery and Griffin, who were the joint-publishers, gave him ten guineas each. Then, again, through the rest of that year and the whole of 1 766 and 1767, — his Traveller \2isi\x\g^ brought him more applause than cash — he relapses, for cash-purposes, into hackwork, compilation, and translation. He thought of translating the Lusiad, but, his ignorance of Portuguese being a slight obstacle, left that undertaking for Mickle. Among the compilations which he did execute we hear of such things as A Survey of Experimental Philosophy and a Short English Grammar for Newbery, a translation of a French History of Philosophy (Physical Speculations) for Francis Newbery, a collection of Poems for Young Ladies for Payne of Paternoster Row, and another poetical collection in two volumes for Griffin called Beauties of English Poetry. For this last, to which he gave his name, he received a considerable sum ; but the sale of the collection, which xl MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. was otherwise a tasteful one, is said to have suffered from the admission into it of two pieces of Prior not deemed fit for family reading. And what, all this while, had become of the Vicar of Wakefield'i It emerged from the younger Newbery’s shop in the very midst of the compilations just named — viz. on the 27th of March, 1766, or fifteen months after the TravellerVaA been out. The Vicar of Wakefield : A Tale ; supposed to be written by himself — such was the title under which the little prose masterpiece announced itself. With less of acclamation than had hailed the Traveller, but gently, quietly, and surely, as it was read in households, and its charming sweetness felt wherever it was read, the Tale made its way. There was a second edition in May, a third in August, and before Goldsmith died the sixth edition was in circulation. As, by his Traveller, Goldsmith had taken his place among English poets, so by the Vicar of Wakefield he took a place, if not as one of the remarkable group of English “novelists” that distinguished the middle of the eighteenth century (for they had all been voluminous in this department), at least, with peculiar con- spicuousness, near that group. Richardson had been five years dead ; Fielding twelve years ; only Smollett of the old three remained, with his Hu 7 nphry Clinker still to be written. But Sterne, the fourth of the group, had recently flashed into notice — eight volumes of his Tristram Shandy, published between 1759 and 1765, having taken the literary world by storm, and made their strange author, then a middle-aged clergyman of loose notions, the lion of London society for the time being, with dinner engagements always fourteen deep. Not the radiance of Tristram Sha^zdy itself, however, diamond-darting in all colours athwart the literary heaven, could hide the pure soft star of Goldsmith’s new creation. How simple this Vicar of Wakefield was, how humorous, how pathetic, how graceful in its manner, how humane in every pulse of its meaning, how truly and deeply good ! So said everybody ; and gradually into that world of imaginary scenes and beings made familiar to British readers by former works of fiction, and the latest additions to which had been Smollett’s and Sterne’s inventions, a place of especial regard was found for the ideal Wakefield, the Primrose family, and all their belongings. Moses, with the gross of green spectacles and shagreen cases for which he sold the horse ; the philosophical wanderer George ; the two daughters, Olivia and Sophia j the bouncing Flamborough girls ; Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs, and the other fine lady from London ; the rogue Jenkinson and his repentance ; the rascally Squire ; and the good uncle. Sir William, alias Burchell — who could forget any of them? Above all the good clergyman himself, with his punctilious honour, his boundless benevolence, and his one or two foibles ! Who could help laughing over that passage in which he tells how the rogue Jenkinson, in proceeding to swindle him, assails his weak point by asking if he is the great Dr. Primrose who had written so learnedly in favour of monogamy and against second marriages ? “ Never did my heart feel sincerer rapture than at this moment. “ ‘Sir,’ cried I, ‘the applause of so good a man as I am sure you are adds to “that happiness in 'my heart which your benevolence has already excited. You MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. xli “ behold before you, Sir, that Dr. Primrose, the monogamist, whom you have been “ pleased to call great. You here see that unfortunate divine, who has so long, “ and, it would ill become me to say successfully, fought against the deuterogamy “ of the age.’ ” And the description of the family picture, executed by the travelling painter who took likenesses at fifteen shillings a head ! Their neighbours, the Flamboroughs, had been painted, seven of them in all, each holding an orange ; but the Primroses would not be painted that way. “We desired to have “ something in a brighter style ; and, after many debates, at length came to a “ unanimous resolution of being drawn together, in one large historical family “ piece. This would be cheaper, as one frame would serve for all, and it would “ be infinitely more genteel ; for all the families of any taste were now drawn in the “ same manner. As we did not immediately recollect an historical subject to hit “ us, we were contented each with being drawn as independent historical figures. “ My wife desired to be represented as Venus, and the painter was desired not to be “ too frugal of diamonds in her stomacher and hair. The two little ones were to “be as Cupids by her side ; while I, in my gown and band, was to present her “ with my books on the Whistonian controversy. Olivia would be di'awn as an “ Amazon sitting upon a bank of flowers, dressed in a green Joseph richly laced “ with gold, and a whip in her hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, with as “ many sheep as the painter could put in for nothing ; and Moses was to be dressed “ out with a white hat and feather. Our taste so much pleased the Squire that he ‘ ‘ insisted on being put in as one of the family, in the character of Alexander the “ Great, at Olivia’s feet.” But there was no end to the passages that people quoted and continued to quote. Nay, not to Britain alone was the renown of the story confined. There had been French translations of one or two of Goldsmith’s anonymous writings before ; but the Vicar of Wakefield ran, almost at once, over ihe Continent. It was four years after its first publication when young Herder in Strasburg read a German translation of it to young Goethe. Every reader of Lroethe’s Autobiography knows what an impression the beautiful prose-idyll, as he called it, made on the heart and imagination of the glorious youth, and how he used its names and fancies to invest with a poetic haze the realities of his own early German loves. To the end of his days, and after he had long been the monarch of German literature, Goethe retained his affection for the book, and spoke of it as having been an influence of subtle spiritual blessing to him at an important moment of his mental history. Here was praise, indeed, could Goldsmith have heard of it ! But Goethe was but twenty 3mars of age when he first read the Vicar of Wakefield, and it is doubtful whether, when Goldsmith died, he knew that there Was such a person as Goethe in the world ! On the strength of his increasing literary reputation. Goldsmith, even before the publication of his Vicar, had made one more attempt to get into practice as a London physician. He had been advised to this by Reynolds, who thought there were a good many families that might rather like to have the author of the Traveller for their medical man, and was anxious to see his friend in the receipt of a less precarious xlii MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. income than he received from the booksellers. It went so far that Goldsmith actually donned a splendid professional suit made for him by Filby — “purple silk small- clothes, a handsome scarlet roquelaure (i.e. short mantle) buttoned to his chin,” with a full-dress wig, a sword, and a gold-headed cane. The top of this last he was to ' put to his mouth when meditative in the approved fashion at the bedsides of his patients. One hears, however, but of one patient of any consequence that he ever had. It was a Mrs. Sidebotham ; and he did not keep her long. He had prescribed some dose for her, the terrific nature of which so stunned the apothecary that lie refused to make it up ; and, as the lady chose to trust the apothecary rather than the physician, Goldsmith went off in a huff, and vowed he would practise physic no more. Accordingly, though from this time the name of “Dr. Goldsmith” was more firmly attached to him than it had been, he fell back for the rest of his life on literature exclusively. A distinction between two kinds of his literary labours will have already amply presented itself in the course of our memoir so far ; and this distinction has to be carried on in the reader’s mind as applying even more conspicuously to what of his life remains. We have brought him to the year 1767, when he was thirty-eight years of age, spoken of with admiration as the author of the Inquiry into the State of Polite Learning, the Citizen of the World, the Traveller, a volume of Essays, and the Vicar of Wakefield, but known also to have written no end of compilations and done an immense amount of obscure hackwork for publishers. Well, he was to live seven years more ; and during these seven years his life was still to distribute itself as before, and to exhibit a few finer occasional performances at : the bidding of his own genius gleaming over a vast basis of sheer drudgery in ! compilation. “It is surely to be regretted,” wrote one of his critics, “that the ! “ author of the Travellei', one of the best poems that have appeared since those of “ Mr. Pope, should not apply wholly to works of imagination.” It was easy to say this, but how could it be helped ? He found it impossible to live by poems and i novels done as he would like to do them. By hackwork alone could he live ; and, I if he died of hackwork, you must blame the system ? I One chance of escape there was, and Goldsmith had it shrewdly in view. The Drama was still a form of English literature in which one might follow the bent of one’s genius, and yet hope for sufficient remuneration. If one could write a really successful play, and so establish a permanent connexion with the theatres ! So had Goldsmith been thinking ever since the publication of the Vicar ; and not merely thinking, for in the spring of 1767 he had finished the manuscript of his comedy. The Good-Natured Man, and, through Reynolds’s introduction, had submitted it to Garrick, with a view to its production at Drury Imne. He had spent pains on the comedy, and had taken the liberty, in it also, of differing from the prevalent taste. The kind of comedy then in fashion was “ Genteel Comedy” or “ Sentimental Comedy,” as it was called ; and there was a special horror, on the part of theatre managers . and critics, of what might be considered “ low ” or too broadly farcical. Goldsmith, ' prepossessed in favour of the older dramatists of the century, and especially of his countryman Farquhar, whom he justly reckoned the best of them all, had ventured MEMOm OF GOLDSMITH. xliii on a return to the style of free and natural humour. Whether on this account, or for other reasons, Garrick dLd not like the play ; and, after much hesitation on his part, and suspense on Goldsmith’s, it was put into the hands of Colman, the Covent Garden manager. Neither was Colman in any hurry ; and poor Goldsmith, while waiting for the result, had to betake himself for immediate supplies to his alternative of compiling. Not with his- old employer, Newbery of St. Paul’s Churchyard (who, indeed, died in 1767), but wdth Thomas Davies of Russell Street, he made an agreement to write a compendium of “Roman History,” to be ready in two years, and for which he was to. receive 250 guineas. And so, with a portion of this money advanced him, he lived through 1767, and at Ifength, on the 29th of January, 1768, had the satisfaction, of seeing his Good-Natured Alan produced at Covent Garden. Satisfaction is too. strong a word. Colman had had no great hopes of the piece ; the actors, with one or two exceptions, were- cool about it ; through a great part of the performance the audience were little moved ; at the famous scene of the bailiffs hisses were heard, and cries of “low,” “low,” from the partisans of Genteel Comedy in the pit ; and not till the fourth act was the- house fairly conquered into laughter and approbatiom Goldsmith, w'ho had been accompanied to the house by Johnson, Burke, and others of the Gerrard Street Club, had suffered dreadfully. It was the club night ; and though, when all was over, he took the congratulations offered him, and went back to and seems to have had It by him finished before the end of that year ; but there was the usual, or even aiore than the usual, delay and difficulty in getting it accepted and brought on the f 'xlvi MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. stage. Not till the 15th of March, 1773, was it brought out at Covent Garden by Colman, under the name She Stoops to Conqice 7 ' ; or the Mistakes of a Night, which Goldsmith had happily adopted for it at the last moment. Colman himself was dead against it, and had -spread about dismal forebodings of its failure. But the triumph was immediate and complete. It was performed every possible night for the rest of the season, and once by royal command; all the town rang with it; and the humours of the immortal Tony Lumpkin raised such roars of laughter that good hearty laughter came again into fashion on the stage, the deathblow was given to prim “Sentimental Comedy,” and the practitioners and partisans of that style of drama were beaten off the field. Goldsmith’s receipts from the theatre may have been between 400/. and 500/. ; and as when the play was published, 6,000 copies were sold within a year, he must have received something additional on that account. It was dedicated to Dr. Johnson, in words admirably chosen. “By inscribing this “slight performance to you,” said Goldsmith, “I do not mean so much to compliment “ you as myself. It may do me some honour to inform the public that I have lived “ many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind also to “ inform them that the greatest wit may be found in a character without impairing the “most unaffected piety.” What could be better expressed? Pen in hand, as one here sees, Goldy could do anything of this kind more beautifully and delicately than any one else. And now, having, with one exception, completed our inventory of Goldsmith’s writings, whether of the compilation kind or of the finer and more perma- nent kind, during the last years of his life, mo are free for a look at the dear fellow himself, and his habits and circumstances socially, during all this exercise of his pen. His head-quarters were his chambers in No. 2, Brick Coiut, Middle Temple. Not only had he furnished them expensively; but the breakfasts, dinners, and suppers vTich he frequently -gave in them, whether to his friends of the Johnson and Reynolds set, or to the needier Hiffernans, Glovers, Kellys, and other literary Irishmen, of vTom he had always a retinue attached to him, were extravagantly lavish. This, Mnth his perpetual giving away of guineas to poor blackguards, or better fellows, who M'anted them, and his general carelessness of money, kept him always poorer than, with his receipts, he need have been. His receipts during the last six years of’ his life may be calculated at between 3,000/. and 4,000/. in all, which M'as worth in those days about double what such a sum would be worth now ; and yet he was always in debt. Something may have gone to his relations in Ireland — to his much-loved brother Henry, be-fore his death in May 1768; to his mother, who survived till 1770, and M-'as blind in her old age ; and then to his younger brother Maurice, to whom at any rate we find him resigning a small legacy that had been left him by Uncle Contarine. Some expense to Goldsmith was also caused by the arrival in London of his nephew Hodson, and his residence there for some time without means of his own. Goldsmith’s famous accounts Math his tailor, Filby, M^hich ran high MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. xlvii -one year as high as 70/. — were swelled by orders of clothes for this incon- venient young gentleman. But, on the whole, his general recklessness in his Brick Court Chambers, where he never kept a drawer locked, and let his man Dennis manage everything — this and his open-handedness to all about him in the London streets account sufficiently for his expenditure. Often, however, he was out of London, taking his open-handedness with him to the fields, or along country roads, and into roadside inns or country houses. He was particularly fond of starting with one or two Irish friends, after breakfast in Brick Court, on a ramble to Islington, Kilburn, Hampstead, or some other suburb, returning late or not till next day. He and his friend Bott rented together for some time in 1768, and again in 1769, a convenient cottage eight miles from London on the Edgeware Road; and in this “Shoemaker’s Paradise,” as Goldsmith called it in honour of the trade of its builder, he worked away for weeks together, in those years, at his Roman History and other things, running up to London when he liked. The neighbourhood was a favourite one with him, for he returned to it during portions of 1771 and 1772, for greater leisure to write his Animated Nature— not this time to the “Shoemaker’s Paradise,” or with Bott, but to a farm-house, in Hyde Lane, near the six-mile stone on the same Edgeware Road. Here, occupying a single room, and boarding with the farmer’s family, who became exceedingly fond of him, he wrote not only a good portion of his A nimated Natu 7 'e, but also, it is said, She Stoops to Conquer. Of course, in addition to these occasional retirements to the quiet of the Edgeware Road, there were longer journeys at intervals into various parts of England. He is traced into Hampshire, Sussex, Suffolk, Derbyshire, Leicestershire, Lincolnshire, and Yorkshire; and in 1771 he was, for a good while together, with his friend Lord Clare at Bath. Some of these country excursions appear to have been undertaken in the interests of his Animated Nature ; at all events, in the course of the excursions, he now and then jotted down an observation for use in that compilation. More purely for pleasure was a visit of six weeks to France in the autumn of 1770 — his only visit to the Continent since his long and strange vagabond ramble in it fifteen years before. On this occasion he went as one of a family-party, with Mrs. Horneck, a widow lady, whose acquaintance he had recently made through Sir Joshua Reynolds, and her two daughters, beautiful girls of twenty and eighteen respectively. The elder, for whom Goldsmith had invented the playful name of “Little Comedy,” was engaged to be married to a Mr. Bunbury ; the younger, Mary Horneck, or “The Jessamy Bride,” as Goldsmith called her, was unengaged, and ! Well, who knows? Of no feminine creature, at all events, save this “Jessamy Bride,” do we hear, in all Goldsmith’s life, so near to him, and in such circumstances, that the world can fancy he was in love with her and can wish that they had wedded . “The Jessamy Bride!” what a suggestion of the jasmine-flower, of gracefulness and white muslin, in the very sound of her name ! Poor, plain, mean -looking Goldy ! — two-and-forty years of age, too ! — did he only look and sigh, and know it to be hopeless? Everything was against him even in this journey. For example, there xlviii MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. was that wretched Hickey, the attorney, who joined the party in Paris, and would make a butt of Goldy even in the presence of the ladies, and came back with the story how, maintaining a certain distance from one of the fountains at Versailles to be within reach of a leap, he made a jump to prove his assertion and his muscular power to the Jessamy, and tumbled into the water. Who could marry a man like that ? One comfort is that she did not marry Mr. Hickey. When she was engaged, which was not till a year after Goldsmith’s death, it was to a Colonel Gwyn, whose wife she became about three years after that. She was alive as late as 1840, having survived Goldsmith sixty-six years. She talked of him fondly to the last. The reader may remember a certain Kenrick, who succeeded Goldsmith as Griffiths’s hack on the Mo 7 tthly Re^new in 1757, and who had ever since L.:cn, for some reason, his deadly enemy. In March 1773, when Goldsmith had reached the very height of his living reputation, and She Stoops to Conquer was winning the plaudits of the town, this envious brute, who was editing the London Packet news- paper, inserted in its columns an anonymous letter of abuse against Goldsmith and all that he had done. Not content with condemning all Goldsmith’s writings and especially his last comedy, as worthless, flimsy, and what not, he ventured on such elegancies as this : “ Your poetic vanity is as unpardonable as your personal : would “ man believe it, and will woman bear it, to be told that for hours the g^-eat “ Goldsmith will stand surveying his grotesque orang-outang figure in a pier-glass? “ Was but the lovely H k as much enamoured, you would not sigh, my gentle “ swain, in vain ! ” When Goldsmith read this, his blood was properly ud ; and, accompanied by Captain Plorneck of the Guards, the brother of the lady v/hose name had been dragged in, he was off to the bookseller Evans’s in Paternoster Row, where the newspaper was published. What passed was described to Mr. Prior, when he was writing his Life of Goldsmith, by Mr. Harris, the publisher of St. Paul’s Churchyard, who had been in Evans’s employment at the time in question, and was a witness to the scene. “I have called,” said Goldsmith to Evans, “in “ consequence of a scurrilous attack in your paper upon me (my name is Goldsmith), “ and an unwarrantable liberty taken with the name of a young lady. As for myself “ I care little, but her name must not be sported with.” Evans, professing that he knew nothing of the matter, stooped down as if to look for the offensive article in a file of the newspaper, when Goldsmith, unable to resist the sight of the big Welsh back so temptingly exposed, came down upon it with a whack of his cane. Instantly it was big Welshman against little Irishman ; a lamp which hung overhead was broken in the scuffle, and they were both drenched with the oil ; one of the shopmen ran for a constable, and the sneak Kenrick himself, coming out from his editor’s room, helped Captain Horneck to separate the combatants, and send Goldsmith home in a coach. For a week the town was merry over the affray, chiefly at Goldy’s expense ; who had, moreover, to pay 50/. to a Welsh charity, to avoid an action by Evans. One’s wish now is that time could be rolled back to the moment of the scuffle, so that the lamp-oil that was spilt might have been poured down Kenrick’s throat. . MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH.. xlix There is an abundance of stories of Goldsmith in his last years, his ways in society, and his table-talk. They are all to the same effect— what a sensitive, guileless, tender-hearted, and really high-minded, creature he was, so that every- body that knew him liked him ; and yet how absurd, blundering, alternately consequential and bashful, so that everybody took liberties with him, and it was only when people remembered what a writer he was, or now and then when his wits did clear in the course of talk, and he flashed out a brilliancy as keen as any in his books, that he was looked at with adequate respect. “Dr. Goldsmith,” said some one, “ is this sort of man : when he comes into a room, if you have not seen “ him before, you look at him with reverence because of his writings ; but, before “ he leaves the room, you may be riding on his back.” Again, when the poet Rogers asked Conversation Cooke, as he was called, who had known Goldsmith well and been much with him, what he really was in talk, this was the answer he received, “ Sir, he was a fool. The right word never came to him. If you gave “ him back a bad shilling, he’d say, ‘ Why, it is as good a shilling as ever was born.'* “You know he ought to have said coined. Coined, Sir, never entered his head. “ He was a fool. Sir.” Or take Boswell’s report of one of his conversations with Johnson. “ Of our friend Goldsmith he said, ‘Sir, he is so much afraid of being “ unnoticed that he often talks merely lest you should forget that he is in the “company.’ Boswell — ‘Yes, he stands forward.’ Johnson — ‘True, Sir; but, “if a man is to stand forward, he should wish to do it not in an awkward “ posture, not in rags, not so that he shall only be exposed to ridicule.’ Bosweli. “ — ‘For my part, I like very well to hear honest Goldsmith talk away carelessly.’ “Johnson — ‘ Why, yes. Sir ; but he should not like to hear himself.’ ” To the same purpose is another conversation of Goldsmith’s friends about him, recorded by Boswell. “Goldsmith being mentioned, Johnson — ‘It is amazing how little “ Goldsmith knows. He seldom comes where he is not more ignorant than any “one else.’ Sir Joshua Reynolds — ‘Yet there is no man whose company is “more liked.’ 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 himself ■ ‘ is very true — he always gets the better when he argues alone ; meaning that he “ is master of a subject in his study, but, when he comes into company, grows “ confused, and unable to talk.’ ” Among the best stories of Goldsmith are certainly those preserved by Boswell. The young Scotchman, it is to be understood, whom Johnson had seen off at tiarwich on his way to Utrecht, had returned from abroad in February 1766) with his head full of a new enthusiasm for Corsica and Paoli. He at once renewed his intimacy with Dr. Johnson, whom he found now residing in Johnson’s Court, Fleet Street ; and, as during his absence Goldsmith had published his Traveller 3.ndi other things, he no longer wondered at finding Johnson and Goldsmith so much together. The three again supped at the Mitre, and met once or twice at Johnson’s, before Boswell’s return to Edinburgh to begin the practice of law. But d 1 MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. in 1 768 Boswell was again in London for a considerable time ; again in 1 769 ; again in 1772, having in the meantime married; and again in 1773, when he had the honour of being, elected a member of the Gerrard Street Club, already rein- forced since its commencement by some other new members, among whom were Percy, Chambers,, Colman, and Garrick. In .Boswell’s pages, accordingly, and chiefly in the form of his own recollections of those visits to London, we have a pretty continuous history, from 1768 to 1774, of that Johnsonian world which so fascinated him. It was the time, in general politics, of the continued fame of Wilkes and Liberty — the time of Chatham’s obscuration, of the Grafton and other unpopular ministries, of the Letters of Junius, and of those discontents in the American colonies which led to the War of American Independence. Nor, amid these public events, were matters stationary in private with the members of the Johnsonian group. Burke’s political career as a Rockingham Whig had begun in 1766, and his voice was now powerful in the House of Commons. Johnson had added his edition of Shakespeare to his many previous publications, had had his famous interview with young George III. in the royal library, had begun his intimacy with the Thrales, and had entered on his sixties. The Royal Academy having been founded in 1768, Reynolds had become its first President, and received his knighthood. What Goldsmith had been doing has been already told — save that we have yet to advert to an honour that came to him, in association with Johnson, in consequence of this last-mentioned fact of the foundation of the Royal Academy. “Dr. Johnson,” says the Public Advertiser of December 22, 1769, “ is appointed Professor of Ancient Literature, and Dr. Goldsmith Professor of History, to the Royal Academy. These titles are merely honorary, no salary being annexed to them.” It was Reynolds who had arranged these distinctions for his friends in connexion with the new institution. About the same time he painted his well-known portrait of Goldsmith, engravings from which were to be seen in 1770 in the windows of all the print-shops. Its only fault is that it represents Goldsmith without a wig, whereas he invariably wore one. Reynolds, doubtless, foresaw that posterity would like to know the real shape of the head. And now, with these preliminaries, let Boswell tell some of his stories of Goldsmith’s ridiculous ways. Goldy's Envy of Johnson on account of his Interview with the King : — “During all the time in which Dr. Johnson was “ employed in relating to the circle at Sir Joshua Reynolds’s the particulars of “ what passed between the King and him. Dr. Goldsmith remained unmoved “ upon a sofa at some distance, affecting not to join in the least in the eager “ curiosity of the company. He assigned as a reason for his gloom and seeming “ inattention that he apprehended Johnson had relinquished his purpose of “ furnishing him with a Prologue to his play, with the hopes of which he had “ been flattered ; but it was strongly suspected that he was fretting with chagrin “ and envy at the singular honour Dr. Johnson had lately enjoyed. At length, “ the frankness and simplicity of his natural character prevailed. He sprung from “ the sofa, advanced to Johnson, and, in a kind of flutter, from imagining himself j MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. li “ in the situation which 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.’” — Goldy's Bloom- Coloured Coat : — “He (Dr. Johnson) honoured me with his company at “ dinner on the i6th of October (1769) at my lodgings in Old Bond Street, with “ Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mr. Garrick, Dr. Goldsmith, Mr.. Murphy, Mr.. Biek-erstaff, “ and Mr. Thomas Davies. . . , One of the company not being come at the “ appointed hour, I proposed,, as usual on such occasions, to order dinner to “be served; adding, ‘Ought six people to be kept waiting for one?’ ‘Why, “yes,’ answered Johnson, with a delicate humanity, ‘if the one will suffer more “ by your sitting down than the six will do by waiting.’ Goldsmith, to divert “ the tedious minutes, strutted about, bragging of his dress, and .1 believe was “ seriously vain of it, for his mind was wonderfully prone to such impressions. “ ‘Come, come,’ said Garrick, ‘talk no more of that. You are perhaps the “ worst — eh, eh !’ Goldsmith was eagerly attempting to interrupt him, when “ Garrick went o-n, laughing ironically, ‘ Nay, you will always look like a j“ gentleman; but I am talking of being well or ill di-est.' ‘Well, let me tell “ you, ’ said Goldsmith, ‘ when my tailor brought home my bloom-coloured coat, I “ he said, “ Sir, I have a favour to beg of you. When anybody asks you who “ made your clothes, be pleased to mention John Filby, at the Harrow, in Water “ Lane.” ’ Johnson — ‘ Why, Sir, that was because he knew the strange colour “ would attract crowds to gaze at it, and thus they might hear of him, and see “ how well he could make a coat even of so absurd a colour.’ ” — Goldy's Facts in Natural History: — On Thursday, April 29 (1773), I dined with him “ (Johnson) at General Oglethorpe's, where were Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mr. Langton, “ Dr. Goldsmith, and Mr. Thrale. . . . Goldsmith — ‘ There is a general abhor- “ rence in animals at the signs of massacre. If you put a tub full of blood into a “ stable, the horses are like to go' mad.’ Johnson — ‘ I doubt that.’ Goldsmith— “ ‘ Nay, it is a fact well authenticated.’ Thrale— ‘ You had better prove it before “ you put it into your book on Natural History. You may do it in my stable “if you will.’ Johnson — ‘Nay, Sir, I would not have him prove it. If he is “ content to take his information from others, he may get through his book with “ little trouble, and without much endangering his reputation. But, if he makes “ experiments for so comprehensive a book as his, there would be no end to them ; “ his erroneous assertions would then fall upon himself.’ ” Goldy trying to Bum, and resenting familiarity : — “ Goldsmith’s incessant desire of being conspicuous i “ in company was the occasion of his sometimes appearing to such disadvantage “ as one should hardly have supposed possible in a man of his genius . . . (Once) “ when (he was) 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 stopped “ him, saying, ‘ Stay, stay — Toctor Shonson is going to say something.’ This “ was, no doubt, very provoking, especially to one so irritable as Goldsmith, who lii MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. “ frequently mentioned, it with strong expressions of indignation. It may also be “ observed that Goldsmith was sometimes content to be treated with an easy “ familiarity, but upon occasions would be consequential and important. An “ instance of this occurred in a small particular. Johnson had a way of contracting “ the names of his friends : as Beauclerk, Beau ; Boswell, Bozzy ; Langton, Lanky ; “ Murphy, Mur ; Sheridan, Sherry. I remember, one day when Tom Davies was “ telling that Dr. Johnson said, ‘ We are all in labour for a name to Gold's play,’ “ Goldsmith seenied much displeased that .such a liberty should be taken with “ his name. ‘ I have often desired him not to .call me Goldy. ’ ” The foregoing are from Boswell’s “Life of Johnson,” where there is more of the same sort ; but other stories, as good, have come down by other channels of tradition. One or two of these may be added to the string. Gibbon making game of Goldy : — While Goldsmith was busy with his ‘ Grecian History,’ Gibbon is said to have called upon him at his chambers in Brick Court. “ You are the very person I wanted to see,” said Goldsmith, “for I ..can’t remember the name of that Indian king who gave Alexander the Great so much trouble.” “ Montezuma,” said Gibbon mischievously ; till, perceiving that Goldsmith took the information in good faith, and was making a note of it, he thought the jest might go too far, and added, “No, I mistake : it was not Montezuma; it was Porus.” Burke making game of Goldy: — Burke, and his friend Mr. (afterwards Colonel) O’Moore, were walking together to Sir Joshua Reynolds’s to dine, when they saw Goldsmith, who was also going there, standing near a crowd that had gathered to stare and shout at some foreign women who were looking out from the windows of a house in Leicester Square. “ Observe Goldsmith, ” said Burke to his companion, “and mark what passes between him and me at Sir Joshua’s.” They arrived at Sir Joshua’s before Goldsmith; and, when he appeared, Burke received him with a grave face, as if seriously offended. When Goldsmith had pressed some time for an explanation, Burke, with seeming reluctance, said it was really too much to expect that one could continue to be intimate with him after the indiscreet way in which he had been behaving in the square. With great earnestness Goldsmith professed his ignorance of having done anything wrong, and asked what it was. “Why,” said Burke, “did you not exclaim, as you were looking up at those women, what stupid beasts the people must be for staring with such admiration at those painted Jezebels while a man of your talents passed by unnoticed!” “ Surely I did not say that,” said the astonished Goldsmith. “ Nay, if you had not said so,” replied Burke, “how should I have known it?” “That’s true,” said Goldsmith humbly; “I am very sorry — it was very foolish; I do recollect that something of the kind passed through my mind, but I did not think I had uttered it.” ’■Goldy and the Pig-Butcher : — At the humble Wednesday’s Club at the Globe in Fleet Street, according to Mr. Forster, no less than at the Gerrard Street Club and the parties at Sir Joshua’s, Goldsmith was the subject of practical jokes. Mr. Forster tells some of these and adds this story: A frequent attendant at the Club was “a certain Mr. B., described as a good sort of man and an eminent pig- ■“ butcher, who piqued himself very much on his good fellowship with the author of the MEMOIR OF GOfLDSMiTH, liii “ Traveller, and whose constant manner of drinking to him was, ‘ Come, Noll, here’s “my service to you, old boy ! ’ Repeating this one night after the comedy {the Good- Nahired Man) was played, and when there was a very full club, Glover went over “ ta Goldsmith, and said in a whisper tha-t he ought not to allow such liberties. “‘Let him alone,’ answered Goldsmith, ‘and you’ll see how civilly I’ll let him “ down.’ He waited a little ; and, on the next pause in the conversation, called out “ aloud, with a marked expression of politeness and courtesy, ‘'Mr. B., I have the “honour of drinking your good health.’ ‘Thankee, thankee, Noll,’ returned ‘■‘'Mr. Bi,. pulling the pipe out of his mouth, and answering with great briskness.” Enough in this vein ! Quite as numerous are the anecdotes of Goldsmith’s extreme tenderness of nerve, his generosity, his- quick sympathy with all kinds of distress. Once, at a whist-table, we are told, hearing a woman sing in the streets, and struck by something peculiarly mournful in the tones of her voice,, he could not rest till he had run out, given her some silver, and sent her away. In his own poverty he was ready with help and kind words not only for the Purdonsj Hiffernans, and other ponr Grub Street hacks,, personally known to him, but also for any Unknown young fellow he might casually encounter walking, about the Temple Gardens and looking aimless- and woe-beg.one. Remembering this, one cannot help wondering sometimes what might have happened or been prevented,, if the boy Chatterton, during his fatal three months- in London (May — August 1770) had chanced upon Goldsmith in his weary ramblingsv One cannot but imagine, at all events, a certain sad significance in the fact that the hour of the last agony' of that marvellous young life, the hunger-and-arsenic agony in' the dreadful garret in Brooke Street, Holborn, coincided with the time of Goldsmith’s absence' from London on his Paris- journey. As it was, he was one of the first, on his return, to hear of Chatterton’s fate, and to- talk of him and the Rowley Poems. But what more is needed to attest the essential goodness of Goldsmith’s heart, his singular unselfishness and placability than the story which Boswell- tells of his momentary quarrel with Johnson? “I dined with him (Johnson) this day (May 7, 1773),” says BoS'Well, “at the house of my friends, Messrs. Edward and Charles Dilly, book- “ sellers, in the Poultry : there were present — their elder brother, Mr. Dilly of ‘■‘ Bedfordshire ; Dr. Goldsmith 5 Mr. Langton ; the Rev. Dr. Mayo, a Dissenting ' ‘“‘minister; the Rev. Mr. Toplady; and my friend, the Rev. Mr. Temple.” There was much talk ; they came at last on the subject of toleration ; and Johnson, whom the presence of a Dissenting minister made unusually loud and pugnacious, was ' hammering away on this subject, without much success against Dr. Mayo’s calm stolidity in the common opinion. “ During this argument,” continues Boswell, “ Goldsmith sat in restless agitation, from a wish to get in and shiire. Finding “ himself excluded, he had taken his hat to go away, but remained for some time “ with it in his hand, like 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 MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. liv “ Goldsmith’s attempt. Thus disappointed of his wish to obtain the attention of “ the company, Goldsmith in a passion threw doum his hat, looking angrily at “ Johnson, and exclaimed in a bitter tone, “ Take it.' When Toplady was going to “ speak, Johnson uttered some sound, which led Goldsmith to think that he was “ beginning again, and taking the words from Toplady. Upon which he seized “ this opportunity of venting his own envy and spleen, under the pretext of “ supporting another person : ‘ Sir,’ said he to Johnson, ‘ this gentleman has heard “you patiently for an hour; pray allow us now to hear him.' Johnson “ (sternly) — ‘ Sir, I was not interrupting the gentleman ; I was only giving him a “ signal of my attention. Sir, you are impertinent.’ Goldsmith made no reply, but continued in the company for some time.” After he had gone, the rest talked awhile longer ; but at last, it being the club night, the company broke up. “ He “ (Johnson), and Mr. Langton, and I,” says Boswell, “went together to the club^ “ where we found Mr. Burke, Mr. Garrick, , and some other members, and amongst “them -our friend Goldsmith, who sat silently brooding over Johnson’s reprimand “ to him after dinner. Johnson perceived this, and said aside to some of us, ‘ 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.’ “ Goldsmith answered placidly, ‘It must be much from you. Sir, that I take ilk’ “ And so at once the difference was over, and they were on as easy terms as ever, “ and Goldsmith rattled away as usual.” Goldsmith, as Boswell had to admit, did not always drivel in conversation. Forked lightnings now and then came out of the fog, and he said excellent and memorable things. We have already quoted his definition of Boswell’s main faculty, and Boswell has himself honestly recoi-ded two or three sallies of Goldsmith at his expense. “ One evening, in a circle of wits, he found fault with me for talking of Johnson as “ entitled to the honour of unquestionable superiority. ‘ Sir,’ said he, ‘you are for “making a monarchy of what should be a republic.’” Again, in 1773, when Boswell had booked Johnson for his three months’ tour that autumn in Scotland and the Hebrides, and it was more than flesh and blood could stand to hear him exult- ing in the -prospect and talking of the matchlessness of his great man, “ Is he like Burke, who winds into a subject like a serpent?” said Goldsmith angrily. Even Johnson himself was occasionally outwitted by Goldy, and took it good- humouredly. “Johnson— I remember once being with Goldsmith in West- “ minster Abbey. While we surveyed the Poets’ Corner, I said to him,— ‘ Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istls.’ “ When we got to Temple Bar, he stopped me, pointed to the heads upon it, and “ slyly whispered me, ‘ Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitar istis.' Again, when Goldsmith, in talk with Johnson and Reynolds, spoke of the difficulty of fable -writing, and gave as an instance “the fable of the little fishes who saw birds fly over their heads, and, envying them, petitioned Jupiter to be changed into MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. ^ Iv birds.” While he was dilating on this and pcftrting out very earnestly that the skill consisted in “making them talk like little fishes,” Johnson’s laughter roused him. “ Why, Dr. Johnson,” he proceeded smartly, “ this is not so easy as you seem to think ; for, if you were to make little fishes talk, they would talk like whales. Again, these two often-quoted sayings about Johnson are Goldsmith’s : “There is no arguing with Johnson; for, when his pistol misses fire, he knocks you down with the butt-end of it and, “Johnson, to be sure, has a roughness of manner, but no man has a better heart : he has nothing of the bear but his skin.” Finally, take the story of the lete-h-tSte supper of Johnson and Goldy off rumps and kidneys at Jack’s Coffee House in Dean Street: — “Sir,” said Johnson, “these rumps are pretty little things, but then a man must eat a great many of them before he is satisfied.” “Ay, but how many of these would reach to the moon?” said Goldsmith. “To the moon !” echoed Johnson ; “that, sir, I fear, exceeds your calculation.” “Not at all,” said Goldy firmly; “I think I could tell.” “Pray then let us hear?” “Why,” said Goldy slowly — and Mr. Forster must be right in supposing that here he edged off as far as possible from Johnson — “one^ if it were long enough.” “ Sir, I have deserved it,” gasped Johnson at last. Poor Goldsmith’s successes in this way, however, bore no proportion to his failures. “I have been but once at the club since you left England,” wrote Beauclerk to Lord Charlemont, another member of the club, on the 5 th of July, 1773 ; “and we were entertained as usual by Dr. Goldsmith’s absurdities.” This had become the common way ,of talking of him. More especially .since Garrick, with his love of mimicry and mischief, had become a member of the club, it had become the fashion there to laugh at Goldy and all he said and did. But the fashion extended beyond the club ; and, whenever Goldyls friends met together, and Garrick chanced to be among them, Goldy’s “ absirrdities ” were sure to be the theme. One such place was St. James’s Coffee House in St. James’s Street, where for some time a company of persons, partly belonging to the club and partly not, had been in the habit of dining together periodically. Here, one day in February 1774, when Goldy was absent, it was proposed to Write jocular epitaphs upon him. Several such were written, and among them this by, Garrick : — “ Here lies Poet Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll, Who wrote like an angel, but talked like poor Poll. ” But it was not very safe to challenge Goldsmith at this kind of sport, as Garrick and others found to their cost when, in the course of the next month, fragments of Goldsmith’s little poem called Retaliation began to be whispered about. Who does not know this exquisite masterpiece of satire, or rather of humorous character- painting? For there is not a touch of malice or mere caricature in it, but only the keenest and kindliest observation, and the quintessence of happy expression ? How all the friends that had been laughing at him are paid off, one by one, with what is at once most gracious coinpliment and most delicate banter, so that they must have ' both liked it and not liked it, and must have known that the tables were turned upon the whole pack of them, by this one retort of Goldy, for all time to come ! Ivi MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. Especially what three portraits in miniature are those of Burke, Garrick, and’ Reynolds ! Burke lived five-and-twenty years longer, and was to be and do during those five-and-twenty years a great deal more than he had yet been or done ; but it is Goldsmith’s character of him that we always quote when we want epigram or epitome. In vain Garrick tried, by subsequent verses, not in the best taste, to out- epitaph Goldy after he was dead; his clever “Poor Poll” couplet does last, but Goldy’s thirty-two lines on Garrick in his Retaliation last also, and are a settlement for ever of the account between them. And what portrait of any one has come to us from the pencil of Reynolds more graphic than the unfinished pen-and-ink sketch, of Reynolds himself with wlriclr Retaliation ends ? T?o coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judged without skill, he was still hard' of hearing ; When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. By flattery unspoilt .... So, with this- loving tribute to Sir Joshua, the poem breaks off. He had more to* say in honour of the great painter who had been so truly his friend. Did he confeinplate the addition of a portrait of Johnson? Most probably not. “ It must be much from you, Sir, that I take ill,” the gentle creature had said to the terrible Samuel on receiving his apology for a gross insult ; and, notwithstanding his tetchy observation about Johnson to Boswell, “ Is he like Burke, who winds into a subject like a serpent ? ” it is clear that there was no human being for whom Goldsmith felt so profound and absolute a regard. They w^ere not to be troubled, any of them, with poor Goldy much longer. His Animated N'atnre and has Gi-ecian History, though not published, were off his handS'5 and except that Retaliation may have been lying on hiadesk to have a few lines- added to it now and then when he' was in the humour, we hear of nothing particular that was occupying him in the months of February and March i774- He had come to the end of some years of labour in compiling and now, if ever, was the time for carrying into effect the resolution, to which he had been persuading: himself, of retiring permanemly into some quiet part of the country and coming to London only for two months every year. But, in fact, either to go or stay would have been difficult for him. All his resources were gone ; his feet, as he walked in the streets, were in a meshwork of debt, to the extent of about 2,000/. ; and all that he could look forward to, with any promise of relief in it, was the chance of a new stretch of some ten thousand acres of additional ditch-work and compi- lation, for some bookseller who would not mind prepaying for the labour in part. He did talk of something of the kind to the publisher ISTourse', into whose hands the property of the Animated Nature had passed, and who had it now at press. What would Mr. Nourse say to taking shares with Griffin in a large sequel to the Animated Nature, in the foim of a work on the ^''vegetable and fossil kingdoms?” Mr. Nourse does not appear to have had time to consider this proposal when, as far as Goldsmith was concerned, it became unnecessary for him to think more MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. ' Ivii about it. Goldy had gone in March, for a week or two, to his retreat at Hyde on the Edgeware Road, when an attack of z. local complaint to which he had for some time been subject brought him back to his chambers in the Temple. The imme- diate illness passed off, but a kind of nervous fever followed ; and at eleven o’clock at night on the 25th of March, Mr. Hawes, an apothecary and a friend of Gold- smith’s, was sent for. He found Goldsmith very ill, and bent on doctoring himself with “James’s fever-powders,” a patent medicine the property in which had belonged to Newbery the publisher, and in which Goldsmith had great faith. In spite of all that Mr. Hawes could say, he would take one of these powders; ■after which he became worse and worse. Dr. Fordyce, who had been just elected a member of the Gerrard Street Club, and Dr. Turton, another physician of celebrity, were called in to assist Mr. Hawes, but without avail. “ Your pulse,” said Dr. Turton to his patient, “is in greater disorder than it should be from the stale of your fever : is your mind at ease?” “It is not,'"' said Goldsmith. And so, with varying symptoms, he lay on in his chambers in Brick Court till Monday, the 4th of April, 1774, on which day it was known through town that 'Goldsmith was dead. He died at half-past four that morning in strong convulsions. When Burke was told the news, he burst into tears. When Reynolds was told it, he left his painting-room, •where he then was, and did no more work that day. How Johnson was affected at the moment we can only guess ; but three months afterwards he wrote as follows to Bennet Langton, in Lincolnshire ; “ Chambers, you find, is gone far, and poor “ Goldsmith is gone much farther. He died of a fever, exasperated,, as I believe, by “ the fear of distress. He raised money and squandered it by every artifice of ‘ ‘ acquisition and folly of expense. But let not his frailties be remembered ; he •“ was a very great man.” When Goldsmith died he was forty-five years and five months old. His body was buried, on the 9th of April, in the burying-grdund of the Temple Church. The monument to him in Westminster Abbey, with the Latin inscription by Johnson, was erected in 1776. About Goldsmith personally we can add but few particulars to those already given. As is implied by the very name “ Goldy,” so persistently attached to him in spite of his remonstrances, he was a little man, — not above five feet five inches high, it is said, though stout and thick about the chest and limbs. To have seen him walking down Fleet Street, with the gigantic Johnson by his side, must have been a sight indeed. His pale and pitted face taken along with his figure, people thought him one of the plainest little bodies that ever entered a room ; they even called his appearance “mean.” Looking at his portrait now, and knowing what he was, we do not find this, but only a certain oddness, caused by the outbulging forehead, the lax mouth and chin, and in general the pouting, sulky, “You don’t sufficiently respect me,” expression. Though sociable and convivial, and lavishly expensive in his style of entertaining others, he seems himself to have had simple enough tastes in eating and drinking ; he never had a habit of excess in wine, and he was fond of a bowl of milk to the last. One of his peculiarities — he himself Iviii MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. notes it as a peculiarity in one who professed to write on Natural History — was a strong antipathy to mice, eels, and most little animals of the crawling kind, such as worms and caterpillars. Of all the rest of that strange mixture, or jumble, of qualities that went to make Goldy, a sufficient account has already been given ; and, if one Wcie oent on summing it all up in some one general idea or impression, to be easily remembered, it must be that impression or idea in which his contemporaries concurred unanimously through every period of his life, and which has been trans- mitted to us in so many forms, viz. that he was one of the best-hearted creatures ever born, but a positive idiot except when he had the pen in his hand. Except when he had the pen in his hand ! Ay ! there has been his power with the world! And what shall one say now of Goldsmith’s writings? Take four brief remarks: — (i) Not to be forgotten is that division of them, already dwelt on, into two distinct orders — compilations and original pieces. As the division was a vital one to Goldsmith himself — for his literary life consisted, as we have said, of a succession of glitterings of spontaneous genius amid dull habitual drudgery at hackwork — so it is of consequence in our retrospect of him. Probably much that Goldsmith did in the way of anonymous compilation lies buried irrecoverably in the old periodicals for which he wrote, and which are now little better than lumber on the shelves of our great libraries. But his compilations of English, Roman, and Grecian History, and his Animated Nature, once so popular, are still known, and are to be distinguished from that class of his writings of which the present volume is a collection. Even in the present volume there are some small things that must be regarded as mere com- pilations, and may serve as minor specimens of Goldsmith in that line— the wretched shred called a Life of Bolmgbroke, for example, and the better, but still poor, Life of Parnell, if not indeed also the Memoir of Voltaire, and the Life of Beau Nash. Deduct these, and in the Inquiry into the State of Polite Learning, the Essays, the Bee, the Citizen of the World, the Vicar of Wakefield, and the Poems aitd Plays, you have, in various forms, the pure and real Goldsmith. (2) In all that he wrote, his compilations included, there was the charm of his easy, perspicuous style. This was one of Goldsmith’s natural gifts; with his humour, his tenderness, and his graceful delicacy of thought, he had it from the first. No writer in. the language has ever surpassed him, or even equalled him, in that witching simplicity, that gentle ease of movement, sometimes careless and slip-shod, but always in perfect good taste, and often delighting with the* subtlest turns and felicities, which critics have admired for a hundred years in the- diction of Goldsmith. It is this merit that still gives to his compilations what interest they have, though it was but in a moderate degree that he could exhibit it there. “Nullum ferh scribendi genus non tetigit; nullum quod tetigit non ornavit'^ (“There was no kind of writing almost that he did not touch ; none that he touched that he did not adorn,”) said Johnson of him in his epitaph in Westminster Abbey ; and the remark includes his compilations. In matter, his History of England, for example, has become quite worthless ; and if you want a good laugh over Goldy’s notion of vrhat sort of thing a battle MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. lix might be, open the book at his descriptions of the battles of Cressy and Agincourt. What “letting fly” at the enemy! and how it is the Black Prince in the one case, and Henry V. in the other, that settles everything with his own hand, and tumbles them over in droves ! But read on, and you will see how the style could reconcile people to the meagreness of the matter, and keep the compilation so long popular. And so with his Animated Nature. Johnson prophesied that he would make the work as pleasant as a Persian tale ; and the prophecy was fulfilled. The “ style” of Goldsmith — which includes, of course, the habitual rule of sequence in his ideas, his sense of fitness and harmony, the liveliness of his fancy from moment to moment, and his general mental tact — this is a study in itself. ( 3 ) In his original writings, where the charm of his style is most felt, there is, with all their variety of form, a certain sameness of general effect. The field of incidents, characters, senti- ments, and imagined situations, within which the author moves, is a limited one, thoueh there is sreat deftness of recombination within that horizon. We do not mean merely that Goldsmith, as an eighteenth-century writer, did not go beyond the intellectual and poetic range to which his century had restricted itself. This is true ; and though we discern in Goldsmith’s writings a fine vein of peculiarity, or even uniqueness, for the generation to which they belonged, there is yet abundant proof that his critical tenets did not essentially transcend those of his generation. Even more for him than for some of his contemporaries. Pope was the limit of classic English literature, and the older grandeurs’ of Shakespeare and Milton were rugged, barbaric mountain-masses, well at a distance. But, over and above this limitation of Gold- smith’s range by essential sympathy with the tastes of his time, there was a something in his own method and choice of subjects causing a farther and inner circumscription of his bounds. All Goldsmith’s phantasies, whether in verse or prose — his Vicar of Wakefield, his Traveller, his Deserted Village, his Good-Natured Man and She Stoops to Co7tquer, and even the humorous sketches that occur in his Essays and Citizen of the World — are phantasies of what may be called reminiscence. Less than even Smollett, did Goldsmith invent, if by invention we mean a projection of the imagination into vacant space, and a filling of portion after portion of that space, as by sheer bold dreaming, with scenery, events, and beings, never known before. He drew on the recollections of his own life, on the history of his own family, on the characters of his relatives, on whimsical incidents that had happened to him in his Irish youth or during his continental wanderings, on his experience as a literary drudge in London. It is easy to pick out passages in his Vicar, his Citizen, and elsewhere, which are, with hardly a disguise, autobiographical. Dr. Primrose is his own father, and the good clergyman of the Deserted Village is his brother Henry ; the simple Moses, the Gentleman in Black, young Honeywood in the Good- Natured Man, and even Tony Lumpkin in She Stoops to Conquer, are so many reproductions of phases of himself ; the incident on which this last play turns, the mistake of a gentleman’s house for an inn, was a remembered blunder of his own in early life ; and more than once his device for ending all happily is a benevolent uncle in the background. That of these simple elements he made so many lx MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. charming combinations, really differing from each other, and all, though suggested by fact, yet hung so sweetly in an ideal air, proved what an artist he was, and was better than much that is commonly called invention. • In short, if there is a sameness of effect in Goldsmith’s writings, it is because they consist of poetry and tmth, humour and pathos, from his own life, and the supply from such a life as his was not inexhaustible. (4) Though so much of Goldsmith’s best writing was generalized and idealized reminiscence, he discharged all special Irish colour out of the 'reminiscence. There are, of course, Irish references and allusions, and we ■know what a warm heart he had to the last for the island of his birth. But in most of his writings, even when it may have been Irish recollections that suggested the theme, he is careful to drop its origin, and transplant the tale into Eng;land. 1 ’he ideal air in which his phantasies are hung is an English air. The Vicar of Wakefield is an English prose-idyll ; She Stoops to Conquer is a comedy of English humour, and Tony I.umpkin is an English country-lout ; and, notwithstanding all the accuracy with which Lissoy and its neighbourhood have been identified with the Auburn of the Deserted Village, we are in England and not in Ireland while we read that poem. Goldsmith’s heart and genius were Irish ; his wandering about in the world had given him a touch of cosmopolitan ease in his judgment of things and opinions, and especially, what was rare among Englishmen then, a great liking for the F rgnch ; but in the form and matter of his writings he was purposely English. DAVID MASSON. August 1868. I THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. (1766.) ADVERTISEMENT. There are an hundred faults in this thing, and an hundred things might be said to prove them beauties. But it is needless. A book may be amusing with numerous errors, or it may be very dtdl ivithout a single absurdity. The hero of this piece unites in himself the three greatest characters upon ea7'th ; he is a priest, an husbatidman, and the father of a family. He is drawn as ready to teach, and ready to obey ; as simple in affluence, (ind majestic in adversity. In this age of opulence and refinement, whom ran such a character please ? Such as are fond of high life will turn with disdain from the simplicity of his country fireside; such as mistake ribaldry for humour will find no wit in his harmless conversation ; and such as have been taught to deride religion will laugh at one whose chief stores of comfort are drawn from futurity. Oliver Goldsmith. CHAPTER I. The Description of the Family of W akefield, in mikick a kindred L ikeness prevails, as well of Minds as of Persons. I WAS ever of opinion, that the honest man who married and brought up a large family did more service than he who con- tinued single, and only talked of popula- tion. From this motive, I had scarce taken orders a year before I began to think seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife, as she did her wedding-gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but for such qualities as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a good-natured notable woman ; and, as for breeding, there were few country ladies who could show more. She could read any English book without much spelling ; but for pickling, preserv- ing, and cookery, none could excel her. She prided herself also upon being an excellent contriver in housekeeping ; though I could never find that we grew richer with all her contrivances. However, we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness increased as we grew old. There was, ^in fact, nothing that could make us angry with the world or each other. We had an elegant house situated in a fine country, and a good neighbourhood. The year was spent in a moral or rural amusement, in visiting our rich neighbours, and relieving such as were poor. We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo ; all oui adventures were by the fireside, and all our migrations from the blue bed to the brown. As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or stranger visit us to taste our gooseberiy wine, for which we had great reputation ; and I profess, with the veracity of an historian, that I never knew one of them find fault with it. Our cousins, too, even to the fortieth remove, all remembered their affinity, without any help from the heralds’ office, and came very frequently to see us. Some of them did us no great honour by these claims of kindred ; as we had the blind, the maimed, and the halt amongst the number. How- ever, my wife always insisted that, as they were the same flesh and blood, they should sit with us at the same table. So that, if we had not very rich, we generally had very happy friends about us ; for this re- mark will hold good through life, that the poorer the guest, the better pleased he B 2 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ever is with being treated : and as some men gaze with admiration at the colours of a tulip, or the wing of a butterfly, so I was, by nature, an admirer of happy human faces. However, when any one of our relations was found to be a person of very bad character, a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid of, upon his leaving my house I ever took care to lend him a riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or some- times an horse of small value, and I always had the satisfaction of finding he never came back to return them. . By this the house was cleared of such as we did not like ; but never was the family of Wake- field known to turn the traveller or the poor dependant out of doors. Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness, not but that we some- times had those little rubs which Provi- dence sends to enhance the value of its favours. My orchard was often robbed by schoolboys, and my wife’s custards plundered by the cats or the children. The Squire would sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his lady return my wife’s civilities at church with a mutilated curtsey. But we soon got over the uneasiness caused by such accidents, and usually in three or four days began to wonder how they vexed us. My children, the offspring of tem- perance, as they were educated without softness, so they were at once well-formed and healthy ; my sons hardy and active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. When I stood in the midst of the little circle, which promised to be the supports of my declining age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story of Count Abensberg, who, in Henry the Second’s progress through Germany, while other courtiers came with their treasures, brought his thirty-two childreUj and presented them to his sovereign as the most valuable offering he had to bestow. In this manner, though I had but six, I considered them as a very valuable present made to my country, and con- sequently looked upon it as my debtor. Our eldest son was named George, after his uncle, who left us ten thousand pounds. Our second child, a girl, I intended to call after her aunt Grissel ; but my wife, who during her pregnancy had been reading romances, insisted upon her being called Olivia. In less than another year we had another daughter, and now I was determined that- Grissel should be her name ; but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand godmother, the girl was, by her directions, called Sophia •, so that we had two romantic names in the family ; but I solemnly protest I had no hand in it. Moses was our next, and, after an interval of twelve years, we had two sons more.. It would be fniitless to deny exultation when I saw my little ones about me ; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my wife were even greater than mine. When our visitors would say, “Well, upon my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest children in the whole country Ay, neighbour,” she would answer, “they are as Heaven made them, handsome enough, if they be good enough ; for handsome is that handsome does.” And then she would bid the girls hold up their heads ; who, to conceal nothing, were certainly very handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling a circumstance with me, that I should scarce have remembered to men- tion it, had it not been a general topic of conversation in the country. Olivia, now about eighteen, had that luxuriancy of beauty with which painters generally draw Hebe ; open, sprightly, and com- manding. Sophia’s features were not so striking at first, but often did more certain execxttion ; for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one vanquished by a single blow, the other by efforts successfully re- peated. The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of her features : at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers ; Sophia to secure one. Olivia was often affected, from too great a desire to please ; Sophia even repressed excellence, from her fears to offend. The one entertained me with her vivacity when I was gay, the other with her sense when I was serious. But these qualities were never carried to excess in either, and I have often seen them exchange characters for a whole day to- I gether. A suit of mourning has trans- THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 3 formed my coquette into a prude, and a new set of ribands has given her younger sister mo.re than natural vivacity. My eldest son George was bred at Oxford, as I intended him for one of the learned pro- fessions. My second boy Moses, whom I designed for business, received a sort of miscellaneous education at home. But it is needless to attempt describing the par- ticular characters of young people that had seen but very little of the world. In short, a family likeness prevailed through all, and, properly speaking, they had but one character, — that of being all equally generous, credulous, simple, and inoffen- sive. CHAPTER II. Family MisforUmes. The Loss of Fortune only serves to increase the Pride of the Worthy. The temporal concerns of our family were chiefly committed to my wife’s manage- ment; as to the spiritual, I took them entirely under my own direction. The profits of my living, which amounted to- but thirty-five pounds a year, I made ovel to the orphans and widows of the clergy of our diocese ; for, having a fortune of my own, I was careless of temporalities, and felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty without reward. I also set a re- solution of keeping no curate, and of being acquainted with every man in the parish, exhorting the married men to temperance, and the bachelors to matri- mony : 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 Whiston, that it was unlawful for a priest of the Church of England, after the death of his first wife, to take a second ; or, to express it in one word, I valued myself upon being a strict monogamist. I was early initiated into this important dispute, on which so many laborious volumes have been written. I published some tracts upon the subject myself. which, as they never sold, I have the consolation of thinking were read only by the happy few. Some of my friends called this my weak side ; but, alas ! they had not, like me, made it the sub- ject of long contemplation. The more I reflected upon it, the more important it appeared. I even went a step beyond Whiston in displaying my principles ; as ■ he had engraven upon his wife’s tomb- that she was the only wife of William Whiston, so I wrote a similar epitaph for' my wife, though still living, in which I extolled her prudence, economy, and obe- dience till death ; and having got it copied: fair, with an elegant frame, it was placed, over the chimney-piece, where it answered? several very useful purposes : it admon- ished my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity to her ; it inspired her with as passion for fame, and constantly put her: ill 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 daughter of a neigh- bouring clergyman, who was a dignitary in the Church, and in circumstances to give her a large fortune. But fortune was her smallest accomplishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all (except my two daughters) to be com- pletely pretty. Her youth, health, and innocence, were still heightened by a Complexion so transparent, and such an happy sensibility of look, as even age could not gaze on with indifference. As Mr. Wilmot knew that I could make a very handsome settlement on my son, he was not averse to the match ; so both families lived together in all that harmony which generally precedes an expected alli- ance. Being convinced, by experience, that the days of courtship are the most happy of our lives, I was willing enougli to lengthen the period ; and the vari- ous amusements which the young couple every day shared in each other’s company seemed to increase their passion. We were generally awaked in the morning by music, and on fine days rode a-hunting. The hours between breakfast and dinner the ladies devoted to dress and study ; they usually read a page, and then gazed B 2 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. at themselves in the glass, which, even philosophers might ov/n, often presented the page of greatest beauty. At dinner, I my wife took the lead ; for, as she always I insisted upon carving everything 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 leaving us, I generally ordered the table to be removed ; and sometimes, with the music-master’s assistance, the girls would give us a very agreeable concert. Walking out, drinking tea, country dances, and forfeits, shortened the rest of the day, without the assistance of cards, as I hated all manner of gaming, except backgammon, at which my old friend and I sometimes took a twopenny hit. Nor can I here pass over an omi- liOLis circumstance that happened, the last lime 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 con- j venient to fix a day for the nuptials of the young couple, who seemed earnestly to desire it. During the preparations for the wedding, I need not describe the busy importance of my wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters ; in fact, my attention was fixed on another object, — | the completing a tract, which I intended i sliortly to publish, in defence of my fa- vourite principle. As I looked upon this as a masterpiece, both for argument and style, I could not, in the pride of my heart, avoid showing it to my old friend Mr. Wilmot, as I made no doubt of receiving his approbation : but not till too late I discovered that he was most violently attached to the contrary opinion, and with good reason ; for he was at ■that time actually courting a fourth wife. This, as may be expected, produced a dispute, attended with some acrimony, which threatened to interrupt our in- tended alliance ; but, on 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 heter- odox ; I retorted the charge : he replied, and I rejoined. In the meantime, while the controversy was hottest, I was called i 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 j was over. “How,” cried I, “relinquish i the cause of truth, and let him be a husband, already driven to the very verge of absurdity ? Y ou might as well advise me to give up my fortune as my argu- ment.” — “Your fortune,” returned my friend, “ I am now sorry to inform you, is almost nothing. The merchant in town, in whose hands your money was lodged, has gone off, to avoid a statute of bankruptcy, and is thought not to have left a shilling in the pound. I was un- willing to shock you or the family with the account till after the wedding : but now it may serve to moderate your warmth in the argument ; for, I suppose, your own prudence will enforce the ne- cessity of dissembling, at least till your son has the young lady's fortune secure.” — “ Well,” returned 1, “if what you tell j me be true, and if I am to be a beggar, it shall never make me a rascal, or induce me to disavow my principles. I’ll go this moment and inform the company of my circumstances : and, as for the argument, I even here retract my former concessions in the old gentleman’s favour, nor will i allow him now to be a husband in am- i sense of the expression.” It would be endless to describe the dif- ferent sensations of both families when 1 divulged tlie news of our misfortune : but what others felt was slight to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr. Wilmot, who seemed before sufficiently inclined to break off the match, was, by this blow, soon determined : one virtue he had in per- fection, which was prudence, too often the only one that is left us at seventy-two. CHAPTER HI. A Migration. The fortunate Circumstances of our Lives are ge?ieraUy found at last to be of our own procurmg. The only hope of our family now was, that the report of our misfortune might be malicious or premature ; but a letter from my agent in town soon came, with a con- firmation of every particular. The loss of THE vrCAR OF WAKEFIELD. 5 fortune to myself alone would have been trifling ; the only uneasiness I felt was for my family, who were to be humbled with- out an education to render them callous to contempt. Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to restrain their affliction ; for premature consolation is but the remem- brancer 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 neighbour- hood, where I could still enjoy my pidn- ciples without molestation. With this proposal I joyfully closed, having deter- mined 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 bring down the pride of my family to their cir- cumstances ; for I well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness itself. “You cannot be ignorant, my children, ” cried I, “ that no prudence of ours could have prevented our late misfortune ; but pru- dence 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 repining, ! give up those splendours with which nura- 1 bers are wretched, and seek in humbler 1 circumstances that peace with which all may be happy. The poor live pleasantly i without our help : why, then, should not we learn to live without theirs ? No, my children, let us from this moment give up all pretensions to gentility : we have still enough left for happiness if we are wise, and let us draw upon content for the defi- ciencies of fortune. ” As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send him to town, where his abilities might contribute to our sup- port and his own. The separation of friends and families is, perhaps, one 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 with their kisses, came to ask a bless- ing from me. This I gave him from my heart, and which, added to five guineas, was all the patrimony I 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 you. Take from me the same horse that ! was given him by the good bishop Jewel, | this staff, and take this book, too, it will ! be your comfort on the way : these two j lines in it are worth a million, — ‘ I have i been young, and now am old ; yet never i saw I the righteous man forsaken, or his 1 seed begging their bread.’ Let this be j your consolation as you travel on. Go, my boy ; whatever be thy fortune, let me see thee once a year ; still keep a good heart, and farewell.” As he was possessed of integrity and honour, I was under no apprehensions from throwing him naked i into the amphitheatre of life ; for I knew j he would act a good part whether van- quished or victorious. His departure only prepared the way for our own, which arrived a few days after- wards. The leaving a neighbourhood in which we had enjoyed so many hours of i tranquillity was not without a tear, which scarce fortitude itself could suppress. Besides, a journey of seventy miles, to a family that had hitherto never been above ' ten from home, filled us with apprehen- j sion ; and the cries of the poor, who fol- j lowed us for some miles, contributed to I increase it. The first day’s journey ' brought us in safety within thirty miles of : our future retreat, and we put up for the ^ night at an obscure inn in a village by the ( way. When we were shown a room, I ^ desired the landlord, in my usual way, to ' let us have his company, with which he complied, as what he drank would increase i thebillnext morning. He knew, however, ; the whole neighbourhood to which I was j removing, particularly Squire Thornhill, 1 who was to be my landlord, and who lived within a few miles of the place. This gentleman he described as one who de- ! sired to know little more of the world than its pleasui'es, being particularly remark- able for his attachment for the fair sex. He observed that no virtue was able to : - j '6 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. resist his arts and assiduity, and that scarce a farmer’s daughter within ten miles round but what had found him successful and faithless. Though this ac- count gave me some pain, it had a very different effect upon my daughters, whose features seemed to brighten with the expectation of an approaching triumph : nor was my wife less pleased and confident of their allurements and virtue. While our thoughts were thus employed, the hostess entered the room to inform her husband that the strange gentleman, who had been two days in the house, wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his 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 bro- ken soldier that was to be whipped through the town for dog-stealing. ” The hostess, however, still persisting in her first asser- tion, he was preparing to leave the room, swearing that he would be satisfied one way or another, when I begged the land- loi'd 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 something 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 with all my heart, sir,” replied he, “and am glad that a late oversight in giving what money I had about me has shown me 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 I'emove. “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 w-ill be found passable.” I testified the pleasure I should have in his company, and my wife and daughters joining in entreaty, he was prevailed upon to stay supper. The stranger’s conversation, which was at once pleasing and instructive, induced me to wish for a continuance of it ; but it was now high time to retire and take refresh- ment 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 footpath by the road-side, ob- serving with a smile that, as w'e were ill mounted, he would be too generous to attempt leaving us behind. As the floods were not yet subsided, we were obliged to hire a guide, who trotted on before, Mr. Burchell and I bringing up the rear. We lightened the fatigues of the road with philosophical disputes, which he seemed to understand perfectly. But what sur- prised me most was, that though he was a money borrower, he defended his opinions with as much obstinacy as if he had been my patron. He now and then also in- formed me to whom the different seats belonged that lay in our view as we travelled the road. “That,” cried he, pointing to a very magnificent house which stood at some distance, “ belongs to Mr. Thornhill, a young gentleman who enjoys a large fortune, though entirely dependent on the will of his uncle. Sir William Thornhill, a gentleman who, content with a little himself, permits his nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town.” — “What!” cried I, “is my young landlord then the nephew of a man, whose virtues, generosity, and singularities are so universally known ? I have heard Sir William Thornhill represented as one of the most generous yet whimsical men in the kingdom ; a man of consummate bene- volence.” — “ 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 virtue they led it up to a romantic extreme. He early began to aim at the qualifications of the soldier and the scholar : was soon distinguished in the army, and had some THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. reputation among men of learning. Adu- lation ever follows the ambitious ; for such alone receive most pleasure from flattery. He was surrounded with crowds, who showed him only one side of their cha- racter ; so that he began to lose a regard for private interest in universal sympathy. He loved all mankind; for fortune pre- vented 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 persons, 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 sensibility of the miseries of others. Thus disposed to relieve, it will be easily conjectured he found numbers disposed to solicit ; his pro- fusions 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, how- ever, being surrounded with importunity, and no longer able to satisfy every request that was made him, instead of money he gave p'omises. 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 dependants, whom he was sure to disappoint, yet wished to relieve. These hung upon him for a time, and left him with merited reproaches and contempt. But, in proportion as he became contemptible to others, he became despicable to himself. His mind had leaned upon their adulation, and, that sup- port taken away, he could find no pleasure in the applause of his heart, which he had never learnt to reverence. The world now began to wear a different aspect : the flat- tery of his friends began to dwindle into simple approbation ; approbation soon took the more 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 little estimable : he now found that a man’s own heart must be ever given to gain that of another. I now found that — that — I forget what I was going to ob- serve : 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 scarce attained the age of thirty, his circumstances are more affluent than ever. At present, his bounties are more rational and moderate than before ; but still he preserves the character of an hu- morist, and finds most pleasure in eccen- tric virtues.” My attention was so much taken up by Mr. Burchell’s account, that I scarce looked forward as he went along, till we j were alarmed by the cries of my family ; i when, turning, I perceived my youngest i daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, i thrown from her horse, and struggling with t 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 attempt- I ing her rescue : she must have certainly perished had not my companion, perceiv- : ing her danger, instantly plunged in to her relief, and, with some difficulty, brought her in safety to the opposite shore. By taking the current a little farther up, the rest of the family got safely over, where we had an opportunity of joining our ac- knowledgments to hers. Her gratitude may be more readily imagined than de- scribed : she thanked her deliverer more with looks than with words, and continued to lean upon his arm, as if still willing 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 different part of the country, he took leave, and we pursued our journey ; my wife observing, as he went, that she liked him extremely, and protesting, that if he had birth and fortune to entitle him to match into such a family as ours, she knew no man she would sooner fix upon. I could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty strain ; but I was never much dis- pleased with those harmless delusions that tend to make us more happy. 8 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. CHAPTER IV. A Proof that even the humblest Fortune may grant Hajtphiess, which depends, not on Cir- cumstances, but Constitution. The place of our retreat was in a little neighbourhood, consisting of farmers, who tilled their own grounds, and were equal strangers to opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the conveniences of life within themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities in search of superfluity. Remote from the polite, they still retained the primeval simplicity of manners •, and, frugal by habit, they scarce knew that temperance was a virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of labour ; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They kept up the Christ- mas carol, sent true love knots on Valen- tine morning, ate pancakes on Shrovetide, showed their wit on the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being apprised of our approach, the whole neighbourhood came out to meet their minister, 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 iinderwood behind, and a prat- tling river before ; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted of about twenty acres of excellent land, having given an hundred pounds for my predecessor’s good-will. Nodiing could exceed the neatness of my little enclosures, the elms and hedge-rows appearing with inexpressible beauty. My house consisted of but one story, and was covered with thatch, which gave it an air of great snug- ness ; the walls, on the inside, were nicely whitewashed, and my daughters under- took to adorn them with pictures of their own designing. Though the same room served us for parlour and kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it was kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers being well scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably re- lieved, 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 sunrise we all assembled in our com- mon 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 mechanical forms of good breeding, with- out which freedom ever destroys friend- ship — w'e 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 between my wife and daughters, and in philosophical arguments between my son and me. As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labours after it was gone dovim, 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 talk- ative neighbour, and often the blind piper, would pay us a visit, and taste our goose- berry wine, for the making of which we had lost neither the receipt nor the reputa- tion. 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 Barbara Allen. The night was concluded in the manner we began the morning, my youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons of the day; and he that read loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have a halfpenny on Sunday to put into the poor’s box. When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finely, which all my sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How well so- ever I fancied my lectures against pride had conquered the vanity of my daughters, yet I still found them secretly attached to all their former finery : they still loved 9 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. laces, ribands, bugles, and catgut ; my wife herself retained a passion for her crim- soir paduasoy, because I formerly hap- pened to say it became her. The first Sunday, in particular, their behaviour served to mortify me. I had desired my girls the preceding night to be dressed early the next day ; for I always loved to be at church a good while before the rest of the congregation. They punc- tually obeyed my directions ; but when we were to assemble in the morning at break- fast, 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 discretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only re- source was to order my son, with an im- portant air, to call our coach. The girls were amazed at the command ; but I re- peated 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,” replied my wife, “ I always imagined that my Charles was fond of seeing his children neat and handsome about him.”— “ You may be as neat as you please,” interrupted I, “and I shall love you the better for it ; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These rufilings, and pinkings, and patch- ings will only make us hated by all the wives of our neighbours. No, my children,” continued I, more gravely, “those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer cut ; for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want the means of decency. I do not know whether such flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the indigent world mig'ht be clothed from the trimmings of the vain.” This remonstrance had the proper effect : they went with great composure, that very instant, to change their dress ; and the next day I had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own request, em- ployed in cutting up their trains into Sun- day waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two little ones ; and, what was still more satis- factory, the gowns seemed improved by this curtailing. CHAPTER V. A new and great Acgtiahitance introdiiced. IVhat we place 7nost Hopes upOHy ge7i,e7'ally proves most fatal. At a small distance from the house, my predecessor had made a seat, over- shadowed 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 ex- tensive landscape in the calm of the even- ing. Here, too, we drank tea, which now was become an occasional banquet ; and, as we had it but seldom, it diffused a new joy, the preparations for it being made with no small share of bustle and cere- mony. On these occasions, our two little ones always read for us, and they were re- gularly served after we had done. Some- times, to give a variety to our amusements, the girls sang to the guitar ; and while they thus formed a little concert, my -udfe 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 situation in life may bring its own peculiar pleasures : every morning waked us to a repetition of toil; but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity. It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holiday — for I kept such as intervals of relaxation from labour — that I had drawn out my family to our usual place of amusement, and our young musicians began their usual concert. As we were thus engaged, we saw a stag bound nimbly by, within about twenty paces of where we were sitting, and by its panting it seemed pressed by the hunters. We had not much time to reflect upon the poor animal’s distress, when we perceived the dogs and horsemen come sweeping along at some distance behind, and making the THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ^ very path it had taken. I was instantly for returning in with my family ; but either curiosity, or surprise, or some more hidden motive, held my wife and daugh- ters to their seats. The huntsman who rode foremost passed us with great swift- ness, followed by four or five persons more, who seemed in equal haste. At last, a young gentleman of 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, approached 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 reception ; but they had early learnt the lesson of looking presump- tion out of countenance. Upon which he let us know that 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 confident, was easy, we soon became more familiar; and, perceiving musical instru- ments lying near, he begged to be favoured with a song. As I did not approve of such disproportioned acquaintances, I winked upon my daughters in order to prevent their compliance ; but my hint was coun- teracted by one from their mother; so that, with a cheerful air, they gave us a favourite song of Dryden’s. Mr. Thorn- hill seemed highly delighted with their per- formance and choice, and then took up the guitar himself. He played but very indif- ferently; however, my eldest daughter re- paid his former applause with interest, and assured him that his tones were louder than even those of her master. At this compliment he bowed, which she returned with a curtsey. He praised her taste, and she commended his understanding ; an age could not have made them better ac- quainted: 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 witn topics they thought most modern; while Moses, on the con- trary, gave him a question or two from the ancients, for which he had the satisfaction of being laughed at. My little ones were no less busy, and fondly stuck close to the stranger. All my endeavours could scarce keep their dirty fingers from hand- ling 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 council on the conduct of the day. She was of opinion, that it was a most fortu- nate hit ; for she had known even stranger things than that brought to bear. She hoped again to see the day in which we might hold up our heads with the best of them ; and concluded, she protested she could see no reason why the two Miss Wrinklers should marry great fortunes, and her children get none. As this last argument w'as directed to me, I protested I conld see no reason for it neither, nor why Mr. Simpkins got the ten thousand I pound prize in the lottery, and we sat down with a blank. “ I protest, Charles,” cried my wife, “ this is the way you always ■ damp my girls and me when we are in spirits. Tell me, Sophy, my dear, what do you think of our new visitor? Don’t ' you think he seeiued to be good-natured?” — “ Immensely so, indeed, mamma,” re- plied she : “ I think he has a great deal to say upon everything, and is never at a loss; and the more trifling the subject, the more he has to say.” — “Yes,” cried Olivia, “ he is well enough for a man ; but, for my own 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 interpreted by con- traries. I found by this, that Sophia in- ternally despised, as much as Olivia se- cretly admired him. “ Whatever may be your opinions of him, my children, ” cried I, “ to confess the truth, he has not pre- possessed ^ me in his favonr. Dispro- portioned friendships ever terminate in disgust; and I thought, notwithstanding all his ease, that he seemed perfectly sen- sible of the distance between us. Let us THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 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 contemptible if his views are honourable ; but if they be otherwise ! — I should shudder but to think of that. It is true, I have no apprehen- sions from the conduct of my children ; but I think there are some from his cha- racter.” I would have proceeded, but for the interruption of a servant from the Squire, who, with his compliments, sent us a side of venison, and a promise to dine with us some days after. This well-timed present pleaded more powerfully in his favour than anything I had to say could obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied with just having pointed out danger, and leaving it to their own discre- tion to avoid it. That virtue which re- quires to be ever guarded is scarce worth the sentinel. CHAPTER VI. The Happiness of a Cotintry Fireside. As we carried on the former dispute with some degree of warmth, in order to accommodate matters, it was universally agreed that we should have a part of the venison for supper ; and the girls under- took the task with alacrity. “ I am sorry,” cried I, “that we have no neigh- bour or stranger to take part in this good cheer : feasts of this kind acquire a double relish from hospitality.” — “ Bless me,” cried my wife, “ here comes our good friend Mr. Burchell, that saved our Sophia, and that run you down fairly in the argu- ment.” — “Confute me in argument, child!” cried I. “You mistake there, my dear ; I believe there are but few that can do that : I never dispute your abilities at making a goose-pie, and I beg you’ll leave argument to me.” As I spoke, poor Mr. Burchell entered the house, and was welcomed by the family, who shook him heartily by the hand, while little Dick officiously reached him a chair. I was pleased with the poor man’s friendship for two reasons : because I knew that he wanted mine, and I knew 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 company of children, whom he used to call harmless little men. He was famous, I found, for singing them ballads, and telling them stories, and seldom went out without something in his pockets for them — a piece of gingerbread, or an 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 supper among us, and my wife was not spailng of her gooseberry- wine. The tale went round ; he sung us old songs, and gave the children the story of the Buck of Beverland, with the history of Patient Grissel, the adventures of Cat- skin, 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 lodg- ing the stranger — all our beds were al- ready taken up, and it was too late to send him to the next alehouse. 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, “ hos- pitality 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-crea- ture. The greatest stranger in this world was He that came to save it. He never had a house, as if willing to see what hospitality was left remaining among us. Deborah, my dear,” cried I 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 family 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 lightly ; we turned the swath to the wind. I went foremost, and the rest followed in due succession. I could not avoid, however. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 12 observing the assiduity of Mr. Burchell in assisting rny daughter Sophia in her part of the task. When he had. finished his own, he would join in hers, and enter into a close conversation ; but I had too good an opinion of Sophia’s understanding, and was too well convinced 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 unfortunate 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 former folly. Poor forlorn creature ! where are now the re- vellers, the flatterers, that he could once inspire and command ! Gone, perhaps, to attend the bagnio pander, grown rich by his extravagance. They once praised him, and now they applaud the pander : their former raptures at his wit are now converted into sarcasms at his folly : he is poor, and perhaps deserves poverty ; for he has neither the ambition to be inde- pendent, nor the skill to be useful.” Prompted perhaps by some secret reasons, I delivered this observation with too much acrimony, which my Sophia gently re- proved. “ Whatsoever his former conduct may have been, papa, his circumstances should exempt him from censure now. PI is present indigence is a sufficient punish- ment for former folly ; and I have heard my papa himself say, that we should never strike one unnecessary blow at a victim, over whom Providence holds the scourge of its resentment.” — “You are right, Sophy,” cried my son Moses ; “and one of the ancients finely represents so mali- cious a conduct, by the attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas, whose skin, the fable 1 tells us, had been wholly stripped off by j another. Besides, I don’t know if this I poor man’s situation be so bad as my I father would represent it. We are not to judge of the feelings of others by what we might feel in their place. Plowever dark the habitation of the mole to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds the apart- ment sufficiently lightsome. And, to con- fess a truth, this man’s mind seems fitted to his station ; for I never heard any one more sprightly than he was to-day, when he conversed with you.” — This was said without the least design ; however, it ex- cited a blush, which she strove to cover by an affected laugh, assuring him that she scarce took any notice of what he said to her,. but that she believed he might once have been a very fine gentleman. The readiness with which she undertook to vindicate herself, and her blushing, were symptoms I did not internally ap- prove ; but I repressed my suspicions. As we expected our landlord the next day, my wife went to make the venison pasty. Moses sat reading, while I taught the little ones. My daughters seemed equally busy with the rest ; and I observed them for a good while cooking something over the fire. I at first supposed they were assisting their mother, Tjut little Dick informed me, in a whisper, that they were making a wash for the face. Washes of all kinds I had a natural antipathy to ; for I knew that, instead of mending the complexion, they spoil it. I therefore approached my chair by sly degrees to the fire, and grasping the poker, as if it wanted mending, seemingly by accident overturned the whole composition, and it was too late to begin another. CHAPTER VII. A Town Wit described. The dullest Fellows may learn to be comical for a Eight 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 on this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came with a couple of friends, his chap- lain and feeder. The servants, who were numerous, he politely ordered to the next alehouse : but my wife, in the triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining them all ; for which, by the by, our family was pinched for three weeks after. As Mr. i Burchell had hinted to us the day before, j that he was making some proposals of I THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. marriage to Miss Wilmot, my son George’s former mistress, this a good deal damped the heartiness of his reception : but acci- dent in some measure relieved our em- barrassment ; for one of the company happening to mention her name, Mr. Thornhill observed with an oath, that he never knew anything more absurd than calling such a fright a beauty; “For, strike me ugly,” continued he, “if I should not find as much pleasure in choosing my mistress by the information of a lamp under the clock of St. Dunstan’s.” At this he laughed, and so did we : the jests of the rich are ever successful. Olivia, too, could not avoid whispering, loud enough to be heard, that he had an infinite fund of humour. After dinner, I began with my usual toast, the Church : for this I was thanked by the chaplain, as he said the Church ■vtras 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 lawn 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 priestcraft in the creation ! F or what are tithes and tricks but an im- position, all a confounded imposture, and I can prove it.” — “I wish you would,” cried my son Moses; “and I think,” con- tinued he, “ that I should be able to answer you.” — “ Very well, sir,” cried the Squire, who immediately smoked him, and winked on the rest of the company to prepare us for the sport; “if you are for a cool argu- ment upon that subject, I am ready to accept the challenge. And, first, whether are you for managing it analogically or dialogically ? ” — “ I am for managing it rationally,” cried Moses, quite happy at being permitted to dispute. “ Good again,” cried the Squire; “and, firstly, of the first, I hope you’ll not deny, that whatever is, is. If you don’t grant me that, I can go no further.” — “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.” — -“I 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.” — “Nothing can be plainer,” returned t’other, and looked round with his usual importance. — “Very well,” cried the Squire, speaking very quick, “the pre- misses being thus settled, I proceed to observe, that the concatenation of self- existences, proceeding in a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally pi'oduce a pro- blematical dialogism, which, in some measure, proves that the essence of spiri- tuality may be referred to the second pre- dicable.” — “Hold, hold!” cried the other, “ I deny that : do you think that I can thus tamely submit to such heterodox doc- trines ? ” — “ What ! ” replied the Squire, as if in a passion, “ not submit 1 Answer me one plain question : Do you think Aristotle right when he says that relatives are related?” — “Undoubtedly,” replied the other. — “ If so, then, ” cried the Squire, “ answer me directly to what I propose : Whether do you judge the ana- lytical investigation of the first part of my enthymem deficient secundum quoad, or quoad minus ; and give me your reasons — give me your reasons, I say, directly.” — “I protest,” cried Moses, “I don’t rightly comprehend the force of your reasoning ; but if it be reduced to one simple proposition, I fancy it may then have an answer.” — “Oh, sir,” cried the Squire, “ I am your most humble servant ; I find you want me to furnish you with argument and intellects too. No, sir, there I protest you are too hard for me.” This effectually raised the laugh against poor Moses, who sat the only dismal figure in a group of merry faces ; nor did he offer a single syllable more during the whole entertainment. But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a very different effect upon Olivia, who mistook it for humour, though but a mere act of the memory. She thought him, therefore, a very fine gentleman ; and such as consider what powerful ingi-edients a good figure,, fine clothes, and fortune are in that character, will easily forgive her. Mr. Thornhill, notwithstanding his real 14 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ignorance,, talked with ease, and could ex.- patiate upon the common topics of con- versation with fluency. It is not surprising then, thatsuch talents should win the affec- tions of a girl who by education was taught to value an appearance in herself, and con- sequently to set a value upon it in another. Upon his departure, we again entered into a debate upon the merits of our young landlord. As he directed his looks and conversation to Olivia, it was no longer doubted but that she was the object that induced him to be our visitor. Nor did she seem to be much displeased at the in- nocent raillery of her brother and sister upon this occasion. Even Deborah her- self 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 addressesi 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 re- ligion may be involuntary with this gentle- man ; 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 with- out 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 being blind to many of the proofs that offer. So that, though our erroneous opinions be involuntary when formed, yet as w'e have been wilfully cor- rupt, 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 ac- quaintance were freethinkers, 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 Olivia may be able to do : the girl haS' a great deal to say upon every subject, and, to my knowledge, is very well skilled in controversy.” “ Why, my dear, what controversy can she have read ? ” cried I. “ It does not occur to me that I ever put such books into her hands : you certainly overrate her merit.” — “Indeed, papa,” replied Olivia, “she does not; I have read a great deal of controversy. I have read the disputes between Thwackum and Square; the con- troversy between Robinson Crusoe and Friday, the savage; and I am now em- ployed in reading the controversy in Re- ligious Courtship.” — “Very well,” cried I, “that’s a good girl; I find you are perfectly qualified for making converts, and so go help your mother to make the gooseberry pie.” CHAPTER VHI. An Amour y which pro7nises little good Porhme, yet 7nay he productive of 77tuch. The next morning we were again visited by Mr. Burchell, though I began, for cer- tain reasons, to be displeased with the frequency of his return ; but I could not refuse him my company and fireside. It is true, his labour more than requited his entertainment; for he wrought among us with vigour, and, either in the meadow or at the hay-rick, put himself foremost. Besides, he had always something amusing to say that lessened our toil, and was at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, that I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose from an attachment he discovered to my daughter. He would, in a jesting manner, call her his little mis- tress, and when he bought each of the girls a set of ribands, hers was the finest. I knew not how, but he every day seemed THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 15 to become more amiable, his wit to im- prove, and his simplicity to assume the superior airs of wisdom. Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or rather reclined, round a temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while Mr. Burchell gave cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction, two blackbirds answered each other from opposite hedges, the familiar redbreast 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 an hundred times with new rapture.” — “In my opinion,” 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 depends. ” — “ It is remarkable,” cried Mr. Burchell,. “that both the poets you mention have equally contributed to introduce a false taste into their respective countries, by loading all their lines with epithet. Men of little genius found them most easily imitated in their defects; and English poetry, like that in the latter empire of Rome, is no- thing at present but a combination of lux- uriant images, without plot or connexion — a string of epitliets that improve the sound without carrying on the sense. But perhaps, madam, while I thus reprehend others, you’ll think it just that I should give them an opportunity to retaliate ; and, indeed, I have made this remai'k only to have an opportunity of introducing to the company a ballad, which, whatever be its other defects, is, I think, at least free from those I have mentioned.” 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 I tread. With fainting steps and slow. Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem length’nin,g as I so.” “ 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 niy portion, is but scant, I give it. with good will. “ Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows ; My rushy couch and frugal fare. My blessing and repose. “ No flocks that range the valley free To slaughter I condemn ; Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them : “ But from the mountain’s grassy side A guiltless feast I bring ; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied. And water from the spring. “ Then, pilgrim, turn ; thy cares forego ; All earth-born cares are wrong : Man wants but little here below. Nor wants that little long.” 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 neighbouring 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 on the hearth. The crackling fagot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To soothe the stranger’s woe ; For grief was heavy at his heart. And tears began to flow. His rising cares the Hermit spied, With answering care oppress’d : And “Whence, unhappy youth,” he cried, “The sorrows of thy breast? “ From better habitations spurn’d. Reluctant dost thou rove ? Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d. Or unregarded love ? “ Alas ! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay ; THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. i6 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 ? “ 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 ri.sing blush His love-lorn guest betray’d. Surprised he sees new beauties rise. Swift mantling to the view ; Like colours o’er the morning skies. As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast. Alternate spread alarms : The lovely stranger stands confess’d A maid in all her charms. And, “Ah ! forgive a stranger rude — A wretch forlorn,” she cried ; “ Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude Where Heaven and you reside. “ But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to 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 : Amongst the rest, young Edwin bow’d. But never talk’d of love. ‘ ‘ In humble, simple habit clad. No wealth nor potyer had he : Wisdom and worth were all he had. But these were all to me. “ And when, beside me in the dale. He caroll'd lays of love. His breath lent fragrance to the gale. And music to the grove. “ The blossom opening to the day. The dews of heaven refined. Could nought of purity display To emulate his mind. “ The dew, the blossom on the tree. With charms inconstant shine : Their charm.s were his, but, woe to me. Their constancy was mine. “ For still I tried each fickle art. Importunate and vain ; And, while his passion touch’d my heart, I triumph’d in his pain : “ Till, quite dejected with my scorn. He left me to my pride ; And sought a solitude forlorn. In secret, where he died. “ But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. And well my life shall pay ; I’ll seek the solitude he sought. And stretch me where he lay. “ And there, forlorn, despairing, hid. I’ll lay me down and die ; ’Twas so for me that Edwin did. And so for him will I.” “ Forbid it Heaven !” the Hermit cried. And clasp’d her to his breast : The wondering fair one turn’d to chide — ’Twas Edwin’s self that press’d 1 “ Turn, Angelina, ever dear. My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here. Restored to love and thee. “ Thus let me hold thee to my heart. And every care resign : And shall we never, never part. My life — my all that’s mine ? ' “ 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 report of a gun just by us, and, immediately after, a man was seen bursting through the hedge, to take up the game he had killed. This sportsman was the Squire’s chaplain, who had shot one of the blackbirds that so agreeably entertained us. So loud a re- port, and so near, startled my daughters ; and I could perceive that Sophia in the fright had thrown herself into Mr. Bur- chell’s arms for protection. The gentle- man came up, and asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirming that he was ignorant of our being so near. He therefore sat down by my youngest daugh- ter, 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 reluctance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride in a whisper, observ- ing, that Sophy had made a conquest of the chaplain, as well as her sister had of the Squire. I suspected, however, with more probability, that her aifections were THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 1 placed upon a different object. The chap- lain’s errand was to inform us, that Mr. Thornhill had provided music and refresh- ments; and intended that night giving the young ladies a ball by moonlight, on the grass plat before our door. “ Nor can i deny, ” continued he, “ but I have an interest in being first to deliver this mes- sage, as I expect for my reward to be honoured with Miss Sophia’s hand as a partner.” To this my girl replied, that she should have no objection, if she could do it with honour; “ But here,” continued she, “ is a gentleman,” looking at Mr. Burchell, “ who has been my companion in the task for the day, and it is fit he should share in its amusements.” Mr. Burchell returned her a compliment for her inten- tions, but resigned her up to the chaplain ; adding, that he was to go that night five miles, being invited to a harvest supper. His refusal appeared to me a little extra- ordinary; nor could I conceive how so sensible a girl as my youngest could thus prefer a man of broken fortunes to one whose expectations were much greater. But as men are most capable of distin- guishing merit in women, so the ladies often form the truest judgments of us. The two sexes seem placed as spies upon each other, and are furnished with different abilities, adapted for mutual inspection. CHAPTER IX. Two Ladies of great Distinction introduced. S^tperior Finery ever seems to confer superior B 'reeding. Mr. Burchell had scarce taken leave, and Sophia consented to dance with the chaplain, when my little ones came run- ning out to tell us, that the Squire was come with a crowd of company. Upon our return, we found our landlord, with a couple of under gentlemen and two young ladies richly dressed, whom he introduced as women of very great dis- tinction and fashion from town. We happened not to have chairs enough for Bre whole company ; but Mr. Thornhill immediately proposed, that every gentle- man should sit in a lady’s lap. This I positively objected to, notwithstanding a look of disapprobation from my wife. Moses was therefore dispatched to borrow a couple of chairs ; and as we were in want of ladies to make up a set at country dances, the two gentlemen went with him in quest of a couple of partners. Chairs and partners were soon provided. The gentlemen returned- with my neighbour Flamborough’s rosy daughters, flaunting with red top-knots ; but an unlucky cir- cumstance was not adverted to, — though the Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned the very best dancers in the parish, and understood the jig and roundabout to per- fection, yet they were totally unacquainted with country dances. This at first dis- composed us : however, after a little shoving and dragging, they at last went merrily on. Our music consisted of two fiddles, with a pipe and tabor. The moon shone loright. Mr. Thornhill and my eldest daughter led up the ball, to the great delight of the spectators ; for the neigh- bours, hearing what was going forward, came flocking about us. My girl moved with so much grace and vivacity, that my wife could not avoid discovering the pride of her heart by assuring me that, though the little chit did it so cleverly, all the steps were stolen from herself. The ladies of the town strove hard to be equally easy, but without success. They swam, sprawled, languished, and frisked; but all would not do : the gazers indeed owned that it was fine ; but neighbour Flam- borough observed that Miss Livy’s feet seemed as pat to the music as its echo. After the dance had continued about an hour, the two ladies, who were apprehen- sive of catching cold, moved to break up I the ball. One of them, I thought, ex- pressed her sentiments upon this occasion in a very coarse manner, when she ob- served, that, “by the living jingo, she was all of a muck of sweat.” Upon our return to the house, we found a very elegant cold supper, which Mr. Thornhill had ordered to be brought with him. The conversation at this time was more re- served than before. The two ladies threw my girls into the shade ; for they would talk of nothing but high life, and high- lived company ; with other fashionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shake- speare, and the musical glasses. ’Tis true they once or twice mortified us sensibly | C THE VICAR OF WAHEFIELD. i8 by slipping out an oath ; but that appeared to me as the surest symptom of their dis- tinction (though I am since informed that swearing is perfectly unfashionable). Their finery, however, threw a veil over any grossness in their conversation. My daughters seemed to regard their superior accomplishments with envy ; and what appeared amiss, was ascribed to tip-top quality breeding. But the condescension of the ladies was still superior to their accomplishments. One of them observed, that had Miss Olivia seen a little more of the world, it would greatly improve her ; to which the other added, that a single winter in town would make her little Sophia quite another thing. My wife warmly assented to both ; adding, that there was nothing she more ardently wished than to give her girls a single winter’s polishing. To this I could not help replying, that their breeding was already superior to their fortune ; and that greater refinement would only serve to make their poverty ridiculous, and give them a taste for pleasures they had no right to possess. “ And what pleasures,” cried Mr. Thornhill, “do they not deserve to possess, who have so much in their power to bestow? As for my part,” continued he, “my fortune is pretty large ; love, liberty, and pleasure are my maxims ; but curse me, if a settlement of half my estate could give my charming Olivia pleasure, it should be hers ; and the only fa /our I would ask in return would be to add myself to the benefit. ” I was not such a stranger to the world as to be ignorant that this was the fashion- able cant to disguise the insolence of the basest proposal ; but I made an effort to suppress my resentment. “ Sir,” cried I, “ the family which you now condescend to favour with your company has been bred with as nice a sense of honour as you. Any attempts to injure that may be attended with very dangerous conse- quences. Honour, sir, is our only posses- sion at present, and of that last treasure we must be particularly careful.” I was soon sorry for the warmth with which I had spoken this, when the young gentle- man, grasping my hand, swore he com- mended my spirit, though he disapproved my suspicions. “ As to your present hint,” continued he, “I protest nothing was farther from my heart than such a thought. No, by all that’s tempting! the virtue that will stand a regular siege was never to my taste ; for all my amours are carried by a coup-de-main.” The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of the rest, seemed highly dis- pleased with this last stroke of freedom, and began a very discreet and serious dialogue upon virtue ; in this, my wife, the chaplain, and I, soon joined ; and the Squire himself was at last brought to confess a sense of sorrow for his former excesses. W e talked of the pleasures of temperance, and of the sunshine in the mind unpolluted with guilt. I was so well pleased, that my little ones were kept up beyond the usual time to be edified by so much good conversation. Mr. Thornhill even went beyond me, and demanded if I had any objection to giving prayers. 1 joyfully embraced the pro- posal ; and in this manner the night was passed in the most comfortable way, till at last the company began to think of returning. The ladies seemed very un- willing to part with my daughters, for whom they had conceived a particular affection, and joined in a request to have the pleasure of their company home. The Squire seconded the proposals, and my wife added her entreaties ; the girls, too, looked upon me as if they wished to go. In this perplexity, I made two or three excuses, which my daughters as readily removed ; so that at last I was obliged to give a peremptory refusal, for which we had nothing but sidlen looks and ^short answers the whole day ensuing. CHAPTER X. The Family endeavour to cope with their Betters. The Miseries of the Poor., when they attempt to appear above their Circumstances. I NOW began to find that all my long and painful lectures upon temperance, simplicity, and contentment were entirely disregarded. The distinctions lately paid us by our betters awakened that pride which I had laid asleep, but not removed. Our windows, again, as formerly, were filled with washes for the neck and face. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 19 The sun was dreaded as an enemy to the skin without doors, and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion within. My wife observed that rising too early would hurt her daughter's eyes, that working after dinner would redden their noses ; and she convinced me that the hands never looked so white as when they did nothing. Instead therefore of finishing George’s shirts, we now had them new- modelling their old gauzes, or flourishing upon catgut. The poor Miss Flambo- roughs, their former gay companions, were cast off as mean acquaintance, and the whole conversation ran upon high life, and high-lived company, with pic- tures, taste, Shakespeare, and the musical glasses. But we could have borne all this, had not a fortune-telling gipsy come to raise us into perfect sublimity. The tawny sibyl no sooner appeared, than my girls came running to me for a shilling a-piece to cross her hand with silver. To say the truth, I was tired ofbeing 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 themselves, as my wife always generously let themhave 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 return- ing, that they had been promised some- thing great. “ Well, my girls, how have you sped ? Tell me, Livy, has the fortune- teller given thee a pennyworth ? ” — “ I protest, papa,” says the girl, “I believe she deals with somebody that’s not right ; for she positively declared, that I am to be married to a Squire in less than a twelvemonth!” — “Well, now, Sophy, my child,” said I, “and what sort of a husband are you to have?” — “Sir,” replied she, “ I am to have a Lord soon after my sister has married the Squire.” “How,” cried I, “is that all you are to have for your two shillings? Only a Lord and a Squire for two shillings ? You fools, I coirld have promised you a Prince and a Nabob for half the money,” This curiosity of theii's, however, was attended with very serious effects : we now began to think ourselves designed by the stars to something exalted, and already anticipated our future grandeur. It has been a thousand times observed, and I must observe it once more, that the hours we pass with happy prospects in view, are more pleasing than those crowned with fruition. In the first case, we cook the dish to our own appetite ; in the latter. Nature cooks it for us. It is impossible to repeat the train of agreeable reveries we called up for our entertainment. We looked upon our fortunes as once more rising ; and, as the whole parish asserted that the Squire was in love with my daughter, she was actually so with him ; for they persuaded her into the passion. In this agreeable interval my wife had the most lucky dreams in the world, which she took care to tell us every morning with great solemnity and exactness. It was one night a coffin and cross-bones, the sign of an approaching wedding ; at another time she imagined her daughters’ pockets filled with farthings, a certain sign of their being shortly stuffed with gold. The girls themselves had their omens. They felt strange kisses on their lips ; they saw rings in' the candle ; purses bounced from the fire, and true love-knots lurked in the bottom of every teacup. Towards the end of the week we re- ceived a card from the two ladies, in which, with their compliments, they hoped to see all our family at church the Sunday following. All Saturday morning I could perceive, in consequence of this, my wife and daughters in close conference together, and now and then glancing at me with looks that betrayed a latent plot. To be sincere, I had strong suspicions that some absurd proposal was preparing for appear- ing with splendour the next day._ In the evening they began their operations in a very regular manner, and my wife under- took to conduct the siege. After tea, when I seemed in spirits, she began thus : — “ I fancy, Charles, my dear, we shall have a great deal of good company at our church to-morrow.” — “Perhaps we may, my dear,” returned I, “though you need be under no uneasiness about that ; 20 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. you shall have a sermon whether there be ‘or not.” — “That is what I expect,” returned she; “but I think, my dear, we ought to appear there as decently as pos- sible, for who knows what may happen?” j- — -“Your precautions,” replied I, “are highly commendable. A decent behaviour |and .appearance in church is what charms line. We should be devout and humble, ^cheerful and serene.” — “Yes,” cried she, i“ I know that ; but I mean we should go there in as proper a manner as possible ; jnot altogether like the scnibs about us.” — • |“ You are quite right, my dear,” returned I, “and I was going to make the very same proposal. The proper manner of 1 going is to go there as early as possible, I to have time for meditation before the 'service begins.” — “ Phoo, Charles,” inter- ■rupted she, “all that is very true; but j 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 companion Blackberry, that has scarcely done an earthly 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 tolerable figure. ” To this proposal I objected that walking would be twenty times more genteel than such a paltry conveyance, as Blackberry was wall-eyed, and the 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 col- lecting such materials as might be necessary for the expedition; but, as I found it would be a business of time, I walked on to the church before, and they promised speedily to follow. I waited near an hour in the reading desk for their arrival ; but not finding them come as I expected, I v.ns obliged to begin, and went through the service, not without some uneasiness at finding them absent. This was increased when all was finished, and no appearance of the family. I therefore walked back by the horse-way, which was five miles round, though the footway was but two, and, when got about half-way home, perceived the procession marching slowly forward to- wards the church ; my son, my wife, and the two little ones exalted on 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 misfortunes on the road. The horses had at first refused to move from the door, till Mr. Burchell was kind enough to beat them forward for about two hundred yards with his cudgel. Next, the straps of my wife’s pillion broke down, and they were obliged to stop to repair them before they could proceed. After that, one of the horses took it into his head to stand still, and neither blows nor entreaties could prevail with him to pro- ceed. He was just recovering from this dismal situation when I found them ; but perceiving everything safe, I own their present mortification did not much di.s- please me, as it would give me many op- portunities of future triumph, and teach my daughters more humility. CHAPTER XL The Family still resolve to hold up their Heads. Michaelmas-eve happening on the next day, we were invited to burn nuts and play tricks at neighbour Flambo- rough’s. Our late mortifications had humbled us a little, or it is probable we might have rejected such an invitation with contempt : however, we suffered ourselves to be happy. Our honest neighbour’s goose and dumplings were fine, and the lamb’s-wool, even in the opinion of my wife, who was a connoisseur, was excellent. It is true, his manner of telling stories was not quite so well. They were very long, and very dull, and all about himself, and we had laughed at them ten times before : however, we were kind enough to laugh at them once more. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. , 21 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 j wife, too, was persuaded to join in the ; diversion, and it gave me pleasure to think she was not yet too old. In the meantime, my neighbour and I looked on, laughed at every feat, and praised our own dexterity when we were young. Hot cockles suc- ceeded next, questions and commands fol- lowed that, and, last of all, they sat down to hunt the slipper. As every person may not be acquainted with this primeval pas- time, it may be necessary to observe, that the company in this play plant themselves in a ring upon the ground, all except one, who stands in the middle, whose business it is to catch a shoe, which the company shove about under their hams from one to another, something like a weaver’s shuttle. As it is impossible, in this case, for the lady who is up to face all the company at once, the great beauty of the play lies in hitting her a thump with the heel of the shoe on that side least capable of making 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, con- fusion on confusion! who should enter the room but our two great acquaint- ances from town. Lady Blarney and Miss Carolina 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 atti- tudes ! Nothing better could ensue from such a vulgar play of Mr. Flamborough’s j proposing. We seemed stuck to the j ground for some time, as if actually j petrified with amazement. I The two ladies had been at our house j to see us, and finding us from home, came i after us hither, as they were uneasy to ■ j know what accident could have kept us ' from church the day before. Olivia j undertook to be our prolocutor, and de- livered the whole in a summary way, only saymg, “ We were thrown from our I horses.’ At which account the ladies I were greatly concerned ; but being told | tlie family received no hurt, they were extremely glad ; but being informed that we were almost killed by the fright, they were vastly sorry ; but hearing that we had a very good night, they were extremely glad again. Nothing could exceed their complaisance to my daugh- ters : 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 attached to Olivia ; Miss Caro- lina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs (I love to give the whole name) took a greater fancy to her sister. They supported the con- versation between themselves, while my daughters sat silent, admiring their exalted breeding. But as every reader, however beggarly himself, is fond of high-lived dialogues, with anecdotes of lords, ladies, | and knights of the Garter, I must beg ' leave to give him the concluding part of ' the present conversation. “ All that I know of the matter,” cried Miss Skeggs, “ is this, that it may be true or 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, butSirTomkyn drawing his sword, swore he was hers to the last drop of his blood.” “Well,” replied our Peeress, “this I can say, that the Duchess never told me j a syllable of the matter, and I believe her 1 Grace would keep nothing a secret from me. This you may depend upon as fact, i that the next morning my Lord Duke ■ cried out three times to his valet-de- j chambre, Jernigan ! Jernigan! Jernigan ! bring me my garters. ” But previously I should have mentioned the very impolite behaviour of Mr. Bur- chell, who, during this discourse, sat with his face turned to the fire, and, at the con- clusion 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 22 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. Skeggs ; “ for he seldom leaves anything out, as he writes only for his own amuse- ment. But can your Ladyship favour me with a sight of them?” — “ Fudge ! ” “My dear creature, ” replied our Peeress, “ do you think I carry such things about me? Though they are very fine, to be sure, and I think myself something of a judge — at least I know what pleases my- self. Indeed, I was ever an admirer of all Dr. Burdock’s little pieces ; for, except what he does, and our dear Countess at Hanover Square, there’s nothing comes out but the most lowest stuff in nature ; not a bit of high life among them.”— “ Fudge ! ” “Your Ladyship should except,” says the other, “your own things in the Lady’s Magazine. I hope you’ll say there’s nothing low-lived there ? But I suppose we are to have no more from that quar- ter?”— “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 company : as for the chits about town, there is no bearing them about one.”— “ Fudge !” “ That I know,” cried Miss Skeggs, “by experience. For of the three com- panions I had this last half year, one of them refused to do plain work an hour in the day ; another thought twenty-five guineas a year too small a salary ; and I was obliged to send away the third, be- cause I suspected an intrigue with the chaplain. Virtue, my dear I.ady Blar- ney, 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 par- ticularly struck with the latter part of it. Thirty pounds and twenty-five guineas a year, made fifty-six pounds five shillings English money, all which was in a manner going a begging, and might easily be secured in the family. She for a moment studied my looks for approbation ; and, to own a truth, I was of opinion, that two such places would fit our two daughters exactly. Besides, if the Squire had any real affection for my eldest daughter, this would be the way to make her every way qualified for her fortune. My wife, there- fore, was resolved that we should not be deprived of such advantages for want of assurance, and undertook to harangue for the family. “ I hope,” cried she, “ your ladyships will pardon mypresent presump- tion. It is true, we have no right to pre- tend to such favours ; but yet it is natural for me to wish putting my children forward in the world. And, I will be bold to say, my two girls have had a pretty good educa- tion and capacity ; at least the country can’t show better. They can read, write, and cast accompts ; 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, and work upon catgut ; my eldest can cut paper, and my youngest has a very pretty manner of telling fortunes upon the cards. ” — “ Fudge ! ” When she had delivered this pretty piece of eloquence, the two ladies looked at each other a few minutes in silence, with an air of doubt and importance. At last Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs con- descended to observe, that the young ladies, from the opinion she could form of them from so slight an acquaintance, seemed very fit for such employments. “ But a thing of this kind, madam,” cried she, addressing my spouse, “ requires a tho- rough examination into characters, and a more perfect knowledge of each other. Not, madam,” continued she, “ that I in the least suspect the young ladies’ virtue, prudence, and discretion ; but there is a form in these things, madam — there is a form.” My wife approved her suspicions very much, observing that she was very apt to * be suspicious herself, but referred her to all the neighbours for a character ; but this our Peeress declined as unnecessary, alleging that our cousin Thornhill’s recom- ' mendation would be sufficient ; and upon this we rested our petition. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. CHAPTER XII. Fortune seems resolved to humble the Family of Wakefield. Mortifications are often more Faitftd than real Calamities. When we were returned home, the night was dedicated to schemes of future conquest. Deborah exerted much sagacity in conjecturing which of the two girls was lihely to have the best place, and most opportunities of seeing good company. The only obstacle to our preferment was in obtaining the Squire’s recommendation; but he had already shown us too many instances of his friendship to doubt of it now. Even in bed, my wife kept up the usual theme : “ Well, faith, my dear Charles, between ourselves, I think we have made an excellent day’s work of it. ” — “ Pretty well ! ” cried I, not knowing what to say. “What, only pretty well !” returned she : “ I think it is very well. Suppose the girls should come to make acquaintances of taste in town ! This I am assured of, that London is the only place in the world for all manner of hus- bands. 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 ? Entre nous, I protest I like my Lady Blarney vastly — so very obliging. However, Miss Carolina Wilhelm.ina Amelia Skeggs has my warm heart. But yet, when they came to talk of places in town, you saw at once how I nailed them. Tell me, my dear, don’t you think I did for my children there?” — “Ay,” returned I, not knowing well what to think of the matter ; “ Heaven grant they may be both the better for it this day three months ! ” This was one of those observations I usually made to im- press my wife with an opinion of my sa- gacity : 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 con- versation, however, was only preparatory to another scheme ; and indeed I dreaded as much. This was nothing less than that, as we ysmre now to hold up our heads a ittle higher in the world, it would be pro- per to sell the colt, which was grown old, ^ a neighbouring fair, and buy us a horse that would carry a single or double upon an occasion, and make a pretty appear- ance at church, or upon a visit. This at first I opposed stoutly ; but it was stoutly defended. However, as I weakened, my antagonist gained strength, till at last it was resolved to part with him. As the fair happened on the followdng day, I had intentions of going myself ; but my wife persuaded 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 dis- creet boy, and can buy and sell to a 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 pru- dence, I was willing enough to entrust him with this commission : and the next morn- ing I perceived his sisters mighty busy in fitting out Moses for the fair; trimming his hair, brushing his buckles, and cock- ing his hat wdth pins. The business of the toilet being over, we had at last the satisfaction of seeing him mounted upon the colt, with a deal box before him to bring home groceries in. He had on a coat made of that cloth they call thunder- and-lightning, which, though grown too short, was much too good to be thrown aw'ay. 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 scarce gone, when Mr. Thorn- hill’s butler came to congratulate us upon our good fortune, saying that he overheard his young master mention our names with great commendation. Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. Another footman from the same family followed, with a card for my daughters, importing that the two ladies had received such pleasing accounts from Mr. Thornhill of us all, that after a few previous inquiries they hoped to be per- fectly satisfied. “Ay,” cried my wife, “I now see it is no easy matter to get into the families of the great ; but when one once gets in,^ then, as Moses says, one may go THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. to sleep.” To this piece of humour, for she intended it for wit, my daughters assented with a loud laugh of pleasure. In short, such was her satisfaction 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 ne.xt that came .was Mr. Burchell, who had been at the fair. He brought my little o-nes a pennyworth of gingerbread 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 usually fond of a j weasel-skin purse, as being the most lucky ; j but this by the by. We had still a regard I for Mr. Burchell, though his late rude be- j haviour was in some measure displeasing ; ' nor could we now avoid communicating our happiness to him, and asking his ad- ‘ vice : although we seldom followed advice, ! we were all ready enough to ask it. j When he read the note from the two ladies, i he shook his head, and observed, that an i affair of this sort demanded the utmost cir- ! cumspection. This air of diffidence highly I displeased my wife. “ I never doubted, sir,” cried she, “ your readiness to be against my daughters and me. Y ou have more circumspection than is wanted. However, I fancy when we come to ask advice, 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 con- science 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 subject, by seeming to wonder what could keep our son so long at the fair, as it was now almost nightfall. “ Never mind our son, ” cried my wife ; “ depend upon it he knows what he is about. I’ll warrant we’ll never see him sell his hen 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 strapt round his shoulders like a pedlar. “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. “ Ej, Moses,” cried my wife, “ that we know ; but where is the horse ? ” — “ I have sold him,” cried Moses, “for three pounds five shillings and tw'o- pence.” — “ Well done, my good boy,” returned she ; “ I knew you would touch them off. Between ourselves, three pounds five shillings and twopence 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 bundle 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 wdth the colt, and brought us back nothing but a gross of green paltry spec- tacles ! ” — “ Dear mother,” cried the boy, “ why won’t you listen to reason ? I had them a dead bargain, or I should not have brought them. The silver rims alone wall sell for double the money.” — “ A fig for the silver rims, ” cried my wife, in a passion : “ I dare swear they won’t sell for above half the money at the rate of broken silver, five shillings an ounce.” — “ You need be under no uneasi- ness,” cried I, “about selling the rims, for they are not worth sixpence ; for I perceive they are only copper varnished over.” — “ What ! ” cried my wife, “not silver! the rims not silver? No,” cried I, “ no more silver than your sauce- pan.”—" And so,” returned she, “ we have parted with the colt, and have only got a gross of green spectacles, with copper rims and shagreen cases ? A mur- rain 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. ” — | THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. “ Marry, hang the idiot ! ” returned she, “ to bring me such stuff : if I had them I v/ould throw them in the fire.” — “ There again you are wrong, my dear,” cried I ; “ for though they be copper, we will keep them by us, as copper spectacles, you know, are better than nothing. ” By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He now saw that he had been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing his figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I therefore asked the cir- cumstances 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,” con- tinued 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 gentle- man, 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. P'lamborough, and they talked j him up as finely as they did me ; and so i at last we were persuaded to buy the two gross between us.” I CHAPTER XIII. Mr.Burckell is fotcnd io be an Enemy , foi'he has the confidence to give disag7'eeable Adznce. Our family had now made several attempts to be fine ; but some unforeseen disaster demolished each as soon as projected. I endeavoured to take the advantage of every disappointment to improve their good sense, in proportion as they were frustrated in ambition. “You see, my children,” cried I, “ how little is to be got by attempts to impose upon the world in coping with our betters. Such as are poor, and will associate with none but the rich, are hated by those they avoid, and despised by those they follow. Unequal combinations are always disadvantageous j to the weaker side : the rich having the j pleasure, and the poor the inconveniences ^ that result from them. But come, Dick, nry boy, and repeat the fable that you were reading to-day, for the good of the com- pany.” “Once upon a time,” cried the child. ^ I “a Giant and a Dwarf were friends, and kept together. They made a bargain, that they would never forsake each other, but go seek adventures. The first battle they fought was with two Saracens, and the Dwarf, who was very courageous, dealt one of the champions a most angry blow. It did the Saracen very little injury, who, lifting up his sword, fairly struck off the poor Dwarf’s arm. He was now in a woful plight ; but the Giant, coming to his assistance, in a short time left the two Saracens dead on the plain, and the Dwarf cut off the dead man’s head out of spite. They then travelled on another adventure. This was against three bloody-minded Satyrs, who were carrying away a damsel in distress. The Dwarf was not quite so fierce now as before ; but for all that struck the first blow, which was returned by another that knocked out his eye ; but the Giant was soon up with them, and, had they not fled, would certainly have killed them every one. They were all very joy- ful for this victory, and the damsel who was relieved fell in love with the Giant, and married him. They now travelled far, and farther than I can tell, till they met with a company of robbers. The Giant, for the first time, was foremost now ; but the Dwarf was not far behind. The battle was stout and long. Wherever the Giant came, all fell before him ; but the Dwarf had like to have been killed more than once. At last the victory declared for the two adventurers; but the Dwarf lost his leg. The Dwarf had now lost an arm, a leg, and an eye, while the Giant was without a single wound. U pon which he cried out to his little companion, ‘My little hero, this is glorious sport ! let us get one victory more, and then we shall have honour for ever.’ — ‘No,’ cries the Dwarf, who was by this time grown wiser, ‘no, I declare off; I’ll fight no more : for 1 find in every battle that you get all the honours and rewards, but all the blows fall upon me.’ ” I was going to moralize this fable, when our attention was called off to a warm dispute between my wife and Mr. Burchell, upon my daughters’ intended expedition to town. My wife very strenuously insisted upon the advantages that would result from it : Mr. Burchell, on the contrary, THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ,{ 26 s — dissuaded her with great ardour; and I stood neuter. His present dissuasions seemed but the second part of those which were received with so ill a grace in the morning. The dispute grew high ; while poor Deborah, instead of reasoning stronger, talked louder, and at last was obliged to take shelter from a defeat in clamour. The conclusion of her harangue, however, was highly displeasing to us all : she knew, she said, of some who had their own secret reasons for what they advised ; but, for her part, she wished such to stay away from her house for the future. “Madam,” cried Burchell, with looks of great composure, which tended to inflame her the more, “as for secret reasons you are right : I have secret reasons, which I forbear to mention, because you are not able to answer those of which I make no secret: Tut I find my visits here are become troublesome ; I’ll take my leave therefore now, and perhaps come once more to take a final farewell when I am quitting the country.” Thus saying, he took up his hat, nor could the attempts of Sophia, whose looks seemed to upbraid his pre- cipitancy, prevent his going. When gone, we all regarded each other for some minutes with confusion. My wife, who knew herself to be the cause, strove to hide her concern with a forced smile, and an air of assurance, which I was willing to reprove : “ How, wmman, ” cried I to her, “is it thus we treat strangers? Is it thus we return their kindness? Be assured, my dear, that these were the harshest words, and to me the most un- pleasing, that ever escaped your lips ! ” — “Why would he provoke me then?” re- plied she ; “ but I know the motives of his advice perfectly well. He would prevent my girls from going to town, that he may have the pleasure of my youngest daughter's company here at home. But, whatever happens, she shall choose better company than such low-lived fellows as he.” — “Low-lived, my dear, do you call him?” cried I; “it is very possible we may mis- take this man’s character, for he seems, upon some occasions, the most finished gentleman I ever knew. Tell me, Sophia, my girl, has he ever given you any secret instances of his attachment?” — “His con- versation with me, sir,” replied my daugh- ter, “ has ever been sensible, modest, and pleasing. As to aught else — no, never. Once, indeed, I remember to have heard him say, he never knew a woman who could find merit in a man that seemed poor.” — “Such, my dear,” cried I, “is the common cant of ail the unfortunate or idle. But I hope you have been taught to judge properly of such men, and that it would be even madness to expect happiness from one who has been so very bad an economist of his own. Your mother and I have now better prospects for you. The next winter, which you will probably spend in town, will give you opportunities of making a more prudent choice.” Wnat Sophia’s reflections jwere upon this occasion I cannot pretend to deter- mine; but I was not displeased at the bottom that we were rid of a guest from whom I had much to fear. Our breach of hospitality went to my conscience a little ; but I quickly silenced that monitor by two or three specious reasons, which served to satisfy and reconcile me to my- self. The pain which conscience gives the man who has already done wrong is soon got over. Conscience is a coward ; and those faults it has not strength enough to prevent, it seldom has justice enough to accuse. CHAPTER XIV. Fresh Mortifications, or a Demo^lstration. that seeming Calamities may be real Blessings. The journey of my daughters to town was now resolved upon, Mr. Thornhill ‘ having kindly promised to inspect their conduct himself, and inform us by letter of their behaviour. But it was thought indispensably necessary that their appear- ance should equal the greatness of their expectations, which could not be done without expense. 'Y’^e debated therefore in full council what were the easiest ' methods of raising money, or, more properly speaking, what we could most . conveniently sell. The deliberation was soon finished : it was found that our re- maining horse was utterly useless for the plough without his companion, and 1 equally unfit for the road, as wanting an . | eye : it was therefore determined that we THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. should dispose of him for the purpose above mentioned, at the neighbouring fair ; and, to prevent imposition, that I should go with him myself. Though this was one of the first mercantile transactions of my life, yet I had no doubt about ac- quitting myself with reputation. The opinion a man forms of his own prudence is measured by that of the company he keeps : and as mine was most in the family way, I had conceived no unfavour- able sentiments of my worldly wisdom. My wife, however, next morning, at parting, after I had got some paces from the door, called me back to advise me, in a whisper, to have all my eyes about me. I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the fair, put my horse through all his paces, but for some time had no bidders. At last a chapman approached, and after he had for a good while examined the horse round, finding him blind of one eye, he would have nothing to say to him; a second came up, but observing he had a spavin, declared he would not take him for the driving home ; a third per- ceived he had a windgall, and would bid no money ; a fourth knew by his eye that he had the botts ; a fifth wondered 1 what a plague T could do at the fair with ; a blind, spavined, galled hack, that was I only fit to be cut up for a dog kennel. By this time, I began to have a most hearty contempt for the poor animal my- self, and was almost ashamed at the approach of every customer : for though I did not entirely believe all the fellows told me, yet I reflected that the number of witnesses was a strong presumption they were right ; and St. Gregory, upon Good Works, professes himself to be of the same opinion. I was in this mortifying situation, when i a brother clergyman, an old acquaintance, I who had also business at the fair, came I up, and, shaking me by the hand, pro- ' posed adjourning to a public-house, and I ing an alehouse, we were shown into a j little back room, where there was only, a j venerable old man, who sat wholly intent : over a large book, which he was reading. I I never in my life saw a figure that pre- ^7 possessed me more favourably. His locks of silver grey venerably shaded his temples, and his green old age seemed to be the result of health and benevolence. How- ever, his presence did not interrupt our conversation : my friend and I discoursed on the various turns of fortune we had met ; the Whistonian controversy, my last pamphlet, the archdeacon’s reply, and the hard measure that was dealt me. But our attention was in a short time taken off, by the appearance of a youth, who, entering the room, respectfully said some- thing softly to the old stranger. “ Make no apologies, my child,” said the old man ; “ to do good is a duty we owe to all our fellow-creatures : take this, I wish it were more ; but five pounds will relieve your distress, and you are welcome.” The modest youth shed tears of gratitude, and yet his gratitude was scarce equal to mine. I could have hugged the good old man in my arms, his benevolence pleased me so. He continued to read, and we resumed our conversation, until my companion, after some time, recollect- ing that he had business to transact in the fair, promised to be soon back ; adding, that he always desired to have as much of Dr. Primrose’s company as possible. The old gentleman, hearing my name mentioned, seemed to look at me with attention for some time ; and when my friend was gone, most respectfully de- manded if I was any way related to the great Primrose, that courageous monoga- mist, who had been the bulwark of the Church. Never did my heart feel sincerer rapture than at that moment. “Sir,” cried I, “ the applause of so good a man as I am sure you are, adds to that happi- ness in my breast which your benevolence has already excited. You behold before you, sir, that Dr. Primrose, the monoga- mist, whom you have been pleased to call great. You here see that unfortunate divine, who has so long, and it would ill become me to say, successfully, fought against the deuterogamy of the age.” — “ Sir,” cried the stranger-, struck with awe, “ I fear I have been too familiar, but you’ll forgive my curiosity, sir : I beg pardon.”