— OLIVER GOLDSMITH’S WORKS: | kmss, Catrate, fentjs, VICAR OF WAKEFIELD: WITH LIFE WASHINGTON IBVING: Sllnstratians. LONDON: CHARLES DALY, GREVILLE STREET, HATTON GARDEN. Cnntettfe lAGfl Life of Dr. G edsjiith, by "Washington Irving v The Traveller : — Dedication .... 1 Poem .... 3 The Deserted Village : — Dedication . . . .12 Poem .... 14 The Haunch of Venison . . . .23 Retaliation .... 26 Postscript , . . .30 The Hermit ; — Introduction .... 31 Poem . . . . .32 The Double Transformation : a Tale . . 36 The Gift : To Iris, in Bow Street, Covent Garden . 38 The Logicians Refuted (in Imitation of Dean Swift) 39 On a Beautiful Youth struck Blind with Lightning . 40 Stanzas on Woman .... 40 A Hew Simile (in the Manner of Swift) . . 41 The Clown’s Reply .... 42 An Elegy on the Dcatli of a Mad Dog . . 43 Song : Intended to have been Sung in the Comedy of ‘ She Stomps to Conquer’ .... 44 Description of an Author’s Bed-chamber . . 4o Epitaph on Dr. Parnell .... 46 Stanzas on the Taking of Quebec ... 46 CONTENTS. A Sonnet ...... 46 From the Oratorio of ‘ The Captivity : ’ a Seng . . 46 An Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize 47 Epitaph on Edward Purdon .... 47 Song ...... 48 A Prologue, "Written and Spoken by the Poet Laberius, a Eoman Knight, -whom Caesar forced upon the Stage . 48 Prologue to ‘ Zobeide ’ .... 49 Epilogue spoken by Mr. Lee Lewis, in the character of Harlequin, at his Benefit .... 50 Epilogue to the Comedy of ‘ The Sisters’ . . 51 The Good Natured Man: — Dramatis Personae Preface Prologue, written by Dr. Johnson Comedy . . Epilogue . . . . She Stoops to Conquer: — Dramatis Personae . . Dedication Prologue, by David Garrick, Esq. Comedy . . Epilogue . 53 54 55 53 105 107 108 100 110 162 Introduction . . . . . .165 Love and Friendship ; or the story of Alcander and Septi- mus : taken from a Byzantine Historian . . 167 On Happiness of Temper . . . .170 Description of various Clubs . . . 172 On the Policy of Concealing our Wants or Poverty . 178 On Generosity and Justice .... 182 On the Education of Youth .... 185 On the Versatility of Popular Favour . . 192 CONTENTS. Specimen of a Magazine in Miniature . A Modest Address to the Public . . Dedication ..... A Speech spoken by the Indigent Philosopher Rules for Raising the Devil . Rules for Behaviour, by the Indigent Philosopher Beau Tibbs ; a Character Beau Tibbs — continued . . . . On the Irresolution of Youth On Mad Dogs On the increased Love of Life with Age On the Ladies’ Passion for levelling all Distinction of In ess Asem, an Eastern Tale ..... On the English Clergy and P .pillar Preachers On the Advantages to be derived from Sending a Judicious Traveller into Asia AReverie at the Boar’s Head Tavern, in East-cheap . On Quack Doctors ..... Adventures of a Strolling Player . . . Rules enjoined to be Observed at a Russian Assembly . The Genius of Love : an Eastern Apologue . . History of the Distresses of an English Disabled Soldier. On the Frailty of Man .... On Friendship ...... Folly of attempting to learn Wisdom in Retirement Letter, supposed to be written by a Common-Councilman, at the time of the Coronation . . A second Letter, describing the Coronation . . An Account of the Augustan Age of England . Some Particulars relative to Charles XII. not commonly known Upon Unfortunate Merit .... Custom and Laws Compared .... A Reverie ...... A Word or Two on the late Farce, called ‘ High Life below Stairs’ ...... Of Eloquence ..... The Sagacity of some Insects . . . . The Characteristics of Greatness . . . Sentiments of a Frenchman on the Temper of the English Sabinus and Olinda .... Of the Pride and Luxury of the Middling Class of People . The History of Hypasia .... Ta GB 194 195 195 195 196 197 197 199 202 201 207 209 221 218 221 223 233 235 241 242 245 249 2ol 253 255 257 259 264 267 269 272 276 277 283 286 288 290 292 293 CONTENTS. CIjb liitar nf tMrfiflfr. CHATTER I. The description of the family of Wakefield, in which a kindred likeness prevails as well of minds as of persons 299 CHAPTER II. Family misfortunes. — The loss of Fortune only serves to increase the pride of the worthy , . . 302 CHAPTER III. A migration. — The fortunate circumstances of our lives are generally found at last to be of our own procuring 304 CHAPTER IV. A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant happi- ness, which depends not on circumstances, but con- stitution ..... 309 CHAPTER V. A new and great acquaintance introduced. — What we place most hopes upon generally proves most fatal 311 CHAPTER VI. The happiness of a country fire-side . . . 314 CHAPTER VII. A town wit described. — The dullest fellows may learn to be comical for a night or two . . , 310 CHAPTER VIII. An amour, which promises little good fortune, yet may oe productive of much ..... 319 CHAPTER IX. Two ladies of great distinction introduced. — Superior finery ever seems to confer superior breeding . 125 CHAPTER X. The family endeavours to cope with their betters. — The miseries of the poor when they attempt to appear above their circumstances .... 527 CONTENTS. PAC-B CHAPTER XI. The family still resolve to hold up their heads . 330 CHAPTER XII. Fortune seems resolved to humble the family of Wake- field. — Mortifications arc often more painful than real calamities ..... 333 CHAPTER XIII. Mr. Harebell is found to be an enemy ; for he has the con- fidence to give disagreeable advice . . 337 CHAPTER XIV. Fresh mortifications, or a demonstration that seeming calamities may be real blessings . . . 339 CHAPTER XV. All Mr. Burehell’s villany at once detected. — The folly of being over-wise .... 346 CHAPTER XVI. The family use art, which is opposed by still greater . 343 CHAPTER XVII. Scarcely any virtue found to resist the power of long and pleasing temptation .... 350 CHAPTER XVIII. The pursuit of a father to reclaim a lost child to virtue . 356 CHAPTER XIX. The description of a person discontented with the present government, and apprehensive of the loss of our liberties . . . i • 359 CHAPTER XX. The history of a philosophic vagabond, pursuing novelty, but losing content ..... 364 CHAPTER XXI. The short continuance of friendship among the vicious, which is coeval only with mutual satisfaction . 374 CHAPTER XXII. Offences are easily pardoned where there is love at bottom . . .... 379 a 3 CONTENTS. FAGK CHAPTER XXIII. None but the guilty can be long and completely miserable 382 CHAPTER XXIV. Fresh calamities , . . • • 385 CHAPTER XXV. No situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort of comfort attending it . • • 389 CHAPTER XXVI. A reformation in the Gaol. — To make laws complete, they should reward as well as punish • • 392 CHAPTER XXVII. The same subject continued . • • 395 CHAPTER 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 distribution 398 CHAPTER XXIX The equal dealings of Providence demonstrated 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 sufferings in the life hereafter . . • • 405 CHAPTER XXX. Happier prospects begin to appear. — Let us be inflexible, and fortune will at last change in our favour . 403 CHAPTER XXXI. Former benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest 413 CHAPTER XXXII. The conclusion • . « • 423 LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. BY WASHINGTON IRVING. There are few writers for whom the reader feels such personal kindness as for Oliver Goldsmith, for few have so eminently possessed the magic gift of identifying themselves with their writings. We read his character in every page, and grow into familiar intimacy with him as we read. The artless benevolence that beams throughout his works ; the whimsical, yet amiable views of human life and human nature ; the unforced humour, blending so happily with good feeling and good sense, and singularly dashed at times with a pleasing melancholy ; even the very nature of his mellow, and flowing, and soft-tinted style ; all seem to bespeak his moral as well as his intellectual qualities, and make us love the man, at the same time that we admire the • author. An acquaintance with the private biography of Goldsmith, lets us into the secret of his gifted pages. We there discover them to he little more than transcripts of his own heart, and picturings of his fortunes. There he shows himself the same kind, artless, good-humoured, excursive, sensible, whimsical, intelligent being that he appears in his writings. Scarcely an adventure or character is given in his works, that may not be traced to his own parti-coloured story. Many of his most ludicrous scenes, and ridiculous incidents, have been drawn from his own blunders and mischances, and he seems really to have been buffeted into almost every maxim imparted by him for the instruction of the reader. This simple yet illustrious author was born at Pallasmore, in the county of Longford, on the 10th of November, 1728. Although his life was commenced upon Irish soil, and the greater part of his immediate connexions were settled in different parts of the sister island, he was of English extraction. Goldsmith has himself furnished some quaint hints relative to the peculiar improvidence of his family. Almost all of his con- nexions appear to have married, and become responsible to provide for no mean share of descendants, without the prospect even of competency. The poet’s father, Charles Goldsmith, who was the officiating clergyman at Pallasmore at the time of Oliver’s birth, married in his youth without any means of his own, beyond his curacy, the produce of a few impoverished acres, and the gratuities of his friends. His aggregate income might have amounted to forty or fifty pounds a year, and his young and simple bride could boast of nothing but her person. A crazy, dilapidated mansion which had ceased to be occupied by the lordly proprietors of former days, became lis local habitation and the birth place of the poet, by whom it was illus- trated in its decay. Oliver with his parents remained at Pallasmore, unti'. he had well nigh attained his third year, when his lather was promoted to the rectory of Kilkenny West. Meanwhile, as the tradition of the country goes, the former retreat of the Goldsmiths remained wholly unoccupied, and became the haunt of fairies and sprites alone ; and so bmt were the mischievous elfin crew to secure the hallowed spot from after desecration, that they baffled all attempts at repair made by tbe proprietor, and deliberately kicked down at night what the workmen bad accomplished during the day. Thus, at last, the hapless old house was abandoned to its fate, and to its super- human tenants. The spot, to which the poet’s family had removed, was no less romantic, with the advantage of a more varied landscape. This was Lissoy, in the county of Westmeath, where Charles Goldsmith occupied a very considerable farm. Here were generated the first conceptions of the poet’s childhood. It was the spot hallowed by the "warm aspirations, pure enjoyments, and brief but torturing little crosses of boyhood. It is not strange, therefore, that the portraiture of this scene, with all its little peculiarities, should so often recur under various pretexts in the lightest as in the most serious works of our author. Gddsmith is not the only poet who has secretly or avowedly acknowledged tbe perpetual charm which hangs about the haunts of our child- hood. Witness the beautilul lines : — “ Sweet is the schoolboy spot We ne’er forget, though there we are forgot.” The peculiarities of his father, and the primitive simplicity of the household, have been immortalized in the “Ticar of Wakefield.’’ The scenery and the population of the district have been revived in the true and animated description of the “ Deserted Village.” Oliver Goldsmith had four brothers and three sisters. He was the second son, and, by seven years, younger than his OLIVER GOLDSMITH. vii brother Henry. When about three years old, the poet’s earliest education was entrusted to one Elizabeth Delap, who did not fail to boast, in her later years, of having been his first instructress ; although she was fain to confess, that, under her tutelage, he had manifested no brilliant indications of talent. During the period of her matronly governance, she declared that Oliver was one of the dullest of her pupils. The truth is, that the young tyro’s imagination was ever wandering from any subject on which she sought to fix it. From his earliest youth he was given to that sort of abstracted contemplation which almost always carried his thoughts away from objects or con- siderations which were present ; and. unless he abandoned himself to the merry, light-hearted humour which distinguished his social character, his thoughts were evei at a distance. Thus, up to the period when he attained his sixth or seventh year, he continued to linger in his studies under dame Delap. At that epoch, however, he was handed over for more compre- hensive education to one Paddy Byrne, the learned man of the village. Byrne, whose portrait is admirably drawn in the “ Deserted Village,” had been alternately teacher, soldier, and then teacher again. His somewhat prolific fancy, and the fund of incident collected in his various pursuits both civil and military, especially adapted him to prepossess our young hero in favour of some portion of his lore, but to abstract his imagina- tion from the book-learning which was prescribed for him. Thus did Oliver become proficient in anecdotes or fables of campaigning, in ghost and fairy-tales, and in everything which savoured of wild adventure. Byrne had, moreover, some pre- tensions of his own to the production of certain very exception- able bantlings in the shape of verses ; and Oliver, whose peculiar talent had a bent that way, and w'hose naturally quick ear rendered him remarkably susceptible of the music of numbers, quickly caught this failing of his exquisite tutor. Instead of occupying himself with more useful researches, he was very frequently engaged in scribbling some of his earliest effusions upon any stray scrap of paper which might chance to fall in his way ; and, although he was by no means ambitious of betraying this failing, an occasional fragment would reach his mother, who, with natural solicitude and pride, was ready enough to admire and to magnify the merits of those childish productions. Assured of the natural capacity of her son, she became urgent that he should be educated consistently with such manifest talent, and that thus a fair field should be offered for the develop- ment of his evident genius. The father remonstrated, deprecated the cost of another education such as that which had been bestowed on the eldest son Henry, represented the advantages of handicrafts over professions — but all in vain. He argued, but his wife prevailed ; and Oliver was consigned to establish- ments of loftier pretensions, to acquire the rudiments of classical lore. This change took place on the occasion of a dangerous attach of small pox, in consequence of which he was necessarily removed from the tender care of the quaint Paddy Byrne. Upon his recovery, young Oliver was entrusted for the acquisi- tion of more enlarged attainments, to a clergyman of the name of Griffin, who had established a school at Elphin, in Eos- common. During his pupilage under this master, our hero was quartered in the family of one of his paternal uncles, who resided at Ballyoughter, in the immediate vicinity of Mr. Griffin’s school. His progress as a pupil still failed to confirm the flattering anticipations of his family ; for though his thorough good-nature, and the warm-heartedness of his disposition, enhanced by the quiet humour and social conviviality which were his striking characteristics, rendered him the universal lavourite of all his associates, he was by no means rapid enough in the fulfilment of his scholastic duties, to secure him an equally fair reputation with his tutors. An anecdote is related of him which may he referred approxi- mately to this period, and which, though apparently trifling in itself, was cherished and recorded with great satisfaction by his admiring parents. It appears that a kind of juvenile entertain- ment took place at his uncle’s house, at which one of the party, whose name was Cummings, played the fiddle; Oliver, with his usual readiness to please his companions, assented to perform a hornpipe. His appearance had certainly not been improved by the small pox, which had left its indelible and disfiguring traces upon his features, whilst the heavy and by no means prepossessing shape of his figure, heightened the grotesque and ludicrous about his appearance. Cumming, who was fond of passing for a wag, raised a laugh at Oliver’s expense, by fixing him with the nickname of iEsop. The best tempered beings are sometimes tender of too personal a sally ; and our young poet, on this occasion, appears to have received the joke with an acrimony which was not common with him ; for, suddenly checking himself in the midst of his dance, he retorted : — “ Our herald hath proclaimed this saying, See iEsop dancing, and his monkey playing.” The smartness of the reply established his reputation amongst his friends, who began to deplore that he should not be provided with the advantages which had been afforded to his cider brother. Nothing less than an university education would offer a fair field to his talents. But his father was by no means in circumstances to enable him to sustain such expences a second time. At the urgent instance of his mother, therefore, his various relations agreed to join together in providing the means. The most liberal of all was one of his uncles, a clergy- man of the name of Thomas Contarine, who, having married one of Charles Goldsmith’s sisters, by w'hom he had one child, named Jane, had since become a widower. Contarine had very OLIVER C-OLDSMITH. ix early looked with especial favour upon young Oliver, and whilst his daughter, who was only two years the poet’s senior, had been amongst his earliest playmates, her father was almost his first, most constant, and truest of friends. It was chiefly with the assistance of this kind and worthy relative, that Oliver was equipped for, and maintained in schools of a higher order pre- paratory to his removal to the university. He was first placed under the care of Mr. Campbell at Athlone ; and, subsequently, was transferred to Edgworthstown, and en- trusted to a clergyman of the name of Patrick Hughes. Nowhere, however, did the progress of his studies afford any brilliant promise to his tutors : although, it would seem that his sluggish advancement was rather attributed to an indolent or careless habit than to a constitutional dullness. — His taste was very early identified with classical attainments: and the latin poets and historians seemed to have afforded him con- siderable gratification ; — Ovid, Horace, and Livy, were naturally enough amongst his chief favourites. The charms of inter- esting fables, or of matchless lyric rythm, were too much in accordance with his natural bent to escape his apprehension. He was still the especial favourite of his schoolfellows and companions. A very characteristic anecdote concerning his last homeward transit from Edgworthstown, is related on the authority of his family traditions. It would seem that his father’s house was at a distance of about twenty miles. The want of a good road from place to place is no uncommon thing in Ireland even now, but in the youth of Oliver Goldsmith, it was, perhaps, one of the great rarities of that unintelligible country. The distance through which young Oliver had to wend his homeward way, was precisely in this category. It had no acquaintance what- ever with vehicles upon wheels — not so much as a country car. The poet, who was then an awkward lad of the indescribable age of sixteen, suddenly found himself, therefore, mounted on horseback, and furnished with money for his journey. Thus equipped, his estimate of himself was notably heightened, and he assumed a loftier style proportionate to his elevated dimen- sions. He was bent upon playing the man, and passing for a travelled spark of experience in “highway and byeway. ’ Accordingly, instead of proceeding directly homeward, he resolved to pass the night at Ardagh. Here he became the victim of his own consequential assumption, and of the waggery of a stranger. He abruptly desired of the first person he met to be directed to the best house in the place. This person happened to be one of those spirits who delight in practical jokes, and who was enjoying the hospitality of a gentleman of the name of Featherstone, the principal proprietor of the neighbourhood, and Oliver was promptly directed to the mansion of Mr. Featherstone himself. Our poet, who imagined that he was putting up at an inn, distributed his orders to the right and to the left, with all b X XIFE OF the importance of a great man whose custom was worth some forbearance. The master of the house, who was not slow in detecting the mistake, resolved to honour his uninvited guest, and to sustain the plot, so that Oliver was indulged in his utmost vagaries, and entertained with the most affected respect, until the truth was allowed to break upon him on the following morning. Goldsmith was naturally of so timid and retiring a disposition that he was ill calculated to make the most of his part, and the discovery of his mistake rendered him truly awkward and confused. We have entered into the detail of this anecdote, not so much on its own account, as because it furnished a portion of the incidents for the comedy of “ She Stoops to Conquer, or the Mis- takes of a Night.” In the meanwhile, the elders of the family of Goldsmith had alternate grounds of satisfaction and chagrin in the promotion of their hopes and expectations in other directions. The eldest son, Henry, was the hope and buttress of his father, and his successful career at the university had just elated the happy clergyman, when all his forecasts were darkened by another improvident and untoward step, which acceded to be registered amongst the follies of this amiable but reckless race. Henry was already in a fair way to secure his fellowship, when he suddenly and inexplicably abandoned the prospect for the more endearing anticipations of matrimony. Like his ancestry, he had totally overlooked the question of finance ; he had contracted a marriage with a young lady, if possible, poorer than himself, and was perforce compelled to retire from any future scholastic pretensions, to the unpromising and obscure preceptorship of a country village school. There appears to have been a matrimonial fatality in the family, for this marriage of Henry was very soon followed by that of his sister Catherine to a young gentleman of the name of Hodson, who had been entrusted to her brother’s tutelage. The mischief was, in this instance, more goading to the sensibility of her father, because young Hodson belonged to a wealthy family, and the scrupulous delicacy of Mr. Goldsmith suggested the charge of a breach of trust, which might be suscitated to stain the spotless integrity of his fame. Careless of poverty, he could not brook the imputation of dishonour, were it ever so unreason- able ; and rather than submit to the stigma, he resolved to make a desperate effort to exonerate himself. He therefore set about furnishing his daughter with a marriage portion of four hundred pounds, to the utter exhaustion of his own exchequer, the serious detriment of the rest of the family, and the inconvenience of Oliver in particular, who, from the prospect of becoming a pensioner at the university, was doomed to submit to the degrading and menial offices of a sizer : — for such was then tho position of that class amongst the students. It was on the 11th of June, 1747, that the poet entered Trinity College, Dublin, in that capacity. It is said, that tho OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xi inscription of his name still exists carved in the window-frame of the mean apartment to which he was consigned. He was lodged in one of the upper rooms, close to the library of the college, bearing the number thirty-five. Oliver’s good nature had not hitherto been put to so severe a trial, as it was by the duties imposed upon him in his character of a sizer. Amongst other things, he was required to sweep a given portion of the courts every morning, and to wait upon the fellows at table. His very dress was stamped with the derogatory badge of his position, and ithe untasselled cap indicated him as one of those victims of learning known as sizers. Goldsmith was good-humoured to the degree of weakness; but he was acutely sensitive, and recoiled with conscious dignity and proper self pride, from his Ihumiliation, and he never appears to have lost the impressions made upon him by his position at the university. The constant vexations of his situation, were by no means alleviated by the character of the tutor under whom his lot had cast him. This individual, whose somewhat appropriate cog- nomen was Wilder, was of an imperious, violent, and offensive disposition. He was, moreover, a punctilious and mathematical calculator. His tastes and inclinations were the exact reverse of his pupil’s ; so that they were not very likely to agree. But Wilder did not scruple to apply the most offensive epithets to Oliver, or even to descend to personal scurrility in addressing him publicly, or in speaking of him. Thus it was that the poet, who was already enlisted in favour of high sentiments and classical attainments, acquired a redoubled disgust for the more accurate and logical sciences. Mathematics were ever afterwards the bugbears of his educational catalogue. Ilis love of society and convivial pleasure added to this distaste for rigid science ; and he appears to have firmly persuaded himself that learning of that description was one of the saving clauses of dulness alone ; whilst genius was ever more brilliant when unfettered by rule and discipline, T he death of his father in the beginning of 1748, by stripping of his already scanty resources, left him in the greatest difficulty and embarrassment. The generosity of his uncle Contarine alone sustained him at the university ; and even with the assistance of that constant friend, and the additional mites occasionally obtadned of other friends and companions, he was more than once driven to the extremity of pawning his books, or of writing street ballads, to realize a few shillings for his subsis- tence. This was, perhaps, the earliest form of publication afforded to the effusions of one of the most admirable of British Bards ; and it is related of him, that he would frequently stroll about the streets to hear his own productions sung, and to revel in the applause which they drew from a casual audience. lit is, perhaps, in the midst of these straits that the merits of his character are most conspicuously manifested. For his xii I/TFE OP own calamities, far from rendering him obdurate to the cry of misery in others, awaked all his sympathies for the unfortunate, and aroused to activity the hearty yet reckless generosity for which he was so remarkable. It is related of him, that on one occasion, being close to the college entrance, he was accosted by a mendicant in the most deplorable condition. The poor man fold his tale of misery to no listless or un compassionate ears; amongst other things he pointed to his feet, which were bare, and lacerated with a long journey over rough and stony roads. “Wait awhile outside here,” exclaimed Oliver at last, “whilst I fetch you some boots.” Whereupon the poet, who could muster but one pair of his own, hastened to his apartment, took them off, and flung them from the window to the beggar. On another occasion he was engaged to breakfast with a friend, but the appointed hour had long elapsed without the appearance of the guest. His friend at length, wearied with waiting, pro- ceeded to the poet’s apartment to ascertain the cause of his absence, when, to his amazement, he emerged from the midst of the feathers in his bed. It appeared that, on the previous evening, he had been accosted by a poor woman, who had five children with her in a state of destitution. Her husband, as she said, was in the hospital, and she was a stranger and penniless in the town. Oliver was no richer in money than herself, but he quickly gathered together some clothes for her to sell, and stripped his bed of the blankets and coverings for the protection of the children. The consequence was, that he found himself extremely cold, and as an only resource, he had ripped up the bedding, and buried himself amongst the feathers for warmth. It was on the 27th of February, 1750, that Oliver Goldsmith took his degree ; and that once more set free from the bondage of scholastic discipline, and exempted from the odious tyranny of the Tutor Wilder, he found himself master of himself and of his vicissitudes. But the affairs of his family had been entirely changed since the death of his father. None of his immediate relations had the means of sustaining him : and, disappointed with his obscure career at the university, they appear to have received him somewhat coolly. Mr. Contarine alone continued to treat him with the same constant kindness. His advice to the poet was, to prepare without delay for holy orders. Oi.vei , however, entertained a strong and rooted repugnance for mo church, more, as it would seem, from a whimsical distaste for the discipline of dress, than on more serious grounds. Yielding, nevertheless, to the urgent solicitations of his kindest friend, he assented to become a can- didate for the ministry. At this period he had only attained the age of twenty-one, so that he had an interval of two years of indolence before him. During this time he was alternately the inmate of his brother’s house, or the guest of his brother-in- law, or enjoying the unfailing hospitality of Mr. Contarine, or OLIVER GOLDSMITH, xiii occasionally on a visit to his cousin and fellow collegian, Robert Brjyanton, at Ballymahon, where he became the leading wit of a taveern club. To the reminiscences of the society which was gatthered together at this club, have been attributed the charac- ters of “Tony Lumpkin,” “Jack Slang the horse doctor,” “ ILittle Aminidab, that grinds the music-box,” and “ Tom Twvist, who spins the pewter platter,” as well as “ Tony’s driinking song at the ‘ Three Jolly Pigeons.’ ” Ilf he turned his attention to reading of any kind, it certainly wais not of an ecclesiastical tendency. His literary repertory might be summed up in a catalogue of travels, adventures, biography, poetry, novels, plays, and the like ; and his success in ; attaining the hood was proportionate to the pains which he took to secure it. INo sooner had the period of his maturity arrived, than he offcered himself as a candidate for holy orders before the Bishop of ' Elfin : and, whether it was that he was found wanting in the saccred lore, or owing to the irregularity of his life, or, as has beecn authentically asserted, that, in his absolute repugnance to thee set habit of the office, he appeared before the prelate in scaxrlet breeches, and in the gaudy variety of colours which pleaased him in his apparel, certain it is that he was rejected. Thius, once more, did he find himself without any positive pursuit, to meet the vexation and disappointment of his friends, who weire daily losing confidence in their bright anticipations of his carreer. According to his own account, “ his friends were now perrfectly satisfied that he was undone : and yet they thought it a ppity for one that had not the least harm in him, and was so verry good-natured.” '.The constant friendship of Mr. Contarine alone remained unsshaken, though it must be confessed, that his hopes were sonmcwhat weakened. He contrived to place the poet in the capacity of tutor in the family of a Mr. Flinn. He was not witthout his comforts in this situation, but revolted from the serrvility of his position ; he gradually grew less deferential and comsiderate towards the members of his patron’s family, and encded by charging one of them with cheating at cards, and by thrrowing up his situation in disgust. lUpon receiving his stipend, he found himself in possession of thee inordinate sum of more than thirty pounds, and prompted by his love of adventure, instead of returning amongst his fritends, he purchased a horse, and set forth upon a journey, in whiich he appears to have had no distinct and positive object. Acccording to his subsequent account of the matter, there is reaason to believe that he was bent upon sailing for America. "Wiith this design he proceeded to Cork, and there secured a berth, antd paid for his passage, to the material detriment of his small resGources. Without further forethought, he abandoned himself to 1 his greatest luxury of convivial society ; and whilst he was in thee midst of his thoughtless carousals, the vessel in which he xiv LIFE OF was to have sailed weighed anchor without him. Finding himself in the lurch, with but a trifle left wherewithal to continue his own maintenance, he determined upon selling his horse, and substituting a jaded pony in its stead, and thus realizing the difference of value. But he had not long been re-supplied with the small store thus acquired, before he was overcome by the aspect of misery, and parted with all save half-a-crown. It was thus that he reached the house of an inhospitable acquaintance, and thence the dwelling of a more hospitable neighbour, with whose assistance he contrived to make his way to his own family totally destitute, but as reckless as ever. Once more disappointed in the issue of Oliver’s undertakings, and foiled in their attempts to make a provision for him, his family were for a time at a loss how to act, and many amongst them were loth to act at all. Mr. Contarine, however, again came forward to suggest a field, and to furnish the means to embark him in a new career. It was resolved that he should enter the profession of the law, and his worthy aud too accommo- dating relative actually provided him with fifty pounds, as a first instalment, and despatched him, as he thought, to London, to become a student in the Temple. But Oliver did not succeed in getting further than Dublin, on his new expedition. There he accidentally met with a casual acquaintance, who contrived to strip him of his funds, and left him to return once more amongst his friends, as forlorn and destitute of means, as he had been ot the occasion of his last re- appearance. Thoroughly ashamed oi his own folly, however, he did not venture to return at first ; and it was not until some time had elapsed, that his friends became acquainted with his circumstances, and took the initiative in inducing his return. His mother, although she forgave his indiscretions, was deeply chagrined by his repeated failures, •which belied her high opinion of his merits. Mr. Contarine indulgently overlooked all the trespasses upon his good nature, but almost abandoned the hope he had so long entertained of Oliver’s forthcoming success ; and his brother Henry was so mortified at the last, and most foolish of all his errors, that a dispute arose between them of so serious a character, as for a time to cut off all communication between them. At Mr. Contarine’s, however, he still found a hearty welcome, and a happy, comfortable home. Judging from the tenor of some verses attributable to this period, it might be inferred that he formed a tender attachment for his cousin Jane, so long since his playmate and companion. But it is evident, at all events, that the conditions of the affectionate regard entertained for one another were not analogous, from the fact, that his cousin was married shortly afterwards, to a certain Mr. Lawder. This event would necessarily have put a period to Oliver’ 3 preten- sions, had he ventured to such an aspiration. It was during tho time in which Oliver was an inmate of his uncle’s house, under the circumstances just related, that Mr. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. XV Contarine was honoured with a visit from a member of the family of Goldsmith, who was dean of Cloyne.. This worthy, whose dictum was a species of bye-law in his. district, and whose every enunciation was an oracle, graciously conde- scended to pronounce that the poet certainly possessed some qualifications for distinction, and recommended that he should attempt another of the learned professions, by entering upon the study of medicine. Ilis advice was gratuitously afforded, but was unaccompanied by any more substantial aid. And Mr. Contarine was once more called upon to provide the principal share of the funds requisite for a course of study at Edinburgh. Goldsmith’s brother and sister contributed, in proportion to their means, towards the attainment ot this object. 