- — “Sir,” cried I, grasping his hand, “ you are so far from displeasing 128 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. me by your familiarity, that I must beg you’ll accept my friendship, as you already have my esteem.” — “ Then with gratitude I accept the offer,” cried he, squeezing me by the hand, “thou glorious pillar of unshaken orthodoxy ! and do I behold ” I here interrupted what he was going to say ; for though, as an author, I could digest no small share of flattery, yet now my modesty would permit no more. However, no lovers in romance ever cemented a more instantaneous friendship. We talked upon several sub- jects : at first I thought he seemed rather devout than learned, and began to think he despised all human doctrines as dross. Yet this no way lessened him in my esteem, for I had for some time begun privately to harbour such an opinion my- self. I therefore took occasion to observe, that the world in general began to be blameably indifferent as to doctrinal matters, and followed human speculations too much. “ Ay, sir,” replied he, as if lie had reserved all his learning to that moment, “ Ay, sir, the world is in its dotage ; and yet the cosmogony, or crea- tion of the world, has puzzled philo- sophers of all ages. What a medley of opinions have they not broached upon the creation of the world ! Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus, have all attempted it in vain. The latter has these words, Anarchon ara kai atelu- taio7i to pan, which imply that all things have neither beginning nor end. Manetho also, who lived about the time of Nebu- chadon-Asser — Asser being a Syriac word, usually applied as a surname to the kings of that country, as Teglat Phael- Asser, Nabon- Asser — he, I say, formed a conjecture equally absurd ; for, as we usually say, ek to biblion kubernetes, which implies that books will never teach the world ; so he attempted to investigate But, sir, I ask pardon, I am straying from the question.” — That he actually was ; nor could I, for my life, see how the creation of the world had anything to do with the business I was talking of ; but it was sufficient to show me that he was a man of letters, aird I now reverenced him the more. I was resolved, therefore, to bring him to the touchstone ; but he was too mild and too gentle to contend for victory. Whenever I made an observa- tion that looked like a challenge to con- troversy, he would smile, shake his head, and say nothing ; by which I understood he could say much, if he thought proper. | The subject, therefore, insensibly changed j from the business of antiquity, to that | which brought us both to the fair : mine, I told him, was to sell a horse, and very luckily, indeed, his was to buy one for one of his tenants. My horse was soon produced ; and, in fine, we struck a bar- gain. Nothing now remained but to pay me, and he accordingly pulled out a thirty pound note, and bid me change it. N ot being in a capacity of complying with this demand, he ordered his footman to be called up, who made his appearance in a very genteel livery. “Here, Abraham,” cried he, “ go and get gold for this ; you’ll do it at neighbour Jackson’s, or any- where.” While the fellow was gone, he entertained me with a pathetic harangue on the great scarcity of silver, which I undertook to improve, by deploring also the great scarcity of gold ; so that, by the time Abraham returned, we had both agreed that money was never so hard to be come at as now. Abraham returned to inform us, that he had been over the whole fair, and could not get change, though he had offered half-a-crown for- doing it. This was a very great disap- pointment to us all; but the old gentle- man, having paused a little, asked me if I knew oire Solomon Flamborough in my part of the country. Upon replying that he was my next door neighbour : “ If that be the case, then,” returned he, “I believe we shall deal. You shall have a draft uporr him, payable at sight ; and, let me tell you, he is as warm a man as any within five miles round him. Honest Solomon and I have been acquainted for many years together. I remember I always beat him at three jumps ; but he could hop on one leg farther than I. ” A draft upon my neighbour was to me the same as money ; "for I was sufficiently convinced of his ability. The draft was signed, and put into my hands, and Mr. , Jenkinson, the old gentleman, his man Abraham, and my horse, old Blackberry, I i trotted off very well pleased with each ' other. j After a short interval, being left to j reflection, I began to recollect that I had 1 done wrong in taking a draft from a : stranger, and so prudently resolved upon following the purchaser, and having back 1 my horse. But this was now too late ; I I therefore made directly homewards, re- I solving to get the draft changed into money at my friend’s as fast as possible. I found my honest neighbour smoking his pipe at his own door, and informing him that I had a small bill upon him, he read it twice over. “You can read the name, I suppose,” cried I, — -“Ephraim Jenkin- son.” — “Yes,” returned he, “the name is written plain enough, and I know the gentleman too, — the greatest rascal under the canopy of heaven. This is the very same rogue who sold us the spectacles. Was he not a venerable-looking man, with grey hair, and no flaps to his pocket- holes ? And did he not talk a long string of learning about Greek, and cosmogony, and the world ? ” To this I replied with j a groan. “Ay,” continued he, “he has but that one piece of learning in the world, and he always talks it away when- ever he finds a scholar in company ; but I know the rogue, and will catch him yet.” Though I was already sufficiently mor- tified, my greatest struggle was to come, in facing my wife and daughters. No truant was ever more afraid of returning to school, there to behold the master’s I visage, than I was of going home. I was I determined, however, to anticipate their ; fury, by first falling into a passion myself. I But, alas ! upon entering, I found the ; family no way disposed for battle. My wife- and giids were all in tears, Mr. Thorn- * hill having been there that day to inform them that their journey to town was en- tirely over. The two ladies, having heard reports of us from some malicious person about us, were that day set out for London. He could neither discover the tendency j nor the author of these ; but whatever they ■ might be, or whoever might have broached them,^ he continued to assure our family of nis friendship and protection. I found, therefore, that they bore my disappoint- : with great resignation, as it was 29 eclipsed in the greatness of their own. But what perplexed us most, was to think who could be so base as to asperse the cha- racter of a family so harmless as ours ; too humble to excite envy, and too inoffensive to create disgust. CHAPTER XV. All Mr. BiirchelVs Villany at once detected. The Folly of being overwise. That evening, and a part of the follow- ing day, was employed in fruitless attempts to discover our enemies ; scarcely a family in the neighbourhood but incurred our suspicions, and each of us had reasons for our opinions best known to ourselves. As we were in this perplexity, one of our little boys, who had been playing abroad, brought in a letter-case, which he found on the green. It was quickly known to belong to Mr.Burchell, with whom it had been seen, and, upon examination, con- tained some hints upon different subjects; but what particularly engaged our atten- tion was a sealed note, superscribed, “ The copy of a letter to be sent to the ladies at Thornhill Castle. ” It instantly occurred that he was the base informer, and we deliberated whether the note should not be broken open. I was against it; but Sophia, who said she was sure that of all men he would be the last to be guilty of so much baseness, insisted upon its being read. In this she was seconded by the rest of the family, and at their joint solici- tation I read as follows ; — “ Ladies, — The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to the person from whom this comes : one at least the friend of inno- cence, and ready to prevent its being se- duced. I am informed for a truth, that you have some intention of bringing two young ladies to town, whom I have some knowledge of, under the character of companions. As I would neither have simplicity imposed upon, nor virtue con- taminated, I must offer it as my opinion, that the impropriety of such a step will be attended with dangerous consequences. It has never been my way to treat the infamous or the lewd with severity; nor should I now have taken this method of explaining myself, or reproving folly, did it not aim at guilt. Take, therefore, the THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 1 30 admonition of a friend, and seriously re- flect on the consequences of introducing infamy and vice into retreats where peace and innocence have hitherto resided.” Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed, indeed, something applicable to both sides in this letter, and its censures might as well be referred to those to whom it was written, as to us; but the malicious meaning was obvious, and we went no farther. My wife had scarcely patience to hear me to the end, but railed at the writer with unrestrained resentment. Olivia was equally severe, and Sophia seemed per- fectly amazed at his baseness. As for my part, it appeared to me one of the vilest instances of unprovoked ingratitude I had ever met with ; nor could I account for it in any other manner, than by imputing it to his desire of detaining my youngest daughter in the country, to have the more frequent opportunities of an interview. In this manner we all sat ruminating upon schemes of vengeance, when our other little boy came running in to tell us that Mr. Burchell was approaching at the other end of the field. It is easier to conceive than describe the complicated sensations which are felt from the pain of a recent injury, and the pleasure of approaching vengeance. Though our intentions were only to upbraid him with his ingratitude, yet it was resolved to do it in a manner that wmuld be perfectly cutting. For this purpose we agreed to meet him with our usual smiles ; to chat in the beginning with more than ordinary kindness, to amuse him a little ; and then, in the midst of the flattering calm, to burst upon him like an earthquake, and overwhelm him with a sense of his own baseness. This being resolved upon, my wife undertook to manage the business herself, as she really had some talents for such an under- taking. We saw him approach ; he en- tered, drew a chair, and sat down. “ A fine day, Mr. Burchell.” — “A very fine day. Doctor ; though I fancy we shall have some rain by the shooting of my corns.” — “ The shooting of your horns ! ” cried my wife, in a loud fit of laughter, and then asked pardon for being fond of a joke. “ Dear madam,” replied he, “ I pardon you with all my heart, for I protest I should not have thought it a joke had you not told me.” — “Perhaps not, sir,” cried | my wife, winking at us; “ and yet I dare ' say you can tell us how many jokes go to an ounce. — “I fancy, madam,” 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 under- standing.” — “I believe you might,” cried my wife, still smiling at us, though the laugh was against her ; “ and yet I have seen some men pretend to understanding that have very little.” — “And no doubt,” returned her antagonist, “you have known 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 resolved to treat him in a style of more severity myself “ Both wit and understanding,” cried I, “are trifles, with- out integrity ; it is that which gives value to every character. The ignorant peasant without fault, is greater than the philoso- pher with many ; for what is genius or courage without an heart ? “ ‘ An honest man’s the noblest work of God.' ” “ I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope,” returned Mr. Burchell, “as very unworthy a man of genius, and a base desertion of his own superiority. As the reputation of books is raised, not by their freedom from defect, but the greatness of their beauties ; so should that of men be prized, not for their exception from fault, but the size of those virtues they are pos- sessed of The scholar may want prudence, the statesman may have pride, and the champion ferocity ; but shall we prefer to these the low mechanic, who laboriously plods through life without censure or applause ? We might as well prefer the tame correct paintings of the Flemish school to the erroneous but sublime ani- mations of the Roman pencil.” “ Sir,” replied I, “your present obser- vation is just, when there are shining vir- tues and minute defects ; but when it appears that great vices are opposed in the same mind to as extraordinary virtues, such a character deserves contempt.” ( “Perhaps,” cried he, “there may bej some such monsters as you describe, ofj THE VICAR OF WAKEFIIiLD. 31 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 vrhere the mind was capacious, the affections were good. And indeed Providence seems kindly our friend in this particular, thus to debilitate the understanding where the heart is corrupt, and diminish the power where there is the will to do mischief. This rule seems to extend even to other animals : the little vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel, and cowardly, whilst those endowed with strength and power are generous, brave, and gentle.” “These observations sound well,” re- turned I, “ and yet it would be easy this moment tO' point out a man, ” and I fixed my eye stedfastly upon him, “ whose head and heart form a most detestable contrast. Ay, sir,” continued I, raising my voice, “ and I am glad to have this opportunity of detecting him in the midst of his fancied security. Do you know this, sir, this pocket-book?” — ^“Yes, sir,” returned he, with a face of impenetrable assurance, “that pocket-book is mine, and I am glad you have found it. ” — “ And do you know,” cried I, “ this letter? Nay, never falter, man ; but look me full in the face : I say, do you know this letter ? ” — ■ “ That letter ? ” returned he ; “ yes, it was I that wrote that letter.” — “ And how could you,” said I, “so basely, so ungrate- fully 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 his door.” This piece of unexpected insolence raised me to such a pitch, that I could scarcely govern my passion. “Un- grateful wretch ! begone, and no longer pollute my dwelling with thy baseness ! begone, and never let me see thee again ! Go from my door, and the only punishment 1 wish thee is an alarmed conscience, which will be a sufficient tormentor ! ” I threw him his pocket-book, which he took up with a smile, and shut- ting the clasps with the utmost composure, , left us, quite astonished at the serenity of his assurance. My wife was particularly enraged that nothing could make him angry, or make him seem ashamed of his villanies. “My dear,” cried I, willing to calm those passions that had been raised too high among us, “we are not to be surprised that bad men want shame : they only blush at being detected in doing good, but glory in their vices. “ Guilt and Shame, says the allegory, were at first companions, and, in the be- ginning of their journey, inseparably kept together. But their union was soon found to be disagreeable and inconvenient to both. Guilt gave Shame frequent un- easiness, and Shame often betrayed the secret conspiracies of Guilt. After long disagreement, therefore, they at length consented to part for ever. Guilt boldly walked forward alone, to overtake Fate, that went before in the shape of an exe- cutioner ; but Shame, being naturally timorous, returned back to keep company with Virtue, which in the beginning of their journey they had left behind. Thus, my children, after men have travelled through a few stages in vice. Shame for- sakes them, and returns back to wait upon the few virtues they have still remaining. ” CHAPTER XVI. The Family use Art, which is oHosed with still greater. Whatever might have been Sophia’s sensations, 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 pro- curing 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 fol- lowed 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 acquainted. He could repeat all the observations that were retailed in the atmosphere of the play- houses, and had all the jjood thirigs of the THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 32 higli wits by rote, long before they made their way into the jest books. The inter- vals between conversation were employed in teaching my daughters piquet, or some- times 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 im- ‘perfections. It must be owned, that my wife laid a thousand schemes to entrap him ; or, to speak more tenderly, used every art to magnify the merit of her daughter. If the cakes at tea eat short and crisp, they were made by Olivia ; if the gooseberry wine was well knit, the gooseberries were of her gathering : it was her fingers which gave the pickles their peculiar green ; and, in the composition of a pudding, it was her judgment that mixed the ingredients. Then the poor woman would sometimes tell the Squire, that she thought him and Olivia ex- tremely of a size, and would bid both stand up to see which was tallest. These instances of cunning, which she thought impenetrable, yet which everybody saw through, were very pleasing to our bene- factor, 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 native bashfulness, and sometimes to his fear of offending his uncle. An oc- currence, however, which happened soon after, put it beyond a doubt that he de- signed to become one of our family ; my wife even regarded it as an absolute j promise. I My wife and > daughters happening to I return a visit at neighbour Flamborough’s, I found that family had lately got their pic- tures drawn by a limner, who travelled the country, and took likenesses for fifteen shil- lings 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 do? — our next delibe- ration was to show the superiority of our taste in the attitudes. As for our neigh- bour’s family, there were seven of them, and they were drawn with seven oranges, — a thing quite out of taste, no variety in life, no composition in the world. We desired to have something in a brighter style ; and, after many debates, at length came to a unanimous resolution of being drawn to- gether, in one large historical family piece. This would be cheaper, since one frame would serve for all, and it would be infi- nitely more genteel ; for all families of any taste were now drawn in the same manner. As we did not immediately recollect an his- torical subject to hit us, we were contented each with being drawn as independent historical figures. My wife desired to be represented as Venus, and the painter was desired not to be too frugal of his diamonds in her stomacher and hair. Her two little ones were to be as Cupids by her side ; while I, in my gown and band, was to present her with my books on the Whistonian controversy. Olivia would be drawn as an Amazon, sitting upon a bank of flowers, dressed in a green joseph, richly laced with gold, and a whip in her hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep as the painter could put in for nothing; and Moses was to be dressed out with a hat and white feather. Our taste so much pleased the Squire, that he in- sisted on being put in as one of the family, in the character of Alexander the Great, at Olivia’s feet. This was 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 there- fore set to work, and, as he wrought with assiduity and expedition, in less than four days the whole was completed. The piece was large, and, it must be owned, he did not spare his colours ; for which my wife gave him great encomiums. We were all perfectly satisfied with his performance ; but an unfortunate circumstance which had not occurred till the picture was finished, now struck us with dismay. It was so very large, that we had no place in the house to fix it. How we all came to disregard so material a point is incon- ceivable; 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. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. against the kitchen wall, where the can- vas 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 bot- tle : some wondered how it could be got out, but still more were amazed how it ever got in. But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effectually raised more malicious suggestions in many. The Squire’s por- trait being found united with ours was an honour too great to escape envy. Scan- dalous whispers began to circulate at our expense, and our tranquillity was con- tinually disturbed 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 scandal ever improves by opposition. We once again, therefore, entered into a consultation upon obviating the malice of our enemies, and at last came to a reso- lution 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 un- dertook to sound him, by pretending to ask his advice in the choice of a husband for her eldest daughter. If this was not found sufficient to induce him to a declaration, it was then resolved to terrify him with a rival. To this last step, however, I would by no means give my consent, till Olivia gave me the most solemn assurances that she would marry the person provided to rival him upon this occasion, if he did not prevent it by taking her himself. Such was the scheme laid, which, though I did not strenuously oppose, I did not entirely approve. The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill came to see us, my girls took care to be out of the way, in order to give their mamma an opportunity of putting her scheme in execution ; but they only retired to tlm next room, from whence they could overhear the whole conversation. My e artfully introduced it, by observing. Miss Flamboroughs was 1 0 to have a very good match of it in r- 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. Thorn- hill ? 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 ap- prove the justice, as well as the novelty, of your remarks ; and if I were a king, it should be otherwise. It should then, in- deed, 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 recom- mend 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 accomplishment that can make an angel happy. One with prudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity ; such, madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper husband.” — “Ay, sir,” said she, “but do you know of any such person ? ” — “No, madam,” re- turned he, “ it is impossible to know any person that deserves to be her husband : she’s too great a treasure for one man’s pos- session; she’s a goddess ! Upon my soul, I speak what I think— -she’s an angel ! ” — “ Ah, Mr. 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; awarmman, Mr.Thom- hill, able to give her good bread, and who has several 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 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. it the blessing! Excuse me, I can, never approve of such a piece of injustice. And I have my reasons.” — “Indeed, sir,” cried Deborah, ‘ ‘ if you have your reasons, that’s another affair ; but I should be glad to know those reasons.” — “Excuse me, madam,” returned he, “they lie too deep for discovery” (laying his hand upon his bosom) ; “ they remain buried, rivetted here.” After he was gone, upon a general con- sultation, we could not tell what to make of these fine sentiments. Olivia considered them as instances of the most exalted pas- sion ; but I was not quite so sanguine : it seemed to me pretty plain, that they had more of love than matrimony in them ; yet, whatever they might portend, it was re- solved to prosecute the scheme of Farmer Williams, who, from my daughter’s first appearance in the country, had paid her his addresses. CHAPTER XVII. Scarcely any VirUie fotmd to resist the 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 en- couragement to revive his former passion ; so that in an evening or two he and Mr. Thornhill met at our house, and surveyed each other for some time with looks of anger ; but Williams owed his landlord no rent, and little regarded his indignation. Olivia, on her side, acted the coquette to perfection, if that might be called acting which washer real character, pretending to lavish all her tenderness on her new lover. Mr. Thornhill appeared quite dejected at this preference, and with a pensive air took leave, though I own it puzzled me to find him in so much pain as he appeared to be, when he had it in his power so easily to remove the cause, by declaring an honour- able passion . But whatever uneasiness he seemed to endure, it could easily be per- ceived that Olivia’s anguish was still greater. After any of these interviews between her lovers, of which there were several, 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 permits the rivalry of another, every way his inferior, though he knows it lies in his power to secure you to himself by a candid declaration.”— “Yes, papa,” returned she ; “ but he has his rea- sons for this delay : I know he has. The sincerity of his looks and words convinces me of his real esteem. A short time, I hope, will discover the generosity of his senti- ments, and convince you that my opinion of him has been more just than yours.” — “ Olivia, my darling, ” returned I, “ every scheme that has been hitherto pursued to compel him to a declaration has been pro- posed 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 re- quire to bi'ing your fancied admirer to an explanation shall be granted ; but at the expiration of that term, if he is still regard- less, Imust absolutely insist thathonestMr. Williams shall be rewarded for his fidelity. The character which I have hitherto sup- ported in life demands this from me, and my tenderness as a parent shall never in- fluence 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. Thornhill know the exact time on which I design delivering you up to another. If he really loves you, his own good sense will readily suggest that there is but one method alone to prevent his losing you for ever.” This proposal, which she could not avoid considering as perfectly just, was readily agreed to. She again re- newed her most positive promise of marry- ing Mr. Williams, in case of the other’s in- sensibility; 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: butwhai Olivia really felt gave me some uneasiness. In this struggle between prudence and pas- sion, her vivacity quite forsook her, and every opportunity of solitude was sought. THE VICAR 'and spent in tears. One week passed away; but Mr. Thornhill made no efforts to restrain her nuptials. The succeeding week he was still assiduous ; but not more open. On the third, he discontinued 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 osten- tation. It was within about four days of her in- tended nuptials, that my little family at night were gathered round a charming fire, telling stories of the past, and laying schemes for the future : busied in forming a thousand projects, and laughing at what- everfolly came uppermost. “ W ell, Moses, ” cried I, “we shall soon, my boy, have a wedding in the family: what is your opinion of matters and things in general?” — “ My opinion, father, is, that all things go on very well ; and I was just now 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 j bargain.” — “He has taught that song to our Dick,” cried Moses; “and I think he goes through it very prettily.” — “ Does he so?” cried I; “then let us have it : where is little Dick ? let him up with it boldly.” ' — “ My brother Dick,” cried Bill, my youngest, “ is j ust gone out with sister Livy : but Mr. Williams has taught me two songs, and I’ll sing them for you, papa. Which song do you choose, ‘The Dying Swan,’ or the* Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog?’” ”The ele gy, child, by all means, ” said ; t ; I never heard that yet : and Deborah, I any life, grief, you know, is dry; let us have ; a bottle of the best gooseberry wine, to I up our spirits. I have wept so much ; sorts of elegies of late, that without I enlivening glass I am sure this will , overcome me ; and Sophy, love, take I guitar, and thrum in with the boy a WAKEFIELD. 35 AN ELEG\^ ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song. And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man. Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran. Whene’er he went to pray. 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, i The dog, to gain some private ends, i Went mad, and bit the man. I Around from all the neighbouring streets ■ The wond’ring neighbours ran, i And swore the dog had lost his wits, t 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 he sings, I make no doubt of him. The most of his family, by the mother’s side, could sing a good song : it was a common say- ing in our country, that the family of the Blenkinsops could never look straight be- fore them, nor the Hugginsons blow out a candle ; that there were none of the Gro- grams but could sing a song, or of the Mar- jorams but could tell a stoiy.” — “ How- ever 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 I36 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. hr ■give the sensible part of mankind very little jpain. A lady loses her muff, her fan, or Iher lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs 'home to versify the disaster.” “That may be the mode,” cried Moses, “ in sublimer compositions : but the Rane- lagh songs that come down to us are per- fectly familiar, and all cast in the same mould : Colin meets Dolly, and they hold a dialogue together ; he gives her a fairing to put in her hair, and she presents him with a nosegay; and then they go together to 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 per- suades us to marry, it also furnishes us with a wife ; and surely that must be an excel- lent market, m.y boy, where we are told what we want, and supplied with it when wanting.” “Yes, sir,” returned Moses, “and I know but of two such markets for wives in Europe, — Ranelagh in England, and Fontarabia in Spain. The Spanish mar- ket is open once a year ; but our English 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 manage their husbands,” interrupted I. “It is a proverb abroad, that if a bridge were built across the sea, all the ladies of the Continent would come over to take pattern from ours ; for there are no such wives in Europe as our own. But let us have one bottle more, Deborah, my life ; and, Moses, give us a good song. What thanks do we not owe to Heaven for thus bestowing tranquillity, health, and competence ! I think myself happier now than the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such fireside, nor such pleasant faces about it. Y es, Deborah, we are now growing old ; but the evefting of our life is likely to be happy. We are descended from ancestors that knew no stain, and we shall leave a good and virtuous race of chil- dren behind us. While we live, they will be our support and our pleasure here ; and when we die, they will transmit our honour untainted to posterity. Come, my son, we wait for a song : let us have a chorus. But where is my darling Olivia ? that little cherub’s voice is always sweetest in the concert.” Just as I spoke Dick came running in. “ O papa, papa, she is gone from us, she is gone from us ; my sister Livy is gone from us for ever !” — “ Gone, child ! ” — “ Y es, she is gone off with two gentlemen in a post-chaise, and one of them kissed her, and said he would die for her : and she cried very much, and was for coming back ; but he persuaded her again, and she went into the chaise, and said, ‘ Oh, what will my poor papa do when he knows I am undone !’” — -“Now, then,” cried I, “ my children, go and be miser- able ; for we shall never enjoy one hour more. And oh, 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 infa- mous ; for my heart is broken within me ! ” — “ Father,” cried my son, “is this your fortitude?”' — “Fortitude, child? — yes, ye shall see I have fortitude ! Bring me my pistols. I’ll pursue the traitor — wdrile he is on earth I’ll pursue him. Old as I am, he shall find I can sting him yet. The vil- lain — the perfidious villain ! ” I had by this time reached down my pistols, when my poor wife, whose passions w'ere 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,” resumed my son, after a pause, “ your rage is too violent and un- becoming. You should be my mother’s comforter, and you increase her pain. It ill suited you and your reverend character thus to curse your greatest enemy : you should not have cursed him, villain as he is.” — “ I did not curse him child, did I?” — “ Indeed, sir, you did ; you cursed him twice.”— “ Then may Heaven forgive me and him if I did ! And now, my son, I see it was more than human benevolence THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 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 distress that can wring tears from these old eyes, that have not wept for so many years. Mv child ! to undo my darling ! — May con- fusion seize Heaven forgive me ! what am I about to say ! —you may remember, my love, how good she was, 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 con- straint put upon her affections. The vile strumpet has basely deserted her parents without any provocation, thus to bring your gray hairs to the grave; and I must j shortly follow.” In this manner that night, the first of our real misfortunes, was spent in the bit- terness of complaint, and ill-supported sallies of enthusiasm. I determined, how- ever, 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 cheerfulness to us all. My wife, as before, attempted to ease her heart by re- proaches. “Never,” cried she, “shall that vilest stain of our family again darken these harmless doors. I will never call her daugh- ter more. No, let the strumpet live with j fier vile seducer : she may bring us to I s.iame, but she shall never more deceive i us.” Wife,” saidI,“do not talk thus hardly: niy detestation of her guilt is as great as yours ; but ever shall this house and this leart be open to a poor returning repentant sinner. The sooner she returns from her ransgressions, the more welcome shall she j ^ ° rne. For the first time the very best 371 ,1 may err ; art may persuade, and novelty ; spread out its charm. The first fault is the child of simplicity, but every other, the off- spring of guilt. Y es, the wretched creature shall be welcome to this heart and this house, though stained vdth ten thousand vices. I will again hearken to the music of her voice, again will I hang fondly on her bosom, if I find but repentance there. My son, bring hither my Bible and my staff : I will pursue her, wherever she is ; and though I cannot save her from shame, I may prevent the continuance of iniquity.” CHAPTER XVHI. The Pursuit of a Father to reclahii (i Lost Child , to Virtue. Though the child could not describe the gentleman’s person who handed his sister into the post-chaise, yet my suspicions fell entirely upon our young landlord, whose character for such intrigues was but too well known. I therefore directed my steps towards Thornhill Castle, resolving j 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 guess to be Mr. Burchell, and that they drove very fast. This infor- ^ mation, however, did by no means satisfy | me. I therefore went to the young Squire’s, I and, though it was yet early, insisted upon seeing him immediately. He soon ap- : peared with the most open familiar air, and seemed perfectly amazed 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 pri- vate conferences with her ; but the appear- ance of another witness left me no room to doubt his villany, who averred, that he and my daughter were actually gone towards the Wells, about thirty miles off, where there was a great deal of company. Being driven to that state of mind in which we all are more ready to act precipitately than to reason right, I never debated with ‘ myself whether these accounts might not i 38 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. have been given by persons purposely placed in my v'ay to mislead me, but re- solved to pursue my daughter and her fancied deluder thither. I walked along with earnestness, and inquired of several by the way ; but received no accounts, till, entering the town, I was met by a person on horseback, whom I remembered to have seen at the Squire’s, and he assured me that if I followed them to the races, which were but thirty miles farther, I might 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. Early the next day, I walked forward to the races, and about four in the afternoon I came upon the course. The company ihade a very brilliant appearance, all earnestly em- ployed in one pursuit,— that of pleasure: how different from mine, — that of reclaim- ing a lost child to virtue ! I thought I per- ceived Mr. Burchell at some distance from me ; but, as if he dreaded an interview, upon my approaching him he mixed among a crowd, and I saw him no more. I now reflected that it would be to no purpose to continue my pursuit farther, and resolved to return home to an innocent family, who wanted my assistance. But the agitations of my mind, and the fatigues I had undergone, threw me into a fever, the symptoms of which I perceived before I came off the course. This was another unexpected stroke, as I was more than seventy miles distant from home : however, I retired to a little alehouse by the road- side ; and in this place, the usual retreat of indigence and frugality, I laid me down patiently to wait the issue of my disorder. I languished here for 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. Paul’s Churchyard, 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 immediately recol- lected this good-natured man’s red pimpled face ; for he had published for me against the Deuterogamists of the age ; and from him I borrowed a few pieces, to be paid at my return. Leaving the inn, therefore, as I was yet but weak, I resolved to retuim home by easy journeys of ten miles a day. My health and usual tranquillity were almost restored, and I now condemned that pride which had made me refractory to the hand of correction. Man little knows what calamities are beyond his patience to bear, till he tries them : as in ascending the heights of ambition, which look bright from below, every step we rise shows us some new and gloomy prospect of hidden disappointment ; so in our descent from the summits of pleasure, though the vale of misery below may appear at first dark and gloomy, yet the busy mind, still attentive to its own amusement, finds, as we descend, something to flatter and to please. Still as we approach, the darkest objects appear to brighten, and the mental eye becomes adapted to its gloomy situa- tion. I now proceeded forward, and had walked about two hours, when I perceived what appeared at a distance like a waggon, which I was resolved to overtake ; but when I came up with it, found it to be a strolling company’s cart, that was carrying their scenes and other theatrical furniture to the next village, where they were to exhibit. The cart was attended only by the person w'ho 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 con- versation with the poor player ; and as I once had some theatrical pow'ers myself, I disserted on such topics with my usual freedom: but as I was pretty much un- acquainted 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 1 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. modern dramatists would think thegi^aekres much honoured, by being compared to the writers you mention. Dryden’s and Rowe’s manner, sir, are quite out of fashion ; our taste has gone back a whole century; Fletchei', Ben Jonson, and all the plays of Shakespeare are the only things that go down.” — “How,” cried I, “is it possible the present age can be pleased with that antiquated dialect, that obsolete humour, those overcharged characters, which abound in the works you mention?” — “Sir,” returned my companion, “the public think nothing about dialect or humour, or character, for that is none of their business ; they only go to be amused, and find themselves happy when they can enjoy a pantomime, under the sanction of Jonson’s or Shakespeare’s name.” — ^“So then, Isuppose,” cried I, “that our modern dramatists are rather imitators of Shake- speare than of nature.” — “To say the truth,” returned my companion, “I don’t know that they imitate anything at all ; nor, indeed, does the public require it of them ; it is not the composition of the piece, but the number of starts and attitudes that may be introduced 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 wmrks of Congreve and P'arquhar 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 j company was arrived at the village, which, j it seems, had been apprised of our ap- j proach, and was come out to gaze at us ; j for my companion observed, that strollers j always have more spectators without doors 1 than within. I did not consider the impro- priety of my being in such company, till ' I saw a mob gather about me. I therefore j took shelter, as fast as possible, in the first , alehouse that offered ; and being shown , into the common room, was accosted by ; a very well-dressed gentleman, who de- , inanded whether I was the real chaplain of the company, or whether it wms only to , e my masquerade character in the play ? ' informing him of the truth, and iS't I did not belong, in any sort, to the j ‘^^^pany, he was condescending enough ^ to desire me and the player to partake in a bowl of punch, over which he discussed modern politics with great earnestness and interest. I set him down, in my own mind, for nothing less than a parliament- man at least ; but was almost confirmed in my conjectures, when, upon asking what there was in the house for supper, he insisted that the player and I should sup with him at his house ; with which request, after some entreaties, we were prevailed on to comply. CHAPTER XIX. The description of a person discontented with the present Government, and apprehensive of the loss of our liberties. The house where we were to be enter- tained lying at a small distance from the village, our inviter observed, that as the coach was not ready, he would conduct us on foot ; and we soon arrived at one of the most magnificent mansions I had seen in that part of the country. The apartment into which we were shown was perfectly elegant and modern : he went to give orders for supper, while the player, with a wink, observed that we were perfectly in luck. Our entertainer soon returned ; an elegant supper was brought in ; two or three ladies in easy dishabille were intro- duced, and the conversation began with some sprightliness. 