'Towards the close of the year 1752, the poet accordingly reached Edinburgh. His first introduction to the future scene of his learned pursuits, was accompanied by one of those casualties so frequently recorded in the course of his eventful history. He had, from sheer indolence, appropriated the first lodgings he could find; but without troubling himself concerning the street, or number, in which he had established his quarters. This done, he lost no time in strolling out to gratify his curiosity ; and, but for having accidently met with the porter to whom he was indebted for the previous carriage of his effects, he would have been sorely puzzled to have ascertained his own address. Goldsmith has given a quaint account of the thrifty contrivances of his landlady, in fulfilling her contract to supply board and lodging on the most reasonable terms ; and it appears that he was soon disgusted with the multiform appearance of the same joint, and was not long in seeking a more congenial retreat. In pursuance of the new career which had been marked out for him, the poet now attended medical lectures, and became a member of an association called the Medical Society. But it does not transpire that he was betrayed into any excess of earnestness in his scientific studies. He found no difficulty in joining the circle of a number of Irish fellow-students, whose habits and inclinations were akin to his own, and in becoming the principal wag of their tavern assemblies. His accomplish- ment at an Irish drinking song, or marvellous story, had gradually been perfected since the day of his instruction by Paddy Byrne, and of the Ballymahon club, and he was soon voted a right jolly companion. The lack of funds, which were but scantily and irregularly supplied by his friends from Ireland, never appears to have damped his buoyant spirits, or to have checked either his love of enjoyment, or his profuse and reckless generosity. He gave away, or lavished, whatever he could command, apparently with- out a thought of the expedient which should extricate him from the dilemma in which he was involved by his improvidence. Entirely engrossed by the peculiar pleasures of a student's life, especially at Edinburgh, in the middle of the last century, Goldsmith seems, for a time, even to have cast aside ail thoughts of rhyming. One thing, at all events, is certain ; that nothing worthy of notice which can be attributed to that date, has been left amongst his works. ! During one interval in his course of medical study, he spent a month in wandering through the Highlands, in conformity with the perpetual hankering for change of scene, which appears to have formed so striking a feature in his character. Notwithstanding his very unprepossessing appearance, to which there wall presently be occasion to return at greater length, Oliver Goldsmith secured the patronage of many of the most distinguished families in Edinburgh, by his eminent conversational qualifications. lie might doubtless have secured more material advantages at a later period, from introductions of this kind, had it not been that his sense of dignity was soon offended at the idea of being a kind of servile flatterer of the great. After spending two winters in Edinburgh, the poet projected an expedition to the continent, on the pretext of perfecting his medical studies, under Farheim, Petit, and Du Hammel de Mongeau at Paris, where he proposed to spend the spring and summer, and under Albinus at Leyden, where he intended to pass the ensuing winter. Mr. Contarine was once more prepared to furnish the funds for this continental excursion. Provided with funds at his own estimate, amounting to thirty- three pounds, and a good supply of clothes, and, above all, with the former companion of cousin Jane’s harpsichord, his flute, he set out on his journey. But, slight as was the provision for a year’s cruise amongst total strangers, it was rendered yet more slender by his utter absence of experience to eke it out. And if it be added to this, that his constitutional improvidence was by no means moderated, the reader will be able to form a tolerably accurate idea of the extent to which the student’s means were likely to hold out. Goldsmith’s first step was strikingly characteristic. His plan was to have secured a passage for Holland, but happening to meet a merry crew of carousers at a tavern, who were about to sail for Bordeaux, he promptly altered his course, engaged his berth, and was soon on his way to the south of France. Fortu- nately, or unfortunately, however, for the poet, the ship was compelled to seek refuge in the port of Newcastle-on-Tyne by stress of weather ; and here Goldsmith and his merry companions went ashore for relaxation, when the whole of them /were unceremoniously seized by a serjeant and his grenadiers. It turned out that Oliver’s new acquaintances were Scotchmen in the French service, who had lately been to Scotland to gather recruits, and it was in vain that the poet protested his innocence. He did not regain his liberty without considerable trouble, or OLIVER GOLDSMITH. XVII befcore he had been detained for ten days a close prisoner, when he < congratulated himself upon the imprisonment, on the ground thatt the ship, in which he was to have proceeded to Bordeaux, wass wrecked at the mouth of the Garonne, and all hands lost. TTemporarily cured, at length, of any inclinations to deviate froim a prescribed course, he now took his passage direct to Rotterdam, and thence proceeded, without any serious accident, to ILeyden, where, during the lapse of about a year’s residence, he jpursued his studies under Gaubius in chemistry, and Albinus in fanatomy. Mot but that it must, in candour, be confessed, that general literature occupied far more of his time and attention than either of tthese sciences. iA.s may be readily imagined, his thirty-three pounds were sooin exhausted, and he was again exposed to all the inconve- niences and embarrassments of want, pending the casual remit- tanices from home. Had it not been for a countryman and felllow-student of the name of Ellis, who afterwards attained comsiderable eminence in his profession, poor Goldsmith would hawe been compelled to abandon his studies more abruptly. Buit Ellis’s disinterested kindness materially relieved him; and, witth the addition of a few small gains derived from teaching Eniglish, under the very awkward circumstance of absolute igniorance of Dutch, he contrived to drag on. Ilis dangerous lov.’e of play, however, soon compelled him, at the earnest instance of Ellis, to quit Holland, where gaming was at that peiriod sadly prevalent. Nor was he loth to wander further in thee gratification of a curiosity, which had assumed a somewhat phiilosophical turn ; so that he readily assented to Ellis’s proposi- tiom, that he should at once proceed to Paris. Goldsmith’s friiend backed his advice by furnishing the means requisite for the joiurney ; but our hero was no sooner provided with funds than he was thoroughly himself again. The Dutch tulip mania was, at that time, at its height ; and, happening to stroll through some gairdens, recollecting at the same time that his kind uncle Comtarine was a fancier of those flowers, Oliver at once piurchased a packet, and despatched a selection of bulbs, to the uttter expenditure of the funds which had been generously furrnished by Ellis. He was resolved, nevertheless, not to abandon the project of hiss journey ; and, being ashamed to appeal to his friend so soon, he; determined to set forth on foot with the store of one spare sliiirt, about a guinea in money, and his flute, and to trust to cluance and expedients for his sustenance and progress. Such waas his departure from Leyden, in the month of February, 17-56. The sturdiness of his constitution enabled him to bear fatigue wiithout suffering, and that happy carelessness for the future, wlhich formed the salient trait of his character, left his spirits umsubdued for whatever privations he might have to sustain. Tlhus it was that, with the aid of his flute and his voice, he LIFE OF xviii contrived to pay his way through Flanders, and the north ol France, to Paris. Arrived at the French capital, he attended the lectures of Eouelle on chemistry, and gratified his love of the stige, in his admiration for the leading actress, Mademoiselle Clarion. That he had become a shrewd and philosophical observer of society, is evinced in his accurate forecast of the fate of ihe old Bourbon government. Goldsmith, during his residence in Paris, formed an accuaint- ance with Voltaire, Fontenelle, Diderot, and others, amongst the most eminent literary men of the day. But after remaining some time in the midst of the brilliant, but corrupt society of the French capital, the poet once more set out on a piiloso- phical excursion into Germany and Switzerland. At Geneva, he became a kind of travelling tutor to a wealthy young Englishman, whose despicable niggardliness, however, so tho- roughly disgusted him, that after continuing to attend him but a short time, they parted at Marseilles. Furnished villi a small fund, however, for his services, Goldsmith now recom- menced his independent pedestrian journey into Piedmont, and through that and others of the states of Italy. In this land of song, his flute and voice failed to procure him bread ; for according to himself, every peasant was a more proficient musician than himself. But he now found another resource, that of disputation at the monasteries, convents, and other learned or religious establishments. A strange method, certainly, of securing food and shelter from place to place. He remained some time at Padua, where he is said to have graduated iu medicine. It was thither that the melancholy tidings of Mr. Contarine’s death were conveyed to him. And it was then, that the casual remittances from Ireland absolutely ceased. He wrote, indeed, to his friends, and especially to his brother-in-law, urgently representing his forlorn and destitute condition. And it would seem, moreover, that Mr. Hodson made strenuous efforts in his behalf. But no further contributions could be obtained from his relations, who had ceased to believe in the talent of which they once had seen such promise, and who were loud in condemning the reckless extravagance, and love of vagabondism, to which "he owed his situation. Strongly as the traditions of Rome, and the charms of Naples, tempted him to proceed further to the southward, he was compelled to re-commence his homeward way, and once in France, to re-adapt his faithful flute as the contributor to his necessities. At length, in the beginning of the year 1757, he landed at Dover, after a ramble of two years. But it was on British soil that he was to be made most sensible of his destitution. The utter neglect of his friends, who did not even reply to his letters, exposed him to a sense akin to desolation. And as he set forward on his short but difficult journey from the coast to the metropolis, he was without a penny to help himself withal. The flute and his OLIVER GOLDSMITH. six scholarship were alike valueless amongst the equally boorish peasantry or clergy of Great Britain ; and, it is but too true, that learning and attainments, unsustained by position or influ- ence, are the most profitless of commodities, in this part of the island especially. It was in vain that, with the fund of medical and chemical knowledge, he endeavoured to obtain a mere dis- pensing employment behind the counter of a country apothecary. And all his talents did not render his theatrical performances, at a fair in Kent, the more acceptable to his coarse and ignorant audience. No better was his situation when, at length, he readied London, with a few pieces of copper at the utmost, to wander houseless, wearied, hungry, and destitute, through the pitiless streets, throughout a long and chilly night in the month of February. The first regular employment which he obtained upon his return, appears to have been in the capacity of usher to a school ; which, however, was ill calculated to suit his dis- position, and which he retained but a very short time. He next obtained a situation as sub-assistant in the la- boratory of a chemist, in the neighbourhood of Fish-street hill, where he continued for some months. It was during this period, that he accidently heard that Dr. Sleigh, who had been his companion at Edinburgh, was in London. Delighted at the idea of meeting with an acquaintance, where all else were strangers, he called upon the Doctor, who was at a loss to identify him, at first, but who treated him with great kindness ant? consideration, when he had recognised him. Through the instrumentality of this old fellow-student, Goldsmith was established in a small way of practice in Bankside, Southwark, where, however, his gains, scanty as they were, were but ill, and irregularly paid ; so that he was compelled to turn his attention to any straggling literary employment, to render his means more adequate to his wants. It was whilst at Bankside, that he accidently met his old school and college companion, Beattie. Goldsmith, on this ocasion, was arrayed to his fancy, in a tawdry suit of green and gold, and affected better circumstances then were indicated by the tarnished appearance of his apparel. It happened about this period, that one of his patients, a journeyman printer in the employment of the novelist, book- seller and publisher, Richardson, struck with his talents and classical acquirements, introduced him to his employer, and obtained employment for him as a reader and corrector for the press. At Richardson’s, he met with the then fashionable poet, Dr. Young, and with Dr. Farr, who, having formerly been a fellow-student of Goldsmith’s at Edinburgh, was engaged in completing his medical studies in London. In the meanwhile, Goldsmith had been persuaded to cast aside the green and gold for a more sober and professional suit of black, to which were added the indispensable wig, cocked hat, and stick. His coat. XX LIFE OF however, was but of a well-worn velvet, with a patch on the left side, which exposed him to many ludicrous casualties in his efforts to conceal the rent by means of his hat. Dr. Parr speaks of a tragedy by the pen of Goldsmith, on which the poet canvassed his opinion ; but no further mention of this dramatic production was ever after made; and he seems to have been diverted by some wild project of proceeding to decipher the in- scriptions on the “ written mountains wholly forgetting that he was as ignorant of Arabic as of Chinese. The temptation of the three hundred pounds which were offered for this object did not, however, render the project productive of any effects. It was indeed fortunate for the luckless poet, that he should have chanced to meet so many of his former fellow students of Edinburgh, at this period. Amongst these was the son of a Dr. Milner, a dissenting minister, who kept a very considerable school, at Peckham. The Doctor, happening to fall seriously ill, young Milner persuaded Goldsmith, whose talents he re- cognized, to assume the temporary management of the school. Here he was treated with great kindness and consideration by the family, and became a thorough favourite amongst the pupils, with whom he would readily enter into their extra-scho- lastic sports. Thus, what with lavishing his small means in dis- tributing dainties amongst the boys, and endowing every beggar to profusion, he contrived, as usual, to forestal his salary. Dr. Milner was himself engaged in literary pursuits, and was an occasional contributor to the “Monthly Review,”- — a Whig periodical, of which Griffiths, the bookseller and publisher, was proprietor. But about this period, a very formidable adversary was produced by Archibald Hamilton, entitled the “ Critical Review,” under the auspices, and with the powerful con- tributions of Smollett, and Griffiths was compelled to recruit his list of writers. The proprietor of the “ Monthly” happened one day to meet with Goldsmith at the table of Dr. Milner, and was so charmed with his conversational talents, that, he promptly engaged him upon a small salary, besides board and lodging, to assist in the editorial duties : and the poet accord- ingly removed to his new quarters, at the sign of the Dunoiad, in Paternoster- row, in the month of April, 1757. Little did he foresee the irksome nature of his duties. But he was soon convinced of the inaptness of his situation. He was a mere literary clerk, with given hours to write in regularly, in or out of the vein, and prescribed subjects to dilate upon; treated to niggardly fare by the thrifty housewife, and kept to regular time-work by the calculating employer. But, to add to the degradation of his literary position, his productions were exposed to the adaptation, interpolation, or erasure, of Mrs. Griffiths and her husband. At the end of five months, he threw up his employment, accused of idleness by Griffiths, and accusing Griffiths in his turn of being an exacting taskmaster, and his wife of mutilating his work. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xxi Goldsmith had, however, gained an introduction into tho world of letters, or rather, the narrow circle of booksellers, by means of his connection with the “ Monthly,” and he found it less difficult to obtain casual employment from different sources. He was occasionally engaged in contributing to tl e “ Literary Magazine,” a periodical set on foot by Newbery, of St. raid’s Church-yard. Newbery, whose celebrity was chiefly confined to infant literature, appears to have made a kindly impression upon Goldsmith. The publisher of the ‘‘Literary Magazine” was, in fact, a kind-hearted and well-disposed per- son, who was not loth to lend liis aid to impoverished writers ; but who was cautious enough to secure the value of his ad- vances three-fold in matter. Like most persons who, in those days, had no presentable habitation, Goldsmith began to frequent coffee houses, where he was in the habit of “ hailing,” as it was termed ; or, in other words, of maintaining a species of address, or place of reference. It was in such places that the generality of men of letters and wits were in the habit of meeting ; and the poet of Ballymahon soon numbered many eminent men amongst the list of his acquaintances. _ Although Goldsmith, who was now thirty years of age, had given no work to the world on which any reputation as a writer could have been founded, the account of the illustrious person- ages with whom he began to associate, magnified in its progress across St George’s Channel, reached the ears of his astonished family, and gave rise to a multitude of surmises and conjectures. Goldsmith, himself, would have been surprised at the figure which he was supposed to be making, had he heard the flattering rumours which circulated amongst his friends. To such an extent were his relations persuaded of the powerful patronage which his talent had at length secured, that his younger brother, Charles, with the characteristic heedlessness of his family, actually hastened to London, to be put forward in the way to promotion and fortune, by the supposed man of influence; whilst the poet, who was the centre of such lofty aspirations, was actually scribbling for bread, lodging in a wretched garret, and catering with the greatest difficulty for his commonest necessities. Charles Goldsmith, equally surprised and dis- appointed at the situation in which he found his brother Oliver, quietly left, him, to search for other sources of livelihood, and proceeded in quest of fortune to the West Indies, where he was not heard more of for thirty years by his family. Up to this time, Oliver Goldsmith had continued merely to contribute desultory pieces for the reviews and periodicals of the day. Every production which emanated from his pen was anonymously published, and therefore his claims to authorship were but little known abroad. Nor did he produce anything of particularly striking merits ; his papers being attractive, more owing to the genial sensibility, the quiet vein of humour, and e xxu lilFE OF the natural images and diction which distinguished them. The hope of preferment in another direction, furnished the incentive to Goldsmith’s first integral and acknowledged work, entitled “ An Inquiry into the present state of Polite Learning in Europe.” It happened that Dr. Milner, being once more unable to attend to his duties, owing to illness, Goldsmith a second time undertook the temporary direction of his establishment. In requital, Dr. Milner exercised his influence with one of his friends, a director at the India House, to procure a medical appointment in the East for the poet. As there was but little doubt of success, it became a question how the necessary outfit should be provided, and Goldsmith resolved to publish the work in question for that purpose. He therefore wrote a multitude of letters to his friends in Ireland, canvassing suberiptions, to be paid in advance, to a Mr Bradley, a bookseller in Dublin, who was to be responsible for the delivery of the books. Before this treatise was completed, the appointment promised by Dr. Milner, had actu illy been obtained. Goldsmith was named Physician and Surgeon to one of the Company’s establishments on the coast of Coromandel. The poet flushed with the glowing anticipations of the rapid fortune which should be realised" in the East, now, for the first time announced his new destination to his friends, entreating them to press up all the subscriptions they could for the “Inquiry,” towards defraying the expences which must be incurred, to take advan- tage of his good fortune. The fees for the appointment-warrant, however, amounted to ten pounds, and he was compelled to canvass the booksellers for a job, by which he could realize such an amount. Archibald Hamilton readily advanced the money for three articles, which should be furnished to the “Critical Revie w.” Thus supplied, the warrant fees were paid, and his garret exchanged for a dark, wretched, and gloomy first-floor in Green-Arbour court, between the Old Bailey and Fleet-market. But whilst Goldsmith was making preparations for his depar- ture, he suddenly found himself surperseded in his office, in the month of November, 1758. The cause of this disappointment does not transpire, but it is probable, that the want of sufficient means prevented him from sailing within the time prescribed by the Regulations. He now resolved to stand an examination at the College of Surgeons, to qualify him for the inadequate office of Hospital Mate. And, as it was necessary to appear in decent apparel, he was compelled to induce Griffiths to become security to a tailor for a suit of clothes, in consideration of four articles in the “ Monthly,” and on condition that, as the clothes were only required for one occasion, they should either be returned or paid for. The books which he had engaged to review were accord- ingly lent to him. But on the 21st of December, 1758, Gold- smith proceeded to be examined at the College, and was rejected ; and, to add to his disasters, his landlord being arrested for debt, his landlady became urgent for the payment of his OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Kill arrears. Poor Goldsmith was himself penniless, disheartened, and dejected. But he could not help feeling more keenly for the situation of his landlord than for his own ; and, in the dis- tress of the moment, he pawned the suit of clothes (obtained with Griffiths guarantee) for a sufficient sum to liquidate his own debt, and clear his landlord. He, moreover, borrowed a trifling sum of a neighbour, upon the security of the hooks lent him for review. And this was no sooner done than Griffiths, who had heard of his doings, wrote an angry and peremptory letter to him, in which he branded him with such terms as “ sharper,” demanding the immediate return of the books and clothes, or payment of the tailor’s bill. To the threats of prose- cution uttered by Griffiths, poor Goldsmith wrote a very contrite and desponding reply. This dispute, although matters were afterwards partially arranged, appears to have exposed Gold- smith to the constant spleen of Griffiths ; for the poet’s works were always harshly and unfairly handled in the “ Monthly,” after that time. Number 12, in Green- Arbour court, the situation of the poet’s lodgings at the period of which we are speaking, a region which has since been obliterated, was the scene of many like distresses, and one in which, as in all others, he manifested the goodness of his disposition. He was long remembered with regret by the neighbours, and by those who had been his con- temporaries thereabouts. We have a quaint anecdote of his style of living, from the pen of Thomas Percy, afterwards Bishop of Dromore, who visited Goldsmith in Green-Arbour court, in the month of March, 1759, with the introduction of Grainger. Hence it was that the poet wrote a long letter to his brother Henry, in which he speaks of an heroi-comical poem, of which specimens are furnished, but which never appears to have been completed or printed. He also alludes to a life of Yoltaire, which was to have been attached to Purdon’s Translation of the “Henriade,” but which was pub- lished in the “ Monthly.” From these little details, contained in his correspondence, we are therefore able to fix the date of his works in order, as they were undertaken. It was towards the close of the month of March, 1760, that the treatise, in the success of which poor Goldsmith had entertained such implicit confidence, emerged from the press. _ At the period at which it appeared, this work abounded in novel information, which, added to the charm of simplicity, candour, good nature, and good faith, attached to every thing which emanated from his pen, secured for it a ready sale, and for the author a higher cast of reputation. Although Goldsmith was desirous of enjoying the applause which his new work had secured for him, “ The Inquiry ” was first published anony- mously — not but that he was readily identified as the author. The ‘‘Monthly Review,” prompted by the mean and de- spicable spite of Griffiths, undertook to wither this production. xnv LIFE OF But not content with the most wretched attempt to depredate the literary merit of the work, the article in that perkdical wandered Into the coarsest and most malignant calunnies against Goldsmith, Our author was now more regularly and lucratively engaged on many of the crowd of periodicals, to which the taste o the day, and the example of Dr. Johnson, had given birth. He wrote, amongst others, for the “Bee,” the “Busy Body,’ and the “Lady’s Magazine;” and though his productions wen not savoured at first, and did not make any positive hit, the hiking merit which identified them, was slowly yet surely discovered, and they gradually assumed a kind of stand and position ii the casual pages which they filled, “ The Inquiry ” contained a very severe and well-merited censure, pointed at the dramatical autocracy of David Gairick, and at his exclusive management of the stage to its jreat detriment. But, true as was" the criticism, it was but the more calculated to give offence to Garrick; and Goldsmith wai not long in being convinced that his strictures had been keenlj felt. Shortly afterwards, perfectly unconscious of haying affnnted the manager, Goldsmith waited upon him to solicit his suiport as a candidate to the vacant secretaryship of the Sociey of Arts. Garrick, who had assumed personally all the ceisure which was directed against the stage management gene-ally, refused his support upon that ground : — and Goldsmitl did not attempt to do more than to deprecate any intended pe-son- ality, and lost the appointment which he was seeking. It was about this time that Goldsmith was retained by Dr . fonol- lett, for his new literary speculation, the “ British Magazue.” Newbery also became the employer of the poet, for essays ;o bo furnished to the “Public Ledger” newspaper, which appeared on the 12th of January, 1761. It was in this publication that Goldsmith issued the papers, entitled “The Chinese Letters,” which were greatly admired at the time, and which wen re- printed in a variety of forms. In the meanwhile, the ameiora- tion of his circumstances had induced him to relinquish Ids gloomy retreat in Green-Arbour court, for a far more confort- ablo domicile in Wine-office court, Fleet-street. It was ibout this period also, that the poet joined the Eobin Hood Debiting Club, which held its meetings near Temple Bar, and at vhicli Burke was frequently present, whilst yet a student ii the Temple. Once installed in his new apartments, Goldsmith begin ^ to return the hospitality of those who had hitherto been ony his entertainers. Ilis literary circle was considerably extender] and comprised many men of eminent and acknowledged merit — such as Guthrie, Murphy, Smart, and Bickerstaff. Besides pests of this cast, like most men who are supposed to have gaiied a step towards fortune, he was infested with an ample swam of creatures, that trusted to his proverbial generosity, to shar; the OLIVER GOLDSMITH. XXV proceeds of his labour. Of such men as these, the pure-hearted poet was the constant dupe ; for, if he chanced to be the possessor of a spare guinea, it was inevitably begged or borrowed of him. It was, also, about this period, that he added Dr. J ohnson to the list of his acquaintances. Their dispositions were anything but assimilating, Johnson being of a strikingly melancholy and gloomy turn, though sternly resolute of purpose. Yet, notwith- standing the discrepancy of character, there were circumstances in the history of both which drew their sympathies together. Any event which forms an era in the history of two such men as Goldsmith and Johnson, has its importance in the eye of the biographer ; and, therefore, we would crave pardon for recording, with some particular notice, that it was on the 31st ot May, 1761, that Dr. Johnson was first numbered amongst the guests, at Goldsmith’s literary supper, in Wine-office court. Subse- quently to this introduction, an intimacy was quickly formed between them. They were accustomed to meet very frequently at the favourite literary lounge of Dr. Johnson and his coterie ; this was the shop of Thomas Davies, a bookseller, in Kussell- Btreet, Covent-garden. Mrs. Davies, a remarkably pretty and fascinating woman, was said to be Johnson’s attraction ; the rest probably assembled there to meet Johnson. From the shop, the private parlour, and tea-table of the mistress, became the haunt of this literary clique. Bcnnet Langton, Warburton, George Stephens, Dr. Percy, and Foote, were amongst the circle of Mrs. Davies’s assembly. Notwithstanding his promotion, however, Goldsmith, with characteristic restlessness, was dissatisfied with his literary pursuits. He was projecting some wild and adventurous expedition of discovery and science into the interior of Asia, with, it must he confessed, hut very imperfect and vague ideas of the geography of that part of the world. Upon this fantastic project, he drew up an elaborate memorial, addressed to Lord Bute, who assumed the administra- tion at the accession of George the Third, in 1761. But, not content with the introduction of his project, he had put out a feeler in the “Public Ledger” previously, in an article which had the merit, certainly, of being very ingenious. This prospect failing for want of notice in any quarter, especially from the Government, the poet next devised the scheme of an expedition to Aleppo, for scientific and philosophical pur- poses. The utter contempt with which Johnson listened, to these schemes, had, perhaps, some share in their expulsion from Goldsmith’s mind, or in lessening the ardour with which he pursued them. Towards the end of the year 1762, Goldsmith, whose constant application and close confinement had naturally impaired his health, removed from his lodgings in Wine-office court to Islington, then a rural village, for the advantage of country air. e 3 XXVI LIFE OF Another object which prompted this change was, that of bting within reach of his principal employer, Newbery, who resiled at Oanonbury House. An amusing story is toid of poor Other, which should be dated about this period. The Gardens of White Conduit House were then in their palmy days of spleniour and luxury. Thither, one eveuing, Goldsmith chanced to ramble, and there he met three ladies, daughters of a respectable trales- man to whom he owed much obligation. Thinking himself called upon, therefore, to behave with marked civility to tlese acquaintances, he undertook the office of their cavalier, md without dreaming of his disposable funds, regaled them with all the dainties which were to be procured. When, however, the reckoning was presented, he found himself in one of his common dilemmas, doubly confused at the presence of the fair object! of his gallantry. But this was not all ; for, to complete his lis- comtiture, an acquaintance with whom he was anxious to mrin- tain appearances, presented himself at the height of the altercation with the waiter. Others who knew him gradually drew round, and, enjoying his perplexity for a long time, pro- tested their inability to assist him. At length, however, he vas relieved from the jeering impertinence of the waiter, and the awkard predicament in which he had involved his female ccrn- pauions, by the opportune advance of the requisite sum. It was about this period, that, amongst other literary jobs, he undertook the “ History of England in a Series of Letters fiom a Nobleman to his Son,” which consisted of a digest fiom Hume, Rapin, Carte, and others. This was an elegant compen- dium, which was justly admired by the abler critics of the day, and which was successively attributed to Lord Chesterfield, Lord Orrery, aud Lord Lyttleton. It was published anony- mously. About the beginning of the year 1763, Goldsmith became acquainted with Boswell, whose quaint ambition appears to have been to push himself into the intimacy of Dr. Johnson, as the lion of literary circles. This impudent gossip, for even as a writer he is no better, soon secured the aim of his pursuits, and has ventured to write, and speak, slightingly of Oliver Gold- smith, in his determined exaltation of J ohnson, although he is compelled to admit the rising merit of the poor essayist, and to record traits which redound to his credit, and exemplify not only his talents, but his essential goodness. Amongst other acquaintances who were added to Goldsmith’s circle about this time, and who paid him occasional visits at Islington, was Hogarth, then far advanced in years, but yet an active, sturdy, bustling, little man. The essayist had noticed him very favourably in the ‘‘ Public Ledger,” and this first introduced them personally to each othor. There'- is yet extant a memento of the intimacy between the great painter of life and character, and the philosophic essayist, in the shape of a small sketch, called “ Goldsmith’s Hostess.” OLIVER GOLDSMITH. XXYU This pictiurc is said to have been painted for and presented lo the poet, as the means of liquidating his arrears of debt. Approximately, from the same period may be dated the yet more congenial intimacy which sprung up between the poet and Mr. Reynolds, afterwards better known as Sir Joshua Reynolds. The thorough warmth and benevolence of Reynolds’s character, the high and generous cast of his portraiture of mankind, and all the othier distinctive traits in his disposition, were closely akin to those of Oliver Goldsmith ; so that the friendship between the latter and the portrait painter was likely to become closer, and of a loftier tone of sentiment. Reynolds was a few years older than the poet, being then about forty. At the: house of the famous artist, whose reputation had already secured him ample means, and a high and extended connexion, Goldsmith was in the habit of meeting persons of greater consequence, and a more refined order of society. But, unfortunately, his fame was not yet sufficiently established to redeem his unprepossessing appearance ; and it is related, that Miss Reynolds being called upon, at a large supper party, to give as a toast, the ugliest man she knew, proposed the health of Dr. Goldsmith ; whereupon, a lady who was sitting opposite to her, and whom she had never met before, extended her hand, and expressed a hope that they might become better acquainted. Miss Reynolds is said to have constantly inveighed against the awkwardness and ungainliness of the poet. The casual parties at Reynolds’s gave rise to an association of authors, statesmen, scholars, and wits, which acquired consider- able celebrity under the name of the Literary Club. It was first proposed by Sir Joshua, who was readily seconded by Dr. Johnson ; whilst the latter undertook to organize the club* upon the model of one which he had many years before established in Ivy-lane, but which was then extinct. The number of members was limited to nine. They met for supper once a- week, at the Turk’s Head, Gerard- street, Soho ; and two members consti- tuted a meeting. This club was fully organized as early as 1764, although the name was of subsequent assumption. This club originally comprised Reynolds, Johnson, Burke, Topham Beauclerc, Rennet Langton, Dr. Nugent, Chamier, Goldsmith, and Hawkins. It must be confessed that, at the first outse t, the whole of the members did not compose the best assorted party. Two were aristocrats of lofty pretensions, but certainly, it would appear, of amiable dispositions, and of wonderful admiration for Dr. Johnson ; Hawkins was penurious and mean to a degree, and, moreover, of so coarse a disposition, that he was barely received into the club before he was as much as elbowed out of it. Poor Goldsmith, who was certainly in the rank of the most meritorious, retained for some time but a very equivocal footing in the club. Hawkins superciliously affected to treat him as nothing better than a bookseller’s hack. Johnson, Reynolds, LIF2 OF xxviii and even Burke, indeed, knew and recognized his merii ; but his ungainly person rendered him but half-presentable, anl even they for some time failed in affording him a worthy introduc- tion, and in pushing him into the notice which he deferred. Come we now to the period in the life of Oliver Goldsmith, when he first started forward, and identified himself wi;h the most distinguished members of the literary circles of his lay. It was not very long after his introduction to the club at the Turk’s Head, that he suddenly found himself arrested by his landlady for rent, and wrote to Johnson, who was hi; most experienced adviser, and whose friendship he could rely u)on as on the trustiest, begging him to come quickly, as he vas in great distress, and could not wait upon the Doctor hmself. Johnson gives the following account of the affair : — “ I received, one morning, a message from poor Golcsmith, that he was in great distress, and, as it was not in his pover to come to me, begging that I would come to him as ston as possible. I sent him a guinea, and promised to come b him directly. I accordingly went as soon as I was dressel, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion : I perceived that he had dready changed my guinea, and bad a bottle of madeira and i glass before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired tiat he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated. He then told me he had a nova ready for the press, which he produced to me. I looked into t, and saw its merit; told the landlady I should soon return; and having gone to a bookseller’s, sold it for sixty pounds. I bought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not vithout rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill.” This novel, mentioned by Johnson, has since been emulated amongst the most popular standard works of our literatme. It was the “Vicar of Wakefield,” and was sold to Trancis Newbery, the nephew of the well-known John Newbery But although it was purchased and paid for, and that its meit has since been recognized throughout Europe, it remaimd un- published for nearly two years. Hitherto, Goldsmith had produced nothing in verse if any consequence, and the only piece of which a fragment h;s been retained and admired, or which could lay claim to any distnetion as a poem, was an Oratorio called the “Captivity.” The greater part of the Oratorio has long been forgotten and unnoticid, and one or two admirable and characteristic songs, alone renain to record its existence. Nor had the author of the “Vicar of Wakefield” even, at this period, much confidence in his own powers as a poet, nor indeed in the public taste in favour of verse. He constantly dplorcd that he had been cast into a literary career at an epoch subse- quent to that of Pope and his contemporaries, and he man than once expresses his opinion, that the most futile ambitim was OLIVER GOLDSMITH. XXIX that which sought to secure a high poetical reputation in his day. At the very time, he had already written his poem, entitled the. “ Traveller.” As early as the date of his vagrant ramble in Switzerland, the outlines of this work had been conceived, and much of it already executed. It had then been laid aside un- finished, and had for many years escaped notice altogether. Subsequently, a few occasional touches had been added to it. Much more had been retrenched, pruned, or erased altogether; and it was not until it had undergone another very severe scru- tiny, that Goldsmith ventured to submit it to the critical acumen of Dr. J ohnson. The latter, however, no sooner saw it than he frankly expressed the greatest admiration for it ; and after a few lines of his own had been added to perfect it, it was put to press at his instance, and under his auspices. An amusing anecdote is told by Sir* Joshua Reynolds, relating to the following distich in this poem : — “Bv sports like these are all their cares beguiled; The sports of children satisfy the child.” — It seems, that, whilst Goldsmith was occupied in completing the work, Sir Joshua Reynolds casually called upon him one day, and opening the door without summons, warranted by the familiar intimacy which existed between them, he found the poet partly glancing at the papers on his desk, and partly busied in teaching his pet dog to sit upright. The two lines in question were still wet when Sir Joshua entered, and Goldsmith joined heartily in laughing at the fitness of the syllogism to the second occupation in which he was absorbed. It was on the 19th of December, 1764, that the publication of the “Traveller” took place. It had been undertaken by Newbery, and was the first work from the pen of our author to which his name was publicly attached. The original edition ap- peared in a quarto form, and was dedicated to Henry Goldsmith. Notwithstanding the affected indifference regarding the suc- cess of this poem, which is professed in the original dedica- tion, Oliver was really at the pitch of anxious excitement. He had ever yearned after poetical distinction. Dr. Johnson lost no time in supporting it by a very favourable notice in the “ Critical Review.” Other notices appeared in different quarters, equally favourable. And, although according to the poet’s friends, they had reason to be dissatisfied that the work did not immediately produce a sudden, electric, and transcendant effect, they had no reason to complain very long of the deafness or in- difference of the public. The poem gradually, yet rapidly, won favour in all directions : the third month after its first appear- ance was ushered in with a second edition : the demand increased with the supply •. a third and fourth edition very shortly followed : and before the expiration of a year, Oliver Goldsmith was deservedly acknowledged as the first poet of his time. The author's position in public estimation, and in society, was thus suddenly altered. He was, for the first time, avowed, knnvn, and admired as a writer. At the club in which, notwithstanding the favour of Johison and Reynolds, he had hitherto been treated as a mere pcteli- work jobber, there was one universal expression of astonishment. According to Hawkins, no one could understand hoy so awkward, prattling, and clownish a subject could have prodiccd so charming a work. On the very night on which the publication was first announced at the club-meeting, Goldsmith left early, iftcr rattling on in his usual merry, convivial manner; and the remainder of the evening was spent by those who remained, in various speculations on this unintelligible being. At the next meeting of the club, Cliamier, who was, or pretended to be, suspicious of the authorship of the “ Traveller,” questioned Goldsmith on the subject ; and asked of him, amongst other things, what he meant by the word “ sloiv” in the first line : — “Remote, unfriended, solitary, ‘ sloiv V ” And whether he meant slow in the sense of physical motion? Goldsmith, who was thinking of something else at the time, answered in the affirmative ; but Johnson, who was jealous of his reputation, took him up quickly, and said : “ No, sir, you did not mean tardiness of locomotion, you meant that sluggish- ness of mind which comes upon a man in solitude.” “ Ah !” exclaimed the author, “ that was what I meant.” This was sufficient for his jealous contemporaries; a rumour was quickly spread abroad in literary circles, that Johnson was really the author of all the finest passages. But the latter was too true in his friendship to allow his own warmth, and his very defence, to furnish weapons against the fair fame of the poor, deserving poet ; and with the most honourable candour, he publicly announced what lines were of his insertion, and from his pen. These are only rune, which are at the close of the poem, and are by no means worthy of any dispute as to parentship. Johnson con- cluded, by pronouncing it the finest poem which had appeared since the time of Pope. But, perhaps, the most gratifying testimony of admiration for the poor, slighted, uncouth, and ungainly author, must have been that afforded by Miss Reynolds. Johnson read it from end to end in her presence, when she exclaimed, “ I never more shall think Dr. Goldsmith ugly !” Langton and Charles Fox were amongst the admirers who contributed their meed of praise to this charming and admirable work. But, although during the first year, several editions had been loudly called for in succession, and Newbery had derived an immense beneficial interest from its publication, he never could be even shamed into rewarding the writer with more than OLIVER GOLDSMITH. XXXI an aggregate sum of twenty guineas, which was squeezed from him by dribblets. Finding himself now in a higher walk of life, Goldsmith determined to abandon his obscure retreat in Wine-office court, and to seek refuge in that oasis of learning, wit, and dandyism, the Temple. He procured some very indifferent rooms on the library staircase, as it then was ; and shortly after tills change of residence, Dr. Johnson, in paying him a visit, was scrutinizing every nook in the room with the closest accuracy. Goldsmith, somewhat disconcerted, interrupted his tacit survey by saying, as he thrust both his hands in his pockets, “ I shall soon be in better chambers than these to which Johnson, desirous of recalling him to a just sense of his own dignity and distinction, calmly replied, “Nay, sir, never mind that: Nil te qucesivcris extra." A hint, which it would have been well if the poet had strictly acted upon. Meanwhile, the circulation of the “Traveller” was heighten- ing his reputation day by day, and was awakening the literary world to the merits of his hitherto obscure pieces. Amongst other persons of distinction, whose admiration and esteem was gained by this poem, was the Earl afterwards Duke of Northumberland, then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. That nobleman, hearing that Goldsmith was by birth an Irishman, was desirous of distinguishing him with some favour, and mentioned the matter to Dr. Percy, by whom the poet was prevailed upon to wait upon the Lord Lieutenant at Northum- berland House. The poet gives an amusing account of the blunders and awkwardness of his audience, in which he contrived, only, to hint that he had a brother, a clergyman in Ireland whose means were very limited. But he was very far from wanting favours for himself. Subsequently, however, Dr. Percy introduced the poet to his own relative, the Countess of Northumbe.land, and it was for her that Goldsmith wrote, and first printed the popular ballad of the “Hermit,” under the original title of “ Edwin and Angelina.” It was suggested by an old ballad, entitled the “ Gentle Herdsman,” which Dr. Percy had shown to the poet, amongst his valuable collection of “Ancient English Poetry.” But, although these introductions, and the publication of poems under such auspices, might contribute to render his name familiar in the high circles of fashion, Goldsmith found no delight in the haughty and chilling society of Northumberland House. Not so, however, was it with the noble seat of his fellow-countryman and kindred spirit, Robert Nugent, at Gos- ford. Even after the elevation of that gentleman to the peerage, with the titles of Baron Nugent and Viscount Clare, Goldsmith continued to enjoy the roistering hospitality of Gosford, regard- less of the rank of his host, which had left his hearty, convivial good-fellowship unchanged. The poet, encouraged by the reputation which the “ Traveller” xxxu LIFE OF liad secured for him, now ventured, to collect his casual assays and other pieces, many of which had been deliberately appro- priated by various jobbers for periodicals. The whole were published in one volume, which had a very good circulatioi, but by which he did not realize more than twenty pounds. And, what between his own extravagance and recklessness, an! the immense numbers of poor authors, or penniless fellow com try- men, who assailed him for assistance, his funds were often com- pletely exhausted, and he himself was in extreme embarrassnent. It was for this reason, that he was ever busied with look- sellers’ jobs ; and there is every reason to believe, that the nur- sery story of “ Goody Two Shoes,” which was published by Newbery in 1765, emanated from his pen. Following the advice of some of his friends, the poet now turned his attention once more to his profession. It was tlnughfc that the very extensive connexion and circle of acquainance which had been seemed for him by his literary reputation, vould ensure him a remunerative practice. He therefore embarfed in appropriate style in this speculation. A man-servant was en- gaged — the indispensable wig and cane procured, and pirple silk breeches, with a scarlet roquelaure, added to complefe the equipment. But he was not long in growing tired o' the restraint imposed upon him by the gravity of his professional character. It occurred, at last, that whilst he was attendng a lady of his acquaintance of the name of Sidebotham, an apothe- cary ventured to question his prescription. The patient took the apothecary’s part, regardless of the professional dignty of the doctor, and Goldsmith left the house in a passion. In mentioning the circumstance to Bcauclerc, he expressed a ceter- mination to abstain in future from prescribing for friends “ Do so, my dear doctor,” was the reply ; “ whenever you undeotake to kill, let it be only yom enemies.” Thus terminated the medical career of the poetical physician. Hitherto, as has been before stated, the “Vicar of Make- field” had remained unpublished. This backwardness in Francis Newbery to avail himself of his purchase, has never been accounted for. Suffice it to say, that nearly two years hiving now elapsed since it was sold to him, it made its appeannee, to be signalised with the most immediate and complete siccess recorded of any work in the annals of our literature. rehap3 the reputation seemed for the author by his first avowed vork, combined with the paramount merits of this tale itself, tmded materially to afford it so prompt a circulation. The “ Viiar of Wakefield” first appeared on the 27th of March, 1776. li th course of the month of May, a second Edition was called fo; and issued. Before the expiration of three months, a third was demanded ; and thus month after month did its well merited popularity extend its circulation. It was not long before i' had been translated and published throughout Europe ; and Giethe has recorded his tribute of admiration and gratitude to the pure OLIVER GOLDSMITH. XXX1U and simple goodness of tlie author. But such success called forth the jealousies of the pettifoggers of the press, and a communi- cation was published in the “ St. James’s Chronicle,” which has been attributed to Kenrick, charging Goldsmith with having pirated a ballad called the “Friar of Orders Gray,” which appeared in Percy’s “ Reliques,” in the reproduction of his own ballad of the “Hermit,” which was introduced into the “Vicar of Wakefield.” To this attack, Goldsmith published a simple reply to the effect, that Dr. Percy himself would readily ac- knowledge his own ballad to have been borrowed from the “ Hermit,” which he had seen some years before — if indeed it could he said that either was a copy of the other. Poor Goldsmith, in the midst of his pecuniary difficulties, saw the publisher realizing a fortune upon each successive edition of his novel, without deriving any interest himself. It must be confessed, that, in this, he was sadly disappointed. Even a small draft for fifteen pounds, which he ventured to direct to Mr. Newbery, was returned dishonoured, and he was compelled to pur- sue with redoubled vigour his tedious work of “ book-building.” It was by this species of manufacture that he could alone depend upon certain sources of income, and his leisure, only, was left him to be devoted to labours of a higher and more creditable order. About this time, however, the success of a new comedy diverted his attention to a branch of literature which he had ever held in high favour, but in which, under the auspices of the Garrick school, and in the prevalence of the spurious species of sentimental comedy then in vogue, he had never ventured to embark. The simultaneous appearance and success of the “Clandestine Marriage” re-assured him. This piece, which was suggested by the real-life portraiture of Hogarth’s pencil in the “ Marriage a la Mode,” was the joint production of Colman and Garrick. Goldsmith was struck and surprised with its genuine real-life incidents, and with the truer tone of sentiment which it contained ; and, encouraged by the success of one piece, fashioned according to his ideas after a good model, he resolved to turn his attention to dramatic writing, and set about employing his leisure time upon a comedy, to be entitled the “ Good-Natured Man.” It will here be necessary for us to digress, for a few instants, from the direct thread of our narrative. For, inasmuch as we are gradually entering the circles of polished society with our poor, and hitherto vagrant and excluded hero, it is requisite that we should give some idea of his qualifications or disqualifications for society, in person, manners, and conversation. All three are essentials in the drawing rooms of the wealthy. Oliver Goldsmith was beneath the middle height, according to the standard of this country. He measured from five feet five inches to five feet six: he was strong and robust in frame, but not heavy : his com- plexion was fair : his hair brown, though little of that could bo seen from beueath the wigs which were in vogue at the time. XXXIV LIFE OF His features were very plain, but improved upon acquaintance, and grew less repulsive as more was known of him. His manners were very simple, natural, unaffected, and tolerably easy amongst his habitual companions : but awkward in the presence of strangers, or ladies. His spirits, in the society of men, were exuberant, and his conversation was animated, full of lively and quaint description, character, and anecdote. Even in the presence of ladies, after a little encouragement, he became equally talkative. With such qualifications as these, he had suddenly sprung from the company of coffee-houses, or from being the tolerated member of a tavern club, to be one of the chief “lions” of society. But his credentials were abroad in the world. The “ Traveller,” and the “Vicar of Wakefield,’* had ushered him into the most sumptuous drawing rooms, as into the remotest corners of social retirement. He had had but little opportunity of preparing himself for his new sphere. Neither his Irish comrades, his fellow collegians, nor his medical associates, still less his rambling, vagrant, destitute, and unsettled career, had constituted the education of a man of fashion, or of polished accomplishment. It is not surprising, then, that he should have been ill calculated to bear a comparison with the polished scholar of the day ; and that, being constantly thrown into juxta-position with Doctor Johnson in society, he should have appeared at a seeming disadvantage. Johnson was acknowledged by all his contempo- raries, to be the most thorough master of the arts of conversation, lie possessed the advantage of a surprising memory, furnished with ample materials by close and astute study, and had fashioned himself for the purposes of reasoning and disputation. Yet was he overbearing, when fairly beaten, and accustomed to brow-beat when he would have failed to convince; and Goldsmith, who was timid, and conscious of his inferiority in the necessary qualifications, shrunk from the unjust and severe strictures which he would unsparingly bestow on any competitors. His mean adulator, Boswell, makes but a poor case out in contending for his universal superiority over Goldsmith; and the latter was always fair, and frequently generous, in defence of J ohnson. From the saloons of the great, and the learned discussions of the lexicographer and his circle, the poet would often gladly retreat to the more congenial kind of society which he had frequented in former days. One of his resorts was a shilling whist club, held at the Devil Tavern, near Temple-bar. Hero the most roistering merriment, questionable wit, and practical jokes, were not only tolerated, but held in high estimation ; and the poet, himself, was not exempt from the casualty of being subjected to the devices of one wag for the amusement of others. One night, he arrived at the club in a hackney-coach, and discovered, upon entering the room, that he had given tbo coachman a guinea, instead of a shilling ; saying, at the samo time, that there was no chance of one of that fraternity having OLIVKB GOLDSMITH. XXXY the honesty to return it. The next time he attended, he was summoned to the door, where, it was alleged, some one wished to speak with him. He accordingly went out, and a person, pretending to he the coachman of the preceding night, returned the supposed guinea. Goldsmith, generously bent upon reward- ing such honesty, raised a subscription in the room, to which he added a handsome share, and presented the gratuity to the coachman. Some one in the room now questioned the whole affair, and requested to see the recovered guinea, when it was manifested a counterfeit. An overwhelming burst of laughter assailed the poet, who readily discovered the trick which had been played upon him, and left the club considerably discon- certed. Another of these resorts was the Globe Tavern, in Fleet- street, at which a party of merry fellows were ill the habit of meeting every Wednesday night for songs and jests, burlesque and dramatic imitations, and the like. Tom King, the come- dian, whose performance of Lord Ogleby, in the “ Clandestine Marriage,” had recently secured him some reputation, was of the party. Another worthy of this club was Hugh Kelly, a fellow- countryman of Goldsmith’ s, who, from being apprenticed to a stay- maker, in Dublin, had been articled to an attorney in London, and had subsequently become a Grub-street bookseller’s hack. His most recent performances had been produced in a paper called the “Thespis,” in which he had distributed his censure amongst the actors, carefully paying his court to Garrick, who had accordingly taken him by the hand. Another Irishman, who was a frequenter of the Globe, and attached to Goldsmith for what he could get, was a man of the name of Glover. It would appear that the poet frequented these retreats, as much for the study of character, more especially as he was about to embark into dramatic writing, as for amusement. Indeed, it is evident enough, that these assemblies very frequently had the effect of depressing his spirits rather than of exhilarating him. Toil and time had t, aught him to think, may-be, more seriously than of yore. From these haunts, in which he had gleaned fresh traits of character and life, and new suggestions for his quiet vein of humour, the poet would retire to his chambers, to add touches to the dramatical writing, with which the moments which he could spare from booksellers’ jobs were engrossed. Thus the comedy off the “ Good-Natured Man” was completed early in 1767. It was submitted to those members of the Literary Club in whom he had most confidence; and to Johnson, Burko, and Reynolds, in particular. Johnson at once pronounced it the best comedy written siuce the “ Provoked Husband,” and undertook to furnish the prologue. This promise was a matter of great importance to the new dramatist ; Johnson’s reputation was first in the ranks of the critics, and his participation in the production of the piece, was an immense accession of strength in its favour. xxxvi LIFE OP But, in the meanwhile, the mighty man of letters was diverted from thoughts of Goldsmith’s play, by the smile of royalty. As he was reading in the queen’s library, at Buckingham House, the king, George the Third, then quite a young man, Lad interrupted him with the avowed object of conversing with him. And this conversation with a monarch completely absorbed all his thoughts for some time afterwards. All his conversation turned upon the details of the king’s questions, and his own replies. On one occasion, when he was relating, most circumstantially, what had transpired at the palace, Goldsmith remained apart, and wholly abstracted until he had finished, when he suddenly started up, and 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.” He then went on to explain that he had been pondering upon the probable fate of his play, and upon the promised prologue, all thought of which had appa- rently been banished by the king’s condescension. Boswell, with characteristic meanness, takes occasion to attribute this little circumstance, on which he enlarges, to jealousy of Johnson’s ascendancy and distinction. Surely, Goldsmith, if he was not too good and too tolerant, was too great to he jealous of a pedant. It now became a question how to introduce the comedy upon the stage. Covent Garden had been the intended place of per- formance. But Rich, the late manager, being recently dead, the affairs of that theatre were in utter confusion. Drury Lane was under the direction of Garrick, who still nursed his ancient pique against Goldsmith. But yet, Garrick was a “lion” hunter in his way, and it was a very different thing to deal with the author of the “Inquiry,” obscure, un- known, penniless, and with the author of the “Traveller,” and the “Vicar of Wakefield.” Reynolds set about negotiating a meeting between the manager and the writer, which actually took place at the artist’s own house in Leceister-square. Gar- rick was not unwilling to produce the play, but wished to stand in the light of a patron, and to be wooed to condescension and favour. Goldsmith was far from stooping to ask as a favour to himself, what offered equal advantages to both. They parted, however, upon the understanding that the comedy should be produced. Garrick, nevertheless, did not fulfil his engagement, and evaded after enquiries. Another misunderstanding was generated between them, and thus the season passed away. Goldsmith’s purse was absolutely empty, and having suffered chiefly by the delay of the manager, he thought himself justified in requesting an advance of forty pounds of Garrick upon New- bery’s Note. Garrick first assented, and then required certain alterations in the play. Failing in this, he desired that the questioned passages should be submitted to the arbitration and censorship of the Laureate, Whitehead. Goldsmith was only OLIVER GOLDSMITH, XXXVU exasperated by the request. A violent altercation took place, which was calmed only by the intervention of Reynolds and Burke. Just at this juncture, Colman, who had separated from Gar- rick in the management of Drury Lane, undertook the direction of Covent Garden, in opposition. The new comedy was offered to him, and readily accepted. Goldsmith wrote civilly to Garrick, who was then at Lichfield, to that effect, and received a civil reply; and thus the “ Good-Natured Man” was in a fair way of being played. But, in the meanwhile, the summer had to be got through. The comedy could not appear before Christmas ; and poor Goldsmith was compelled to return to his literary drudgery, to earn small sums for present exigencies. He received ten pounds for an Historical Compilation, from John Newbery, who was shortly seized with a dangerous illness, and obliged to entrust the entire direction of his business to his nephew, Francis. Tom Davies also engaged Goldsmith to write a popular History of Rome, which was to he completed in two years, and for which he undertook to pay two hundred and fifty guineas. Goldsmith, accordingly, set himself to this work, with the utmost diligence ; and, for the benefit of country air and quiet, he retired to Islington, for the summer season. He took apartments in Canonbury House, the customary retreat of writers, publishers, and men engaged in the pursuits of lite- rature. Political circles were, at this period, in a state of complete ferment. The question of American taxation was at its height. Lord North’s administration had just opened with these auspices. Junius, Wilkes, and others, were writing powerfully against the ministry, and it was sought to retain some venal pens, on the side of the cabinet. A Dr. Scott, chaplain to Lord Sandwich, was accordingly despatched to Goldsmith, to nego- tiate with him, and to promise ample reward. But the poet, with haughty and stainless independence, replied, that his free labour was sufficient to supply his wants, without becoming the hireling of a party. The reverend pastor, who was himself rewarded for his services to the state — or to the cabinet — with two fat livings, expresses the most holy astonishment and horror, at the foolish obstinacy of a poor poet in a garret. Whilst the author was being tempted, his constant, though niggardly employer, sunk under the effects of his malady ; and, however poorly he had been paid, Goldsmith had reason to deplore the death of Newbery. In the meanwhile, the poet’s first comedy had yet to be checked by crosses of every kind. Garrick’s long-standing pique must needs be gratified. He therefore suscitated Hugh Kelly as a rival for Goldsmith, and raked up a comedy by that writer, entitled “ False Delicacy,” which he took pains to extol d 3 XXXVIU life of beyond measure. Every preparation was made to ensure transcendant success. The scenic arrangements were disposed in the most approved manner ; the underlings of the press were suborned ; strong bodies of supporters were secured to applaud ; and so on. The wily manager had, moreover, compromised his dispute with Colman, upon condition that Goldsmith’s play should be delayed until after Kelly’s had been produced. On the 23rd of January 1798, accordingly, the comedy of “ False Delicacy ” was produced at Drury Lane. — The “ Good- Natured man ” was still only in tardy and imperfect rehearsal at Covent Garden. The venal applause in the house and the press hailed Kelly’s production as a master-piece. The ardour of the Covent Garden company was damped : — most of the players, Ned Shuter and Miss Walford, excepted, were dis- satisfied with their parts. The manager and his confederates were hopeless of its success, and Goldsmith began to despond. Johnson, however, came to his aid; furnished his prologue; encouraged every body; and did every thing in his power. The poet revived, and prepared for the great occasion. A new suit, at a cost of £8. 2s. 7d., was procured from Mr. William Filby, his tailor. And the play was at last produced. John- son’s prologue was heavy and monotonous, and more so was tlio lugubrious diction and delivery of Brinsley, who spoke it. The applause during the piece was occasional, and interspersed with symptoms of disapprobation. Goldsmith was on tenter hooks until the fourth act, when Ned Shuter, as Croaker, redeemed the whole piece by his masterly acting. Shouts of applause testified the gratification of the house, and the author went down to receive and thank him upon his leaving the stage. The piece was, however, looked upon as a failure by his friends, and the disappointed author left the theatre in great chagrin, and with his lofty hopes severely abased. He tried amongst his associates, however, to conceal his vexation. But, when he found himself alone with his great adviser, Dr. John- son, he threw off all restraint, and indulged in a burst of uncon- trollable grief. His monitor reproved him severely, and recalled him to a sense of his owii dignity. Shortly afterwards, the author of the unhappy play began to consider the events, expectations, and sorrows of the evening, as a capital joke, or rather, a rare feature iu the course of ambitious pretensions. He entertained his friends vastly with a frank description of his own sensations throughout the performance of his pet comedy, much to the astonishment of Johnson, who had been hitherto the repository of the whole story, as a profound secret. The “ Good-Natured Man” was reproduced ten nights in suc- cession, of which the third, sixth, and ninth nights were for the author’s benefit. The fifth night it was played at the command of the Court. After this brief run, it was only reproduced at ’ntervals, but continued to be read with pleasure. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. XXXIX Goldsmith’s enemies, especially his jealous competitors of former days in the periodical scribbling, have attempted to show that he harboured a lurking animosity against Kelly, and envy for the success of his comedy. So mean a censure needs no comment. Certain it is, that Kelly, on the contrary, never for- gave him his immense superiority, and resorted to the most dastardly means to disparage him, that of anonymous and scurrilous attacks in the public prints. Meanwhile, the “ Good-Natured Man,” failure as it was, had realised for its author the incalculable sum of five hundred pounds, about four hundred of which were cleared from his benefits, and the other hundred paid by the publisher. What boundless wealth for Goldsmith! No wonder, if he imagined himself of a sudden possessed of inexhaustible treasure by some good wizard’s enchantment ! No wonder, if a generous, heed- less, improvident creature such as he, who had been accustomed at the utmost to deal with twenty or thirty pounds, should have been overwhelmed by the prospect of disposing of five hundred. The first purpose to which this sudden accession of funds was appropriated was, to subscribe ten pounds for a box for Ned Shuter’s benefit, when the “Good-Natured Man” was to be played. His shabby rooms, on the library staircase, were abandoned for three rooms on the second floor, at Number 2, Brick-court, Middle Temple, overlooking the Temple Garden. Four hundred pounds w r as the price paid for the lease : and the furniture was to he of the most sumptuous and costly kind. His person was destined to be decked out by the exemplary Mr. Filby, in a style appropriate to his new circumstances, and his new abode. The most aristocratic acquaintances were invited to his table. Johnson, Beynolds, Percy, Bickerstaff, and others, were his constant guests. Juvenile parties, com- posed of young persons of both sexes, were assembled, that he might join in their romps and gambols. And all this to the extreme annoyance of Blackstone, who, in chambers beneath Goldsmith’s, was plodding laboriously at his legal compilations. Occasionally, the poet would collect together a few of his boon companions, for what he called a “ Shoemaker’s holiday.” The first part of this species of entertainment, consisted in a hearty and substantial breakfast, at his chambers : then a stroll out into the country to Blackheath, Wandsworth, Chelsea, Hampton Court, Highgate, or some other pleasant suburban spot. At noon, the party w r ould sit down to dinner at a country inn : and then a stroll homeward, or to tea at White Conduit House Gardens, or occasionally, even, to supper at the Grecian, Temple, or Exchange Coffee House, or at the Globe Tavern. Four or five shillings would cover all expenses; and the “Shoemaker’s holiday” would certainly afford far more real gratification than any more costly entertainment. But the relaxations of society, such as this, as well as the more L\“5?E OF A aristocratic repasts at the Temple Chambers, were destined to be brought to a close by the utter dissipation of the treasure produced by the “ Good-Natured Man.” Poor Goldsmith was once more driven hack upon the drudgery of task-writing, and returned to the compilation of his “History of Rome.” As usual, he sought a country retreat, in which he might toil, without interruption, during the summer. But the sudden supplies, drawn from the publication and performance of his comedy, had been the cause of difficulties, from which he never succeeded in extricating himself : for he had acquired a habit of borrowing of his friends, or of drawing heavily in advance of booksellers, in confident anticipation of another lucky hit. The summer of 1768 was spent at a cottage, on theEdgeware- road, which he hired jointly with a Mr. Botts, a barrister and man of letters, who occupied chambers on the same landing with his in the Temple. This cottage belonged to a wealthy shoemaker in Piccadilly, and was encircled by a few acres of garden, laid out with all the fantastic taste of a man of little judgment in such matters. Hence, it was named the “ Shoemaker’s Paradise ” by the poet. Here, Goldsmith would alternately ramble in the fields to gather images from nature, or shut himself up in close applica- tion to his hackneyed labour, or occasionally accompany his fellow occupant to town in his gig, to spend the clay as con- vivially as he might. But his own troubles, vexations, or pleasures, were interrupted by a source of overwhelming sorrow. The intelligence here readied him of the death of his brother Henry, at the age ot forty-five years. It was in the melancholy reflections suggested by this event, and in remembrance of the domestic and pastoral virtues of his brother, and of his father before him, that the finest passages of the “ Deserted Village ” were composed. From his solitary meditations and labours in the country, he returned to London, in the month of October. It was re- marked by his friends, that the additional care bestowed upon his dress, which became gradually more apparent in his better fortune, was now more particularly distinguishable than ever. In truth, his tailor’s bill exhibited a very severe account for the year. But his biographers appear to think, that they have discovered an especial reason for this lavish expenditure on apparel, just about this period. He had lately become ac- quainted with a family from Devonshire, whom he met at the house of Sir Joshua Reynolds. These new acquaintances consisted of a Mrs. Horneck, the widow of a certain captain of that name, her two daughters, seventeen and nineteen years of age, both strikingly beautiful and highly gifted, and her son Charles Horneck, who was nicknamed by his sisters the Captain in Lace , because he had recently joined the guards. The eldest daughter, Catherine, was already betrothed. Her familiar designation of Little Comedy is indicative of her disposition. Whilst her OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xli sister, who was disengaged, bore the inappropriate sobriquet of the Jemmy Bride. Regardless of bis exterior, the Horneck’s very soon learnt to appreciate the merits of the poet ; and, for flm first time in his life, he found himself quite at ease in polite society, and even in that of the fair sex. A familiar intimacy sprung up amongst them. And it is even intimated, that poor Goldsmith, now considerably advanced in years, had allowed his tenderness to be gained over by the charms and wit ot the lovely “ Jessamy Bride.” Hence, the particular attention to the additions of dress ; hence, the care with which he adorned, or sought to conceal, the defects which lie had been taught to feel had stamped him with repulsiveness, from his earliest infancy. It is hardly fair — yet some of his contemporaries, who were fond of exposing his foibles, readily discovered in his personal vanity, the origin of the extravagances in his dress. It is hardly fair— because if there were really any sentiment beyond that of friendship for appreciating beauty in the heart of poor Oliver, it should be told in gentleness, and writ as the saddest page in his story. These intervals of bright visions— but if hopes at all, mere funtasmal anticipations — were soon to cede to the renewed toil and weary monotony of compilation. During the winter of 1768-9, Goldsmith applied himself assiduously to the “ History of Rome,” which grew slowly under his hand. At times, indeed, these labours were relieved by the society of old and new acquaintances; and amongst others, of Judge Day and Grattan, then both of them young men, and students at the Temple. The Grecian Colfee House was a favourite place of resort, but Goldsmith also frequently entertained