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, re- plying in the negative, “ What ! nor the Auditor, I suppose ? ” cried he. “ N either, sir,” returned I. “That’s strange, very strange ! ” replied my entertainer. “Now, I read all the politics that come out : the Daily, the Public, the Ledger, the Chronicle, the London Evening, the Whitehall Evening, the seventeen Maga- zines, and the two Reviews ; and, though they hate each other, I love them all. Liberty, sir, liberty is the Briton’s boast ! and, by all my coal-mines in Cornwall, I reverence its guardians. ” — “ Then, it is to be hoped,” cried I, “you reverence the king?” — “Yes,” returned my entertainer, “when he does what we would have him; THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. but if he goes on as he has done of late, I’ll never trouble myself more with his matters. I say nothing. I think, only, I could have directed some things better. I don’t think there has been a sufficient number of advisers : he should advise with every person willing to give him advice, and then we should have things done in another guess manner.” “ I wish, ” cried I, “ that such intruding advisers were fixed in the pillory. It should be the duty of honest men to assist the weaker side of our constitution, that sacred power that has for some years been every day declining, and losing its due share of influence in the state. But these ignorants still continue the same cry of liberty, and, if they have any weight, basely throw it into the subsiding scale.” “ How ! ” cried one of the ladies, “ do I live to see one so base, so sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, and a defender of ty- rants ? Liberty, that sacred gift of Heaven, that glorious privilege of Britons ! ” “Can it be possible,” cried our enter- tainer, “ that there should be any found at present advocates for slavery? Any who are for meanly giving up the privileges of Britons? Can any, sir, be so abject?” “No, sir,” replied I, “I am for liberty ! that attribute of gods ! Glorious liberty ! that theme of modern 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 com- munity, where all should be equally free. But, alas ! it would never answer : for there were some among them stronger, and some more cunning, than others, and these became masters of the rest ; foi', as sure as your groom rides your horses, be- cause he is a cunninger animal than they, so surely will the animal that is cunninger or stronger than he, sit upon his shoulders in turn. Since, then, it is entailed upon humanity to submit, and some are born to command and others to obey, the question is, as there must be tyrants, whether it is better to have them in the same house with us, or in the same village, or, still farther off, in the metropolis. Now, sir, } for my own part, as I naturally hate the : face of a tyrant, the farther off he is re- moved from me the better pleased am I. The generality of mankind also are of my way of thinking, and have unanimously created one king, whose election at once diminishes the number of tyrants, and puts tyranny at the greatest distance from the greatest number of people. Now, the great, who were tyrants themselves before , the election of one tyrant, are naturally averse to a power raised over them, and whose weight must ever lean heaviest on the subordinate orders. It is the intei'est of the great, therefore, to diminish kingly power as much as possible ; because, what- ever they take from that is naturally re- stored to themselves ; and all they have to do in the state is to undermine the single tyrant, by w'hich they resume their primeval authority. 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 carrying on this business of undermining monarchy. For, in the first place, if the circumstances of our state be such as to favour the ac- cumulation of W'ealth, and make the opu- lent still more rich, this will increase their ambition. An accumulation of wealth, however, must necessarily be the conse- quence, when, as at present, more riches flow in from external commerce than arise from internal industry ; for external com- merce can only be managed to advantage by the rich, and they have also at the same time all the emoluments arising from in- ternal 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 contri- bute to the accumulation of w'ealth; as when, by their means, the natural ties that bind the richandpoor 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 counsellors, merely from a defect of opulence, and wealth is thus made the object of a wise man’s ambition : by these THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 41 means, I say, and such means as these, riches will accumulate. Now, the pos- sessor of accumulated wealth, when fur- nished with the necessaries and pleasures of life, has no other method to employ the superfluity of his fortune but in purchasing power. That is, differently speaking, in making dependants, by purchasing the liberty of the needy or the venal, of men who are willing to bear the mortification of contiguous tyranny for bread. Thus each very opulent man generally gathers round him a circle of the poorest of the people ; and the polity abounding in ac- cumulated wealth may be compared to a Cartesian system, each orb with a vortex of its own. Those, however, who are willing to move in a great man’s vortex, are only such as must be slaves, the rab- ble of mankind, whose souls and whose education are adapted to servitude, and who know nothing of liberty except the name. But there must still be a large number of the people without the sphere of the opulent man’s influence ; namely, that order of men which subsists between the very rich and the very rabble ; those men who are possessed of too large for- tunes to submit to the neighbouring man in power, and yet are too poor to set up for tyranny themselves. In this middle order of mankind are generally to be found : all the arts, wisdom, and virtues of society. This order alone is known to be the true preserver of fi-eedom, and may be called THE PEOPLE. Now, jt 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 sufficient upon forming the consti- tution, it is evident that great numbers of the rabble wdll thus be introduced into the political system, and they, ever moving in the vortex of the great, will follow where ^eatness shall direct. In such a state, therefore, all that the middle order has left , IS to preserve the prerogative and privileges 1 ®f the one principal governor with the most 1 sacred circumspection. For he divides the power of the rich, and calls off the great ^ rom falling with tenfold weight on the middle order placed beneath them. The middle order may be compared to a town of which the opulent are forming the siege, and of which the governor from without is hastening the relief. While the besiegers are in dread of an enemy over them, it is but natural to offer the townsmen the most specious terms ; to flatter them with sounds, and amuse them with privileges ; but if they once defeat the governor from behind, the walls of the town will be but a small defence to its inhabitants. What they may then expect, may be seen by turning our eyes to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, where the 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 anything sacred amongst men, it must be the anointed Sovereign of his people ; and every di- minution of his power, in war or in peace, is an infringement upon the I'eal 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 doing more. I have known many of these pre- tended champions for liberty in my time, yet do I not remember one that was not in his heart and in his family a tyrant. ” My warmth, I found, had lengthened this harangue beyond the rules of good breeding ; but the impatience of my en- tertainer, 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 Wilkin- son.” I now found I had gone too far, and asked pardon for the warmth with which I had spoken. “ Pardon ! ” re- turned he, in a fiiry : “ I think such prin- ciples demand ten thousand pardons. What ! give up liberty, property, and, as the Gazetteer says, lie down to be saddled with wooden shoes ! Sir, I insist upon your marching out of this house immediately, to prevent worse consequences : sir, I insist upon it. ” I was going to repeat my remon- strances, but just then we heard a foot- man’s rap at the door, and the two ladies cried out, “ As sure as death, there is our master and mistress come home ! ” It THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. I 142 seems my entertainer was all this while only the butler, who, in his master’s ab- sence, 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 exceed 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.” How- ever 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 designed to be married to my son- George, but whose match was broken off, as already related. As soon as she saw m.e, she flew to my arms with the utmost joy. “ My dear sir,” cried she, “ to M^hat happy accident is it that we owe so unex- pected a visit ? I am sure my uncle and aunt will be in raptures when they find they have the good Dr. Primrose for their guest.” Plpon hearing my name, the old gentleman and lady very politely stepped up, and welcomed me with most cordial hospitality. Nor could they forbear smil- ing, upon being informed of the nature of my present visit : but the unfortunate but- ler, whom they at first seemed disposed to turn away, was at my intercession forgiven. Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, now insisted upon having the pleasure of my stay for some days ; and as their niece, my charming pupil, whose mind in some measure had been formed under my own 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 modern manner. After some time spent in pointing out the beau- ties 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 fireside at Wakefield. My little family are now dispersing very fast, and poverty has brought not only want, but in- famy upon us. ” The good-natured 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 matches that had been made her : since our leaving her part of the country. I She led me round all the extensive improve- I ments of the place, pointing to the several walks and arbours, and at the same time catching from every object a hint for some new question relative to my son. In this manner we spent the forenoon, till the bell summoned us in to dinner, where we found the manager of the strolling company that I mentioned before, who was come to dis- pose of tickets for the Fair Penitent, which was to be acted that evening : the part of i Horatio by a young gentleman who had ! never appeared on any stage. He seemed to be very warm in the praise of the new performer, and averred that he never saw any who bid so fair for excellence. Act- ing, 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 jour- ney down.” This account in some measure excited our curiosity, and, at the entreaty of the ladies, I was prevailed upon to ac- company them to the play-house, which was no other than a barn. As the com- pany with which I went was incontestably the chief of the place, we were received wdth the greatest respect, and placed in the front seat of the theatre, where we sat for some time with no small impatience to see Horatio make his appearance. The new performer advanced at last •, and let parents think of my sensations by their own, w-hen I found it was my unfortunate son ! He was going to begin ; when, turn- ing his eyes upon the audience, he per- THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 43 ceived Miss Wilmot and me, and stood at once speechless and immoveable. The actors behind the scene, who ascribed this pause to his natural timidity, attempted to encourage him ; but instead of going on, he burst into a flood of tears, and retired off the stage. I 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 invitation for him; and as he persisted in his refusal to appear again upon the stage, the players put another in his place, and we soon had him with us. Mr. Arnold gave him the kindest reception, and I received him with my usual trans- port ; 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 1 if happy in the consciousness of unresisted I beauty ; and often would ask questions 1 without giving any manner of attention to the answers. CHAPTER XX. The History of a f>hilosopMc Vagahojid, lursu- ing Novelty, hit losing Content. After we had supped, Mrs. Arnold po- ; litely offered to send a couple of her foot- j Wen for my son’s baggage, which he at ; first seemed to decline ; but upon her press- : 'ng the request, he was obliged to inform j fifir, that a stick and wallet were all the j TOoveable things upon this earth that he could boast of. “Why, ay, my son,” cried ' h ‘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, ' out travelling after F ortune is not the way I to secure her ; and, indeed, of late I have desisted from the pur.suit. ” — “I fancy, sir,” cried Mrs. Arnold, “ that the account of your adventures would be amusing ; the first part of them I have often heard from my niece ; but could the company prevail for the rest, it would be an additional obli- gation. ” — “Madam,” replied my son, “I promise you the pleasure you have in hear- ing will not be half so great as my vanity in repeating them ; yet in the whole narra- tive I can scarcely promise you one adven- ture, as my account is rather of what I saw than what I did. The first misfortune of my life, which you all know, was great ; but though it distressed, it could not sink me. No person ever had a better knack at hoping than I. The less kind I found Fortune at one time, the more I expected [ from her another; and being now at the i bottom of her wheel, every new revolution might lift, but could not depress me. I I proceeded, therefore, towards London in j a fine morning, no way uneasy about to- I morrow, but cheerful as the birds that ; carolled by the road ; and comforted my- ; self 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 recom- mendation to our cousin, who was himself ! in little better circumstances than I. My I first scheme, you know, sir, was to be usher : at an academy; and I asked his advice on the affair. Our cousin received the pro- posal 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 Newgate. I was up early and late: I was browbeat by the master, hated for my ugly face by the mistress, worried by the boys within, and never permitted to stir out to meet civility abroad. But are you sure you are fit for a school ? Let me examine you a little. Have you been bred appren- tice 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 fora school. Can you lie three in a bed?’ — 44 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ‘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 gen- teel, easy profession, bind yourself seven years an apprentice to turn a cutler’s wheel : but avoid a school by any means. Yet come,’ continued he, ‘ I see you are a lad of spirit and some learning ; what do you think of commencing author, like me ? Y ou have read in books, no doubt, of men of genius ! starving at the trade. At present I’ll show I you forty very dull fellows about town that i live by it in opulence ; all honest jog-trot i men, who go on smoothly and dully, and I write history and politics, and are praised : ! men, sir, who, had they been bred cobblers, would all their lives have only mended shoes, but never made them.’ “ Finding that there was no great degree of gentility affixed to the character of an usher, I resolved to accept his proposal ; and having the highest respect for litera- ture, hailed the antiqua mater of Grub- street with reverence. I thought it my glory to pursue a track which Dryden and Otway trod before me. I considered the goddess of this region as the parent of ex- cellence ; 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 wi'ite a book that should be 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 im- ported by others, that nothing was left for me to import but some splendid things that I at a distance looked every bit as well. Witness, you powers, what fancied impor- tance 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 op- pose the whole learned world. Like the porcupine, I sat self-collected, with a quill pointed against every opposer.” “Well said, my boy,” cried I: “and what subject did you treat upon? I hope you did not pass over the importance of monogamy. But I interrupt: goon. You published your paradoxes ; well, and what ' did the learned world say to your para- 1 doxes?” ' “Sir,” replied my son, “the learned world said nothing to my paradoxes; no- thing at all, sir. Every man of them was employed in praising his friends and him- self, or condemning his enemies ; and un- fortunately, 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 de- mand necessarily produced a reply that I had no money; and that concession led him to inquire into the nature of my ex- pectations. Finding that my expectations j were just as great as my purse,- — ‘I see,’ cried he, ‘you ai'e unacquainted with the ' town : I’ll teach you a part of it. Look at these proposals, — upon these very pro- posals I have subsisted very comfortably for twelve years. The moment a noble- man returns from his travels, a Creolian arrives fromjamaica, or a dowager from her country seat, I strike for a subscription. I first besiege their hearts with flattery, and then pour in my proposals at the breach. If they subscribe readily the first time, I renew my request to beg a dedication fee : if they let me have that, I smite them once i more for engraving their coat of arms at i the top. Thus,’ continued he, ‘I live by j vanity, and laugh at it. But, between our- | selves, I am now too well known ; I should be glad to borrow your face a bit. A noble- man of distinction has just returned from Italy ; my face is familiar to his porter ; but if you bring this copy of verses, my life for . it you succeed, and we divide the spoil.’” “Bless us, George,” cried I, “and is this the employment of poets now? Do men of exalted talents thus stoop to beggary? Can they so far disgrace their calling, as to make a vile traffic of praise for bread?” “Oh no, sir,” returned he, “a true poet can never be so base; for wherever there ^is genius, there is pride. The creatures ( I now describe are only beggars in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves every hardship for fame, so he is equally a coward to con- tempt; and none but those who are un- worthy protection condescend to solicit it. “ Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, and yet a fortune too humble to hazard a second attempt for fame, I was now obliged to take a middle course, and write for bread. But I was unqualified for a profession where mere industry alone was to ensure success. I could not suppress my lurking passion for applause ; but usually consumed that time in efforts after excellence which takes up but little room, when it should have been more advantageously employed in the dif- fusive productions of fruitful mediocrity. My little piece would therefore come forth in the midst of periodical publications, un- noticed and unknown. The public were more importantly employed than to obseiwe 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, Philalethes, Philelutheros, and Philanthropos, all wrote better, because they wrote faster than I. “Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but disappointed authors like myself, who praised, deplored, and despised each other. The satisfaction we found in every celebrated writer’s attempts was in- versely as their merits. I found that no genius in another could please me. My unfortunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of comfort. I could neither read nor write with satisfaction ; for excel- lence 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 dis- tinction, who had been my intimate ac- quaintance at the university, approached me. We saluted each other with some esitation; he almost ashamed of being nown to one who made so shabby an ap- pearance, and I afraid of a repulse. But jny suspicions soon vanished; for Ned ornhill was at the bottom a very good- natured fellow.” I 45 “What did you say, George?” inter- rupted I. “ Thornhill, was not that his | name ? It can certainly be no other than | my landlord.” — “Bless me,” cried Mrs. Arnold, “is Mr. Thornhill so near a neigh- bour 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 his own clothes, and then ;I was admitted to his table, upon the footing of half friend, half underling. My business was to attend him at auctions, to put him in spirits when he sat for his picture, to take the left hand in his chariot when not filled by another, and to assist tattering a kip, as the phrase was, when he had a mind for a frolic. Besides this, I had twenty other little employments in the family. I was to do many small things without bidding : to carry the corkscrew ; to stand godfather to all the butler’s children ; to sing when I was bid; to be never out of hum our; 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 affec- tions. His mother had been laundress to a man of quality, and thus he early ac- quired a taste for pimping and pedigree. As this gentleman made it the study of his | life to be acquainted with lords, though he was dismissed from several for his stupidity, yet he found many of them who were as dull as himself, that permitted his assidu- ities. As flattery was his trade, he prac- tised it with the easiest address imagin- able ; but it came awkward and stiff from me : and as every day my patron’s desire of flattery increased, so, every hbur, being better acquainted with his defects, I became more unwilling to give it. Thus, I was once more fairly going to give up the field to the captain, when my friend found oc- casion for my assistance. This was nothing less than to fight a duel for him with a gentleman, whose sister it was pretended he had used ill, I readily complied with his request; and though I see you are displeased at my conduct, yet, as it was a debt indispensably due to friendship, I could not refuse. I undertook the affair, THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. disarmed my antagonist, and soon after had the pleasure of finding, that the lady was only a woman of the town, and the fellow her bully and a sharper. This piece of service was repaid with the warmest professions of gratitude ; but, as my friend was. to leave town in a few days, he knew no other method of serving me but by re- commending 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 hos- pitable smiles ; for the looks of the domes- tic evertransmit the master’s benevolence. Being shown into a grand apartment, where i Sir William soon came to me, I delivered my message and letter, which he read, and, after pausing some minutes, — ‘Pray, sir,’ cried he, ‘inform me what you have done for my kinsman to deserve this warm re- commendation? But I suppose, sir, I guess your merits: you have fought for him; and so you would expect a reward from me for being the instrument of his vices. I wish — sincerely wish, that my present refusal may be some punishment for your guilt ; but still more, that it may be some inducement to your repentance.’ The severity of this rebuke I bore patiently, be- cause I knew it was just. My whole ex- pectations 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 found it no easy matter to gain admittance. However, after bribing the servants with half my worldly fortune, I was at last sliown into a spacious apartment, my letter being previously sent up for his lordship’s in- spection. During this anxious interval, 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 possessor of all these things be, who carries in his head the business of the state, and whose house dis- plays half the wealth of a kingdom ! sure his genius must be unfathomable ! — During these awful reflections, I heard a step come heavily forward. Ah, this is the great man | himself! No; it was only a chamber- \ maid. Another foot was heard soon after. ' This must be he! No; it was only the great man’s valet-de-chambre. At last his lordship actually made his appearance. ‘Are you,’ cried he, ‘the bearer of this here letter?’ I answered with a bow. ‘I learn by this,’ continued he, ‘as how that,’ — Butjustatthatinstanta servant delivered him a card, and, without taking farther notice, he went out of the room, and left me to digest my own happiness at leisure. I saw no more of him, till told by a foot- man 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, how- ever, went too fast for us, and was gaining his chariot door with large strides, when I hallooed out to know if I was to have any reply. He was, by this time, got in, and | muttered an answer, half of which 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 glorious 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 indignities I had met with, I was willing to cast myself away, and only wanted the gulf to receive me. I regarded myself as one of those vile things that Natui'e designed should be thrown by into her lumber-room, there to perish in ob- scurity. I had still, however, half-a-guinea left, and of that I thought Nature herself should not deprive me ; but in order to be sure of this, I was resolved to go instantly and spend it while I had it, and then trust to occurrences for the rest. As I was going along with this resolution, it happened that Mr. Crispe’s office seemed invitingly open to give me a welcome reception. In this office, Mr. Crispe kindly offers all his Majesty’s subjects a generous promise of a year, for which promise all they give in return is their liberty for life, and permission to let him transport them to ^ America as slaves. I was happy at finding^ THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. a place where I could lose my fears in desperation, and entered this cell (for it had the appearance of one) with the de- [ votion of a monastic. Here I found a number of poor creatures, all in circum- stances- like myself, expecting the arrival of Mr. Crispe, presenting a true epitome of English impatience. Each untractable soul at variance with Fortune wreaked her injuries on their own hearts : but Mr. Crispe at last came down, and all our mur- murs were hushed. He deigned to regard me with an air of peculiar approbation, and indeed he was the first man who, for a month past, had talked to me with smiles. After a few questions, he found I was fit for everything in the world. He paused a while upon the properest means of pro- viding for me : and slapping his forehead as if he had found it, assured me that there was at that time an embassy talked of from the synod of Pennsylvania to the Chickasaw Indians, and that he would use his interest to get me made secretary. I knew in my own heart that the fellow lied, and yet his promise gave me pleasure, there was some- thing so magnificent in the sound. I fairly therefore divided my half-guinea, one half of which went to be added to his thirty thousand pounds, and with the other half I resolved to go to the next tavern, to be there more happy than he. “As I was going out with that resolution, I was met at the door by the captain of a ship with whom I had formerly some little acquaintance, and he agreed to be my companion over a bowl of punch. As I never chose to make a secret of my cir- cumstances, he assured me that I was upon the very point of ruin, in listening to the ofhce-keeper’s promises ; for that he only designed to sell me to the plantations. ‘But,’ continued he, ‘I fancy you might, by a much shorter voyage, be very easily put into a genteel way of bread. Take my advice. My ship sails to-morrow for Amsterdam : what if you go in her as a passenger ? The moment you land, all ; you have to do is to teach the Dutchmen [ English, and I’ll warrant you’ll get pupils ^ and money enough. I suppose you under- ; stand English,’ added he, ‘by this time, ! or the deuce is in it. ’ I confidently assured I him of that ; but expressed a doubt whether 47 the Dutch would be willing to learn English. He affirmed, with an oath, that they were fond of it to distraction ; and upon that affirmation I agreed with his proposal, and embarked the next day to teach the Dutch English in Holland. The wind was fair, 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 un- willing to let any time pass unemployed in teaching. I addressed myself, therefore, to two or three of those I met whose appear- ance seemed most promising, but it was impossible to make ourselves mutually un- derstood. It was not till this very moment I recollected, that in order to teach the Dutchmen English, it was necessary 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 over- looked it. “ This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts of fairly shipping back to England again, but falling into company with an Irish student, who was returning from Louvain, our conversation turning ;ipon 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 re- solved 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. Everyday lessened the burden of my move- ables, like zEsop 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 ten- dered my talents to the Principal himself. I went, had admittance, and offered him my service as a master of the Greek lan- guage, which I had been told was a desi- deratum in his university. The Principal seemed at first to doubt of my abilities ; but of these I offered to convince him, by turn- THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ,48 I ing a part of any Greek author he should fix upon into Latin. Finding me perfectly earnest in my proposal, he addressed me thus: ‘ You see me, young man; I never learned Greek, and I don’t find that I 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 I don’t know Greek, I do not believe there is any good in it.’ “ I was now too far from home to think of returning ; so I resolved to go forward. I had some knowledge of music, with a tolerable voice, and now turned what was my amusement into a present means of sub- sistence. I passed among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among such of the French as were poor enough to be very merry ; for I ever found them sprightly in proportion to their wants. Whenever I ap- proached a peasant’s house towards night- fall, 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 per- formance odious, and never rewarded me even with a trifle. This was to me the more extraordinary, as, whenever I used, in better days, to play for company, when playing was my amusement, my music never failed to throw them 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 I proceeded to Paris, with no design but just to look about me, and then to go forward. The people of Paris are much fonder of strangers that have money, than 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 out- sides of the best houses, I was preparing to leave this retreat of venal hospitality, when passing through one of the principal streets, whom should I meet but our cousin, to whom you first recommended me. This meeting was very agreeable to me, and I believe not displeasing to him. He in- quired into the nature of my journey to Paris, and informed me of his own business i there, which was to collect pictures, medals, intaglios, and antiques of all kinds, for a i gentleman in London who had just stepped into taste and a large fortune. I was the more surprised at seeing our cousin pitched upon for this office, as he 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 suddenly, he assured me that nothing was more easy. The whole secret consisted in a strict ad- herence 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 a living, and now all my ambition was to live. I went therefore to his lodgings, improved my dress by his assistance ; and, after some time, accom- panied him to auctions of pictures, where the English gentry were expected to be pur- chasers. I was not a little surprised at his intimacy with people of the best of fashion, who referred themselves to his judgment upon every picture or medal, as to an un- erring standard of taste. Fie made very good use of my assistance upon these occa- sions; for, when asked his opinion, he would gravely take me aside and ask mine, shrug, look wise, return, and assure the company that he could give no opinion upon an affair of so much importance. Yet there was sometimes an occasion for a more important assurance. I remember to have seen him, after giving his opinion that the colouring of a picture was not mellow enough, very deliberately take a brush with brown varnish, that was accidentally 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 Paris, he left me strongly recommended to several men of distinction, as a person very proper for a travelling tutor ; and after some time, I was employed in that capacity by a gentleman who brought his ward to Paris, in order to set him forward on his THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. tour through Europe. I was to be the young gentleman’s governor; 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 1. 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 of travel ; whether anything could be bought that would turn to account when disposed of again in London ? Such curiosities on the way as could be seen for nothing, he was ready enough to look at ; but if the sight of them was to be paid for, he usually asserted that he had been told they were not worth seeing. He never paid a bill that he would not observe how amazingly expensive travelling was ! and all this though he was not yet twenty-one. When arrived at Leghorn, as we took a walk to look at the port and shipping, he inquired the expense of the passage by sea home to England. This he was informed was but a trifle compared to his returning by land ; he was therefore unable to with- stand the temptation ; so paying me the small part of my salary that was due, he took leave, and embarked with only one attendant for London. “ I now therefore was left once more upon the world at large ; but then, it was a thing I was used to. However, my skill in music could avail me nothing in a country where every peasant was a better musician than I : but by this time I had acquired another talent, which answered my purpose as well, and this was a skill in disputation. In all the foreign universities and convents there are, upon certain days, philosophical theses maintained against S’dventitious disputant ; for which, if the champion opposes with any dexterity, e can claim a gratuity in money, a dinner, night. In this manner, 1 ^ fought my way towards Eng- 3-n ; walked along from city to city ; ex- mined mankind more nearly; and, if I so express it, saw both sides of the picture. My remarks, however, are but few : I found that monarchy was the best government for the poor to live in, and commonwealths for the rich. I found that riches in general were in every country another name for freedom; and that no man is so fond of liberty himself, as not to be desirous of subjecting the will of some individuals in society to his own. “ Upon my andval in England, I resolved to pay my respects first to you, afid then to enlist as a volunteer in the first expedition that was going forward ;_but on my journey down, my resolutions were changed by meeting an old acquaintance, who I found belonged to a company of comedians that were going to make a summer campaign in the country. The company seemed not much to disapprove of me for an associate. They all, however, apprised me of the im- portance of the task at which I aimed ; that the public was a many-headed monster, and that only such as had very good heads could please it : that acting was not to be learned in a day ; and that without some traditional shrugs, which had been on the stage, and only on the stage, these hundred years, I could never pretend to please. The next difficulty was in fitting me with parts, as almost every character was in keeping. I was driven for some time from one cha- racter to another, till at last Horatio was fixed upon, which the presence of the present company has happily hindered me from acting.” CHAPTER XXL The short continuance of friendship amongst the vicious, which is coeval only with mutual satisfaction. My son’s account was too long to be de- livered at once; the first part of it was begun that night, and he was concluding the rest after dinner the next day, when the appearance of Mr. Thornhill’s equipage at the door seemed to make a pause in the general satisfaction. The butler, who was now become my friend in the family, in- formed me, with a whisper, that the Squire had already made some overtures to Miss Wilmot, and that her aunt and uncle seemed highly to approve the match. Upon Mr. Thornhill’s entering, he seemed, at seeing my son and me, to start back ; but I readily imputed that to surprise, and E 50 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD,. 1 not displeasure. However, upon our ad- vancing to salute him, he returned our greeting with the most apparent candour ; and after a short time his presence served only to increase the general good humour. After tea he called me aside to inquire after my daughter : but upon my informing him that my inquiry was unsuccessful, he seemed greatly surprised; adding that he had .been since frequently at my house in order to comfort the rest of my family, whom he left perfectly well. He then asked if I communicated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot or my son ; and upon my re- plying that I had not told them as yet, he greatly approved my prudence and precau- tion, desiring me by all means to keep it a secret: “For at best,” cried he, “it is but divulging one’s own infamy ; and per- haps Miss Livy may not be so guilty as we all imagine.” We were here interrupted by a servant who came to ask the Squire in, to stand up at country-dances : so that he left me quite pleased with the interest he seemed to take in my concerns. His ad- dresses, however, to Miss Wilmot were too obvious to be mistaken : and yet, she seemed not perfectly pleased, but bore them rather in compliance to the will of her aunt than from real inclination. I had even the satisfaction to see her lavish some kind looks upon my unfortunate son, which the other could neither extort by his fortune nor assiduity. Mr. Thornhill’s seeming composure, however, not a little surprised me : we had now continued here a week at the pressing instances of Mr. Arnold; but each day the more tenderness Miss Wilmot showed my son, Mr. Thornhill’s friendship seemed proportionably to in- crease for him. He had formerly made us the most kind assurances 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 pleasure, to inform me of a piece of service he had done for his friend George. This was nothing less than his having procured him an en- sign’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 trifling piece of service,” continued the young gentleman, “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 wanted words to express our sense of: I readily, therefore, gave my bond for the money, and testified as much gratitude as if I never intended to pay. George was to depart for town the next day, to secure his commission, in pur- suance of his genei'ous patron’s directions, who judged it highly expedient to use dispatch, lest in the meantime another should step in with more advantageous proposals. The next morning, therefore, our young soldier was early prepared for his departure, and seemed the only person among us that was not affected by it. Neither the fatigues and dangers he was going to encounter, nor the friends and mistress — for Miss Wilmot actually loved him — he was leaving behind, any way damped his spirits. After he had taken leave of the rest of the company, I gave him all I had, my blessing. “And now, my boy,” cried I, “thou art going to fight for thy country : remember how thy brave , grandfather fought for his sacred king, when loyalty among Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, and imitate him in all but his misfortunes, if it was a misfortune to die with Lord Falkland. Go, my boy, and if you ffill, though distant, exposed, and unwept by those that love you, the most precious tears are those with which Heaven bedews the unburied head of a soldier.” The next morning I took leave of the good family, that had been kind enough to entertain me so long, not without several expressions cf gratitude to Mr. Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them in the enjoyment of all that happiness which affluence and good breeding procure, and returned towards home, despairing of ever finding my daughter more, but sending a sigh to Heaven to spare and to forgive her. I was now come within about twenty miles of home, having hired an horse to carry me, as I was yet but weak, and com- ^forted myself with the hopes of soon see- I I I THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 51 ing 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 country, was loved. He went on to observe, that he made it his whole study to betray the daughters of such as received him to their houses, and, after a fortnight or three weeks’ possession, turned them out unrewarded and aban- doned to the world. As we continued our , discourse in this manner, his wife, who ' had been out to get change, returned, and ' perceiving that her husband was enjoying a pleasure in which she was not a sharer, she asked him, in an angry tone, what he did there ? to which he only replied, in an ironical way, by drinking her health. “Mr. Symonds,” cried she, “you use me very ill, and I’ll bear it no longer. Here I three parts of the business is left for me to do, and the fourth left unfinished, while you do nothing but soak with the guests all day long; whereas, if a spoonful of liquor 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 j health, “Sir,” resumed she, “it is not so I much for the value of the liquor I am I but one cannot help it when the ' house is going out of the windows. If the customers or guests are to be dunned, all the burden lies upon my back ; he’d as lief that glass as budge after them himself There, now, above stairs, we have a young woman who has come to take up her lodg- ing here, and I don’t believe she has got any money, by her over-civility. I am certain she is very slow of payment, and I she were put in mind of it. “ What minding her ? ” cried the host ; “ if Bne be slow, she is sure.”— “ I don’t know that, replied the wife ; “ but I know that ^ sure she has been here a fortnight, an 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 gentlewoman, and deserves more respect.” — “ As for the matter of that,” returned the hostess, “gentle or simple, out she shall pack with a sussarara. Gentry may be good things where they take ; but, for my part, I never saw much good of them at the sign of the Harrow.” Thus saying, she ran up a nar- row flight of stairs that went from the kitchen to a room overhead; and I soon perceived, by the loudness of her voice, and the bitterness of her reproaches, that no money was to be had from her lodger. I could hear her remonstrances very dis- tinctly : “Out, I say; pack out this mo- ment ! tramp, thou infamous strumpet, or I’ll give thee a mark thou won’t be the better for this 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 ! ” — “ Oh, dear madam, ” cried the stranger, “ pity me — pity a poor abandoned creature, for one night, and death will soon do the rest ! ” I instantly knew the voice of my poor ruined child Olivia. I flew to her rescue, while the woman was dragging her along by her hair, and I caught the dear forlorn wretch in my arms. “Welcome, any way welcome, my dearest lost one^ — my trea- sure — to your poor old father’s bosom ! Though the vicious forsake thee, there is yet one in the world that will never forsake thee ; though thou hadst ten thousand crimes to answer for, he will forget them all ! ” — “Oh, my own dear — ” for minutes she couldsayno more — “my own dearestgood papa! Could angels be kinder? How do I deserve so much? The villain, I hate him and myself, to be a reproach to so much goodness ! Y ou can’t forgive me, I know you cannot.” — “Yes, my child, from my heart I do forgive thee : only re- pent, and we both shall yet be happy. W e shall see many pleasant days yet, my Olivia. ” — “ Ah ! never, sir, never. The rest of my wretched life must be infamy abroad, and shame at home. But, alas ! I 2 52 . THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. papa, you look much paler than you used to do. Could such a thing as I am give you so much uneasiness ? Surely you have too much wisdom to take the miseries of my guilt upon 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 cold a name.” — “I ask pardon, my darling,” returned I ; “ but I was going to observe, that wisdom makes but a slow defence against trouble, though at last a sure one. ” The landlady now returned, to know if we did not choose a more genteel apartment ; to which assenting, we were shown a room where we could converse more freely. After we had talked ourselves into some degree of tranquillity, I could not avoid desiring some account of the gradations that led her to her present wretched situ- ation. “That villain, sir,” said she, “from the first day of our meeting, made me honourable, though private proposals.” “ Villain, indeed !” cried 1 : “ and yet it in some measure surprises me, how a person of Mr. Burchell’s good sense and seeming honour could be guilty of such deliberate baseness, and thus step into a family to undo it.” “ Mydear papa,” returned my daughter, “ you labour under a strange mistake. Mr. Burchell never attempted to deceive me : instead of that, he took every oppor- tunity of privately admonishing me against the artifices c*f Mr. Thornhill, who, I now find, was even worse than he represented him.” — “ Mr. Thornhill !” interrupted I ; “can it be?” — “Yes, sir, ’’returned she, “it was Mr. Thornhill who seduced me ; who employed the two ladies, as he called them, but who in fact were abandoned women of the town, without breeding or pity, to decoy us up to London. Their artifices, you may remember, would have certainly succeeded, but for Mr. Burchell’s letter, who directed those reproaches at them which we all applied to ourselves. How he came to have so much influence as to defeat their intentions still remains a secret to me ; but I am convinced he was ever our warmest, sincerest friend.” “You amaze me, mydear,” cried I ; “but now I find my first suspicions of Mr.Thorn- hill’s baseness were too well grounded: but he can triumph in security; for he is rich, and we are poor. But tell me, my child, sure it was no small temptation that could thus obliterate all the impressions of such an education and so virtuous a dis- position as thine?” “ Indeed, sir,” replied she,“he owes all his triumph to the desire I had of making him, and not myself, happy. I knew that the ceremony of our marriage, which was privately peiformed by a popish priest, was no way binding, and that I had nothing to trust to but his honour.” — “What!” in- terrupted I, “ and were you indeed married by a priest in orders?” — “Indeed, sir, we were,” replied she, “though we were both sworn to conceal his name. ” — “ Why then, my child, come to my arms again ; and now you are a thousand 'times more welcome than before; for you are now his wife to all intents and purposes; nor can all the laws of man, though written upon tables of adamant, lessen the force of that sacred connexion.” “ Alas, papa ! ” replied she, “ you are but little acquainted with his villanies : he has been married already by the same priest to six or eight wives more, whom, like me, he has deceived and abandoned.” “ Has he so ? ” cried I; “ then we must hang the priest, and you shall inform against him to-morrow.” — “But, sir, ’’re- turned she, “ will that be right, when I am sworn to secresy ?”-— “ Mydear,” I replied, “if you have made such a promise, I cannot, nor will I tempt you to break it. Even though it may benefit the public, you must not inform against him. In all human institutions a smaller evil is allowed to pro- cure a greater good ; as, in politics, a pro- vince may be given away to secure a king- dom ; in medicine, a limb may be lopped off to preserve the body : but in religion, the law is written, and inflexible, nei'er to do evil. And this law, my child, is right ; , for otherwise, if we commit a smaller evil < to procure a greater good, certain guilt ] would be thus incurred, in expectation of i contingent advantage. And though the advantage should certainly follow, yet the interval between commission and advan- tage, which is allowed to be guilty, may be that in which we are called away to answer for the things we have done, and THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ^ the volume of human actions is closed for ever. But I interrupt you, my dear; go on. “ The very next morning,” continued she, “ I found what little expectation I was to have from his sincerity. That very morning he introduced me to two unhappy women more, whom, like me, he had de- ceived, but who lived in contented prosti- tution. I loved him too tenderly to bear such rivals in his affections, and strove to forget my infamy in a tumult of pleasures. With this view I danced, dressed, and talked ; but -still was unhappy. The gen- tlemen who visited there told me every moment of the power of my charms, and this only contributed to increase my melan- choly, as I had thrown all their power quite away. Thus each day I grew more pensive, and he more insolent, till at last the monster had the assurance to offer me to a young baronet of his acquaintance. Need I describe, sir, how his ingratitude stung me? My answer to this proposal was almost madness. I desired to part. .A.S I was going, he offered me a purse; Imt I flung it at him with indignation, and burst from him in a rage, that for a while kept me insensible of the miseries of my situation. But I soon looked round me, and saw myself a vile, abject, guilty thing, without one friend in the world to apply to. Just in that interval, a stage coach hap- pening to pass by, I took a place, it being my only aim to be driven at a distance from a wretch I despised and detested. I was set down here, where, since my arrival, my own anxiety and this woman’s unkindness have been my only companions. The hours of pleasure that I have passed with my mamma and sister now grow painful to me. Their sorrows are much ; but mine are greater than theirs, for mine are mixed with guilt and infamy.” Have patience, my child, ’’cried I, “and 1 hope things will yet be better. Take some repose to-night, and to-morrow I’ll carry you home to your mother and the lest of the family, from whom you will tv ^ ^ reception. Poor woman 1 IS has gone to her heart ; but she loves you still, Olivia, and will forget it.” CHAPTER XXII. Offences are easily pardoned, nihere there is Ltve : at bottom. The next morning I took my daughter behind me, and set out on my return home. As we travelled along, I strove, by every persuasion, to calm her sorrows and fears, and to arm her with resolution to bear the presence of her offended mother. I took every opportunity, from the prospect of a fine country, through which we passed, to observe how much kinder Heaven was to us than we to each other ; and that the misfortunes of Nature’s making were very few. I assured her, that she should never perceive any change in my affections, and that, during my life, which yet might be long, she might depend upon a guardian and an instructor. I armed her against the censure of the world, showed her that books were sweet unreproaching companions to the miserable, and that, if they could not bring us to enjoy life, they would at least teach us to endure it. The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night at an inn by the way, within about five miles from my house; and as I was willing to prepare my family for my daughter’s reception, I determined to leave her that night at the inn, and to re- turn for her, accompanied by my daughter Sophia, early the next morning. It was ' night before we reached our appointed stage ; however, after seeing her provided j with a decent apartment, and having or- ! dered the hostess to prepare proper refresh- i ments, I kissed her, and proceeded towards i home. And now my heart caught new sensations of pleasure, the nearer I ap- proached that peaceful mansion. As a bird that had been frighted from its nest, my affections outwent my haste, and hovered round my little fireside with all the rapture of expectation. I called up the many fond things I had to say, and anticipated the welcome I was to receive. I already felt my wife’s tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones. As I walked but slowly, the night waned apace. The labourers of the day were all retired to rest ; the lights were out in every cottage ; no sounds were heard but of the j shrilling cock, and the deep-mouthed j THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 11 watch-dog, at hollow distance. I ap- proached my little abode of pleasure, and, before I was within a furlong of the place, our honest mastiff came running to wel- come me. It was now near midnight that I came to knock at my door : all was still and silent : my heart dilated with unutterable happiness, when, to my amazement, I saw the house bursting out in a blaze of fire, and every aperture red with conflagration. I gave a loud convulsive outcry, and fell upon the pavement, insensible. This alarmed my son, who had, till this, been asleep; and he, perceiving the flames, instantly waked my wife and daughter; and all running out, naked, and wild with apprehension, recalled me to life with their anguish. But it was only to. objects of new terror; for the flames had, by this time, caught the roof of our dwelling, part after part continuing to fall in, while the family stood, with silent agony, looking on, as if they enjoyed the blaze. I gazed upon them and upon it by turns, and then looked round me for my two little ones; but they were not to be seen. O misery ! “Where,” cried I, “where are my little ones?” — “ They are burnt to death in the flames,” said my wife, calmly, “ and I will die with them.” That moment I heard the cry of the babes within, who were just awaked by the fire, and nothing could have stopped me. “ Where, where are my children?” cried I, rushing through the flames, and bursting the door of the chamber in which they were confined ! — “Where are my little ones ?”—“ Here, dear papa, here we are,” cried they together, while the flames were just catching the bed where they lay. I caught them both in my arms, and snatched them through the fire as fast as possible, while, just as I was got out, the roof sunk in. “Now,” cried I, holding up my children, “ now let the flames burn on, and all my possessions perish. Here they are ; I have saved my treasure. Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we shall yet be happy. ” We kissed our little darlings a thousand times ; they clasped us round the neck, and seemed to share our transports, while their mother laughed and wept by turns. I now stood a calm spectator of the flames ; and, after some time, began to perceive that my arm to the shoulder was scorched in a terrible manner. It was, therefore, out of my power to give my son any assistance, either in attempting to save our goods, or preventing the flames spread- ing to our corn. By this time the neigh- bours were alarmed, and came running to our assistance ; but all they could do was to stand, like us — spectators of the calamity. My goods, among which were the notes I had reserved for my daughters’ fortunes, were entirely consumed, except a box with some papers that stood in the kitchen, and two or three things more of little conse- quence, which my son brought away in the beginning. The neighbours contributed, however, what they could to lighten our distress. They brought us clothes, and furnished one of our outhouses with kitchen utensils ; so that by daylight we had another, though a wretched dwelling to retire to. My honest next neighbour and his children were not the least assi- duous in providing us with everything necessary, and offering whatever consola- tion untutored benevolence could suggest. When the fears of my family had sub- sided, curiosity to know the cause of my long stay began to take place : having therefore informed them of every parti- cular, I proceeded to prepare them for the reception of our lost one ; and though we had nothing but wretchedness now to im- part, I was willing to procure her a wel- come to what we had. This task would have been more difficult but for our recent calamity, which had humbled my wife’s pride, and blunted it by more poignant afflictions. Being unable to go for my poor child myself, as my arm grew very painful, I sent my son and daughter, who soon returned, supporting the wretched delinquent, who had not the courage to look up at her mother, whom no instruc- tions of mine could persuade to a perfect reconciliation; for women have a much stronger sense of female error than men. “ Ah, madam,” cried her mother, “ this is but a poor place you are come to after so much finery. My daughter Sophy and I can afford but little entertainment to per- sons who have kept company only with people of distinction. Yes, Miss Livy, THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 70ur poor father and I have suffered very nuch of late ; but I hope Heaven will for- give you.” During this reception, the unhappy victim stood pale and trembling, unable to weep or to reply : but I could not continue a silent spectator of her dis- tress ; wherefore, assuming a degree of se- verity in my voice and manner, which was ever followed with instant submission, “ I entreat, woman, that my words may be now marked once for all : I have here brought you back a poor deluded wan- derer ; her return to duty demands the re- vival of our tenderness. The real hard- ships of life are now coming fast upon us ; let us not, therefore, increase them by dis- sension among each other. If we live harmoniously together, we may yet be con- tented, as there are enough of us to shut out the censuring world, and keep each other in countenance. The kindness of Heaven is promised to the penitent, and let ours be directed by the example. Heaven, we are assured, is much more pleased to view a repentant sinner, than ninety-nine persons who have supported a course of undeviating rectitude. And this is right ; for that single effort by which we stop short in the down-hill path to per- dition, is itself a greater exertion of virtue than a hundred acts of justice.” CHAPTER XXIII. No7ie hut the Guilty ca7i be long a7id C07npletely miserable. Some assiduity was now required to make our present abode as convenient as possible, and we were soon again qualified to enjoy our former serenity. Being dis- abled myself from assisting my son in our usual occupations, I read to my family frorn the few books that were saved, and particularly from such as, by amusing the imagination, contributed to ease the heart. Our good neighbours, too, came every day, with the kindest condolence, and fixed a time in which they were all to assist at repairing my former dwelling. Honest r armer Williams was not last among these TOitors ; but heartily offered his friendship. e would even have renewed his addresses o my daughter ; but she rejected him in suci a manner, as totally repressed his u ure solicitations. Her grief seemed formed for continuing, and she was the only person of our little society that a week did not restore to cheerfulness. She now lost that unblushing innocence which once taught her to respect herself, and to seek pleasure by pleasing. Anxiety now had taken strong possession of her mind ; her beauty began to be impaired with her con- stitution, and neglect still more contributed to diminish it.' Every tender epithet be- stowed on her sister brought a pang to her heart, and a tear to her eye; and as one vice, though cured, ever plants others where it has been, so her former guilt, though driven out by repentance, left jea- lousy and envy behind. I strove a thou- sand ways to lessen her care, and even forgot my own pain in a concern for hers, collecting such amusing passages of his- tory as a strong memory and some reading could suggest. “ Our happiness, my dear,” I would say, “ is in the power of One who can bring it about a thousand unforeseen ways, that mock our foresight. If example be necessary to prove this, I’ll give you a story, my child, told us by a grave though sometimes a romancing historian. “ Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan nobleman of the first quality, and found herself a widow and a mother at the age of fifteen. As she stood one day caressing her infant son in the open window of an apartment which hung over the river Volturna, the child with a sud- den spring leaped from her arms into the flood below, and disappeared in a ino- I ment. The mother, struck with instant surprise, and making an effort to save him, plunged in after ; but far from being able to assist the infant, she herself with great difficulty escaped to the opposite shore, just when some French soldiers were plunder- ing the country on that side, who imme- diately made her their prisoner. “ As the war was then carried on between the French and Italians with the utmost inhumanity, they were going at once to perpetrate those two extremes suggested by appetite and cruelty. This base reso- lution, however, was opposed by a young officer, who, though their retreat required the utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and brought her in safety to his native ,city. Her beauty at first caught his eye ; THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. her merit, soon after, his heart. They were married : he rose to the highest posts ; they lived long together, and were happy. But the felicity of a soldier can never be called permanent : after an interval of several years, the troops which he com- manded having met with a repulse, he was obliged to take shelter in the city where he had lived with his wife. Here they suffered a siege, and the city at length was taken. Few histories can produce more various instances of cruelty than those which the French and Italians at that time exercised upon each other. It was resolved by the victors, upon this occasion, to put all the French prisoners to death ; but particularly the husband of the unfortunate Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in pro- tracting the siege. Their determinations were, in general, executed almost as soon as resolved upon. The captive soldier was led forth, and the executioner with his sword stood ready, while the spectators in gloomy silence awaited the fatal blow, which was only suspended till the general who presided as judge should give the signal. It was in this interval of anguish and expectation that Matilda came to take her last farewell of her husband and de- liverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the cruelty of fate, that had saved her from perishing by a premature death in the river Voltuma, to be the spectator of still greater calamities. The general, who was a young man, was struck with surprise at her beauty, and pity at her distress ; but with still stronger emotions when he heard her mention her former dangers. He was her son, the infant for whom she had en- countered so much danger. Fie acknow- ledged her at once as his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may be easily sup- posed : the captive was set free, and all the happiness that love, friendship, and duty, could confer on each, were united.” In this manner I would attempt to amuse my daughter : but she listened with divided attention ; for her own misfortunes engrossed all the pity she once had for those of another, and nothing gave her ease. In company she dreaded contempt ; and in solitude she only found anxiety. Such was the colour of her wretchedness, l^when we received certain information that Mr. Thornhill was going to be married to Miss Wilmot, for whom I always sus- pected he had a real passion, though he took every opportunity before me to express his contempt both of her person and fortune. This news only served to increase poor Olivia’s affliction : such a flagrant breach of fidelity was more than her courage could support. I was re- solved, however, to get more certain in- formation, and to defeat, if possible, the completion of his designs, by sending my son to old Mr. Wilniot’s, with instructions i to know the truth of the report, and to i deliver Miss Wilmot a letter, intimating ' Mr. Thornhill’s conduct in my family. My son went in pursuance of my direc- tions, and in three days returned, assuring us of the truth of the account ; but that he had found it impossible to deliver the letter, which he was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr. Thornhill and Miss Wilmot were visiting round the country. They were to be married, he said, in a few days, having appeared together at church the Sunday before he was there, in great splendour, the bride attended by six young ladies, and he by as many gentle- men. Their approaching nuptials filled the whole country with rejoicing, and ■ they usually rode out together in the ; grandest equipage that had been seen in the country for many years. All the friends of both families, he said, were there, particularly the Squire’s uncle. Sir William Thornhill, who bore so good a character. He added, that nothing but mirth and feasting were going forward ; that all the country praised the young bride’s beauty, and the bridegroom’s fine person, and that they were immensely fond of each other; concluding, that he could not help thinking Mr. Thornhill one of the most happy men in the world. “ Why, let him, if he can,” returned I : “ but, my son, observe this bed of straw and unsheltering roof ; those mouldering walls and humid flood; my wretched body thus disabled by fire, and my children weeping round me for bread ; you have come home, my child, to all this ; yet here, even here, you see a man that would not for a thousand worlds exchange situations. Oh, my children, if you THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 57 could but learn to commune with your own hearts, and know what noble com- pany you can make them, you would little regard the elegance and splendour of the worthless. Almost all men have been taught to call life a passage, and themselves the travellers. The similitude still may be improved, when we observe that the good are joyful and serene, like travellers that are going towards home ; the wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers that are going into exile.” My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered by this new disaster, inter- rupted what I had further to observe. I bade her mother support her, and after a short time she recovered. She ap- peared from that time more calm, and I imagined had gained a new degree of resolution ; but appearances deceived me : for her tranquillity was the languor of over- wrought resentment. A supply of provisions, charitably sent us by my kind parishioners, seemed to diffuse new cheer- fulness among the rest of the family, nor was I displeased at seeing them once more sprightly and at ease. It would have been unjust to damp their satisfactions, merely to condole with resolute melan- choly, or to burden them with a sadness they did not feel. Thus, once more the tale went round, and the song was de- manded, and cheerfulness condescended to hover round our little habitation. CHAPTER XXIV. Fresh Calamities. The next morning the sun arose with peculiar warmth for the season, so that we agreed to breakfast together on the honeysuckle bank ; where, while we sat, my youngest daughter at my request joined her voice to the concert on the trees about us. It was in this place my poor Olivia first met her seducer, and every object served to recall her sadness. But that melancholy which is excited by objects of pleasure, or inspired by sounds of harmony, soothes the heart instead of corroding it. Her mother, too, upon this occasion, fdt a pleasing distress, and wept, and loved her daughter as before. “Do, my pretty Olivia,” cried she, “let us have that little melancholy air your papa was so fond of ; your sister Sopl^ has already obliged us. Do, child ; it will please your old father.” She com- plied in a manner so exquisitely pathetic as moved me : When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy ? What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover. To hide her shame from every eye. To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom, is — to die. As she was conclud.ing the last stanza, to which an interruption in her voice from sorrow gave peculiar softness, the appear- ance of Mr. Thornlfill’s equipage at a distance alarmed us all, but particularly increased the uneasiness of my eldest daughter, who, desirous of shunning her betrayer, returned to the house with her sister. In a few minutes he was alighted from his chariot, and making up to the place where I was still sitting, inquired after my health with his usual air of familiarity. “ Sir,” replied I, “your pre- sent assurance only serves to aggravate the baseness of your character ; and there was a time when I would have chastised your insolence for presuming thus to appear before me. But now you are safe ; for age has cooled my passions, and my calling restrains them.” “ I vow, my dear sir,” returned he, “ I am amazed at all this ; nor can I under- stand what it means ! I hope you don’t think your daughter’s late excursion with me had anything criminal in it ? ” “Go,” cried I ; “thou art a wretch, a poor, pitiful wretch, and every way a liar : but your meanness secures you from my anger ! Yet, sir, I am descended from a family that would not have borne this ! — And so, thou vile thing, to gratify a mo- mentary passion, thou hast made one poor creature wretched for life, and polluted a family that had nothing but honour for their portion ! ” “If she or you,” returned he, “are resolved to be miserable, I cannot help it. But you may still be happy ; and what- ever opinion you may have formed of me, you shall ever find me ready to contribute to it. We can marry her to another in a short time ; and, what is njore, she may 58 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. keep her lover beside ; for I protest I shall ever continue to have a true regard for her.” I found all my passions alarmed at this new degrading proposal ; for though the mind may often be calm under great in- juries, little villany can at any time get within the soul, and sting it into rage. — “ Avoid my sight, thou reptile ! ” cried I, “ nor continue to insult me with thy pre- sence. Were my brave son at home, he would not suffer this ; but I am old and disabled, and every way undone.” “ I find,” cried he, “ you are bent upon obliging me to talk in a harsher manner than I intended. But as I have shown you what may be hoped from my friend- ship, it may not be improper to represent ( what may be the consequences of my resentment. My attorney, to whom your late bond has been transferred, threatens hard ; nor do I know how to prevent the course of justice, except by paying the money myself ; which, as I have been at some expenses lately previous to my in- tended marriage, is not so easy to be done. And then my steward talks of driving for the rent : it is certain he knows his duty ; | for I never trouble myself with affairs of i that nature. Yet still I could wish to ; serve you, and even to have you and your daughter present at my marriage, which is shortly to be solemnized with Miss Wilmot ; it is even the request of my charming Arabella herself, whom I hope you will not refuse.” “Mr. Thornhill,” replied I, “hear me once for all : as to your marriage with any but my daughter, that I never will consent to ; and though your friendship could raise me to a throne, or your re- sentment sink me to the grave, yet would I despise both. Thou hast once wofully, irreparably deceived me. I reposed my heart upon thine honour, and have found its baseness. Never more, therefore, ex- pect friendship from me. Go, and possess what fortune has given thee— beauty, riches, health, and pleasure. Go, and leave me to want, infamy, disease, and sorrow. Yet, humbled as I am, shall my heart still vindicate its dignity ; and though thou hast my forgiveness, thou shalt ever have my contempt. ” “If so,” returned he, “depend upon it you shall feel the effects of this insolence ; and we shall shortly see which is the fittest object of scorn, you or me.” — Upon which he departed abruptly. My wife and son, who were present at this interview, seemed terrified with ap- prehension. My daughters also, finding that he was gone, came out to be informed of the result of our conference, which, when known, alarmed them not less than the rest. But as to myself, I disregarded the utmost stretch of his malevolence : he had already struck the blow, and now I stood prepared to repel every ' new effort, like one of those instruments used in the art of war, which, however thrown, still presents a point to receive the enemy. We soon, however, found that he had not threatened in vain ; for the very next morning his steward came to demand my annual rent, which, by the train of accidents already related, I was unable to pay. The consequence of my incapacity was his driving my cattle that evening, and - their being appraised and sold the next day for less than half their value. My wife and children now therefore entreated ; me to comply upon any terms, rather than | incur certain destruction. They even begged of me to admit his visits once i more, and used all their little eloquence to paint the calamities I was going to endure, — the terrors of a prison in so rigorous a season as the present, with the danger that threatened my health from the late accident that happened by the fire. But I continued inflexible. “Why, my treasures,” cried I, “why will you thus attempt to persuade me to the thing that is not right ? My duty has taught me to forgive him ; but my con- science will not permit me to approve. Would you have me applaud to the world what my heart must internally condemn ? Would you have me tamely sit down and flatter our infamous betrayer ; and, to avoid a prison, continually suffer the more galling bonds of mental confinement? No, never ! If we are to be taken from this abode, only let us hold to the right ; and wherever we are thrown, we can still retire to a charming apartment, when we THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 59 can look round our own hearts with intrepidity and with pleasure ! ” In this manner we spent that evening. Early the next morning, as the snow had fallen in great abundance in the night, my son was employed in clearing it away, and opening a passage before the door. He had not been thus engaged long, when he came running in, with looks all pale, to tell us that two strangers, whom he knew to be officers of justice, were making towards the house. Just as he spoke they came in, and ap- proaching the bed where I lay, after previously informing me of their employ- ment and business, made me their prisoner, bidding me prepare to go with them to the county gaol, which was eleven miles off. “My friends,” said I, “this is severe weather in which you have come to take me to a prison ; and it is particularly unfortunate at this time, as one of my arms has lately been burnt in a terrible manner, and it has thrown me into a slight fever, and I want clothes to cover me, and I am now too weak and old to walk far in such deep snow j but, if it must be so ” I then turned to my wife and children, and directed them to get together what few things were left us, and to prepare immediately for leaving this place. I entreated them to be expeditious ; and desired my son to assist his eldest sister, who, from a consciousness that she was the cause of all our calamities, was fallen, and had lost anguish in insensibility. 