them at chambers, varying his recreations between his flute and whist, at neither of which, according to Day, was the poet very proficient. In the middle of May, 1769, the “ Roman History” appeared, in two volumes of five hundred pages each, and although dictated by necessity, rather than prompted by the bias of the writer, it certainly was worthy of Johnson’s "high encomium. Goldsmith’s style was ever sufficient to redeem the most dreary task which was imposed upon him. No sooner was this work out of his hands, than he was engaged by Griffin to produce a book on Natural History, and acquitted of his “ History of Rome,” he turned to his “ History of Animated Nature.” His original intention had been to translate Pliny, accompanying the remarks of the ancient writer with a popular commentary of his own. But this design was superseded by the appearance of Buffon’s comprehensive work, which Goldsmith now turned to his own advantage. Many of the poet’s friends considered this task as wholly out I of his line; and many contended that he was absolutely wanting in the necessary observation and acumen, to qualify him for an 1 original production of the kind, or to render him competent' to adapt the information of others. Anecdotes are related, illustra- xlii LIFE OF tive of this assertion, by his contemporaries. For instance; it is related, that, on one occasion, the custom of eating dogs was suscitated in company, when Goldsmith observed, that the same custom prevailed in China : adding, that a dog-butcher wis as common there as any other butcher, and that when he went out, all the dogs attacked him. “That,” answered Johnson, “is not because the dogs are killed : I recollect, sir, a butcher at Lichfield, who was always attacked by a dog belonging tc the house in which I was staying. It is the smell of carnage which provokes this, no matter of what species be the animals which have been killed.” “Yes;” resumed Goldsmith, “ there is a general abhorrence in animals at the signs of massacre. If you place a pail full of blood in a stable, the horses are likely to go mad.” “I doubt that,” returned Johnson. “Nay, sir,” resumed the poet, “ it is a well-authenticated fact.” “ You had better prove it,” interposed Thrale, “before you put it into your book on Natural History; you are welcome to make the experiment in my stable.” Thus, it was urged, the poet was thoroughly imbued with old wives’ tales on these subjects. But no one who reads his book will now, for a moment, doubt that he was a very close and scrutinizing observer of everything in nature which came under his immediate notice. It certainly turned out a charming and entertaining production, and fall of the gentle and winning morality of the author. The preceding year, 1768, had been rendered memorable in the annals of Art, by the institution of the Royal Academy, under the presidency of Reynolds, then created a knight, and the patronage of the Crown. At Sir Joshuas instance, upon the nomination to professorships, which, after all, were merely honorary distinctions, his two friends, Johnson and Goldsmith, were severally appointed to those of Ancient Literature and of History. Upon this occasion, the poet wrote a letter to his younger brother Maurice, in which the just pride of having distinguished his family — poor as he might have found and left them — oozes out, in the glee with which lie promises to send over to his friends some mezzotint prints from Sir Joshua’s picture, in which he figures with all the men of genius of his day. In this, letter, he abandons a legacy of fifteen pounds bequeathed to him by Mr Contarine, to his equally poor and heedless family, to be made the most or the least of, as the case might be. All this while, when he was issuing compilations after compilations, it was growing more and more a matter of surprise abroad, that the success of the “Traveller” had pot induced him to follow up his reputation with a second poetical production. His reply to Lord Lisburn and others, was always the same, that he needs must have meat, lodging, and raiment. In the meanwhile, however, his summer rambles in the mea- dows had assisted his young and yet freshening memory of Lissoy, and the haunts of his boyhood, in furnishing matter for OLIVER GOLDSMITH, xliii the “Deserted Tillage, ” which, accordingly, appeared on tho 26th of May, 1770. The fame of the author of the “ Traveller,” seconded by the eminent merit of the work, secured an instan- taneous and astonishing sale. Two or three days sufficed to exhaust the first edition. A second followed ; and was succeeded by a third, fourth, and fifth, by the 16th of August. A charac- teristic story is told of the poet, relating to this work. It appears that he had received, beforehand, a note for one hun- dred guineas from the publisher, as the price of the poem. A friend casually met him one day, to whom he mentioned the amount ; and this person, judging of the value if a literay pro- duction rather by bulk than quality, protested that so large a price for so small a work must ensure a loss to the bookseller. “ In truth,” said Goldsmith, “ I think so, too. It is much more than the honest man can afford, or tho piece is worth. I have have not been easy since I received it.” Whereupon, he actu- ally returned the note, desiring that the publisher should pay him fairly, as he was able, and as the progress of the work warranted him in paying. The author was not without receiving the same amount as before. The charming pathos of this perfect poem had shed a second veil over the plainness of his features in the ladies’ eyes. Illus- trated by the additional laurels won for him by the “ Deserted Village,” and still more distinguished for the amiable traits of his character than ever, he was not only tolerated, but almost admired and courted in ladies’ society, and gradually grew more at ease amongst them. Most especially was this the case in the circle of the Hornecks, where, perhaps, he was best pleased to win fivour, and in the estimation of the lovely “ Jessamy Bride,” herself. A few weeks only after the appearance of the “ Deserted Village,”— -in the month of July, — he set out on a short excursion to Paris, with Mrs. Horneck and her two daughters, having first been duly registered in the books of Mr. Filby, for another new gala suit. And this, too, perhaps, might fairly be charged to the attractions of the fair Mary Horneck. Goldsmith’s first duty on arriving at Calais and Paris, was to write a letter from each place to Sir J oshua Reynolds, to whom he was indebted for his introduction to his beautiful and fascinating companions. It is amusing to contrast, in these letters, the affected fastidious- ness of Oliver Goldsmith, travelling in the style of a man of rank, wealth, and fashion, with the Horneck’ s, and Oliver Goldsmith of years gone by, trudging along on foot, and charmed with the coarsest meal earned for him by his flute and his good humour. But tliefastidiousness which he assumes, in his sketches transmit- ted to Sir J oshua Reynolds, is that of his companions, not his own. Besides, there were two little circumstances which conspired to vex him : first that his purse was well nigh exhausted : secondly, that an English attorney of the name of Hickey, had continued to thrust himself into the party at Paris, and to assume the duties and offices of cicerone to the ladies. iliv LIFE OP On Ms return from this tour, which, on the whole, does not seem to have been a source of the purest gratification, he re- ceived the sad tidings of his mother’s death. Of late years, he had contributed towards her maintainance out of his fitful and hard earned resources; and, although his literary reputation had not, as it would seem, been sufficient to accomplish the full measure of his worthy parent’s anticipations, he was ever true to his nature, and nourished the tenderest affection for her. Her death, even at an advanced age, was therefore a keen affliction to his sensitive heart. In the midst of this sorrow, he was doomed to return to his irksome task-work, to replenish his exhausted resources. Amongst other jobs which he undertook, was a biographical sketch of Parnell, wMch in itself was meagre enough, and worthy of the disapprobation of Dr. Johnson, but which was redeemed by the introduction by which it was presented to the world, Prom this trilling work, the poet turned his attention to the abridg- ment of Ms “History of Rome,” wMch Davies now sought to republish in one volume duodecimo. The same publisher also engaged Goldsmith to furnish a prefatory life of Lord Boling- broke, for his reprint of that nobleman’s Dissertation on Parties. It is one of the striking characteristics of Goldsmith’s writings, that in the midst of the angry turmoil of party contention, he succeeded in avoiding the slightest tinge of partisanship, even whilst discoursing on subjects in which the bitterest rancour of faction would have found a place. Thus there is the charm of pure diction, true narrative, and of the most impartial statement of facts, about his brief life of Lord Bolingbroke. It was whilst he was engaged on this work, that he was summoned to Gosford, to condole with his friend Lord Clare on the loss of his son, Colonel Nugent, and that he was piqued at the negligence with which Lord Camden affected to treat Mm. He had, of late, been accustomed to receive the most dis- tinguished attention from the great, and was, perhaps, on that account, nettled by the slighting indifference of that nobleman. With his usual candour, he was relating the circum- stance afterwards amongst his friends, when he added, with his usual simplicity, and to the infinite amusement of the Johnsonian toady, Boswell, that “ Lord Camden took no more notice of him than if he had been an ordinary man.” Johnson, who reserved to himself the sole right of questioning Goldsmith’s sayings and doings, alone appreciating the poet’s real meaning, rallied Boswell somewhat sharply, however, in his merriment. On Ms return to town, the poet received a present of game, from his friend, Lord Clare, which he has immortalized in the well known verses, entitled “ The Haunch of Venison.” An amusing anecdote is told of one of Goldsmith’s peculiar blunders, upon the occasion of a subsequent visit to Lord Clare at Bath. It appears that Lord Clare, and the Duke of Nor- thumberland, occupied two adjacent and similar houses. Gold- OLIYEB GOLDSMITH. xlv smith having strolled abroad one morning before breakfast, in liis usual abstracted way, inadvertently made his way into the duke’s house, instead of Lord Clare’s, upon his return. He entered the dining room in which the duke and duchess were about to sit down to breakfast, without, however, offering any further sign of acknowledgment than a slight inclination to them. He then flung himself listlessly upon the sofa, and was wholly unconscious of his mistake, until the duchess invited him to join the duke and herself at breakfast. The truth now suddenly flashed upon him, for hitherto he had imagined that they were Lord Clare’s guests. He thereupon started up, and attempted to stammer out some apology or explanation. But the duke and duchess re-assured him, by treating the matter as a lucky accident, which had contributed greatly to their gratification, by securing his company unexpectedly. It was on St. George’s Day, in the same year, 1771, that the first annual banquet of the Royal Academy took place, in the ex- hibition room, under the presidency of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Dr. Johnson and Goldsmith attended in their official capacities. On this occasion, the latter entered into a controversy with many of the literary men of the day, and with Horace Walpole, in particular, respecting the poems recently edited, or more properly written, by the gifted but unhappy Chatterton. Horace Walpole was pleased to rally Goldsmith on his obstinate defence of the poems in question, as genuine relics of antiquity, discovered, as alleged by the young author, in the tower of Redcliffe church, at Bristol. But the raillery of the finished virtuoso somewhat recoiled upon himself. Not long after this festival, in the month of August, appeared the “ History of England,” upon which Goldsmith had been for some length of time engaged. Like all his historical and bio- graphical compilations, it was remarkable for the true, simple, and ungarbled narrative, and for the unimpeachable imparti- ality with which recent and present political questions were handled. Notwithstanding this avoidance of any bias, the work was angrily attacked by the political essayists of the day, and was as zealously defended by the publisher, Tom Davie’s, himsei ' in an elaborate article thrust into the “ Public Adver- tiser.” It secured a tolerably remunerative sale, and has ever since been held in high estimation, as the most concise and elegant epitome of English story extant. The necessity of applying himself without interruption to his task labours, compelled Goldsmith to postpone a long promised visit, in company with Sir J. Reynolds, to Bennet Langton, who, since his marriage to the Dowager Countess of Rothes, had settled down into domestic life in Lincolnshire. Poor Goldsmith was now entangled in heaps of prospective work, upon which his improvidence and necessities had compelled him to draw largely, if not fully, in advance. He was equally overwhelmed with debts, and disturbed by the vexatious calls of creditors on every xlvi rm; op side. His accounts with Newbery were in sad confusion, and heavily against him. Yet, in the midst of all these perplexities, which had induced him to decline the Lincolnshire trip, he was weaned away from his toil, by an invitation which his utmost resolution could not resist ; and Newbery himself was induced to furnish fresh advances, upon the promise of a second tale, after the method of the “Vicar of Wakefield,’’ of which the poet produced a few sketches. This call, to which all was to yield, was no less than a pressing invitation from Mrs. Bunbury, formerly Catherine Ilorneck, or “Little Comedy,” to pay her and her bridegroom a visit, at their seat at Barton, in Suffolk. The “ Jessamy Bride” would, doubtless, be of the party, and Goldsmith, having restocked his wardrobe, hastened to Barton without delay. Here he met Garrick, who was on intimate terms with Mr. Bunbury, and with whom he himself was now perfectly reconciled. His own playful good humour, amusing manners, and thorough earnestness in the amusements of every one, soon made him the favorite of the house. Romps, cards, and practical jokes, were in the ascendant, the last being equally practised by and against him ; and on some occasions to the serious detriment of the toilet, so carefully cultivated in honour of the “Jessamy Bride,” to whom we are indebted for the trans- actions of this delightful visit. Amongst other circumstances which Mary Horueck has recorded, of the poet’s entertainment at Barton, she mentions his having read portions of a new novel which was in progress, and which was full of his genial vein of feeling and morality, uttered with his natural purity of diction. This, it would seem, was the identical tale upon which Newbery had made recent advances ; but before it was completed, that astute critic, who had previously kept the manuscript of the “ Yicar of Wakefield” two years in his desk, raised some notable objection to it, and Goldsmith, once put out of conceit of his work, cast it aside, and it was never more heard of. It was about this period, that Goldsmith became acquainted with Mr. Joseph Cradock, a young and amiable man of fortune, whose chief hobby was to dabble in literature, and, more especially, the drama. He had a passion for plays, and players, and theatres, and had recently come to London to secure a repre- sentation of his own translation of the tragedy of “Zobeide,” by Voltaire. Furnished with letters of introduction to many per- sons of influence amongst the managers and actors, and having ample means to secure the obsequious attention of all of whom he sought an obligation, he had no great difficulty in putting his tragedy into rehearsal. Goldsmith first met him at the house of Yates, the actor, and finding he was on terms of friendship with Lord Clare, his own patron and friend, the poet quickly grew intimate with him. A similarity of tastes and dispositions contributed to cement this new friendship, especially as they con- trived to be useful to each other. Goldsmith wrote an epilogue for Cradock’s tragedy ; and Cradock, who was an accomplished OUTER GOLDSMITH. Xlvii amateur musician, arranged the music for Goldsmith’s “ Thre- nodia Augustalis,” a lament on the death of the Princess Dowager of Wales, written at the instance of Lord Clare. The tragedy was played with some success at Covent Garden, and the lament was recited and sung at Mrs. Cornely’s rooms, — then a fashionable resort, — in Soho square. It was in caricature of these popular assemblies, that the poet dubbed the motley parties at his own apartments, “ little Cornelys.” It was not publicly known that Goldsmith was the author of the “ Threnodia Augustalis,” until several years later. Unlike many others amongst the associates of the poet, Cradock never betrayed the least inclination to sport with his eccentricities. He rather sym- pathised in the sensibilities, and humoured the peculiarities of the poor and struggling author. He never omitted an opportu- nity of visiting poor Goldsmith when he chanced to be in town, and not unfrequently induced the poet to join him at his country- scat. Goldsmith, in the fulness of his heart, could not help envying the ease of his friend’s literary pursuits, whilst he him- self was toiling in the midst of penury, the harassing perplexities of pecuniary embarrassments, and the alternate vexations to be sustained from impatient booksellers or more impatient creditors. It was on one occasion, that the poor poet Avas remarking the time and care which Cradock was enabled to bestow upon a single manuscript, that he exclaimed, Avith somewhat keener em- phasis than was his wont, “ Oh ! Mr. Cradock, think of me, that must Avrite a volume every month ! ” About the same period (1772), Goldsmith made another acquaintance. But in this instance, he was the patron, not the client. A needy and friendless fellow-countryman, of the name of M'Donnell, who has himself recorded his grateful recollection of the poet, accidentally met the latter in the Temple Gardens. Finding himself in London, on his way to Ireland, without any resources, or a single friend, M ‘Donnell chanced to stroll into the Temple Gardens, where, in utter despondency, he flung himself upon one of the seats, and, by way of occupying his mind, began to con over the pages of a volume of Boileau, which he had about him. Goldsmith, happening to pass by casually, fell into conversation Avith him, and finding him Aveli- informed, a thorough master of French, and no indifferent classical scholar, soon took an interest in his story, induced him to relate all his difficulties, and prevailed upon him to promise an early Adsit to his quarters. It was then that M‘Donnell, to his surprise and delight, first knew to whom he was indebted for so much sympathy and goodness. M ‘Donnell did not omit to avail himself of so flattering an invitation, and the poet then explained to him that pecuniary assistance Avas out of the question, but encouraged him Avith the hope of lucrative employ- ment ; whilst at the same time, he offered him an engagement as Amanuensis, with just a sufficiency, pending the opportunity for a more desirable and profitable occupation. M‘DonneIl xlviii I/IFE OF readily assented, and continued to act in that capacity for tie poet for some time. His chief occupation was to translate passages from the Natural History of Buffon, which Goldsmith abridged or adapted to his own “ History of Animated Nature.” In truth, the poor task-writer was sadly in need of some assistance of the kind. His undertakings, upon many of which he had drawn freely enough, were accumulating on every side ; five volumes of the “ History of Animated Nature” had already been paid for by Griffin, and the greater part of the work wis to be done. Yet, although some of Goldsmith’s critics or biographers have accused him of growing testy and irritable with the increase of his troubles, M ‘Donnell protests, that ke always found him the same gentle, kind-hearted creature — too solicitous of the sufferings of others to contrive the diminution of his own. It was to escape from the annoyances which were constantly besetting him in London, and to apply himself with less inter- ruption, and in perfect quiet to his labours, that Goldsmith took up his summer abode, this year, at a farm-house, six miles from the metropolis, on the Edgeware-road. To this retreat he conveyed the whole of his books in two return post-chaises. Here he was familiarly known to the people of the establishment as “the Gentleman,” and was evidently looked upon as a strange being. Boswell accompanied Mickle, the translator of the Lusiad, to pay a visit to the poet, at his suburban residence. Goldsmith was not at home when they came; but curious to scan his apartment, they nevertheless went in, and Boswell relates that they were struck by findiug scraps of descriptions of animals scribbled in every direction over the wall. Books, papers, toilet and other appurtenances, were piled or tossed about the room in admirable confusion. It is not authenticated how long the poet’s autograph remained unobliterated on the walls, but certain it is, that the room in which he wrote was long illus- trated as the corner from whence “She Stoops to Conquer” was issued to the stage and the world. According to the traditions handed down to us by the family of the worthy farmer, Goldsmith had most of his meals sent up to him in his room, although he had contracted to board with the household. But, buried in the midst of his accumulated work, carelessly arrayed, or disarrayed, with his shirt-collar open, he was generally, if at home, too intensely busied with his writing to give up auy time to dress, and consequently remained secluded even to his hasty meals. It is also told of him, that he would not unfrequently ramble into the kitchen in abstracted thought- fulness, and stand pondering with his back to the fire, until he suddenly hurried back to his own room, without taking the slightest notice of what was passing around him. Occasionally, he would stroll abroad in the fields, and along the hedges, reading or wholly occupied with thought. He was often restless at night, and would then read in bed, or, at all events, OLIVES, GOLDSMITH. xlix leave the candle burning, in case he should require it. If it stood beyond his reach, and he wished to put it out, he would fling his slipper at it. His charitable disposition became pro- verbial here as elsewhere. He had the use of the best parlour to receive or entertain visitors, amongst whom, the most frequent were Sir Joshua Reynolds, Hugh Boyd, the supposed author of the Letters of “Junius,” and Sir Wm. Chambers. Sometimes he entertained his friends by giving a dinner party ; and, on one such occasion, — his guests, having been detained by a thunder-storm, — he got up a dance, which was continued until very late. Not far from the farm-house in which Goldsmith was lodging, was the country residence of a Mr. Seguin, an Irish merchant, and a man of considerable literary taste. There the poet was always welcome : and, not the least so, amongst the children, with whom he would play, or chatter, or dance, or romp, to their heart’s content. It is in speaking of his flute- playing on one of these ocasions, that a biographer has related the following anecdote, illustrative of his proficiency in music. The truth is, in fact, that he played entirely by ear. Roubiliac, the statuary, one day pretended to take down an air .as the poet was playing it. He accordingly marked an indiscriminate number of notes, in chance as to time, tune, and every thing else. No sooner had Goldsmith done playing, than he cast his eye over the pretended transcript, and pronounced it correct. So much for his musical attainments. But neither his laborious retreat, nor the hospitality of Mr. Seguin, entirely pre-occupied him ; for several weeks were whiled away in agreeable visits to Mr. Cradock, Lord Clare, and Mr. Langton, at their respective country-seats. He would also, not unfrequently, give up some hours to London and its public amusements. On one occasion of the kind, he accompanied Edmund Burke to see the Italian Fantociui, in Panton -street. On the whole, nevertheless, he had led far too sedentary and confined a life, since his retirement to the summer retreat. So much so, indeed, that his health had been seriously impaired by it, and that he had suffered from a very severe attack of illness. Nor was his return to town, late in the autumn of the year 1772, destined to restore his health, or freshen his constitution. The allurements of jovial pleasures soon drew him into dissipa- tion. Dinners and suppers, clubs, routs, and theatres, were his perpetual haunts. The state of his affairs, daily more and more complicated, was entirely neglected, until the vexatious and harassing demand of booksellers or creditors, on all sides, became too repeated and too pressing to escape his attention. His mind, overdone with toil, was now racked with distress and difficulty, and his health became more and more affected. The “ Animated Nature ” had been fully paid for, but was not completed. Garrick’s advance on Newbery’s note, stood as a claim against him. The tale, on account of which Newbury e 3 1 LIFE OF had furnished between two and three hundred pounds, was a failure, and Goldsmith had nothing to offer in compensation save the copyright of the new play ; whilst, at the same time, ho added, “ To tell you the truth, Frank, there are great doubts of its success.” Newbery, nevertheless, accepted the substitute, to his im- mense profit. Elsewhere, the poet was equally in arrears, and was drawing the proceeds of his toil in advance, to sink them in the liquida- tion of past extravagances. Racked by this complication of difficulties and troubles, and kept in a constant state of feverish excitement, which was not a little heightened by the additional labour which was necessarily devoted to the satisfaction of the most urgent demands, poor Goldsmith added another mischief to the many ills which were sapping his frame. He acquired a habit of drugging himself with James’s Powders, then the popu- lar panacea of the day — the Holloway’s Pills of the past century. To turn to matter illustrative of the poet’s character, amongst other foibles with which he has been charged, he is accused of remarkable vanity. We cannot help observing, of the anecdotes related, in support of their accusation, that they tend to prove that his vanity, if there were such, was of the most amiable kind, and accompanied with a guilelessness and simplicity, which rendered it rather pleasing than repulsive. One of these tales has been perpetuated in Garrick’s play of “ the Irish Widow.” It would seem that Edmund Burke, taking advantage of his privileges as a fellow countryman and fellow student, delighted in practising upon this attributed weakness. The plot of the “Irish Widow,” is founded on a joke played off by him upon Goldsmith; and, on another occasion, the following trick was also played by the great orator ou the simple and unsuspecting poet. Colonel O’ Moore and Burke were passing through Leicester- square on their way to a dinner-party at Sir Joshua Reynolds’s, when they observed the poet surveying a crowd which was gathered about the front of an hotel, staring and shouting at some foreign ladies. Goldsmith was, also, on his way to the artist’s ; and upon his appearance, Burke affected great coldness towards him. Upon being pressed for an explanation by the poet, he replied : “ Really I am ashamed to keep company with a person who could act as you have just done in the square.” Goldsmith, quite unconscious of the wrong of which he had been guilty, pressed for further explanation, and Burke added : “ Did you not exclaim, as you were looking up at those women, what stupid beasts the crowd must be for staring with such admiration at those painted Jezebels , while a man of your talents passed by unnoticed?” “Surely, surely, my dear friend,” cried Goldsmith, “I did not say so?” “Nay,” re- sumed his malicious friend, “if you had not said so, how should I have known it?” “That’s true,” replied the poet, musing; OLIVER GOLDSMITH. li “ I am very sorry,” he added, with energy, “it was very foolish : I do recollect that something of the hind passed through my head , but I did not think I had uttered it.” Every jack-a-dandy, who wished to be thought a wag, appears to have indulged his humour in manufacturing tales of blunders and absurdities committed by Goldsmith, whose pe- culiarities, unfortunately, rendered any stretch of the imagination credible and probable : at least, the majority of his associates were always willing to have it thought so, that they might the more freely laugh at his expence. But there is one story on record, in which Goldsmith is said to have raised the laugh against one of his companions ; and notably, the unimpeachable Dr. J olmson himself. They were supping together one night at a tavern in Dean-street, Soho, kept by Jack Roberts, a favorite of Garrick’s, and one of the singers at Drury Lane, Johnson was in the midst of a savoury plate full of rumps and kidneys, when in the fulness of his approval and gratified appetite, he observed : “ These are pretty little things ; but a man must eat a great many of them before he is filled.” “ Aye ; but how many of them would reach the moon?” enquired the poet, with feigned simplicity. “ To the moon ! Ah sir, that I fear exceeds your calculation,” was the reply. “Not at all, sir,” retorted Goldsmith, “ I think I could tell.” “ Pray then , sir, let us hear,” exclaimed Johnson, suddenly dropping his knife and fork, and looking up as if in expectation of something to dispute about. “Why, Sir,” replied the poet, one , if it were long enough.” Johnson growled in token of his discomfiture, and resumed his meal considerably nettled. Side by side with this anecdote, which we cannot help reading with a slight sensation of triumph, we find one which elicits a more honourable admiration. It is indicative of the goodness of heart, awakened by the acute sensibility for which Goldsmith was so much distinguished, and which rendered him so amiable. One evening, at the house of Sir William Chambers, in Berners-street, he was apparently absorbed in a game of whist with Sir William and Lady Chambers and Baretti, when he suddenly flung down his cards, and rushed unceremoniously out of the room, and into the street. He instantly returned, however, and pursued the game. Upon being asked whether he had been overcome by the heat of the room, he replied : “ Not at all : but, in truth, I could not bear to hear that poor woman in the street, half singing, half sobbing, for such notes could only arise from the extremity of distress : her voice grated painfully upon my ear, and jarred my frame, so that I could not rest until I had sent her away.” There had, in fact, been a ballad-singer under the windows, whom all in the room had heard, but whose accents of suffering had been unheeded, save by the too sensitive and generous poet. When in search of public entertainments, in default of the theatre, Goldsmith was m the habit of attending Ranelagh, at lii LIFE OF that period a place of very general resort. Johnson was not .an unfrequent visitor there; “for,” he used to say, “I am a great friend to public amusements, for they keep people from vice.” Goldsmith was particularly fond of entering into the masque- rades, which were then exceedingly popular, and very magnifi- cicntly got up at Ranelagh. Sir J oshua Reynolds would often accompany him, and sometimes he would go alone, when his peculiar figure invariably betrayed him to the swarm of wags who were constant attendants at these entertainments, and who were always more effectively disguised than himself. _ Thus he became the butt of an infinite variety of facetious devices, con- trived to raise a laugh against him. His name having once appeared in the newspapers, as amongst the persons of distinction who honoured the masquerades with their presence, his venemous and spiteful enemy, Kendrick, seized the occasion to apostrophise him in an anonymons copy of verses. Goldsmith, who was keenly alive to any attack upon his moral character, afterwards met Kendrick at the Chapter Coffee House, and called him to account for his calumnies, theatening to administer corporal chastisement if the offence were repeated. The craven-coward feigned the deepest contri- tion in the poet’s presence ; but quickly wreaked his revenge, by circulating a variety of scurrilous libels against his more noble antagonist. Somewhat vexed that he should have exposed himself to give a colour to such obscene attacks, he was found one day by Sir Joshua Reynolds, kicking a bundle about his room. This turned out to be an expensive masquerading dress.. “As I have been fool enough to purchase this trumpery,” said he, in reply to Sir Joshua’s enquiry, “and as there appears to be no other way of turning my outlay to account, I am endeavouring to take it out in exercise!” In the the midst of these unsatisfactory and satiating rounds of dissipation, Goldsmith received a summons from Mrs. Bunbury, to spend the Christmas holidays at Barton with her family circle, and the “ Jessamy Bride” amongst others. It was a charming variation for poor Goldsmith, and he replied to the humorous and sprightly letter of “Little Comedy,” with an eagerness equalled only by the strain of natural wit which filled his own epistle. The invitation was resistless : it was accepted; hut there is no record of his sayings and doings during this seasonable holiday. Of late Goldsmith, had hurried into the whirl of public and private society, with a kind of morbid anxiety to escape from himself, and not with his original hearty enjoyment. He felt that the natural buoyancy of his spirits was rapidly giving way under the pressure of mental and bodily suffering. Hie malady which had now for some time afflicted him, was fast gaining upon the sturdy vigour of his constitution, and was becoming aggravated by the intense study which beset him OLIVER GOLDSMITH. llii by night and by day, and by the repulsive tasb -labour to which lie was compelled to apply himself, in spite of the restless state of his mind, and the feverish irritation of his body. Thus, even from the refreshing visit to the Hornecks, he returned to feel but more keenly the deplorable condition of his affairs, and to be troubled by new complications and new difficulties. In toil, or in relaxation, he was no longer the same being. The zest of his life was fast abandoning him. He wrote with thoughts engrossed upon matters irrelevant of his work, and often writhing with bodily pain. In rest, he was troubled by reflections on his gloomy prospect, and disturbed by the twinges of ascendant disease. In relaxation, he no longer found the same utter abandonment to pleasure. The thoughts of other things would perversely crowd upon him. Yet from labour, or rest, he would rush to dissipation, and from dissipa- tion to rest, or labour, for relief, equally in vain. Whilst pecuniary embarrassments were thickening about him, he was submitted to additional vexation in the delays which detained the progress of his new play. The agreement entered into with Hewbery, was fast arriving at the period of its issue, and the new comedy, some time since completed, and placed in the hands of Colrnan at Covent Garden, was yet no further forward. Thus the whole of the year 1772 had been frittered away, without its being produced. A long negociation was carried on between the manager and the author. Colrnan retained the manuscript until the month of January, 1773, without deciding upon any course, and when, at last, pressed by an anxious and urgent letter from Goldsmith, he returned it, covered with objections, suggestions, projects of alteration, and the like, intimating, nevertheless, that he would produce the play. The remarks and suggestions for alteration, when submitted to the ablest judges amongst the author’s friends, were pronounced as puerile, and trifling. Goldsmith’s supporters suspected Colrnan of jealousy and rivalry, and delivered it as their opinion, that he purposely threw difficulties in the way of the new comedy. Goldsmith, wearied, anxious, and nettled at this trifling, forwarded the manuscript, with Colman’s remarks, to Garrick ; but had no sooner done so, than he sent for it again, upon the interference of Dr. Johnson, who pledged himself to prevail with Colrnan. Johnson kept his promise ; but still the manager persisted in disparaging the play amongst the actors, who were to appear in it. And to such effect, that the two principal performers, Woodward, (as Tony Lumpkin,) and Gentleman Smith, (as Young Marlow,) refused to play. Quick and Lee Lewis were selected to replace them, and the cast was at length completed. In the meanwhile, Goldsmith’s friends were preparing to sustain him with energy and effect. J ohnson, Cradock, Murphy, Reynolds, with his sister, and the “ Jessamy Bride,” with, the whole of the Horneck family circle, attended the rehear sals. The applause elicited by the piece in this stage LTFli OP hv w as perhaps no criterion of its after success. At all events, Column sedulously persisted in prophecying its failure, aid iu attributing the admiration which signalized the rehearsals, to the officious zeal of the author’s friends. Then came another perplexity. The comedy had hitherto been without a name. But J ohnson, who was ever earnesi; and zealous in the cause of Goldsmith, was at hand to suggest and to correct. A variety of names were successively proposed and rejected, until at last, that of “ The Mistakes of a Night,’ was agreed to. To this, the author prefixed the title of “ She do ops to Conquer.” Whilst these useless difficulties were thrown in the way of Goldsmith’s play, Foote had produced his Primitive Puppet- show, called the Handsome Housemaid, or Piety in Pattens, it the Haymarket. This production, which was a facetious burlesque on the Italian Fantocini, was no sooner announced, than it became the rage of the whole town. High and low crowced to the Haymarket, and sentimental comedy was at an end. Even Garrick abandoned it, and actually furnished an humoirous prologue for Goldsmith’s play, prompted, perhaps, by the genial intercourse to which both were indebted for their pleasant companionship at Barton. The 15th of Marcl was now announced for the first appearance of “She Stooos to Conquer,” and all those who had maintained the merit cf the piece, determined to combine to give it a rapturous and trium- phant reception, as much, perhaps, to controvert the mamger’s disparagement, as to befriend the author. A strong party of Goldsmith’s supporters accordingly mustered on the evmtful day for an early dinner, at the Shakspeare Tavern. Jolnson presided, and never was he more redundant of conversation than on this occasion. Everything was animated, save poor Gold- smith himself, who sat moodily next to Johnson, barely able to utter a word, or to swallow a mouthful. Whils; the whole body of his friends proceeded to take their statims in different parts of the theatre, to commence or sustaii the applause, the poor author rambled unconsciously int< St. James’s Park, pacing to and fro, now hither, now thitlnr, in the most painful and restless agitation. But, during Gold- smith’s absence, the play had been opened, and had proceeded, from scene to scene, amidst the most vociferous and raptirous applause. Its success had been signally decisive. And vlien, at length, the author was conducted to the theatre by ai ac- quaintance, who accidently met him, the fifth act was ii pro- gress of representation. One solitary hiss seems inopportmely to have grated on his ears upon his first arrival, and distristful of the assurance of his friends, he is said to have exclained in the utmost agitation, “What’s that? what’s that?” Neverthe- less, the still perverse opposition of Colman, who was oi the spot, did not long keep him on tenter hooks. He was soon OLIVER GOLDSMITH. lv satisfied that it was no false, flattering tale of triumph, which had been told him. Colinan, whose constant reluctance to produce the comedy, was sedulously published by Goldsmith’s friends, now became the butt of every description of ridicule from the public press. Epigrams, taunts, and criticism were levelled at him in every direction, and he was compelled to get the author himself to interfere in his behalf. J ohnson, who had been so instrumental in securing the per- formance and success of “ She Stoops to Conquer,” was now in ecstacies.at the triumph. And Goldsmith was gladdened by testimonies of admiration from those who were less interested in his cause, and who were less critical judges of his composi- tion. The comedy was immediately hurried through the press, and realized for the publisher an immense return, over and above his advances to Goldsmith on the copyright. It was gratefully dedicated to Dr. Johnson, in one of those simple and touching addresses which could have emanated from such a writer as Goldsmith alone. But the profits of the author’s benefits, con- siderable as they might be, were far from sufficient to supply his urgent requirements ; and whilst Newbery was realizing the proceeds of a profitable speculation, and his own friends were exulting, as they thought, with him in his achieved success, he, himself, was wrung with distress, of which he alone could esti- mate the intensity. Moreover, his very success had aroused the utmost rancour and envy amongst the swarm of pretenders to literary dis- tinction, and called down upon hint the most unmeasured scurrility from the organs of some of these worthies. His person was made the object of ludicrous comparison ; his most private affairs were laid bare before the public ; he was charged with arrogance, vanity, and imposture ; in short, his enemies had sedulously followed the exemplary rule : — “ To load with obloquy where facts are wanting, And help the lack of argument by canting.” Warmly excited by an article of the kind -which appeared in the columns of the “ London Packet,” and yet more urged on by one of his fiery fellow-countrymen, he betook himself to the shop of Evans, the publisher of the paper, in Paternoster- row, and. there deliberately administered a severe caning to that individual, who, however, being a strong and stalwart man, and having recovered from his first surprise, turned upon his assailant to resent the cudgelling. A scrambling struggle ensued between them. The chandelier of the shop 'was smashed in the contest, and the oil poured out upon the combatants, and things were coming to a serious pass, when Dr. Kenrick, who was in the next room, separated them, and accompanied Goldsmith to his chambers, affecting to enter into his feelings, and earnestly to condole with him ; whereas lvi LIFE OF the doctor himself has since been suspected of having written the obnoxious paragraph. Evans instituted proceedings against the poet for the assault, hut was prevailed upon to forego further vindictive steps, upon Goldsmith’s contributing fifty pounds to the Welsh Charity. The public press had now new matter for comment, and every day ushered in some new squib relating to the affair. So much so, that the poet thought it necessary to publish a vindication in his own defence, and in that of true freedom of the press, against the licence of the worthless hands which polluted its sacred character. Had Johnson seen this production before it appeared in print, it would, in all probability, have been destroyed in manuscript. Not but that it was admirably written ; but that, as the great arbiter of literature asserted, it “was a foolish thing well done;” to which he added: “ I suppose he has been so much elated with the success of his new comedy, that he has thought everything that concerned him must be of importance to the public.” From the combat and controversy, we must follow Goldsmith to the Literary Club. Johnson had, for a long time, obstinately persisted in maintaining the exclusiveness of this hole-and-corner assembly, whereas the poet, prompted by his good fellowship, and his love of variety, had been a constant advocate for the admission of additional members. At last, after much debate, at the earnest instance of Sir Joshua Reynolds and Goldsmith, Garrick, who had long been seeking this honour, was admitted as a member of the Turk’s Head Club. Lord Charlemont, the friend and nominee of Beauclerc, was next elected ; and then Mr. Jones, afterwards Sir William Jones, the celebrated ori- entalist. At last, J ohnson, himself, proposed to add his sub- servient toady, Boswell, to their number. This was signified to Goldsmith in a friendly note on the 23rd of April, because the poet presided on that evening. And, according to the rules of the club, the 30th, the next day of meeting, was appointed for the ballot on Boswell’s election. Great difference of opinion existed amongst the other members relative to Boswell. The greater part despised him, and were inclined to reject him. But Johnson persisted; and as much as promised to black-ball any one else who might be proposed, if he were not humoured in his present fancy. The last hint had, probably, the effect of deciding the waverers ; and accordingly, on the 30th (a Friday), after having met to dinner at Beauclerc’s, Burke, Garrick, Dr Nugent, Jones, Johnson, Goldsmith, and the rest, proceeded to the club to vote, and Boswell, who had remained at Beauclerc’s until his fate was decided, was admitted and duly initiated in a long mock-serious lecture delivered by Dr. J ohnson. A few days after this stone had been enacted at the Turk’s Head, we find Goldsmith, Johnson, and Boswell, dining at the Dillys, booksellers, in the Poultry. It would generally have been tedious to follow Boswell’s discursive account of every conversa- OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Ivii tion into which his great hero had entered, and in which Goldsmith is allowed to take an occasional part. But, as the present instance was the last occasion in which Johnson and Goldsmith met and conversed in society, we may venture to repeat some of the gossip of the pertinacious biographer. The conversation first turned upon the natural history of birds, in which, probably, Goldsmith had the mastery. Boswell next broached the subject of religious toleration, on which the debate became very warm and animated, because there were two dissenting clergymen and one member of the established church present. It was an ill-judged topic, therefore, and led to somewhat more of bitterness than was consistent with good breed- ing. Johnson, as usual, had all the say to himself, and abruptly silenced Goldsmith whenever he attempted to put in a word edgewaj s, till, at last, the poet was about leaving, when observing that some one else was attempting to offer an observation, he said to Johnson, who interposed with a growl, as if about to interrupt the speaker, “ The-gentleman has heard you patiently for an hour, pray allow us now to hear him.” The rebuke was too severe to pass unnoticed, and in the first impulse of the moment, Johnson angrily replied : “ Sir, I was not interrupting the gentleman : I was only giving him a signal of my atten- tion. Sir, you are impertinent.” The poet, too modest to raise an altercation on his own account, and too conscious of his own merit to offer any reply, remained silent, and shortly after- wards left the room. In the course of the same evening, the select party met again at the club, and Johnson, seeing the poet setting moodily apart, and conscious of having exceeded the bounds of decorum, exclaimed : “ Dr. Goldsmith, something passed to day where you and I dined . — 1 ash your pardon.” The first signal of pacification was ever enough for the good-hearted Goldsmith, and the whole affair was quickly forgotten in the animation of irrelevant conversation. A few days after these conversations took place, Johnson called upon the poet, to take his leave before his departure for Scotland, accompanied by his bear-leader. So that we have recorded the last scenes in which Oliver Goldsmith and Samuel Johnson were joint performers. . I 11 the meantime, of the heaps of unfinished work with which his chambers were lumbered up, not one was unpaid for. He had long received, in full, the promised pittance which was to be given lor each of them. lie had even drawn in advance upon the productions of his pen, and had to commence many tasks which should yield him nothing more. He was sick at heart, and sinking. Hopelessness began to cloud his anticipa- tions^ He bad barely courage to set "about any work by which he might realize wherewithal to supply his immediate wants, much less to toil at unproductive labours. His health had become so deranged, as to incapacitate him very frequently from lviii LIFE OF writing at all : and his mind was so exhausted with the constant drain of compulsory composition, that he was almost at a loss to furnish a paragraph. Yet something must be done to provide for present and future necessities. With this view, he now proposed to undertake a work of very considerable compass: this was a Dictionary of the Arts and Sciences. Johnson readily promised to contribute an article on Ethics; Burke offered an epitome of his Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful, an Essay on the Berkleyan philosophy, and others on Political Science : Sir Joshua Reynolds was ready to provide a paper on Painting— Garrick had engaged Dr. Burney to con- tribute an article on Music, whilst he himself provided one on Actors and Acting. In many respects, this project was most desirable for poor Goldsmith, who, with such powerful assistance, could not but have added a valuable store to the literature of the day ; tor, inasmuch as much of the material would be furnished to him, he would have been spared the necessity of constant application, and of taxing his own invention or reading. He, accordingly, drew up a prospectus of the proposed Dictionary. But, although he had suffered himself to attach great expectations once more to this undertaking, he was doomed to disappoint- ment. . 'ihe booksellers were now too well acquainted with Ins dilatory habits, his proneness to abandon his occupations _ for social enjoyment, and to heap up undertaking upon undertaking, to have any faith in his qualifications for such a task; and he, accordingly, met with no encouragement whatever from the paymasters of learning. The carelessness with which he w.iS known latterly to compile much of his work which requiied accuracy, tended considerably to discourage the traders in intelligence. Such anecdotes as the following had got abroad concerning him : — On one occasion, whilst he was busily engaged upon his Natural History, he suddenly wrote to Dr. Percy and Mr. Cradock, entreating them to complete some unfinished pages which were on his table, inasmuch as he was unavoidably detained at Windsor. Percy and Cradock accordingly met, by appointment, at his chambers, and found every thing in characteristic confusion — proof sheets, corrected and uncorrected, memoranda, fresh copy, books and papers of aU kinds, were tossing about in every direction. The subject in hand, and which the two amanuenses were called upon to complete, relat d to birds. — “Do you know any thing about birds?” enquired Dr. Percy w T ith a smile. “Not an atom,” was the reply; “do you?” “Not I: I scarcely know a goose from a swan; how- ever, let us to it, and try what we can do.” To work they went accordingly, and somehow or other succeeded in perfecting the sheets. Goldsmith’s paramount engagement at Windsor turned out to be a pleasure party with some literary ladies. 07jTVF.lt GOLDSMITH. Ill On another occasion, it was related of him that he was busied with a Grecian History in two volumes, both of which had been paid for in the month of June, but one only of which was completed. Whilst he was closely applying himself to the second volume, he received a visit from Gibbon, then the great authority in matters of history. “You are just the man,” exclaimed the poet, “ whom of all others I wish to see. Pray what was the name of the Indian King who gave Alexander the Great so much trouble?” “ Montezuma,” replied Gibbon, with a curl of the lip, which was unobserved by the plodding writer. Goldsmith was in the act of writing from Gibbon’s information, when the latter, pretending to recollect himself, gave the right name, “Torus.” The failure of the great scheme of the Dictionary of Arts and Sciences, was a sore discouragement to the unfortunate and straggling poet. He was dejected in proportion to the impor- tance of his discomfiture. His friends, however, interposed for the purpose of procuring for him a pension from the Crown. But his former haughty independence, in refusing the sop- money of Dr. Scott, was on record against him ; and at the very moment when Beattie was loaded with scholastic honours, and rewarded with a pension for his Essay on Truth, one of the most vapid and servile productions which were ever the object of partial applause, poor Goldsmith, the immortal author of the “ Deserted Village,” was passed by unnoticed. And, to add to the mortification of this repulse, he was accused of an unworthy jealousy of Beattie’s success and distinction, and exposed to the unjust raillery of Dr. Johnson, who would never lose the chance of saying a good thing even at the expense of truth and justice. “Here’s such a stir,” said the poet, one day, in the doctor's presence, “about a fellow who has written one book, and I have written so many.” “Ah,” retorted Johnson, “itw'ants two and forty sixpences, you know, to make up a guinea.” But Goldsmith, who felt how pointless this shaft was against him, was far more annoyed that his more congenial friend, Sir Joshua Reynolds, should have condescended to pander to a proselytish rage in painting the portrait of Beattie, in his full robes, with the Essay on Truth under his arm, and the Angel of Truth by his side, whilst Voltaire was represented as the demon of darkness and falsehood in the back ground. “It is un- worthy of you,” said Goldsmith, one day, reproachfully to Sir Joshua, “to debase so high & genius as Voltaire before so mean a writer as Beattie. Beattie and his book will be forgotten in ten years, while Voltaire’s fame will last for ever, Take care it does not perpetuate this picture to the shame of such a man as you.” Doubly disappointed, poor Goldsmith returned to his hopeless toil to find it more irksome than ever. His thoughts were now so constantly distracted by the painful reflections on his condi- tion, that he often abandoned his work in despa ir. Under the lx LIFE OF double influence of mental distress and exacerbated disease, he grew, at times, almost peevish, fretful, and irritable. In society, he was no longer the loudest and merriest talker, as heretofore, on all occasions. Now moody and silent, and now bursting suddenly into forced and affectedly boisterous mirth, those who were not in the secrets of his state, mistook the effect of suffering for caprice. Too proud to solicit the assistance of his friends, and unwilling, perhaps, to reveal the whole truth of his embarrassments, he was never com- municative except to a few chosen associates. Unlike the former summers, the season of 1773 was spent in London, and when the town was empty, he found himself abandoned by all his friends, except Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was often with him. On the fourth of August, they went to Vauxhall together. But the lively scene in which he had formerly forgotten all his grievances, was now powerless to rouse him from the gloom which was besetting him. Towards the autumn, Cradock came to town to secure for his wife the advice of an able dentist, and, of course, spent the greater part of his time with the poet. But he found him sorely altered ; and after much reflection, suggested as an expedient, that he should republish an edition of the two poems, the “Traveller and the “ Deserted Village,” with notes, by subscription, thus affording his wealthy and aristocratic admirers an opportunity of relieving him without the appearance of offering alms. Goldsmith readily gave up his private copies to his friend, bidding him do as he pleased. Flushed with a transient gleam of hope in this scheme, poor Goldsmith set about gathering up all the notes and memoranda which had been collected for his proposed Dictionary, and entertained the idea of adapting them for a work, entitled a “ Survey of Experimental Philosophy.” But, alas ! the plan of the subscription fell to the ground, and with it the new undertaking, in which Goldsmith had only been sustained by this one expectation. The last intercourse between Cradock and Goldsmith took place at the lodgings of the former in Norfolk-street, whither he had invited the poet to dine with him. The invitation was accepted on the special agreement that he should be humoured in eating or abstaining, according to the inclination of the moment. During the whole evening he was restless and uneasy, and having remained at Cradock’ s till midnight, his friend accompanied him as far as Temple Bar, and there parted with him for ever. The next morning, Cradock started for Leicester- shire, and Goldsmith remained in London the whole of the autumn. On the 20th of November, at the opening on the Opera, Mrs. Yates, an actress who was held in high estimation by the poet, delivered an exordium in verse, which elicited great applause, and which was from his pen. Thus the dreary autumn crawled along, until one more happy interval was to brighten up the closing scene of the poet’s OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Ixi career. Towards Christmas, he received the same kind invita- tion as on former years, to spend the holidays at Barton . But he had no friends to equip him, nor to defray the expenses of his journey. Yet the only redeeming forecast of his exis- tence— the happy fireside of Barton in the place of the gloomy loneliness of the Temple — the bright smile of the “ Jessamy Bride,” and all the thousand allurements of that brief prospect — could not he foregone at any cost. In this dilemma, he applied to Garrick, whose former advance of forty pounds was as yet unpaid, for a further supply of sixty pounds, in security for which, besides Newbery’s note, he offered to transfer the comedy of the “ Good-Natured man,” with whatever alterations the manager should propose, to Drury Lane. Garrick evaded the proposal relatively to the transfer of the old play, but indicated significantly his expectation of a new one, of which Goldsmith had previously spoken, and ended by consenting to advance the sixty pounds on the poet’s own acceptance. Overflowing with gratitude towards the considerate manager, the poet wrote to him in the warmest terms of acknowledgment, and started forthwith to forget, if he could once more, the vexations and desolation of his chambers, in the delightful society of the Hornecks. It were well if we could close our story with this passage, and exclude the melancholy picture which followed it. For, from the brief interval of joy and relaxation at Barton, poor Goldsmith was soon constrained to return to his hopeless toil again. In the beginning of the year 1774, we find him completing his “ History of Animated Nature,” preparing an abridged and condensed edition of the “ History of England,” in one volume, for the use of schools, revising his “ Inquiry into Polite Learning” for a paltry consideration of five pounds, arranging his survey of “ Experimental Philosophy,” and translating the Comic Romance of Scarron. Suddenly starting from this depressive toil, we find him again rushing with morbid eagerness into dissipation, accompanied only by the sympathetic and devoted friendship of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who alone knew how little he was really entering into the giddy whirl of gaiety. Then, as suddenly changing his method, we hear of sumptuous entertainments given by him to his friends and associates, J ohnson and Reynolds in particular, at his chambers. To such an excess, indeed, on one occasion did he carry the extravagance of luxury at his table, that his best friends but reluctantly tasted the first course, and when the second was served, actually declined to partake of it. Unable to secure either mental or bodily ease in this reckless career of false gaiety, we next bear of him adopting the wholesome hut tardy resolution of retiring from the bustle of London, to the quiet and retirement of country quarters at Hyde. Accor- dingly, in the month of March, he disposed of his lease of the chambers in the Temple, and removed to his new lodgings. It lxii LIFE OF ■was at this period, that an apparently trivial circumstance was productive of one of his most pointed and humorous of his productions, entitled the “ Retaliation,” which, however, was never completed. He was attached to a temporary association of men of talent, of whom many were members of the Literary Club, who occasionally met at the St. James’s Coffee House, to dine together. True to his characteristic tardiness, he was usually the last to arrive. On one occasion, when he was very late, the members present took a fancy to indite epitaphs on him as “The late Mr. Goldsmith,” of which the only one which has been preserved emanated from Garrick. It was this: — “ Here lies poet Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll, Who wrote like an angel, but talked like poor poll.” Alive to the sallies levelled at him, and to Garrick’s in par- ticular, but slow at repartee, he abstained from extempo- raneous retort, but brooded over his recrimination. With this object, he determined to string together a series of epigrammatic sketches, to be gathered under one head and entitled the “Retaliation,” in which he handled the foibles, or praised the merits of all his associates, with that humorous but kindly satire, and warm tone of admiration, by which his writing was ever distinguishable from the venemous sarcasms of ungenerous and caustic critics, and from the grovelling adulation of sycophants. It was in the midst of his grateful testimony to the kindness, sympathy, and constant friendship of Reynolds, as to the many virtues and striking genius of the great artist, that his malady suddenly arrested his head and hand. An unexpected return of the local complaint with which he had long been affected, com- bined with the utter prostration of his frame and constitution, rendered it necessary that he should return to town for careful attendance. The local complaint, indeed, was subdued, but was succeeded by a low, nervous fever. So little was he aware of his dangerous condition, that he had appointed to meet. Charles Fox and Sir Charles Bunbury (a connexion of his friends at Barton) at the Literary Club, on the 25th of March. In the after- noon of that day, he became so much worse as to be constrained to take to his bed. He never left it afterwards.. For several days, hopes were entertained of his recovery ; but in spite of the advice of his very able medical attendants, he persisted in the use of James’s Powders. His appetite had completely failed him, and the harassing reflections which haunted him kept him sleepless. He rapidly sunk, his mind retaining its clearness to the last. In answer to a question put. to him by one of his physicians, he admitted that his mind was ill at ease. It was the last time he spoke. Frot that moment he was too weak to talk, and he apparently took no notice of what was said to him. At last he sunk into a profound sleep, and hopes were enter- tained that his malady had taken a favorable turn ; but he OLIVER GOLDSMITH. lxiii awoke in violent convulsions, which finally ceased with hia breath at five o’clock in the morning on the fourth of April, I 7 74. Few of his friends or literary associates had felt how essential he was to their meetings and their society, until they had lost him. He was lamented throughout the world of letters, and his immediate friends were more afflicted at the loss than many would have been at the death of a near relation. Burke, on hearing the intelligence, burst into tears. Sir Joshua Reynolds cast aside his pencil, and grieved deeply and moodily. McDon- nell, whom he had erewhile employed as his amanuensis, wept bitterly ; and Johnson pondered on the news in moody silence. Even his tailor, Mr. Filby, evinced more genuine affliction at the news of the poet’s death, than at the loss of his account. All his tradespeople, even those who w T ere heavy and losing creditors, spoke of' him with regret, and without a word of censure. But, of all the mourners, there was perhaps one, whose tender tribute of admiration would have more nearly and dearly touched the poet’s heart could he have witnessed it, than the sincerest sorrows of all the rest. After the coffin had been screwed down, a lock of his hair was requested for a lady, a particular friend, who wished to preserve this memento of the poet. The petitioner was no less a person than the lovely and enchanting “ Jessamy Bride ” herself. The coffin was re-opened, and a lock cut off, to be treasured with the greatest care in the pride of youth and beauty, and through the distant years of a vigorous and verdant old age, until the day of her death : — and she outlived him full sixty years. The first impulse of his friends was to have prepared a sump- tuous funeral, to do honour to his ashes, and to furnish him with a resting-place in Westminster Abbey. But Deans and Chapters are not idolaters of geuius : they pay more deference to gold than to intelligence ; and as the poor poet had left no assets, save poetry and prose, and debts amounting to nearly two thousand pounds, it was impossible to buy the holy resting place, or the pompous obsequies, without taxing his friends and former companions. The pall bearers who had been so hastily named, viz. Lord Shelburne, Lord Lowth, Sir J. Reynolds, Beauclcrc, Burke, and Garrick, had but a sinecure in their nomination. At five o’clock, therefore, on Saturday evening the 9th of April, he was privately buried in the ground attached to the Temple Church. The chief mourner was Palmer, afterwards Dean of Cashel, nephew of Sir J. Reynolds. But amongst those who wept most bitterly over his tomb, all were equally surprised to see his old persecutor and rival, Hugh Kelly. We pass with disdain over the scurrilous and monstrous epitaph issued by the coarse and cowardly Kenrick, to defame the deceased poet after his death ; for it was not long before his former asso- ciates of the Literary Club, canvassed a subscription for the purpose of erecting a monument to his memory in Poet’s Corner. lX!V LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH The monument was executed by Nollekins, consisting simply of a bust in profile, in high relief upon a medallion. It was placed in the area of a pointed arch, over the south door, in Poet’s Corner, between the tablets of Gay and the Duke of Argyle. Johnson wrote a Latin epitaph, which, after much discussion amongst his friends, and after a round-robin had been signed in support of an English inscription, was at length assented to, and was inscribed as follows on the white marble tablet beneath the bust OLIVARII GOLDSMITH* Poet®, Physici, Historici, Qui nullum fere scribendi genus Non tetigit. Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit: Sive risus essent movendi, Sive lacrym®, Affectuum potens at lenis dominator : Ingenio sublimis, vividus, versatilis. Oratione grandis, nitidus, venustus : Hoc monumento memoriam coluit Sodalium amor, Amicorum fides, Lectorum veneratio. Natus in Hibernia Fornis Longfordiensis, In loco cui nomen Pallas, Nov. xxix. mdccxxxi ; Eblan® literis institutus; Obiit Londini, April iv. mdcclxxiv. * We add the following translation for the convenience of the render. OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH Poet, Philosopher, Historian, Who left scarcely any style untouched, And touched nothing without adorning; Whether laughter was to bo promoted. Or tears drawn, He was a potent yet tender ruler of the feelings. In conception, sublime, vivid, versatile, In diction, elevated, clear, elegant. The love of companions, The fidelity of friends, And the veneration of readers, Have in this monument recorded the memory. Born in Ireland, at Forney, county of Longford, At a place called Pallas, Nov. 29, 1731. Died in London, April 4, 1774. NOTICE. The “Life of Oliver Goldsmith,” by 'Washington Irving, bus been epitomised in the foregoing biographical sketch. .Stripped of all the superfluous matter, it contains all that is of interest ; and has been rendered only less bulky, less wearisome, and more convenient. THE TBAVELLEB; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY: A POEM. C First printed in 1765. J TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH; Dear Sir, I am sensible that the friendship between us can acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a Dedication ; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your name to my attempts, which you decline giving with your own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, he only inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, when the reader understands, that it is addressed to a man, who, despising Fame and Fortune, has retired early to Happiness and Obscurity with an income of forty pounds a-year. I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your humble choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the labourers are but few; while you have left the field of Ambition, where the labourers are many, and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, from different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party, that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest. Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished nations; but in a country verging to the extremes of refinement, Painting 2 DEDICATION. and Music come in for a share. As these offer the feehle mind a less laborious entertainment, they at first rival P oetry , and at length supplant her ; they engross all that favour once shown to her, and, though hut younger sisters, seize upon the elder’s birth- right. Tet, however this art may he neglected hv the powerful, it is still in greater danger from the mistaken efforts of the learned to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of blank verse, and Pindaric odes, choruses, anapests, and iambics, alliterative care and happy negligence ! Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it ; and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has always much to say ; for error is ever talkative. But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous, I mean Party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to increase the distemper . Like the tiger that seldom desists from pursuing man after having once preyed upon human flesh, the reader who has once gratified his appetite with calumny, makes, ever after, the most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers generally admire some half-witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the name of poet : his tawdry lampoons are called satires ; his turbulence is said to be force, and his frenzy fire. What reception a poem may find which has neither abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, I cannot tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavoured to shew, that there may be equal happiness in states that are differently governed from our own ; that every state has a particular principle of happiness, and that this principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few can judge better than yourself how far these positions are illustrated in this poem. I am, dear Sir, Your most affectionate brother, Odiveb GoLDS-umi* THE TRAVELLER * Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ; Or ouward, where the rude Corinthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door ; Or where Campania’s plain forsaken lies, A weary waste expanding to the skies ; Where’er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart, untravell’d, fondly turns to thee ; Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ; Blest he that spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ; Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair ; Blest he those feasts with simple plenty crown’d, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good. But me, not destined such delights to share, My prime of life in wandering spent and care ; Impell’d with steps unceasing to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view ; That, like the circle hounding earth and skies, Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, And find no spot of all the world my own. E’en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; And, plac’d on high above the storm’s career, Look downward where a hundred realms appear ; Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd’s humbler pride When thus Creation’s charms around combine, Amidst the store should thankless pride repine ? * Pninted from the last edition published in the life-time of the author. 4 goldsmith’s works. Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain? Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, These little things are great to little man ; And wiser he, whose sympathetic miud Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crown’d Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; Ye bending swains that dress the flowery vale; For me your tributary stores combine : Creation’s heir, the world, the world is mine. As some lone miser, visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o’er ; Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still ; Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, Pleas’d with each good that Heaven to man supplies: Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; And oft I wish amidst the scene, to find Some spot to real happiness consign’d, Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. But where to find that happiest spot below Who can direct when all pretend to know ? The shudd’ring tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own : Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry and ease : The naked negro, panting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, Basks in the glare or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam, His first, best country, ever is at home. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind : As different good, by art or nature given, To different nations makes their blessings even. Nature, a mother kind alike to all, Still grants her bliss at labour’s earnest call ; With food as well the peasant is supplied On Idra’s cliffs as Arno’s shelvy side ; And though the rocky-crested summits frown, These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. From art more various are the blessings sent ; Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content. THE TRAVELLER. 5 Yet these each other’s power so strong contest, That either seems destructive of the rest. Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails 5 And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. Hence every state, to one lov’d blessing prone, Conforms and models life to that alone ; Each to the fav’rite happiness attends, And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; Till, carried to excess in each domain, This fav’rite good begets peculiar pain. But let us try these truths with closer eyes, And trace them through the prospect as it lies Here for a while, my proper cares resign’d, Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind, Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast, That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; Its uplands sloping deck the mountain’s side, Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; While oft some temple’s mouldering tops between W ith memorable grandeur mark the scene. Could Nature’s bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely blest : ‘Whatever fruits in different climes are found, That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 'Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to die : These here disporting own the kindred soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter’s toil; While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand, To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. In florid beauty groves and fields appear : Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Contrasted faults through all his manners reign ; Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive," vain ; Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue : And even in penance planning sins anew. .All evils here contaminate the mind, 'That opulence departed leaves behind ; For wealth was theirs, not far remov’d the date When Commerce proudly flourish’d through the state ; .At her command the palace learnt to rise ; .Again the long-fall’n column sought the skies; 'The canvass glow’d, beyond e’en nature warm ; 'The pregnant quarry teem’d with human form : 6 goldsmith’s works. Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores display’d her sail ; While nought remain’d of alfthat riches gave, But towns unmann’d, and lords without a slave ; And late the nation found with fruitless skill, Its former strength was but plethoric ill. Y et, still the loss of wealth is here supplied By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; From these the feeble heart, and long-fall’n mind. An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array’d, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; Processions formed for piety and love, A mistress or a saint in every grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguil’d ; The sports of children satisfy the child : Each nobler aim, represt by long control, Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; While low delights succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind : As in those domes where Caesars once bore sway. Defac’d by time, and tott’ring in decay, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter- seeking peasant builds his shed ; And, wondering man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. Ely soul, turn from them, turn we to survey, Where rougher climes a nobler race display ; Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread. No product here the barren hills alford, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; No zephyr fondly sues the mountain’s breast, Bid meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, Bedress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant’s hut, his feasts tho’ small, lie sees his little lot the lot of all ; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, To make him loath his vegetable meal : But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; With patient angle trolls the finny deep, Or drives his vent’rous ploughshare to the steep ; THE TRAVELLER. Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, And drags the struggling savage into day. At night returning, every labour sped, He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys His children’s looks, that brighten at the blaze ; While his lov’d partner, boastful of her hoard, Displays her cleanly platter on the board,. And haply too some pilgrim thither led, With many a tale repays the nightly bed. Thus every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; And e’en those ills that round bis mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies : Hear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother’s breast, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind’s roar, But bind him to his native mountains more. Such are the charms to barren states assign’d; Their wants but few, their wishes all confined : Yet let them only share the praises due ; If few their wants, their pleasures are but few : For every want that stimulates the breast, Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest, Whence from such lands each pleasing science flics, That first excites desire and then supplies ; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. Their level life is but a mouldering fire, Unquench’d by want, unfann’d by strong desire; Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer On some high festival of once a year, In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, Till buried in debauch, the bliss expire. But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow ; Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low ; For, as refinement stops, from she to son Unalter’d, unimprov’d, the manners run ; And love’s and friendship’s finely-pointed dart Fall blunted from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o’er the mountain’s breast May sit, like falcons, cowering on the nest ; But all the gentler morals, such as play Thro’ life’s more cultur’d walks, and charm the way, These, far dispers’d, on timorous pinions fly, To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 8 goldsmith’s works. To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I torn ; and France displays her bright domain. Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, Pleas’d with thyself, whom all the world can please, How often have I led thy sportive choir, With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire ! Where shading elms along the margin grew, And freshen’d from the wave the zephyr flew : And haply, though my harsh touch f'alt’ring still, But mock’d all tune, and marr’d the dancer’s skill ; Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour. Alike all ages ; dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze ; And the gay grandsire, skill’d in gestic lore, Has frisk’d beneath the burden of threescore. So blest a life these thoughtless realms display ; Thus idly busy rolls their world away : Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, For honour forms the social temper here. Honour, that praise which real merit gains, Or e’en imaginary worth obtains, Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, In shifts, in splendid traffic, round his land. From courts to camps, to cottages, it strays, And all are taught an avarice of praise ; They please, are pleased ; they give to get esteem, Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise ; For praise too dearly lov’d, or warmly sought, Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Leans for all pleasure on another’s breast. Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry heart, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; Here Yanity assumes her pert grimace, And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily cheer, To boast one splendid banquet once a year ; The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws. Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosom’d in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land, And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, Lift the tall rampire’s artificial pride. Onward methinks, and diligently slow, The firm, connected bulwark seems to grow : THE TRAVELLER. 9 Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore : While the pent Ocean rising o’er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; The slow canal, the yellow-blossom’d vale, The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, A new creation rescu’d from his reign. Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil Impels the native to repeated toil, Industrious habits in each bosom reign, And industry begets a love of gain. Hence all the good from opulence that springs, With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here display’d. The much lov’d wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, Even liberty itself is barter’d here. At gold’s superior charms all freedom flies, The needy sell it, and the rich man buys : A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, Here wretches seek dishonourable graves, And calmly bent, to servitude conform, Hull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old ! Hough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; War in each breast, and freedom on each brow. How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! Hir’d at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, And brighter streams than fam’d Hydaspes glide. There all around the gentlest breezes stray, There gentle music melts on every spray ; Creation’s mildest charms are there combin’d, Extremes are only in the master’s mind. Stern o’er each bosom Reason holds her state, With daring aims irregularly great. Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human-kind pass by ; Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, By forms unfashion’d, fresh from Nature’s hand, Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, True to imagin’d right, above control, While even the peasant boasts these rights to scan, And learns to venerate himself as man. Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictur’d here, Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy, But foster’d even by Freedom ills annoy; 10 goldsmith’s works. That independence Britons prize too high, Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie. The self- dependant lordlings stand alone, All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown ; Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, Minds combat minds, repelling and repell’d, Ferments arise, imprison’d factions roar, Beprest ambition struggles round her shore, Till over-wrought the general system feels Its motions stop, or frenzy lire the wheels. Nor this the worst. As nature’s ties decay, As duty, love, and honour, fail to sway, Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. Hence all obedience bows to these alone, And talent sinks and merit weeps unknown ; Till time may come, when stripp’d of all her charms, The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, Where king’s have toil’d and poets wrote for fame, One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour’d die. Yet think not, thus when Freedom’s ills I state, I mean to flatter kings, or court the great. Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, Far from my bosom drive the low desire ; And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to fee* The rabble’s rage, and tyrant’s angry steel : Thou transitory flower, alike undone By proud contempt, or favour’s fostering sun : Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, I only would repress them to secure ; For just experience tells, in every soil, That those that think must govern those that toil ; And all that freedom’s highest aims can reach, Is but to lay proportion’d loads on each. Hence, should one order disproportion’ d grow, Its double weight must ruin all below. 0 then how blind to all that truth requires, Who think it freedom when a part aspires l Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, Except when fast approaching danger warms : But when contending chiefs blockade the throne. Contracting regal power to stretch their own ; When I behold a factious band agree To call it freedom when themselves are free : Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, Pillag’d from slaves, to purchase slaves at home, THE TRAVELLER. 11 Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart : Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 1 fly from petty tyrants to the throne. Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour When first ambition struck at regal power ; And, thus polluting honour in its source. Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. Have we not seen, round Britain’s peopled shore, Her useless sons exchang’d for useless ore ; Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, Like flaring tapers bright’ning as they waste ; Seen Opulence, her grandeur to maintain, Lead stern Depopulation in her train, And over fields where scatter’d hamlets rose, In barren solitary pomp repose ? Have we not see at pleasure’s lordly call, The smiling long-frequented village fall ! Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay’d The modest matron, and the blushing maid, Forc’d from their homes, a melancholy train, To traverse climes beyond the western main ; Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with thund’ring sound ? Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays Through tangled forests, and thro’ dangerous ways j Where beasts with man divided empire claim, And the brown Indian marks with murd’rous aim ; There, while above the giddy tempest flies, And all around distressful yells arise, The pensive exile bending with his woe, To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, Casts a long look where England’s glories shine, And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind : Why have I strayed from pleasure and repose, To seek a good each government bestows ? In every government though terrors reign, Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain, How small, of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ! Still to ourselves in every place consign’d, Our own felicity we make or find : With secret course which no loud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, Luke’s iron crown, and Damien’s bed of steel. To men remote from power but rarely known, Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. THE DESERTED VILLAGE: A POEM. (First printed in 1769.,) TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. Dear Sir, I can have no expectations in an address of this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to establish my own. You can gain nothing from my admiration, as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel ; and I may lose much by the severity of your judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest therefore aside, to which I never paid much attention, I must be indulged at present in following my affections. The only dedication I ever made was to my brother, because I loved him better than most other men. He is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this poem to you. How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do nt pretend to inquire: but I know you will object, (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion,) that the depopulation it deplores is no where to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet’s own imagination. To this I can scarce make any other answer than that I sincerely believe what I have written ; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I allege ; and that all my views and inquiries have led me to believe those miseries real, which I here DEDICATION. 13 attempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an inquiry, whether the country be depopulating, or not ; tho discussion would take up much room ; aud I should prove myself, at best, an indifferent politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to a long poem. In regretting the depopulation of the country, I enveigh against the increase of our luxuries ; and here also I expect the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages ; and all the wisdom of antiquity, in that particular, as erroneous. Still however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head ; and continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to tastes by which so many vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed, so much has been poured out of late on the other side of the question, that, merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in the right. I am, dear Sir, Your sincere friend and ardent admirer, Outer Goldsmith. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of tbe plain, Where health and plenty cheer’d the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer’s ling’ring blooms delay’d ; Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please ; How often have I loiter’d o’er thy green, While humble happiness endear’d each scene ! How often have I paused on every charm, The shelter’d cot, tbe cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent Church that topt the neighb’ring hill ; The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. For talking age and whisp’ring lovers made ! How often have I bless’d the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ! While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old survey’d; And many a gambol frolick’d o’er the ground, And sleights of art, and feats of strength went round ; And still, as each repeated pleasure tir’d, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir’d. The dancing pair that simply sought renown, By holding out to the each other down ; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter titter’d round the place ; The bashful virgin’s side-long looks of love ; The matron’s glance that would those looks reprove; These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e’en toil to please ; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms — But all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant’s hand is seen, And Desolation saddens all thy green : THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 15 One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; ]S T o more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, chok’d with sedges, works its weedy way ; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; Sunk are thy bowels in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o’ertops the mouldering wall ; And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler’s hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hast’ning ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay. Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; But a bold peasantry, their country’s pride, When once destroy’d, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England’s griefs began, When every rood of ground maintained its man ; For him light Labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life requir’d, but gave no more : His best companions innocence and health ; And his best riches ignorance of wealth. But times are alter’d ; trade’s unfeeling train Usurp the land, and disposses the swain ; Along the lawn, where scatter’d hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumb’rous pomp repose j And every want to luxury allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentler hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that ask’d but little room, Those healthful sports that grac’d the peaceful scene, Liv’d in each look, and brighten’d all the green ; These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auburn, parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant’s power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin’d grounds. And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Bemembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wand’ rings through this world of care, In all my griefs — and God has giv’n my share — I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life’s taper at the close, And keep the flames from wasting by repose : c 16 goldsmith’s works. I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learn’d sk.ll ; Around my fixe an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw : Ami, as a hare when hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return — and die at home at last. 0 blest retirement, friend to life’s decline, Retreat from cares, that never must he mine, How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease : Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since ’tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dang’rous deep ! No surly porter stands in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue’s friend ; Sinks to the grave with unperceiv’d decay, While resignation gently slopes the way ; And, while his prospects bright’ning to the last, His heav’n commences ere the world be past. Sweet was the sound, when oft, at ev’ning’s close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; There, as I pass’d with careless steps and slow, The mingled notes came soften’d from below ; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that low’d to meet their young, The noisy geese that gabbled o’er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, The watch-dog’s voice that bay’d the whisp’ring wir-1, And the loud laugh that spake the vacant mind ; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill’d each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sound of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, But all the blooming flush of life is fled : All but yon widow’d, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; She, wretched matron, forc’d, in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil d And still where many a garden flower grows wild • THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 17 There, where a few tom shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher’s modest mansion rose. A man he was, to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a-year, Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e’er had chang’d, nor wish’d to change, his place ; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour ; Par other aims his heart had learn’ d to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wand’ rings, but reliev’d their pain: The long-remember’d beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; The ruin’d spendthrift now no longer proud, Claim’d kindred there, and had his claims allow’d ; The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk’d the night away ; Wept o’er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shoulder’d his crutch, and shew’d how fields were won. Pleas’d with his guests, the good man learn’d to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; Careless their merits or their faults to scan. His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And ev’n his failings lean’d to virtue’s side ; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watch’d and wept, he pray’d and felt, for all. And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies ; He tried each art, reprov’d each dull delay, Allur’d to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pains, by turns dismay’d, The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. And his last fault’ ring accents whisper’d praise. At church with meek and unaffected grace. His looks adorn’d the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevail’d with double sway, And fools who came to scoff, remain’d to pray. The service past, around the pious mau, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; Even children follow’d, with endearing wile, And pluck’d his gown, to share the good man’s smile. His ready smile a parent’s warmth exprest ; Their farewell pleas’d him, and their cares distrest : To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven : 18 goldsmith’s WORICS. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom’d furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion skill’d to rule, The village master taught his little school ? A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew. Well had the boding tremblers learn’ d to trace The day’s disasters in his morning face ; Full well they laugh’d with counterfieted glee At all his jokes, for many a yoke had he : Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Convey’d 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 declar’d how much he knew ; ‘ Twas certain he could write and cipher too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And even the story ran that he could gauge ; In arguing too the parson owned his skill, For e’en though vanquish’d he could argue still ; While words of learned length, and thund’ring sound, Amaz’d the gazing rustics rang’d around, And still they gaz’d, and still the wonder grew, That one small head should carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumph’d, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir’d, Where gray-beard mirth, and smiling toil, retir’d ; Where village statesmen talk’d with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour-splendours of that festive place ; The white-wash’d wall, the nicely, sanded floor, The varnish’d clock, that click’d behind the door : The chest, contriv’d a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; The pictures placed lor ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay, While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Bang’d o’er the chimney, glisten’d in a row. Vain transitory splendours ! could not all Bcprieve the tott’ring mansion from its fall ? THE DESERTED VILLAGE. ]9 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour’s importance to the poor man’s heart. Thither no more the peasant shall repair, To sweet oblivion of his daily care : No more the farmer’s news, the barber’s tale, No more the woodman’s ballad shall prevail ; No more the smith his dusty brow shall clear, Kelax his pond’rous strength, and lean to hear ; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train ; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art. Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; Lightly they frolic o’er the vacant mind, Uncnvied, unmolested, unconfin’d: But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, "With all the freaks of wanton wealth array’d, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; And, even while fashion’s brightest arts decoy, The art distrusting asks, if this be joy ? Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man’s joys increase, the poor’s decay, ’Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; Hoards, even beyond the miser’s wish, abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; Space for his lake, his park’s extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ; The robe that wraps his limbs in silken cloth, Has robb’d the neighbouring fields of half their growth ; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies ; While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasures all, In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. As some fair female uuadorn’d and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, c 3 20 goldsmith’s poems. Slights every borrow’d charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress : Thus fares the land by luxury betray’d : In nature’s simplest charms at first array’d, But, verging to decline, its splendours rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; While, scourg’d by famine from the smiling land, T;.e mournful peasant leads his humble band ; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms — a garden and a grave. Where then, ah ! where shall poverty reside. To ’scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? If to some common’s fenceless limits stray’d, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And even the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped, what waits him there ? To see profusion that he must not share ; To see ten thousand baneful arts combin’d To pamper luxury, and thin mankind : To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, Extorted from his fellow-creature’s woe ; Here while the courtier glitters iu brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; Here while the proud their loug-drawn pomps display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way : The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly deck’d, admits the gorgeous train ; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, Tiie rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Such scenes like these no trouble e’er annoy ! Sure these denote one universal joy ! — Are these thy serious thoughts ? ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shiv’ring female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn. Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer’s door she lays her head, And, pinch’d with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train. Do thy fair tribes participate her pain r THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 21 Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men’s doors they ask a little bread ! Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go. Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charm’d before, The various terrors of that horrid shore ; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day : Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; Those pois’nous fields, with rank luxuriance crown’d, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men more murd’rous still than they : While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravag’d landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green ; The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only shelter’d thefts of harmless love. Good heav’n ! what sorrows gloom’d that parting day, That call’d them from their native walks away ; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Iluug round the bowers, and fondly look’d their last, And took a long farewell, and wish’d in vain F or seats like these beyond the western main ; And shudd’ring still to face the distant deep, Iieturn’d and wept, and still return’d to weep ! The good old sire, the first prepar’d to go To new-found worlds, and wept for others’ woe ; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wish’d for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover’s for a father’s arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blest the cot where every pleasure rose ; And kiss’d her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasp’d them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. — 0 luxury ; thou curs’d by Heaven’s decree, How ill exchang’d are things like these for thee t How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 22 GOLDSMITH’S WOKK8. Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigour not their own ; At every draught large and more large they grow, A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe ; Till sapp’d their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devastation is begun, An ri half the business of destruction done ; Even now, methinks, as pond’ ring here I stand, I see the rural Virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented Toil, and hospitable Care, And kind connubial Tenderness, are there ; Aud Piety with wishes plac’d above, And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; Unfit in these degen’ rate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found’ st me poor at first, and keep’st me so ; Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! _ Farewell ; and oh ! where’er thy voice be tried, On Torno’s cliffs, or Pambamarca’s side, Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Bedress the rigours of th’ inclement clime ; _ Aid slighted truth, with thy persuasive strain ; Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; Teach him that states, of native strength possest, Though very poor, may still be very blest ; That trade’s proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labour’d mole away; While sell'-dependaut power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON; A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. ( First printed in \765.J Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Never rang’d in a forest, or smok’d in a platter ; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, T he tat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy ; Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regrettin To spoil such a delicate picture by eating : had thoughts, in my chamber to place it in view, To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu ; As in some Irish houses, where thiugs are so-so, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show ; But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, They’d as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. But hold let me pause — don’t I hear you pronounce, This tale of the bacon’s a damnable bounce ? Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. But, my lord, it’s no bounce : I protest in my turn, It’s a truth — and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.* To go on with my tale— as I gaz’d on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik’d best. Of the neck and the breast, I had next to dispose ; Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe’s ; But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There’s H— d, and C— y, and H— rth, and H— ff, I think they love venison — I know they love beef. There’s my countryman Higgins— Oh ! let him alone. For making a blunder, or picking a bone. But hang it — to poets who seldom can eat, Your very good mutton’s a very good treat; • Lord Clare s nephew. 24 goldsmith’s -WORKS. Such dainties to them their health it might hurt, It’s like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt. While thus I debated, in reverie centred, An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, enter’d ; An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, And he smil’d as he look’d at the ven’son and me. ‘ What have we got here ? — Why this is good eating ! Your own I suppose — or is it in waiting ?’ ‘ Why whose should it be ? ’ cried I, with a flounce : ‘ I get these things often ’ — hut that was a bounce : ‘ Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation. Are pleas’d to be kind — but I hate ostentation.’ ‘ If that he the case then,’ cried he, very gay, ‘ I’m glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; No words — I insist on’t — precisely at three : We’ll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be there My acquaintance is slight, or I’d ask my lord Clare. And, now that I think on’t, as I am a sinner, We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. What say you ? a pasty, it shall and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Here, porter — this venison with me to Mile-end : No stirring — I beg — my dear friend — my dear friend !’ Thus, snatching his hat, he brush’d off like the wind, And the porter and eatables follow’d behind. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And ‘ nobody with me at sea but myself Tho’ I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were things that I never dislik’d in my life, Though clogg’d with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, I drove to his door, in my own hackney coach. When come to the place where we all were to dine (A chair-lumber’d closet just twelve feet by nine), My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb, With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; ‘ For I knew it,’ he cried, ‘ both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t’other with Thrale; But no matter, I’ll warrant we’ll make up the party, With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, They’re both of them merry, and authors like you; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; Some think he writes Cinna — he owns to Panurge.’ While thus he described them by trade and by name, They enter’d, and dinner was serv’d as they came. * See the letters between Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor ; 12mo. 1769. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 25 At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen ; At the bottom was tripe in a swingeing tureen ; At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot: In the middle a place where the pasty — was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe it’s my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian. So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, "While the bacon and liver went merrily round : But what vexed me most, was that d — ’d Scottish rogue, "With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue; And, ‘ Madam,’ quoth he, ‘ may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst But I’ve eat of your tripe till Pm ready to burst.’ ‘The tripe,’ quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek. * I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week : I like these here dinners so pretty and small : But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all.’ ‘ 0 ho !’ quoth my friend, ‘ he’ll come on m a trice, He’s keeping a corner for something that’s nice : ‘ There’s pasty.’ — ‘A pasty!’ repeated the Jew : ‘I don’t care if I keep a corner for’t too.’ ‘What the de’il mon, a pasty?’ re-echoed the Scot; ‘ Though splitting I’ll still keep a corner for that.’ ‘ We’ll all keep a corner,’ the lady cried out ; ‘ We’ll all keep a corner,’ was echoed about While thus we resolv’d, and the pasty delay’d, With looks that quite petrified, enter’d the maid; A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, . Wak’d Priam in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out (for who could mistake her ?) That she came with some terrible news from the baker : And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus— but let similes drop— And now that I think on’t, the story may stop. To be plain, my good lord, it’s but labour mispiac’d, To send such good verses to one of your taste ; You’ve got an odd something — a kind of discerning— A relish— a taste — sicken’d over by learning ; At least, it’s your temper as very well known, That you think very slightly of all that’s your own: So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking, amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this . 