1 encouraged my wife, who, pale and trembling, clasped our affrighted little ones in her arms, that clung to her bosom in silence, dreading to look round at the strangers. In the meantime my youngest daughter prepared for our departure, and as she received several hints to use dispatch, in about an hour we were ready to depart. CHAPTER XXV. No situation, however wretched it seems, hut has some sort of comfort attending it. We set forward from this peaceful neigh- bourhood, and walked on slowly. My eldest daughter being enfeebled by a slow fever, which had begun for some days to undermine her constitution, one of the officers who had a horse kindly took her behind him ; for even these men cannot entirely divest themselves of humanity. My son led one of the little ones by the hand, and my wife the other, while I leaned upon my youngest girl, whose tears fell, not for her own, but my distresses. We were now got from my late dwelling about two miles, when we saw a crowd, running and shouting behind us, consisting of about fifty of my poorest parishioners. These, with dreadful imprecations, soon seized upon the two officers of justice, and swearing they would never see their minister go to gaol while they had a drop of blood to shed in his defence, were going to use them with great severity. The consequence might have been fatal, had I not immediately interposed, and with some difficulty rescued the officers from the hands of the enraged multitude. My children, who looked upon my delivery now as certain, appeared transported with joy, and were incapable of containing their raptures. Rut they were soon un- deceived, upon hearing me address the poor deluded people, who came, as they imagined, to do me service. “ What ! my friends, ” cried I, “ and is this the way you love me? Is this the manner you obey the instructions I have given you from the pulpit ? Thus to fly in the face of justice, and bring down ruin on yourselves and me? Which is your ringleader ? Show me the man that has thus seduced you. As sure as he lives he shall feel my resentment. Alas ! my dear deluded flock, return back to the duty you owe to God, to your country, and to me. I shall yet perhaps one day see you in greater felicity here, and con- tribute to make your lives more happy. But, let it at least be my comfort, when I pen my fold for immortality, that not one here shall be wanting.” They now seemed all repentance, and, melting into tears, came one after the other to bid me farewell. I shook each tenderly by the hand, and leaving them my blessing, proceeded forward without meeting any further interruption. Some hours before night, we reached the town, or rather village, for it consisted but of a 6o THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. few mean houses, having lost all its former opulence, and retaining no marks of its ancient superiority but the gaol. Upon entering, we put up at an inn, where we had such refreshments as could most readily be procured, and I supped with my family with my usual cheerfulness. After seeing them properly accommodated for that night, I next attended the sheriff’s officers to the prison, which had formerly been built for the purposes of war, and consisted of one large apartment, strongly grated, and paved with stone, common to both felons and debtors at certain hours in the four-and-twenty. Besides this, every prisoner had a separate cell, where he was locked in for the night. I expected, upon my entrance, to find nothing but lamentations and various sounds of misery ; but it was very different. The prisoners seemed all employed in one common design, that of forgetting thought in merriment or clamour. I was apprised of the usual perquisites required upon these occasions, and immediately complied with the demand, though the little money I had was very near being all exhausted. This was immediately sent away for liquor, and the whole prison was soon filled with riot, laughter, and profaneness. “ How,” cried I to myself, “ shall men so very wicked be cheerful, and shall I be melancholy ? I feel only the same con- finement with them, and I think I have more reason to be happy.” With such reflections I laboured to be- come cheerful ; but cheerfulness was never yet produced by effort, which is itself pain- ful. As I was sitting, therefore, in a corner of the gaol, in a pensive posture, one of my fellow-prisoners came up, and, sitting by me, entered into conversation. It was my constant rule in life never to avoid the conversation of any man who seemed to desire it : for if good, I might profit by his instruction ; if bad, he might be assisted by mine. I found this to be a knowing man, of strong unlettered sense, but a thorough knowledge of the world, as it is called, or, more properly speaking, of human nature on the wrong side. He asked me if I had taken care to provide myself with a bed, which was a circum- stance I had never once attended to. “ That’s unfortunate,” cried he, “ as you are allowed here nothing but straw, and your apartment is very large and cold. However, you seem to be something of a gentleman, and, as I have been one myself in my time, part of my bed-clothes are heartily at your service.” I thanked him, professing my surprise at finding such humanity in a gaol in mis- fortunes ; adding, to let him see that I was a scholar, “ That the sage ancient seemed to understand the value of company in affliction, when he said Ton kosmon aire, ei dos ton etairon ; and, in fact,” continued I, “what is the world if it affords only solitude ? ” “You talk of the world, sir,” returned my fellow-prisoner ; “ the world is in its dotage ; and yet the cosmogony or crea- tion of the world has puzzled the philo- sophers of every age. What a medley of opinions have they not broached upon the creation of the world ! Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus, have all attempted it in vain. The latter has these words, Anarchoji ara kai ate- lutaion to pan, which implies ” — “ I ask pardon, sir,” cried I, “for interrupting so much learning; but I think I have heard all this before. Have I not had the plea- sure of once seeing you at Wellbridge fair, andisnotyourname Ephraim Jenkin- son?” At this demand he only sighed. “ I suppose you must recollect,” resumed I, “ one Doctor Primrose, from whom you bought a horse ? ” He now at once recollected me ; for the gloominess of the place and the approach- ing night had prevented his distinguishing my features before. “ Yes, sir,” returned Mr. Jenkinson, “I remember you per- fectly well ; I bought a horse, but forgot to pay for him. Your neighbour Flam- borough is the only prosecutor. I am any way afraid of at the next assizes ; for he intends to swear positively against me as a coiner. I am heartily sorry, sir, I ever deceived you, or indeed any man ; for you see, ” continued he, showing his shackles, “what my tricks have brought me to.” “Well, sir,” replied I, “your kindness in offering me assistance when you could expect no return shall be repaid with my endeavours to soften, or totally suppress THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. Mr. Flamborough’s evidence, and I will send my son to him for that purpose the first opportunity ; nor do I in the least doubt iDUt he will comply with my request ; and as to my own evidence, you need be under no uneasiness about that.” “ Well, sir,” cried he, “ all the return I can make shall be yours. Y on shall have more than half my bed-clothes to-night, and I’ll take care to stand your friend in the prison, where I think I have some influence. ” I thanked him, and could not avoid being surprised at the present youthful change in his aspect ; for at the time I had seen him before, he appeared at least sixty. “Sir,” answered he, “you are little ac- quainted with the world ; I had, at that time, false hair, and have learnt the art of counterfeiting every age from seventeen to seventy. Ah, sir ! had I but bestowed half the pains in learning a trade that I have in learning to be a scoundrel, I might have been a rich man at this day. But, rogue as I am, still I may be your friend, and that, perhaps, when you least expect it.” We were now prevented from further conversation by the arrival of the gaoler’s servants, who came to call over the pri- soners’ names, and lock up for the night. A fellow also, with a bundle of straw for my bed, attended, who led me along a dark narrow passage, into a room paved like the common prison, and in one corner of this I spread my bed, and the clothes given me by my fellow-prisoner ; which done, my conductor, who was civil enough, bade nie a good night. After my usual medita- tions, and having praised my Heavenly Corrector, I laid myself down, and slept with the utmost tranquillity till morning. CHAPTER XXVI. A ReIor7natio7t t7t the Gaol: to jnake laws com- plete, they should reward as well as punish. The next morning early, I was awakened by my family, whom I found in tears at rny bedside. The gloomy strength of every thing about us, it seems, had daunted them. gently rebuked their sorrow, assuring mem I had never slept with greater tran- qui lity ; and next inquired after my eldest augnter, who was not among them. 6i They informed me that yesterday’s un- easiness and fatigue had increased her fever, and it was judged proper to leave her behind. My next care was to send my son to procure a room or two to lodge the family in, as near the prison as con- veniently could be found. He obeyed; but could only find one apartment, which was hired at a small expense for his mother and sisters, the gaoler, with humanity, con- senting to let him and his two little bro- thers lie in the prison with me. A bed was therefore prepared for them in a corner of the room, which I thought answered veiy conveniently. I was willing, however, previously to know whether my little chil- dren chose to lie in a place which seemed to fright them upon entrance. “ Well,” cried I, “my good boys, how do you like your bed ? I hope you are not afraid to lie in this room, dark as it appears ?” “No, papa,” says Dick, “I am not afraid to lie anywhere, where you are.” “And I,” says Bill, who v/as yet but four years old, “love every place best that my papa is in.” After this I allotted to each of the family what they were to do. My daughter was particularly directed to watch her declining sister’s health ; my wife was to attend me ; my little boys were to read to me : “And as for you, my son,” continued I, “it is by the labour of your hands we must all hope to be supported. Y our wages as a day-labourer will be fully sufficient, with proper frugality, to maintain us all, and comfortably too. Thou art now sixteen years old, and hast strength ; and it was given thee, my son, for very useful pur- poses ; for it must save from famine your helpless parents and family. Prepare then, this evening, to look out for work against to-morrow, and bring home every night what money you earn for our support. ” Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, I walked down to the common prison, where I could enjoy more air and room. But I was not long there wffien the execrations, lewdness, and brutality that invaded me on every side, drove me back to my apartment again. Here I sat for some time pondering upon the strange infatuation of wretches, who, finding all 62 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. mankind in open arms against them, were labouring to make themselves a future and a tremendous enemy. Their insensibility excited my highest compassion, and blotted my own uneasi- ness from my mind. It even appeared a duty incumbent upon me to attempt to reclaim them. I resolved, therefore, once more to return, and, in spite of their con- tempt, to give them my advice, and con- quer them by my perseverance. Going, therefore^ among them again, I informed Mr. Jenkinson of my design, at which he laughed heartily, but communicated it to the rest. The proposal was received with the greatest good humour, as it promised to afford a new fund of entertainment to persons who had now no other resource for mirth but what could be derived from ridicule or debauchery. I therefore read them a portion of the service with a loud, unaffected voice, and found my audience perfectly merry upon the occasion. Lewd whispers, groans, of contrition burlesqued, winking and cough- ing, alternately excited laughter. How- ever, I continued with my natural solemnity to read on, sensible that what I did might mend some, but could itself receive no contamination from any. After reading, I entered upon my ex- hortation, which was rather calculated at first to amuse them than to reprove. I previously observed, that no other motive l3ut their welfare could induce me to this ; that I was their fellow-prisoner, and now got nothing by preaching. I was sorry, I said, to hear them so very profane ; be- cause they got nothing by it, but might lose a great deal : “ For be assured, my friends, ” cried I, — “for you are my friends, how- ever the world may disclaim your friend- ship, — though you swore twelve thousand oaths in a day, it would not put one penny in your purse. Then what signifies calling every moment upon the devil, and court- ing his friendship, since you find how scurvily he uses you ? He has given you nothing here, you find, but a mouthful of oaths and an empty belly ; and, by the best accounts I have of him, he will give you nothing that’s good hereafter. “ If used ill in our dealings with one man, we naturally go elsewhere. Were it not worth your while, then, just to try how you may like the usage of another master, who gives you fair promises at least to come to him ? Surely, my friends, of all stupidity in the world, his must be the greatest, who, after robbing a house, runs to the thief-takers for protection. And yet, how are you more wise? You are all seeking comfort from one that has already betrayed you, applying to a more j malicious being than any thief-taker of | them all ; for they only decoy and then hang you ; but he decoys and hangs, and, what is worst of all, will not let you loose after the hangman has done.” When I had concluded, I received the compliments of my audience, some of whom came and shook me by the hand, swearing that I was a very honest fellow, and that they desired my further acquaint- ance. I therefore promised to repeat my lecture next day, and actually conceived some hopes of making a reformation here ; for it had ever been my opinion, that no man was past the hour of amendment, every heart lying open to the shafts of re- proof, if the archer could but take a proper aim. When I had thus satisfied my mind. I went back to my apartment, where my wife prepared a frugal meal, while Mr. Jenkinson begged leave to add his dinner to ours, and partake of the pleasure, as he was kind enough to express it, of my con- versation. He had not yet seen my family ; for as they came to my apartment by a door in the narrow passage already described, by this means they avoided the common prison. Jenkinson at the first interview, therefore, seemed not a little struck with the beauty of my youngest daughter, which her pensive air contri- buted to heighten ; and my little ones did not pass unnoticed. “Alas, Doctor,” cried he, “these chil- dren are too handsome and too good for such a place as this ! ” “ Why, Mr. Jenkinson,” replied I, “thank Heaven, my children are pretty tolerable in morals ; and if they be good, it matters little for the rest.” “ I fancy, sir,” returned my fellow- prisoner, ‘ ‘ that it must give you great comfort to have all this little family about you.” THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. “ A comfort, Mr. Jenkinson ! ” replied I ; “ yes, it is indeed a comfort, and I would not be without them for all the world ; for they can make a dungeon seem a palace. There is but one way in this life of wounding my happiness, and that is by injuring them.” “ I am afraid then, sir,” cried he, “that I am in some measure culpable ; for I think I see here (looking at my son Moses) one that I have injured, and by whom I wish to be forgiven.” My son immediately recollected his voice and features, though he had before seen him in disguise, and taking him by'the hand, with a smile, forgave him. “ Yet,” continued he, “ I can’t help won- dering at what you could see in my face, to think me a proper mark for deception. ” “ My dear sir,” returned the other, “ it was not your face, but your white stock- ings, and the black ribbon in your hair, that allured me. But, no disparage- ment to your parts, I have deceived wiser men than you in my time ; and yet, with all my tricks, the blockheads have been too many for me at last.” “I suppose,” cried my son, “that the narrative of such a life as yours must be extremely instructive and amusing.” “Not much of either,” returned Mr. Jenkinson. “ Those relations which de- scribe the tricks and vices only of mankind, by increasing our suspicion in life, retard our success. The traveller that distrusts every person he meets, and turns back upon the appearance of every man that looks like a robber, seldom' arrives in time at his journey’s end. Indeed, I think, from my own expe- rience, that the knowing one is the silliest fellow under the sun. I was thought cun- ning from my very childhood: when but seven years old, the ladies would say that I was a perfect little man ; at fourteen, I Imew the world, cocked my hat, and loved the ladies ; at twenty, though I was per- tectly honest, yet every one thought me so that not one would trust me. hus I was at last obliged to turn sharper in my own defence, and have lived ever since, my head throbbing with schemes to eceive, and my heart palpitating with fears o detection. I used often to laugh at your 1 honest simple neighbour Flamborough, and, one way or another, generally cheated him once a year. Yet still the honest man went forward without suspicion, and grew rich, while I still continued tricksy and cunning, and was poor, without the consolation of being honest. However,” continued he, “let me know your case, and what has brought you here ; perhaps, though I have not skill to avoid a gaol myself, I may extricate my friends.” In compliance with his curiosity, I in- formed him of the whole train of accidents and follies that had plunged me into my present troubles, and my utter inability to get free. After hearing my story, and pausing some minutes, he slapped his forehead, as if he had hit upon something material, and took his leave, saying, he would try what could be done. CHAPTER XXVH. satne subject continued. The next morning I communicated to my wife and children the scheme I had planned of reforming the prisoners, which they received with universal disapproba- tion, alleging the impossibility and impro- priety of it ; adding that my endeavours would no way contribute to their amend- ment, but might probably disgrace my calling. “Excuse me,” returned I; “these people, however fallen, are still men ; and that is a very good title to my affections. Good counsel rejected, returns to enrich the giver’s bosom ; and though the instruc- tion I communicate may not mend them, yet it will assuredly mend myself. If these wretches, my children, were princes, there would be thousands ready to offer their ministry ; but, in my opinion, the heart that is buried in a dungeon is as precious as that seated upon a throne. Yes, my treasures, if I can mend them, I will : perhaps they will not all despise me. Per- haps I may catch up even one from the gulf, and that will be great gain ; for is there upon earth a gem so precious as the human soul?” Thus saying, I left them, and descended to the common prison, where I found the prisoners very merry, expecting my ar- 64 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. rival ; and each prepared with some gaol trick to play upon the Doctor. Thus, as I was going to begin, one turned my wig awry, as if by accident, and then asked my pardon. A second, who stood at some distance, had a knack of spitting through his teeth, which fell in showers upon my book. A third would cry Amen in such an affected tone, as gave the rest great de- light. A fourth had slyly picked my pocket of my spectacles. But there was one whose trick gave more universal pleasure than all the rest ; for, observing the man- ner in which 1 had disposed my books on the table before me, he very dexterously displaced one of them, and put an obscene jest-book of his own in the place, tlow- ever, I took no notice of all that this mis- chievous group of little beings could do, but went on, perfectly sensible that what was ridiculous in my attempt would excite mirth only the first or second time, while what was serious would be permanent. My design succeeded, and in less than six days some were penitent, and all attentive. It was now that I applauded my per- severance and address, at thus giving sen- sibility to wretches divested of every moral feeling, and now began to think of doing them temporal services also, by rendering their situation somewhat more comfortable. Their time had hitherto been divided be- tween famine and excess, tumultuous riot and bitter repining. Their only employ- ment was quarrelling among each other, playing at cribbage, and cutting tobacco- stoppers. From this last mode of idle industry I took the hint of setting such as chose to work at cutting pegs for tobacco- nists and shoemakers, the proper wood being bought by a general subscription, and, when manufactured, sold by my ap- pointment ; so that each earned something every day — a trifle indeed, but sufficient to maintain him. I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the punishment of immorality, and re- wards for peculiar industry. Thus, in less than a fortnight I had formed them into something social and , humane, and had the pleasure of regarding myself as a legisla- tor, who had brought men from their native ferocity into friendship and obedience. And it were highly to be wished, that legislative power would thus direct the law rather to reformation than severity ; that it Vi^ould seem convinced that the work of eradicating crimes is not by making punish- ments familiar, but formidable. Then, instead of our present prisons, which find or make men guilty, which enclose wretches for the commission of one crime, and return them, if returned alive, fitted for the perpetration of thousands ; we should see, as in other parts of Europe, places of penitence and solitude, where the accused might be attended by such as could give them repentance, if guilty, or new motives to virtue, if innocent. And this, but not the increasing punishments, is the way to mend a State. Nor can I avoid even questioning the validity of that right which social combinations have assumed, of capi- tally punishing offences of a slight nature. In cases of mui'der, their right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the law of self-defence, to cut off that man who has shown a disregard for the life of another. Against such, all nature rises in arms ; but it is not so against him who steals my pro- perty. Natural law gives me no right to take away his life, as, by that, the horse he steals is as much his property as mine. If, then, I have any right, it must be from a compact made between us, that he who deprives the other of his horse shall die. But this is a false compact ; because no man has a right to barter his life any more than to take it away, as it is not his own. And besides, the compact is inadequate, and would be set aside, even in a court of modern equity, as there is a great penalty for a very trifling convenience, since it is far better that two men should live than that one man should ride. But a com- pact that is false between two men, is equally so between a hundred, or a hun- dred thousand ; for as ten millions of circles can never make a square, so the united voice of myriads cannot lend the smallest foundation to falsehood. It is thus that reason speaks, and untutored nature says the same thing. Savages, that are directed by natural law alone, are very tender of the lives of each other ; they seldom shed blood but to retaliate former cruelty. Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ! 1 in war, had but few executions in times of peace; and, in all commencing govern- ments that have the print of nature still strong upon them, scarce any crime is held capital. It is among the citizens of a refined com- munity that penal laws, which are in the hands of the rich, are laid upon the poor. Government, while it grows older, seems to acquire the moroseness of age ; and, as if our property were become dearer in pro- portion as it increased — as if the more enormous our wealth the more extensive our fears — all our possessions are paled up with new edicts ever}' day, and hung round with gibbets to scare every invader. I cannot tell whether it is from the num- ber of our penal laws, or the licentiousness of our people, that this country should show more convicts in a year than half the dominions of Europe united. Perhaps it is owing to both ; for they mutually pro- duce each other. When, by indiscriminate penal laws, a nation beholds the same punishment affixed to dissimilar degrees of guilt, from perceiving nO distinction in the penalt}^, the people are led to lose all sense of distinction in the crime, and this dis- tinction is the bulwark of all morality : thus the multitude of laws produce new vices, and new vices call for fresh re- straints. _ It were to be wished, then, that power, instead of contriving new laws to punish vice ; instead of drawing hard the cords of society till a convulsion come to burst them; instead of cutting away wretches ns useless before we have tried their utility; instead of converting correction into ven- geance, — it were to be wished that we ried the restrictive arts of government, nnd made law the protector, but not the the people. W e should then find n creatures, whose souls are held as w™^\ wanted the hand of a refiner : st^ then find that creatures, now sh^^ in tortures, lest luxury h feel a momentary pang, might, if P perly treated, serve to sinew the state UKp danger ; that as their faces are mincT^^^’ hearts are so too ; that few rar,„ \ that perseverance last ^ ; that a man may see his nme without dying for it ; and that very little blood will serve to cement our security. CHAPTER XXVIII. Hallmess and M isery rather the result of Pru- dence than of Virtue in this life; temjioral evils orfelicities being regardedby Heaven as thhigs ■merely in themselves trifling, and unworthy its care in the distribution. I HAD now been confined more than a fortnight, but had not since my arrival been visited by my dear Olivia, and I greatly longed to see her. Having com- municated my wishes to my wife, the next morning the poor girl entered my apart- ment, leaning on her sister’s arm. The change which I saw in her countenance struck me. The numberless graces that once resided there were now fled, and the hand of death seemed to have moulded every feature to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, her forehead was tense, and a fatal paleness sat upon her cheek. “ I am glad to see thee, my dear,” cried I ; “ but why this dejection, Livy? I hope, my love, you have too great a regard for me to permit disappointment thus to un- dermine a life which I prize as my own. Be cheerful, child, and we may yet see happier days.” “You have ever, sir,” replied she, “been kind to me, and it adds to my pain that I shall never have an opportunity of sharing that happiness you promise. Hap- piness, I fear, is no longer reserved for me here ; and I long to be rid of a place where I have only found distress. Indeed, sir, I wish you would make a proper sub- mission to Mr. Thornhill ; it may in some measure induce him to pity you, and it will give me relief in dying.” “Never, child,” replied I; “never will I be brought to acknowledge my daughter a prostitute; for though the world may look upon your offence with scorn, let it be mine to regard it as a mark of credulity, not of guilt. My dear, I am no way miser- able in this place, however dismal it may seem ; and be assured, that while you continue to bless me by living, he shall never have my consent to make you more wretched by marrying another.” After the departure of my daughter, my fellow-prisoner, who was by at this inter- view, sensibly enough expostulated on my F 66 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. obstinacy in refusing a submission which promised to give me freedom. He ob- served, that the rest of my family was not to be sacrificed to the peace of one child alone, and she the only one who had of- fended me. “ Besides,” added he, “ I don’t know if it be just thus to obstruct the union of man and wife, which you do at present, by refusing to consent to a match you can- not hinder, but may render unhappy.” “ Sir,” replied I, “ you are unacquainted with the man that oppresses us. I am very sensible that no submission I can make could procure me liberty even for an hour. I am told that even in this very room a debtor of his, no later than last year, died for want. But though my sub- mission and approbation could transfer me from hence to the most beautiful apartment he is possessed of, yet I would grant neither, as something whispers me that it would be giving a sanction to adultery. While my daughter lives, no other mar- riage of his shall ever be legal in my eye. Were she removed, indeed, I should be the basest of men, from any resentment of my own, to attempt putting asunder those who wish for a union. No, villain as he is, I should then wish him married, to prevent the consequences of his future debauch- eries. But now, should I not be the most cruel of all fathers to sign an instrument which must send my child to the grave, merely to avoid a prison myself ; and thus, to escape one pang, break my child’s heart with a thousand?” He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but could not avoid observing, that he feared my daughter’s life was already too much wasted to keep me long a piisoner. “However,” continued he, “though you refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope you have no objections to laying your case be- fore the uncle, who has the first character in the kingdom for everything that is just and good. I would advise you to send him a letter by the post, intimating all his nephew’s ill usage ; 'and my life for it, that in three days you shall have an answer. ” I thanked him for the hint, and instantly set about complying ; but I wanted paper, and unluckily all our money had been laid out that morning in provisions : however, he supplied me. F or the three ensuing days I was in a state' of anxiety to know what reception my letter might meet with ; but in the meantime was frequently solicited by my wife to submit to any conditions rather than remain here, and every hour received repeated accounts of the declin of my daughter’s, health. The third day and the fourth arrived, but I received no answer to my letter : the complaints of a stranger against a favourite nephew were no way likely to succeed ; so that these hopes soon vanished like all my former. My mind, however, still supported itself, though confinement and bad air began to make a visible alteration in my health, and my arm that had suffered in the fire grew worse. My children, however, sat by me, and while I was stretched on my straw, read to me by turns, or listened and wept at my instructions. But my daughter’s health declined faster than mine : every message from her contributed to increase my ap- prehensions and pain. The fifth morning after I had written the letter which was sent to Sir William Thornhill, I was alarmed with an account that she was speechless. Now it was that confinement was truly painful to me ; my soul was bursting from its prison to be near the pil- low of my child, to comfort, to strengthen her, to receive her last wishes, and teach her soul the way to Heaven ! Another account came : she was expiring, and yet I was debarred the small comfort of weep- ing by her. My fellow-prisoner, some time after, came with the last account. He bade me be patient : she was dead ! The next morning he returned, and found me with my two little ones, now my only ; companions, who were using all their inno- cent efforts to comfort me. They entreated ; to read to me, and bade me not to cry, for I was now too old to weep. “ And is not my sister an angel, now, papa?” cried the. eldest ; “ and why, then, are you soi'ry for her? I wish I were an angel out of this frightful place, if my papa were with me.” — “Yes,” added my youngest darling, “ Heaven, where my sister is, is a finer place than this, and there are none but good people there, and the people here are very bad.” Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmless THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 67 ])rattle by observing, that, now my daugh- ter was no more, I should seriously think of the rest of my family, and attempt to save my own life, which was every day declin- ing for want of necessaries and wholesome air. He added, that it was now incum- bent on me to sacrifice any pride or re- sentment of my own to the welfare of those who depended on me for support ; and that I was now, both by reason and justice, obliged to try to reconcile my landlord. “ Heaven be praised,” replied I, “there is no pride left me now : I should detest my own heart if I saw either pride or re- sentment lurking there. On the contrary, as my oppressor has been once my parish- ioner, I hope one day to present him up an unpolluted soul at the eternal tribunal. Xo, sir, I have no resentment now ; and though he has taken from me what I held dearer than all his treasures, though he has wnmg my heart, — for I am sick almost to fainting, very sick, my fellow-prisoner, — yet that shall never inspire me with vengeance. I am now willing to approve Ins marriage : and, if this submission can do him any pleasure, let him know that if I have done him any injury I am sorry for it.” Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote down my submission nearly as I nave expressed it, to which I signed my name. My son was employed to carry die letter to Mr. Thornhill, who was then nt his seat in the country. He went, and, in about six hours, returned with a verbal answer. He had some difficulty, he said, to get a sight of his landlord, as the ser- vants were insolent and suspicious : but he accidentally saw him as he wms going out upon business, preparing for his marriage, to be in three days. He con- 1 m '’’‘form us, that he stept up in the mim blest manner, and delivered the letter, wmcli, when Mr. Thornhill had read, he saic that all submission was now too late i heard of our ; pp ication to his uncle, which met with I rpsf-^?n deserved ; and, as for the ; (Urp^f future applications should be | observp attorney, not to him. He Tnnri •’ .f‘U''"uver, that as he had a very & opinion of the discretion of the two young ladies, they might have been the most agreeable intercessors. “ Well, sir,” said 1 to my fellow-prisoner, “ you now discover the temper of the man that oppresses me. He can at once be facetious and cruel : but, let him use me as he will, I shall soon be free, in spite of all his bolts to restrain me. I am now draw- ing towards an abode that looks brighter as I approach it : this expectation cheei-s my afflictions, and though I leave an help- less family of orphans behind me, yet they will not be utterly forsaken : some friend, perhaps, will be found to assist them for the sake of their poor father, and some may charitably relieve them for the sake of their heavenly Father.” Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen that day before, appeared with looks of terror, and making efforts, but un- able, to speak. “ Why, my love,” cried I, “ why will you thus increase my afflic- tions by your own ? What though no sub- missions can turn our severe master, though he has doomed me to die in this place of wretchedness, and though we have lost a darling child, yet still you will find comfort in your other children when I shall be no more.” — “ We have indeed lost,” returned she, “a darling child. My Sophia, my dearest is gone ; snatched from us, carried off by ruffians !” — “How, madam,” cried my fellow-prisoner, “ Miss Sophia carried off by villains ! sure it cannot be ? ” She could only answer by a fixed look, and a flood of tears. But one of the pri- soners’ wives who was present, and came in with her, gave us a more distinct ac- count : she informed us, that as my wife, my daughter, and herself were taking a walk together on the great road, a little way out of the village, a post-chaise and pair drove up to them, and instantly stopped ; upon which a well-dressed man, but not ' Mr. Thornhill, stepping out, clasped my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bade the postilion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a moment. “ Now,” cried I, “ the sum of my miseries is made up, nor is it in the power of any- thing on earth to give me another pang. What ! not one left ! — not to leave me one ! — The monster — The child that was next my heart ! — she had the beauty of an angel. 68 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. and almost the wisdom of an angel. — But support that woman, nor let her fall. — Not to leave me one ! ” “Alas! my husband,” said my wife, “you seem to want comfort even more than I. Our distresses are great, but I could bear this and more, if I saw you but easy. They may take away my children, and all the world, if they leave me but you.” My son, who was present, endeavoured to moderate our grief ; he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that we might still have reason to be thankful. “ My child, ” cried I, “ look round the world, and see if there be any hapj^iness left me now. Is not every ray of comfort shut out, while all our bright prospects only lie beyond the grave ? ” — “ My dear father,” returned he, “ I hope there is still something that will give you an interval of satisfaction ; for I have a letter from my brother George.” — “ What of him, child ?” interrupted I ; “ does he know our misery ? I hope my boy is exempt from any part of what his wretched family suffers?” — “Yes, sir,” returned he, “ he is perfectly gay, cheer- ful, and happy. His letter brings nothing but good news ; he is the favourite of his colonel, who promises to procure him the very next lieutenancy that becomes va- cant.” “ And are you sure of all this ?” cried my wife ; “ are you sure that nothing ill has befallen my boy?” — “Nothing, in- deed, madam,” returned my son; “you shall see the letter, which will give you