26 RETALIATION: A POEM. ( First printed in 1774, after the Author’s death. [Dr Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James’s .Coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for retaliation, and at their next meeting produced the following poem.] Of old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united : If our landlord* supplies us with beef and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish. Our deanf shall be venison, just fresh from the plains, Our Burke J shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains, Our 'Will§ shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour, And Dick|| with his pepper shall heighten the savour : Our Cumberland’sH sweet-bread its place shall obtain. And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain : Our Garrick’sf f a salad ; for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : To make out the dinner, full certain I am, That Ridgejj; is anchovy, and Reynolds §§ is lamb ; That Hickney’s|||| a capon, and by the same rule, Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. * The master of St. James’s coffee-house, where the doctor, and his friends he ha3 characterized in this poem, occasionally dined. + Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland, t Mr. Edmund Burke. I Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and Member for Bedwin. || Mr. Bichard Burke, collector of Granada. II Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the West Indian, Fashionable Lover, the Brothers, and other dramatic pieces. * * Doctor Douglas, canon of Windsor, an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of iris countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower’s History of the Popes. ++ David Garrick, Esq. ft Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar. id Sir Joshua Reynolds. |||[ An eminent attorney:. RETALIATION. 27 At a dinner so various, at such a repast, Who’d not be a glutton, and stick to the last ! Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I’m able, Till all my companions sink under the table ; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. Here lies the good dean,* re-united to earth, Who mix’d reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth : If he had any faults he has left us in doubt ; At least, in six weeks I could not find e’m out ; Yet some have declar’d, and it can’t be denied ’em, That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide ’em, Here lies our good Edmund, f whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it, too much; Who, bom for the universe, narrow’d his mind. And to party gave up what was meant for mankind ; Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat To persuade Tommy TownshendJ to lend him a vote ; Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining And thought of convincing while they thought of dining ; Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; For a patriot, too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient ; And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. In short, ’twas his fate, unemploy’d, or in place, sir To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here lies honest William, § whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne’er knew half the good that was in’t ; The pupil of impulse, it forc’d him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong ; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home ; Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none ; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were bis own. Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at ; Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet ! What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ;|| Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball ; Now teazing and vexing, yet laughing at all. . In short so provoking a devil was Dick, That we wish’d him full ten times a day at oil Kick ; But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, As often we wish’d to have Dick back again. * Vide page 26. t Ibid, t Mr. T. Towushend, Member for Whitchurch. $ Vide page 26. || Mr. Richard Burke ; vide page 26. This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs, at different times, the doctor had rallied him on those accidents, as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people. I) ' 23 goldsmith’s works. Here Cumberland* lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And Comedy wonders at being so fine : Like a tragedy-queen he has dizen’d her out, Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, Adopting his portraits, are pleas’d with their own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? Or wherefore his characters thus without fault ? Say, was it that, vainly directing his view, To find out men’s virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome el!', Hegrew lazy at last, and drew from himself? Here Douglasf retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks ; Come all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines. When satire and censure encircled his throne, I fear’d for your safety, I fear’d for my own : But now he is gone, and we want a detector, Our Doddsf shall be pious, our Kenricks§ shall lecture Macpherson|| write bombast, and call it a style, Our TownshendH make speeches, and I shall compile ; New Lauders and Bowers** the Tweed shall cross ovv, No countryman living their tricks to discover ; Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, _ And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark Here lies David Garrick, ft describe him who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; As an actor confest without rival to shine As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart, The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, And beplaster’d with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; * Twas only that when he was off, he was acting. With no reason on earth to go out of his wav, He turn’d and he varied full ten times a-daj ; • Vide page 26. + Ibid. t The Bev. Dr. 5odd. $ Dr. Kenriek, who read lectures at the Devil’s Tavern, uider the title of ‘ The School of Shakspeare.’ || James Macpherson, Esq., who lately, from the mere fore of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. U Vide page 27. ** Vide page 20. +* Ibid. KETAXIATION. 29 Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick If they were not his own by finessing and trick : He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack ; For he knew, when he pleased, he could whistle them back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came, And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; ‘ Till, his relish grown callous, almost to disease, Who pepper’d the highest was surest to please. But let us he candid, and speak out our mind : If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks,* ye Kellys, f and Woodfalls,J so grave, What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ! How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais" d, While he was be-Eoscius’d and you were be-prais’d ! But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as as angel and mix with the skies : Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill, Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys§ above. Here Hickey|| reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature, And slander itself must allow him good-nature : He cherish’d his friend, and he relish’d a bumper, Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser : I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser. Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? His very worst foe, can’t accuse him of that. Perhaps he confided in men as they go, And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah no ! Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and bum ye, He was — could he help it ? — a special attorney. Here Reynolds 8 !! is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser, or better behind ; His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland ; Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering ; When they judg’d without skill, he was still hard of hearing When they talk’d of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet,** and only took snuff. • Vide page 28. + Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c. i Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. i Vide above. || Vide page 27. IT Ibid. ** Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company. so goldsmith’s works. POSTSCRIPT. [After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the puWishar received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord,* * * § from a friend of the late Dr. Goldsmith.] Here Whitefoord reclines ; and deny it who o n, Though he merrily liv’d, he is now a grave]- men : Pare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun ! Who relish’d a joke, and rejoic’d in a pun , Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; A stranger to flatt’ry, a stranger to fear ; Who scatter’d around wit and humour at will ; Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill ; A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. What pity, alas ! that so lib’ral a mind Should so long be to newspaper-essays confin’d ! Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, Yet content ‘ if the table he set in a roar ; ’ Whose talents to fill any station were fit, Yet happy if Woodfallj; confess’d him a wit. Ye newspaper-witlings ! ye pert scribbling folks ! Who copied his squibs and re-echoed his jokes; Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, Still follow your master, and visit his tomb ; To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; Then strew all around it (you can do no less) Cross-readings , ship-news , and mistakes of the press. § Merry Whitefoord farewell ! for thy sake I admit That a Soot may have honour, I had almost said wit ; This debt to thy mem’ry I cannot refuse, * Thou best humour’d man with the worst humour’d muse.’ , * Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. + Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company without being infected with the itch of punning. t Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. § Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under these titles in the Public Advertiser. 31 THE HERMIT* A BALLAD. ( First printed in 17C5.J |The following: Letter, addressed to the Printer of the ‘St. James’s Chronicle,’ appeared in that Paper, in June, 1767.] Sir, As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blaiu- ville’s Travels, because I thought the book was a good one ; and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published ; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right. Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad, I published some time ago, from one by the ingenious Mr. Percy I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two ^ ieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago , and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me, with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scare}, worth printing : and were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature. I am, Sir, Y curs, &c. Oliver Goldsmith. 32 goldsmith's works. THE HERMIT. * Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my louely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. * For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow ; Where wilds immeasurably spread, Seem length’ ning as I go.’ ‘ Forbear, my son,’ the Hermit cries, ‘ To tempt the dangerous gloom, For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. * Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still ; And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will. ‘ Then turn to night, and freely share Whate’er my cell bestows; My rushy couch and frugal fare My blessing and repose. ‘ No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter 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 fruits and herbs 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. THE HERMIT. 33 Far in a wilderness obscure, The lonely mansion lay ; A refuge to the neighb’ring poor, And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch, Requir’d a master’s care ; The wicket op’ning with a latch, Receiv’d 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 smil’d ; And, skill’d in legendary lore, The ling’ ring hours beguil’d. Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries ; The cricket chirrups in the hearth ; The crackling fagot flies. But nothing could a charm impart. To soothe the stranger’s woe ; For grief was heavy at his heart. And tears began to flow. His rising cares the Hermit spied, With answering care opprest : And, ‘ Whence, unhappy youth,’ he cried, * The sorrows of thy breast ? ‘ From better habitations spurn’d, Reluctant dost thou rove ; Or grieve for friendship unreturu’d, Or unregarded love P ‘Alas ! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay : And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they. ‘ And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep ; A shade that follows wealth or fame, And leaves tho wretch to weep ; 84 goldsmith’s works. ‘ 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. 4 For shame, fond youth ! thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex,’ he said : But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray’d. Surpris’d 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 contest 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 liv’d beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he ; And all his wealth was mark’d as mine, He had but only me. 4 To win me from his tender arms, TJnnumber’d suitors came ; Who prais’d me for imputed charms, And felt or feign’d a flame. * Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove ; Among the rest young Edwin bow* d, But never talk’d of love. 4 In humble, simplest habit clad, No wealth or power had he ; Wisdom and worth were all he had, But these were all to me. THE HERMIT. 1 The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heav’n refin’d, Could nought of purity display, To emulate his mind. 4 The dew, the blossoms of the tree, With charms inconstant shine ; Their charms were his, hut, 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. 4 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 ; 4 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 wandering fair-one turn’d to chide ; ‘ Twas Edwin’s self that prest ! 4 Turn Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Eestor’d to love and thee. 4 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 ? 4 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.’ S6 TIIE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION: A TALE. ) Secluded from domestic strife, Jack Bookworm led a college life ; A fellowship at twenty-five, Made him the happiest man alive ; He drank his glass, and crack’d his joke, And freshmen wonder’d as he spoke. Such pleasures, unalloy’d with care, Could any accident impair ? Could Cupid’s shaft at length transfix Our swain arriv’d at thirty-six ? 0 had the archer ne’er come down * To ravage in a country town, Or Flavia had been content to stop At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop ! 0 had her eyes forgot to blaze, Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ! 0 ! But let exclamation cease. Her presence banish’d all his peace : So, with decorum all things carried, Miss frown’d, and blush’d, and then was — married. Need we expose to vulgar sight The raptures of the bridal night ? Need we intrude on hallow’d ground, Or draw die curtains clos’d around ? Let it suffice, that each had charms : He clasp’d a goddess in his arms ; And, though she felt his usage rough, Yet in a man ’twas well enough. The honey-moon like lightning flew : The second "brought its transports too. A third, a fourth, were not amiss, The fifth was friendship mix’d with bliss : But, when a twelvemonth pass’d away, Jack found his goddess made of clay : Found half the charms that deck’d her face Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ; But still the worst remain’d behind, That very face had robb’d her mind. THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION, Skill’d in no other arts was she, But dressing, patching, repartee ; And, just as humour rose or fell, By turns a slattern, or a belle ; ’Tis true she dress’d with modern grace, Half naked at a ball or race ; But when at home, at board or bed, Five greasy night-caps wrapp’d her head. Could so much beauty condescend To he a dull domestic friend Could any curtain-lectures bring To decency so fine a thing ? In short, by night ’twas fits or fretting ; By day ’twas gadding or coquetting. Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy Of powder’d coxcombs at her levee : The ’squire and captain took their stations. And twenty other near relations ; Jack suck’d his pipe, and often broke A sigh in suffocating smoke ; While all their hours were past between Insulting repartee or spleen. Thus as her faults each day were known. He thinks her features coarser grown : He fancies every vice she shews, Or thins her lip, or points her nose : Whenever rage or envy rise, How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes ! He knows not how, but so it is, Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; And, though her fops are wondrous civil, He thinks her ugly as the devil. Now, to perplex the ravell’d noose, As each a different way pursues, While sullen or loquacious strife Promised to hold them on for life, That dire disease, whose ruthless power Withers the beauty’s transient flower, Lo ! the small pox, whose horrid glare Levell’d its terrors at the fair ; And, rifling every youthful grace, Left but the remnant of a face. The glass grown hateful to her sight, Beflected now a perfect fright ; Each former art she vainly tries, To bring back lustre to her eyes. In vain she tries her paste and creams, To smooth her skin, or hide its seams ; Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens ; 38 goldsmith’s works, The ’ squire himself was seen to yield, And e’en the captain quit the field. Poor madam now, condemned to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown, Attempted pleasing him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old ; With modesty her cheeks are dy’d, Humility displaces pride ; For tawdry finery, is seen A person ever neatly clean ; No more presuming on her sway, She learns good-natui^ every day : Serenely gay, and strict in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty, THE GIFT: TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN. Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake, Dear mercenary beauty, What annual off ’ring shall I make, Expressive of my duty ? My heart, a victim to thine eyes, Should I at once deliver, Say, would the angry fair-one prize The gift, who slights the giver ? A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, My rivals give — and let ’em : If gems, or gold, impart a joy, i’ll give them — when I get ’em. I’ll, give — but not the full-blown rose. Or rose-bud more in fashion ; Such short-liv’d off’ rings but disclose A transitory passion : I’ll give thee something yet unpaid, Not less sincere than civil : I’ll give thee — ah ! too charming maid, I’ll give thee — to the devil. THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. ( In imitation of Dean Swift* ) Logicians have but ill defin’d As rational the human mind : Reason, they say, belongs to man ; But let them prove it if they can. Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, By ratiocinations specious, Have strove to prove with great precision, With definition and division, Homo est ratione prmditum ; But for my soul I cannot credit ’em, And must in spite of them maintain, That man and all his ways are vain • And that this boasted lord of nature, Is both a weak and erring creature ; That instinct is a surer guide, Than reason, boasting mortals’ pride ; And that brute beasts are far before ’em, J)eus est anima brut or urn. Who ever knew an honest brute At law his neighbour prosecute, Bring action for assault and battery, Or friends beguile with lies and flattery ? O’er plains they ramble unconfin’d, No politics disturb their mind ; They eat their meals, and take their sport, Nor know who’s in or out at court. They never to the levee go, To treat as dearest friend a foe : They never importune his grace, Nor ever cringe to men in place ; Nor undertake a dirty job, Nor draw the quill to write for Bob. Fraught with invective they ne’er go, To folks at Paternoster row : No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, No pickpockets, or poetasters, Are known to honest quadrupeds ; No single brute his fellow leads, £ 40 GOLDSMITH’S WORKS. Brutes never meet in bloody fray, Nor cut each other’s throats for pay. Of beasts, it is confess’d, the ape Comes nearest us in human shape Like man he imitates each fashion, And malice is his ruling passion : But both in malice and grimaces, A courtier any ape surpasses. Behold him, numbly, cringing wait TJpon the minister of state : View him soon after to inferiors Aping the conduct of superiors : He promises with equal air, And to perform takes equal care. He in his turn finds imitators : At court the porters, lacqueys, waiters, Their masters’ manners still contract, And footmen, lords, and dukes can act. Thus at the court, both great and small Behave alike, for all ape all. ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING. ( Imitated from the Spanish. ) Sure ’twas by Providence design’d, Bather in pity than in hate, That he should be, like Cupid blind, To save him from Narcissus’ fate. STANZAS ON WOMAN. When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy. What art can wash her guilt away ? 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. 41 A NEW SIMILE. ( In the manner of Siwft.J Long had I sought in vain to find A likeness for the scribbling kind ; The modern scribbling kind, who write In wit, and sense, and nature’s spite : ’Till reading, I forgot what day on, A chapter out of Tooke’s Pantheon, I think I met with something there, To suit my purpose to a hair. But let us not proceed too furious : First please to turn to god M’ercurius : You’ll find him pictur’d at full length In book the second, page the tenth : The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, And now proceed we to our simile. Imprimis, pray observe his hat, Wings upon either side — mark that. Well ! what is it from thence we gather ? Why, these denote a brain of feather. A brain of feather ! very right, With wit that’s flighty, learning light ; Such as to modern bards decreed. A just comparison — proceed. In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes ; Design’d, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air : And here my simile unites, For, in a modern poet’s flights, I’m sure it may be justly said, His feet are useful as his head. Lastly, vouchsafe t’ observe his hand, Fill’d with a snake-encircled wand : By classic authors term’d Caduceus, And highly fam’d for several uses. To wit most wondrously endu’d, No poppy water half so good : 4-2 goldsmith’s works. For, let folks only get a touch, Its soporific virtue’s such, Though ne’er so much awake before. That quickly they begin to snore : Add too, what certain writers tell, With this he drives men’s souls to hell. Now to apply, begin we then : His wand’s a modern author’s pen ; The serpents round about it twin’d, Denote him of the reptile kind ; Denote the rage with which he writes. His frothy slaver, venom’ d bites ; An equal semblance still to keep, Alike, too, both conduce to sleep. This difference only : as the god Drove soul to Tartarus with his rod, With his goose-quill the scribbling elf, Instead of others, damns himself. And here my simile almost tript, Yet grant a word by way of postscript. Moreover, Merc’ry had a failing ; Well ! what of that? out with it— Stealing In which all modern bards agree, Being each as great a thief as he. But e’en this deity’s existence Shall lend my simile assistance. Our modern bards ! why, what a pox, Are they but senseless stones and blocks? THE CLOWN’S REPLY. John Trot was desired by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had ears. ‘ An’t please you,’ quoth John, ‘I’m not given to letter!, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters ; Howe’er, from this time I shall ne’er see your graces, As I hope to be sav’d, without thinking on asses.’ Edinburgh , 1753. 43 AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song ; And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran, Whene’er he went to pray, 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 he, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound. And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends ; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain his private ends, Went mad, and hit the man. Around from all the neighbouring streets, The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. The wound it seem’d both sore and sad To every Christian eye ; And while they swore the dog was mad They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That shew’d the rogues they lied ; The man recover’d of the bite, The dog it was that died. e 3 44 A LETTEB. Sir, I send you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of ‘She Stoops to Conquer;’ but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulldey, who played the part, did not sing. He sang it himself, in private companies, very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called < The Humours of Balamagairy,’ to which he told me he found it very difficult to adapt words : but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own hand- writing, with an affectionate care. I am, Sir, Your humble Servant, James Boswell. SONG, INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF ‘ SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.’ Ah me ! when shall I marry me ? Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me, He, fond youth, that could carry me, Offers to love, but means to deceive me. But I will rally and combat the ruiner : Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover, She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover. 45 DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR’S BED-CHAMBER. Where the Red Lion, staring o’er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; Where Calvert’s butt, and Parson’s black champaign, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury lane ; There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The muse found Scroggen stretch’d beneath a rug. A window patch’d witli paper lent a ray, That dimly show’d the state in which he lay The sandy floor that grits beneath the tread, The humid wall with paltry pictures spread, The royal game of goose was there in view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ; The Seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place, And brave Prince William show’d his lamp-black face. The morn was cold, he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire : With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor’d, And five crack’d tea-cups dress’d the chimney-board ; A night-cap deck’d his brows instead of bay, A cap by night a stocking all the day ! EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL, This tomb inscribed to gentle Parnell’s name, May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. What heart but feels his sweetly-moral la.% That leads to truth through pleasure’s flowery wayl Celestial themes confess’d his tuneful aid ; And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. Needless to him the tribute we bestow, The transitory breath of fame below : More lasting raptures from his works shall rise. Whais converts thank their poet in the skies. 46 STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. Amidst the clamour of exulting joys, Which triumph forces from the patriot heart ; Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. 0 Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe, Sighing we pay, and think e’en conquest dear, Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow, While thy sad fate extorts the heart- wrung tear. Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled, And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead ; Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. A SONNET. Weeping, murmuring, complaining, Lost to every gay delight ; Mira, too sincere for feigning, Fears th’ approaching bridal night. Yet why impair thy bright perfection, Or dim thy beauty with a tear ? Had Mira follow’d my direction, She lnog had wanted cause of fear. FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY. A SONG. The wretch condemn’d with life to part, Still, still on hopes relies ; And ev’ry pang that rends the heart, Bids expectation rise. Hope, like the glimm’ring taper’s light, Adorns and cheers the way ; And still, as darker grows the night, Emits a brighter ray. 47 AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE. Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word — • From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom pass’d the door, And always found her kind : She freely lent to all the poor — Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighbourhood to please. With manners wondrous winning ; And never follow’d wicked ways — Unless when she was sinning. At church in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size ; She never slumber’d in her pew — But when she shut her eyes. Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more ; The king himself has follow’d her — • When she has walk’d before. But now her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all : The doctors found when she was dead — • Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent-street well may say, That had she liv’d a twelvemonth more— She had not died to-day. EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.* Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, Who long was a bookseller’s hack : He led such a damnable life in this world, I don’t think he’ll wish to come back. * Educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but, having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of that em- ployment, he became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire’s Henriade. 43 SONG. 0 memory, thou fond deceiver, Still importunate and vain, To former joys, recurring ever, And turning all the past to pain ! Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch’s woe ; And he who wants each other blessing, In thee must ever find a foe. A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABEEIUS, A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM C/ESAIt FORCED UPON THE STAGE. Preserved bij Macrobins.* What! no way left to shun th’ inglorious stage, And save from infamy my sinning age ! Scarce half-alive, oppress’d with many a year, What in the name of dotage drives me here ? A time there was, when glory was my guide, Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside. Unaw’d by power, and unappall’d by fear, W r ith honest thrift, I held my honour dear : But this vile hour disperses all my store, And all my hoard of honour is no more ; For ah ! too partial to my life’s decline, Csesar persuades, submission must he mine ; Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys, Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin’d to please. Here then at once I welcome every shame, And cancel at threescore a life of fame ; No more my titles shall my children tell, ‘ The old buffoon’ will fit my name as well ; This day beyond its term my fate extends, For life is ended when our honour ends. * First printed in one of our Author’s earliest works, ‘ The Iresent State of Learning in Europe,’ 12mo, 1759. 40 FEOLOGUE TO ‘ZOBEIDE/ A TRAGEDY. Isr these bold times, when Learning’s sons explore The distant climates, and the savage shore ; When wise astronomers to India steer, An d quit for Venus many a brighter here ; While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, Forsake the fair, and patiently — go simpling ; Our bard into the general spirit enters, And fits his little frigate for adventures. With Scythian stores and trinkets deeply laden, He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading : Yet, ere he lands, has order’d me before, To make an observation on the shore. Where are we driven ? our reckoning sure is lost ! This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. Lord, what a sultry climate am I under ! Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder : [ Upper Gallery. There mangroves spread, and larger than I’ve seen ’em— Here trees of stately size, and billing turtles ’em— [Balconies. Here ill-conditioned oranges abound — [ Stage. And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground : [ Tasting them. The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear : I heard a hissing — there are serpents here ! 0 there the people are — best keep my distance ; Our captain (gentle natives) craves assistance ; Our ship’s well stor’d— in yonder creek we’ve laid her, His honour is no mercenary trader. This is his first adventure, lend him aid ; An d we may chance to drive a thriving trade. His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, Equally fit for gallantry and war, What, no reply to promises so ample ? — I’d best step back, and order up a sampie. 50 EPILOGUE SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWIS, IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT. Hoed ! prompter, hold ! a word before your nonsense } I’d speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. My pride forbids it ever should be said, My heels eclips’d the honours of my head ; That I found humour in a piebald vest, Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. [ Takes off his mask:. Whence and what art thou, visionary birth ? Nature disowns, and reason scorns, thy mirth ; In thy black aspect every passion sleeps, The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps. How hast thou fill’d the scene with all thy brood, Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu’d ! Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses ; Whose only plot it is to break our noses ; Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise, And from above the dangling deities. And shall I mix in this unhallow’d crew ? May rosin’d lightning blast me, if I do ! No — I will act, I’ll vindicate the stage : Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. Off, off, vile trappings ! a new passion reigns ! The madd’ning monarch revels in my veins. Oh ! for a Richard’s voice to catch the theme : ‘ Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds ! — soft — ’twas hut a dream.’ Ay, ’twas hut a dream, for now there’s no retreating ; If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 'Twas thus that JEsop’s stag, a creature blameless, Yet something vain, like one that shall he nameless, Once on the margin of a fountain stood, And cavill’d at his image in the flood. ‘ The deuce confound,’ he cries, 1 these drum-stick shanks, They neither have my gratitude nor thanks : They’re perfectly disgraceful ! strike me dead ! But for a head — yes, yes, I have a head. How piercing is that eye ! how sleek that brow ! My horns ! I’m told, horns are the fashion now.’ Whilst thus he spoke, astonish’d, to his view, Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew. EPILOGUE. 51 Hoicks ! hark forward ! came thundering from behind ; He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind : He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways ; He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze. At length his silly head, so priz’d before, Is taught his former folly to deplore ; Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, And at one bound he saves himself, like me. [ Taking a jump through the stage-doo ■. EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF ‘THE SISTEES.’ What ! five long acts — and all to make us wiser, Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. Had she consulted me, she should have made Her moral play a speaking masquerade ; Warm’d up each bustling scene, and in her rage Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. My life on’t, this had kept her play from sinking ; Have pleas’d our eyes, and sav’d the pain of thinking. Well, since she thus has shewn her want of skill, What if I give a masquerade ? — I will. But how ? ay, there’s the run ' [pausing] — I’ve got my cue : The world’s a masquerade : the masquers, you, you, you. [To Boxes, Bit, and Gallery, Lud ! what a group the motley scene discloses ! False wit, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses ! Statesmen with bridles on ; and, close beside ’em, Patriots in party-coloured suits that ride ’em. There Hebes, turn’d of fifty, try once more To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore. These in their turn, with appetites as keen, Deserting fifty fasten on fifteen. Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman ; The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure And tries to kill, ere she’s got power to cure. Thus ’tis with all — their chief and constant care Is, to seem every thing but what they are. F 52 goldsmith’s works. Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, Who seems t’ have robb’d his vizor from the lion ; Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade. Looking, as who should say, Dam’me ! who’s afraid ? [Mimicking, Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am, You’ll find his lionship a very lamb. Yon politician, famous in debate, Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state ; Yet, when he deigns his real shape t’ assume, He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom. Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight, And seems to every gazer, all in white, If with a bribe his candour you attack, He bows, turns round, and, whip — the man’s in black 1 Yon critic, too — but wither do I run ? If I proceed our bard will be undone. Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too : Ho you snare her, and I’ll for once spare you. THE GOOD-NATUEED MAN. A COMEDY. DRAMATIS PERSONvE. MEN. Mr. Honeywood. Croaker. Lofty. Sir W. Honeywood Leontine. Jarvis. Butler. Bailiff. Dubardieu. Postboy. WOMEN. Miss Richland. Olivia. Mrs. Croaker. Garnet. Landlady. Scene — London 54 PEEFACE. When I undertook to write a comedy, I confess I was strongly prepossessed in favour of the poets of the last age, and strove to imitate them. The term genteel comedy , was then unknown amongst us, and little more was desired by an audience, than nature and humour, in whatever walks of life they were most conspicuous. The author of the following scenes never imagined that more would be expected of him, and therefore, to delineate character has been his principal aim. Those who know any thing of composition, are sensible that in pursuing humour, it will sometimes lead us into the recesses of the mean ; I was even tempted to look for it in the master of a spunging-house : but, in deference to the public taste, grown of late, perhaps, too delicate, the scene of the bailiffs was retrenched in the representation. In deference also to the judgment of a few friends, who think in a particular way, the scene is here restored. The Author submits it to the reader in his closet; and hopes that too much refinement will not banish humour and character from ours, as it has already done from the French theatre. Indeed, the French comedy is now become so very elevated and sentimental, that it has not only banished humour and Moliere from the stage, but it has banished all spectators too. Upon the whole, the Author returns his thanks to the public for the favourable reception which the Good-Natured Man has met with ; and to Mr. Column in particular, for his kindness to it. It may not also be improper to assure any who shall hereafter write for the theatre, that merit, or supposed merit, will ever be a sufficient passport to his protection. 65 PROLOGUE, WRITTEN BY DR. JOHNSON. SPOKEN BY MR. BENSLEY. Prest by the load of life, the weary mind Surveys the general toil of human-kind ; With cool submission joins the labouring train, And social sorrow loses half its pain. Our anxious bard, without complaint, may share This bustling season’s epidemic care ; Like Caesar’s pilot, dignified by fate, Tost in one common storm, with all the great ; Distrest alike, the statesman and the wit, When one a borough courts, and one the pit. The busy candidates for power and fame Have hopes and fears, and wishes, just the same : Disabled both to combat, or to ily, Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply. Uncheck’d, on both, loud rabbles vent their rage, As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. Th’ offended burgess hoards his angry tale, For that blest year when all that vote may rail ; Their schemes of spite the poet’s foes dismiss, Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss. This day the powder’d curls and golden coat, Says swelling Crispin, begg’d a cobler’s vote. This night our wit, the pert apprentice cries, Lies at my feet : I hiss him, and he dies. The great, 'tis true, can charm th’ electing tribe ; The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. Yet, judg’d by those whose voices ne’er were sold, He feels no want of ill-pex - suading gold ; But, confident of praise, if praise be duo, Trusts, without fear, to merit and to you. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. ACT I. Scene I. An apartment in Young Honeywood’s House. Enter Sir William Honey wood, Jarvis. Sir William. Goon Jarvis, make no apologies for this honest bluntness. Fidelity, like yours, is the best excuse for every freedom. Jarvis. I can’t help being blunt, and being very angry too, when I hear you talk of disinheriting so good, so worthy a young gentleman as your nephew, my master. All the world loves him. Sir Will. Say rather, that he loves all the world ; that is his fault. Jarvis. I’m sure there is no part of it more dear to him than you are, though he has not seen you since he was a child. Sir Will. What signifies his affection to me ? or how can I be proud of a place in a heart where every sharper and coxcomb find an easy entrance ? Jarvis. I grant that he’s rather too good-natured ; that he’s too much every man’s man ; that he laughs this minute with one, and cries the next with another : but whose instruction may he thank for all this ? Sir Will. Not mine, sure ! My letters to him, during my employment in Italy, taught him only that philosophy which might prevent, not defend, his errors. Jarvis. Faith, begging your honour’s pardon, I’m sorry they taught him any philosophy at all ; it has only served to spoil him. This same philosophy is a good horse in the stable, but rn errant jade on a journey. For my own part, whenever I hear him mention the name on’t, I’m always sure lie’s going to play the fool. Sir Will. Don’t let us ascribe his faults to his philosophy, I entreat you. No Jarvis, his good nature arises rather from his fears of offending the importunate, than his desire of making the deserving happy. Jarvis. What it arises from, I don’t know. But, to be sure every body that asks it has it. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 57 Sir Will. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have been now for some time a concealed spectator of his follies, and find them as boundless as his dissipations. Jarvis. And, yet, faith, he hath some fine name or other for them all. He calls his extravagance, generosity ; and his trusting every body, universal benevolence. It was but last week he went security for a fellow whose face he scarce knew, and that he called an act of exalted mu — mu — nificence; ay, that was the name he gave it. Sir Will. And upon that I proceed, as my last effort, though with very little hopes to reclaim him. That very fellow has just absconded, and I have taken up the security. "How, my inten- tion is, to involve him in fictitious distress, before he has plunged himself into real calamity : to arrest him for that very debt, to clap an officer upon him, and then let him see which of his friends will come to his relief. Jarvis. Well, if I could by any way see him thoroughly vexed, every groan of his would be music to me; yet faith, I believe it is impossible. I have tried to fret him myself every morning these three years ; but instead of being angry, he sits as calmly to hear me scold, as he does to his hairdresser. Sir Will. We must try him once more, however, and I’ll go this instant to put my scheme into execution : and I don’t des- pair of succeeding, as, by your means, I can have frequent opportunities' of being about him, without being known. What a pity it is, Jarvis, that any man’s good-will to others should produce so much neglect of himself, as to require correction ! Yet we must touch his weaknesses with a delicate hand. There are some faults so nearly allied to excellence, that we can scarce weed out the vice without eradicating the virtue. [ Exit. Jarvis. Well go thy ways, Sir William Honeywood. It is not without reason the world allows thee to be the best of men. But here comes his hopeful nephew ; the strange, good- natured, foolish, open-hearted — And yet, all his faults are such, that one loves him still the better for them. Enter Honeywood. Honeyw. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my friends this morning? Jarvis. You have no friends. Honey w. Well ; from my acquaintance then ? Jarvis. (Pulling out bills.) A few of our usual cards of com- pliment, that’s all. This bill from your tailor ; this from your mercer ; and this from the little broker in Crooked-lane. He says he has been at a great deal of trouble to get back the money you borrowed. Honey w. That I don’t know; but I’m sure we were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to lend it Jarvis. He has lost all patience. 63 goldsmith’s wokks, Honeyw. Then he has lost a very good thing. Jarvis. There’s that ten guineas you were sending to the poir gentleman and his children in the Fleet. I believe that would stop his mouth, for awhile at least. Honey to. Ay, Jarvis, hut what will fill their mouths in the mein time ? Must I be cruel because he happens to be importunate ; and, to relieve his avarice, leave them to insupportable distress ? Jarvis. ’Sdeath, sir, the question now is, how to relieve your- self. Yourself — Hav’nt I reason to he out of my senses, when I see things going at sixes and sevens ? Honeyio. Whatever reason you may have for being out of your senses, I hope you’ll allow, that I’m not quite unreasonable for continuing in mine. Jarvis. You’re the only man alive in your present situation that could do so — Everything upon the waste. There’s Miss Bichland and her fine fortune gone already, and upon the poiat of being given to your rival. Honeyio. I’m no man’s rival. Jarvis. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disinherit you ; your own fortune almost spent ; and nothing but pressing creditors, false friends, and a pack of drunken servants, that your kindness has made unfit for any other family. Honeyio. Then they have the more Occasion for being in mine. Jarvis. So ! What will you have done with him that I caught stealing your plate in the pantry ? In the fact : I caught him in the fact. Honeyw. In the fact ! If so, I really think that we should pay him his wages, and turn him off. Jarvis. lie shall be turned off at Tyburn, the dog; we’ll hang him, if it be only to frighten the rest of the family. Honeyw. No, Jarvis : it’s enough that we have lost what he has stolen, let us not add to it the loss of a fellow-creature. Jarvis. Yery fine ; well, here was the footman just now to complain of the butler ; he says he does most work, and ought to have most wages. Honeyw. That’s but just ; though perhaps here comes the butler to complain of the footman. Jarvis. Ay, it’s the way with them all, from the scullion to the privy- counsellor. If they have a had master, they keep quarrelling with him ; if they have a good master they keep quarrelling with one another. Enter Butler, drunk. Butler. Sir, I’ll not stay in the family with Jonathan: you must part with him or with me, that’s the ex-exposition of the matter, sir. Honeyw. Full and explicit enough. But what’s Lis fault, good Philip i TUB GOOD-NATURBD MAN. Butler. Sir, he’s given to drinking, sir, and I shall have my morals corrupted, by keeping such company. Honeyw. Ha ! ha ! he has such a diverting way — Jarvis. 0 ! quite amusing. Butler. I find my wines a-going, sir : and liquors don’t go without mouths, sir ; I hate a drunkard, sir. Honeyw. Well, well, Philip, I’ll hear you upon that another time, so go to bed now. Jarvis. To bed ! Let him go to the devil. Butler. Begging your honour’s pardon, and begging your pardon, master Jarvis, I’ll not go to bed, nor to the devil neither. I have enough to do to mind my cellar. I fogot your honour, Mr. Croaker is below. I came on purpose to tell you. Honeyw. Why didn’t you shew him up, blockhead ? Butler. Shew him up sir ? with all my heart, sir. Up or down, all’s one to me. Jarvis. Ay, we have one or other of that family in this house from morning till night. He comes on the old affair, I sup- pose; the match between his son, that’s just returned from Paris, and Miss Bichland, the jtoung lady he’s guardian to. Honeyw. Perhaps so. Mr. Croaker, knowing my friendship for the young lady, has got it into his head that I can persuade her to what 1 please. Jarvis. Ah ! If you loved yourself but half as well as she loves you, we should soon see a marriage that would soon set all things to rights again. Honeyw. Love me ! Sure, Jarvis, you dream. No, no ; her intimacy with me never amounted to more than friendship — mere friendship. That she is the most lovely woman that ever warmed the human heart with desire, I own ; hut never let me harbour a thought of making her unhappy, by a connexion with one so unworthy her merits as I am. No, Jarvis, it shall be my study to serve her, even in spite of my wishes ! and to secure her happiness, though it destroys my own. Jarvis. Was ever the like? I want patience. Honeyw. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain Miss Rich- land’s consent, do you think I could succeed with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker, his wife ; who, though both very fine in their way, are yet a little opposite in their dispositions you know ? Jarvis. Opposite enough, Heaven knows ; the very reverse of each other ; she all laugh and no joke, he always complaining, and never sorrowful ; a fretful, poor soul, that has a new distress for every hour in the four-and-twenty — Honeyw. Hush, hush, he’s coming up, he’ll hear you. Jarvis. One whose voice is a passing-bell — Honeyw. Well, well, go, do. Jarvis. A raven that bodes nothing hut mischief ; a coffin and cross-bones ; a bundle of rue ; a sprig of deadly night- shade; a — ( Honeywood stopping his mouth, at last pushes him off.) \Jixit Jarvis. CO goldsmith’s works. Honeyw. I must own my old monitor is not entirely wrong. There is something in my friend Croaker’s conversation that quite depresses me. His very mirth is an antidote to all gaiety, and his appearance has a stronger effect on my spirits thau an undertaker’s shop. — Mr. Croaker, this is such a satis- faction. Enter Croaker. Croaker. A pleasant morning to Mr. Honeywood, and many of them. How is this ? You look most shockingly to-day, my dear friend. I hope this weather does not affect your spirits, To be sure, if this weather continues — I say nothing — but God send we be all better this day three months. Honey to. I heartily concur in the wish, though, I own, not in your apprehensions. Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies what weather we may have in a country going to ruin like our’s ? Taxer rising and trade falling. Money flying out of the kingdom, and Jesuits swarming into it. I know at this time no less than a hundred and twenty-seven Jesuits between Charing- cross and Temple-har. Honey to. The J esuits will scarce pervert you or me, I should hope. Croaker. May he not. Indeed, what signifies whom they pervert in a country that has scarce any religion to lose? I’m only afraid for our wives and daughters. Honey to. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, I assure you. Croaker. May he not. Indeed, what signifies whether they he perverted or not ? The women in my time were good for something. I have seen a lady dress from top to toe in her own manufactures formerly. But now-a-days, the devil a thing of their own manufacture’s about them, except their faces. Honeyw. But, however these faults may he practised abroad, you don’t find them at home, either with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, or Miss Richland. Croaker. The best of them will never he canonized for a saint when she’s dead. By the by, my dear friend, I don’t find this match between Miss Richland and my son much relished, cither by one side or t’other. Honeyw. I thought otherwise. Croaker. Ah, Mr. Honeywood, a little of your fine serious advice to the young lady might go far : I know she has a very exalted opinion of your understanding. Honeyio. But would not that be usurping an authority that more properly belongs to yourself. Croaker. My dear friend, you know but little of my authority at home. People think, indeed, because they see me come out in a morning thus, with a pleasant face, and to make my friends merry, that all’s well within. But I have cares that would break a heart of stone. My wife has so encroached upon THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 61 every one of my privileges, that I’m now no more than a mere lodger in my own house. IJoneyw. But a little spirit exerted on your side might perhaps restore your authority. Croaker. No, though I had the spirit of a lion. I do rouse sometimes. But what then ! always haggling and haggling. A man is tired of getting the better, before his wife is tired of losing the victory. IJoneyw. It’s a melancholy consideration, indeed, that our chief comforts often produce our greatest anxieties, and that an increase of our possessions is but an inlet to new disquietudes. Croaker. Ah, my dear friend, these were the very words of poor Dick Doleful to me not a week before he made away with himself. Indeed Mr. Honeywood, I never see you but you put me in mind of poor Dick. Ah ! there was merit neglected, for you ! and so true a friend : we loved each other for thirty years, and yet he never asked me to lend him a single farthing. Honegw. Pray what could induce him to commit so rash an action at last ? Croaker. I don’t know ; some people were malicious enough to say it was keeping company with me, because we used to meet now and then, and open our hearts to each other. To he sure I loved to hear him talk, and he loved to hear me talk : poor dear Dick ! he used to say that Croaker rhimed to joker ; and so we used to laugh — Poor Dick ! [ Going to cry. Uoneyw. His fate affects me. Croaker. Ay, he grew sick of this miserable life, where we do nothing but eat and grow hungry, dress and undress, get up and lie down ; while reason, that should watch like a nurse by our sides, falls as fast asleep as we do. Uoneyw. To say truth, if we compare that part of life which is to come, by that which we have past, the prospect is hideous. Croaker. Life at the greatest and best, is but a froward child, that must be humoured and coaxed a little till it falls asleep, and then all the care is over. Uoneyw. Very true, sir ; nothing can exceed the vanity of our existence, but tlie folly of our pursuits. We weep when we come into the world, and every day tells us why. Croaker. Ah, my dear friend, it is a perfect satisfaction to be miserable with you. My son Leon tine shan’t loose the benefit of such fine conversation, I’ll just step home for him. I am willing to show him so much seriousness in one scarce older than himself. — And what if I bring my last letter to the Gazetteer on the increase and progress of earthquakes ? It will amuse us, I promise you. I there prove how the late earth- quake is coming round to pay us another visit. From London to Lisbon, from Lisbon to the Canary Islands, from the Canary Islands to Palmyra, from Palmyra to Constantinople, and so from Constantinople back to London again, [Exit. Uoneyw. Poor Croaker ! his situation deserves the utmost a 62 goldsmith’s works. pity. I shall scarce recover my spirits these three clays. Sure, to live upon such terms is worse than death itself. And yet, when I consider my own situation, a broken fortune, a hopeless passion, friends in distress ; the wish, but not the power to serve them — (pausing and sighing.) Enter Butler. Butler. More company below, sir ; Mrs. Croaker and Miss Richland ; shall I shew them up ? But they are shewing: up themselves. [Exit. Enter Mrs. Croaker and Miss Richland Miss Rich. You’re always in such spirits. Mrs. Croaker. We have just come, my dear Honeywood, from the auction. There was the old deaf dowager, as usual, bidding like a fury against herself. And then so curious in antiques : herself the most genuine piece of antiquity in the whole collection. Honeyw. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasiness from friend- ship makes me unfit to share in this good-humour : I know you’ll pardon me. Mrs. Croaker. I vow, he seems as melancholy as if he had taken a dose of my husband this morning. Well, if Richland here can pardon you, I must. Miss Rich. You would seem to insinuate, madam, that I have particular reasons for being disposed to refuse it. Mrs, Croaker. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, don’t he so ready to wish an explanation. Miss Rich. I own, I should he sorry Mr. Honeywood’s long friendship and mine should he misunderstood. Honeyiv. There’s no answering for others, madam ; but I hope you’ll never find me presuming to offer more than the most delicate friendship may readily allow. Miss Rich. And I shall he prouder of such a tribute from you, than the most passionate professions from others. Honeyw. My own sentiments, madam : friendship is a dis- interested commerce between equals ; love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves. Miss Rich. And, without a compliment, I know none more disinterested or more capable of friendship than Mr. Honeywood. Mrs. Croaker. And indeed I know nobody that has more friends, at least among the ladies. Miss Fruzz, Miss Odbody, and Miss Winterhottom, praise him in all companies. As for Miss Biddy Bundle, she’s his professed admirer. Miss Rich. Indeed ! an admirer ! I did not know, sir, you were such a favourite there. But is she seriously so handsome ? Is she the mighty thing talked of ? Iloneyio. The town, madam, seldom begins to praise a lady’s beauty, till she’s beginning to lose it. [Smiling. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 63 Mrs. Croaker. But she’s resolved never to lose it, it seems ; for os her natural face decays, her skill improves in making the artificial one. Well, nothing diverts me more than one of those fine old dressy things, who thinks to conceal her age by every where exposing her person : sticking herself up in the front of a side-box ; trailing through a minuet at Almack’s ; and then in the public gardens, looking for all the world like one of the painted ruins of the place. Honeyw. Every age has its admirers, ladies. While you, perhaps, are trading among the warmer climates of youth, there ought to be some to carry on a useful commerce in the frozen latitudes beyond fifty. Miss Rich. But then, the mortification they must suffer before they can be fitted out for traffic ! I have seen one of them fret a whole morning at her hair-dresser, when all the fault was her face. Honeyw. And yet, I’ll engage, has carried that face at last to a very good market. This good-natured town, madam, lias husbands, like spectacles, to fit every age, from fifteen to fourscore. Mrs. Croaker. Well, you’re a dear good-natured creature. But you know you’re engaged with us this morning upon a strolling party. I want to show Olivia the town, and the things ; I believe I shall have business for you for the while day. Honeyw. I am sorry, madam, I have an appointment with Mr. Croaker, which it is impossible to put off. Mrs. Croaker. What ! with my husband ! Then I’m resolved to take no refusal. Nay, I pwftest you must. You know I never laugh so much as with you. Honeyio. Why, if I must, I must. I’ll swear, you have put me into such spirits. Well, do you find jest, and I’ll find laugh, I promise you. We’ll wait for the chariot in the next room ' [Exeunt. Enter Leontine and Olivia. Leont. There they go thoughtless and happy. My dearest Olivia, what would I give to see you capable of sharing in their amusements, and as cheerful as they are ! Olivia. How, my Leontine, how can I be cheerful, when I have so many terrors to oppress me ? The fear of being detected by this family, and the apprehensions of a censuring world, when I must be detected — Leont. The world ! my love what can it say ? At worst, it can only say that, being compelled by a mercenary guardian to embrace a life you disliked, you formed a resolution of flying with the man of your choice ; that you confided in his honour, and took refuge in my father’s house ; the only one where your’s could remain without censure. Olivia, But consider, Leontine, your disobedience and my 64 GOLDSMITH 3 WOIUCS. indiscretion : your being sent to France to bring home a sister ; and, instead of a sister, bringing home — Leant. One dearer than a thousand sisters; one that lam convinced will be equally dear to the rest ot the family, when she comes to be known. Olivia. And that, I fear, will shortly be. Lcont. Impossible, till we ourselves think proper to malce the discovery. My sister, you know, has been with her aunt, at Lyons, since she was a child ; and you find every creature in the family takes you for her. Olivia. But mayn’t she write? mayn’t her aunt write ? Leont. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all my sister’s letters a.e directed to me. Olivia. But don’t your refusing Miss Richland, for whom you know the old gentleman intends you, create a suspicion ■ Leont. There, there’s my master-stroke. I have reso.ved not to refuse her ; nay, an hour hence I have consented to go with my father, to make her an offer of my heart and fortune. Olivia. Your heart and fortune ! Leont. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can Olivia thinl so meanly of my honour, or my love, as to suppose I could ever hope for happiness from any but her? No, my Olivia, nether the force, nor, permit me to add, the delicacy of my pasaon, leave any room to suspect me. I only offer Miss Richland a heart, I am convinced she will refuse ; as I am confident, triat, without knowing it, her affections are fixed upon Hr. Honeywood. Olivia. Mr Honey wood! you’ll excuse my apprehensions; but when your merits come to be put into the balance — Leont. You view them with too much partiality. However, by making this offer, I show a seeming compliance with my father’s commands ; and, perhaps upon her refusal, I may lave his consent to choose for myself. Olivia. Well, I submit. And yet, my Leon tine, I owi, I shall envy her even your pretended addresses. I consider every look, every expression of your esteem, as due only to me. This is folly, perhaps : I allow it ; but it is natural to suppose, that merit which has made an impression on one’s own heart, may be powerful over that of another. Leont. Don’t, my life’s treasure, don’t let us make ma- ginary evils, when you know we have so many real one to encounter. At worst, you know, if Miss Richland should consent, or my father refuse his pardon, it can but end in a trip to Scotland ; and — Enter Croaker. Croaker. Where have you been, boy ? I have been seeang you. My friend Honey wood here has been saying such com ort- able things. Ah ! he’s an example indeed. Where is h( ? I left him here. _ . Leont. Sir, I believe you may see him and hear him too, in the next room : he’s preparing to go out with the ladies. TIIE UOOH-KATUiiEU MAN, Go Croaker. Good gracious, can I believe my eyes or my ears ? I’m struck dumb with bis vivacity, and stunned with the loud- ness of his laugh. Was there ever such a transformation ! ( A laugh behind the scenes, Croaker mimics it.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! there it goes : a plague take their balderdash ; yet I could expect nothing less when my precious wife was of the party. On my conscience, I believe she could spread a horse-laugh through the pews of a tabernacle. Leont. Since you find so many objections to a wife, sir, how can you be so earnest in recommending one to me ? Croaker. I have told you, and tell you again, boy, that Miss Richlaud’s fortune must not go out of the family ; one may find comfort in the money, whatever one does in the wife. Leont. But, sir, though in obedience to your desire, 1 am ready to marry her ; it may be possible she has no inclination to mo. Croaker. I’ll tell you once for all how it stands. A good part of Miss Richland’s large fortune consists in a claim upot Government, which my good friend, Mr. Lofty, assures me the Treasury will allow. One half of this she is to forfeit, by her father’s will, in case she refuses to marry you. So if she rejects you, we seize half her fortune ; if she accepts you, we seize the whole, and a fine girl into the bargain. Leont. But, sir, if you will but listen to reason — Croaker. Come, then, produce your reasons. I tell you I’m fixed, determined, so now produce your reasons. "When I’m determined, I always listen to reason, because it can then do no harm. Leont. You have alleged that a mutual choice was the first requisite in matrimonial happiness. Croaker. Well, and you have both of you a mutual choice. She has her choice — to marry you, or lose half her fortune ; and you have your- choice — to marry her, or pack out of doors with- out any fortune at all. Leont. An only son, sir, might expect more indulgence. Croaker. An only father, sir, might expect more obedience ; besides, has not your sister here, that never disobliged me in her life, as good a right as you ? He’s a sad dog, Livy, my dear, and would take all from you. But he shan’t, I tell you he shan’t, for you shall have your share. Olivia. Dear sir, I wish you’d be convinced that I can never b<' happy in any addition to my fortune which is taken from his. Croaker. Well, well, it’s a good child ; so say no more, but come with me, and we shall see something that will give us a great deal of pleasure, I promise you : old Ruggins, the curry- comb-maker, lying in state ; I’m told he makes a very handsome corpse, and becomes his coffin prodigiously. He was an intimate friend of mine, and these are friendly things we ought to do for each other. [Exeunt. G 3 6G GOLDSMITH’S WO HUS. ACT II. Scene, Croaker' s House, Miss Richland, Garnet. Miss Rich. Olivia not his sister? Olivia not Leontine’s sister ? You amaze me ! Garnet. No more his sister than I am : I had it all from his own servant ; I can get anything from that quarter. Miss Rich. But how ? Tell me again, Garnet. Garnet. Why, madam, as I told you before, instead of going to Lyons to bring home his sister, who has been there with her aunt these ten years, he never went farther than Paris : there he saw and fell in love with this young lady : by the by, of a prodigious family. Miss Rich. And brought her home to my guardian as his daughter ? Garnet. Yes, and daughter she will he. If he don’t consent to their marriage, they talk of trying what a Scotch parson can do. Miss Rich. Well, I own they have deceived me. — And so demurely as Olivia carried it too ! — Would you believe it, Garnet, I told her all my secrets ; and yet the sly cheat con- cealed all this from me ? Garnet. And, upon my word, madam, I don’t much blame her ; she was loth to trust one with her secrets, that was so very had at keeping her own. Miss Rich. But, to add to their deceit, the young gentleman, if seems, pretends to make me serious proposals. My guardian and he are to be here presently to open the affair in form. You know I am to lose half my fortune if I refuse him. Garnet. Yet what cau you do ? for being, as you are, in love with Mr. Honeywood, madam — Miss Rich. How, idiot ! what do you mean ? In love with Mr. Honeywood ! Is this to provoke me ? Garnet. That is, madam, in friendship with him ; I meant nothing more than friendship, as I hope to be married ; nothing more. Miss Rich. Well, no more of this. As to my guardian and his son, they shall find me prepared to receive them : I’m re- solved to accept their proposal with seeming pleasure, to mortify them by compliance, and so throw the refusal at last upon them. Garnet. Delicious ! and that will secure your whole fortune to yourself. Well, who could have thought so innocent a face could cover so much cutcness ? Miss Rich. Why, girl, I only oppose my prudence to their cunning, and practice a lesson they have taught me against themselves. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 67 Garnet. Then you’re likely not long to want employment; for here they come, and in close conference. Enter Croaker, Leontine. Leant. Excuse me, sir, if I seem to hesitate upon the point of putting to the lady so important a question. Croaker. Lord, good sir! moderate your fears; you’re so plaguy shy, that one would think you had changed sexes. I Ml you, Ave must have the half or the whole, Come, let me ^ce Avith what spirit you begin. Well, AA r hy don’t you ? Eh ! What? Well then— I must, it seems. ‘Miss Kichland, my dear, I believe you guess at our business ; an affair which my son here comes to open, that nearly concerns your happiness. Miss Rich. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to be pleased with anything that comes recommended by you. Croaker. How, boy, could you desire a finer opening ? Why don’t you begin, I say ? \_To Leant. Leont. ’Tis true, madam, my father, madam, has some inten- tions — hem — of explaining an affair — which — himself can best explain, madam. Croaker. Yes, my dear ; it comes entirely from my son, its all a request of his OAvn, madam. And I Avill permit him to make the best of it. Leant. The whole affair is only this, madam; my father has a proposal to make, which he insists none but himself shall de- liver. Croaker. My mind misgives me, the felloAV will never be brought on. (Aside.) In short, madam, you see before you one that loves you ; one whose whole happiness is all in you. Miss Rich. I never had any doubts of your regard, sir ; and I hope you can have none of my duty. Croaker. That’s not the thing, my little sweeting, my love. No, no, another guess lover than I; there he stands, madam; his very looks declare the force of his passion — Call up a look, you dog — But then, had you seen him, as I have, weeping, speaking soliloquies and blank verse, sometimes melancholy, and sometimes absent — Miss Rich. I fear, sir, he’s absent hoav ; or such a declara- tion would have come most properly from himself. Croaker. Himself, madam ! He would die before he could make such a confession ; and if he had not a channel for his passion through me, it would ere now have droAvned his understanding. Miss Rich. I must grant, sir, there are attractions in modest diffidence above the force of woi’ds. A silent address is the genuine eloquence of sincerity. Croaker. Madam, he has forgot to speak any other language ; silence has become his mother-tongue. goldsmith’s works. 68 Miss Rich. And it must be confessed, sir, it speaks very powerfully in his favour. And yet, I shall be thought too for- ward in making such a confession : shan’t I, Mr. Leontine ? leont. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. But if modesty attracts her, impudence may disgust her. I’ll try. (Aside.) Don’t imagine from my silence, madam, that I want a due sense of the honour and happiness intended me. My father, madam, tells me your humble servant is not totally indifferent to you. He admires you ; I adore you ; and when we come together, upon my soul, I believe we shall be the happiest couple in all St. James’s. Miss Rich. If I could flatter myself you thought as you speak, sir Leont. Doubt my sincerity, madam ? By your dear self I swear. Ask the brave if they desire glory, ask cowards if they covet safety Croaker. "Well, well, no more questions about it. Leont. Ask the sick if they long for health, ask misers if they love money, ask Croaker. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense ? What’s come over the boy ? What signifies asking, when there’s not a soul to give you' an answer ? If you would ask to the purpose, ask this lady’s consent to make you happy. Miss Rich. Why indeed, sir, his uncommon ardour almost compels me, forces me, to comply. And yet I’m afraid he’ll despise a conquest gained with too much ease ; won’t you, Mr Leontine ? Leont. Confusion ! (Aside.) 0, by no means, madam, by no moans. And yet, madam, you talked of force. There is nothing I would avoid so much, as compulsion in a thing of this kind. No, madam ; I will still be generous, and leave you at liberty to refuse. Croaker. But I tell you, sir, the lady is not at liberty. It’s a match. You see she says nothing. Silence gives consent. Leont. But, sir, she talked of force. Consider, sir, the cruelty of constraining her inclinations. Croaker. But I say there’s no cruelty. Don’t you know, blockhead, that girls have always a round-about way of saying Yes before company ? So get you both gone together into the next room, and hang him that interrupts the tender explanation. Get you gone, I say, I’ll not hear a word. Leont. But, sir, I must beg leave to insist — Croaker. Get off, you puppy, or I’ll beg leave to insist upon knocking you down. Stupid whelp ! But I don’t wonder ; the boy takes entirely after his mother. [Exeunt Miss Rich, and Leont. Enter Mrs. Croaker. Mrs. Croaker. Mr. Croaker, I bring you something, my dear, that I believe will make you smile. THE GOOD-XATUUED MAN. 69 Croaker. I’ll hold you a guinea of that, my dear. Mrs. Croaker. A letter ; and, as I knew the hand, I ventured to open it. Croaker. And how can you expect your breaking open my letters should give me pleasure ? Mrs. Croaker. Poh, it’s from your sister at Lyons, and con- tains good news : read it. Croaker. What a Frenchified cover is here ! That sister of mine has some good qualities, but I could never teach her to fold a letter. Mrs. Croaker. Fold a fiddlestick ! Bead what it contains. Croaker , reading. Dear Nick, An English gentleman of large fortune has for some time made private, though honourable, proposals to your daughter Olivia. They love each other tenderly, and I find she has consented, without letting any of the family know, to crown his addresses. As such good offers don’t come every day, your own good sense, his large fortune, and family considerations, will induce you to forgive her. Yours ever, Bachel Ckoaker. My daughter Olivia privately contracted to a man of large fortune ! This is good news indeed. My heart never foretold me of this. And yet, how slily the little baggage has carried it since she came home ! Not a word on’t to the old ones, for the world ! Yet I thought I saw something she wanted to conceal. Mrs. Croaker. Well, if they have concealed their amour, they shan’t conceal their wedding; that shall be public, I’m resolved. Croaker. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the most foolish part of the ceremony. I can never get this woman to think of the more serious part of the nuptial engagement. Mrs. Croaker, "What, would you have me think of their funeral ? But come, tell me, my dear, don’t you owe more to me than you care to confess ? Would you have ever been known to Mr. Lofty, who has undertaken Miss Eichland’s claim at the Treasury, but for me ? Who was it first made him an acquaint- ance at Lady Shabbaroon’s rout ? Who got him to promise us his interest ? Is not he a back-stairs’ favourite, one that can do wliat he pleases with those that do what they please? Is’nt he an acquaintance that all your groaning and lamentations could never have got us ? Croaker. He is a man of importance, I grant you ; and yet, what amazes me is, that while he is giving away places to all the world, he can’t get one for himself. Mrs. Croaker. That perhaps may be owing to his nicety. Great men are not easily satisfied. Enter French Servant. Servant , An express from Monsieur Lofty. He vil be vait 70 goldsmith’s works. upon your honours instamment. lie be only giving four five instruction, read two tree memorial, call upon von ambassadeur. He vil be vid you in one tree minutes. Mrs. Croaker. You see now, my dear, what an extensive department. Well, friend, let your roaster know, that we are extremely honoured by this honour. Was there any thing ever in a higher style of breeding ? All messages among the great are now done by express. Croaker. To be sure no man does little tilings with more solemnity, or claims more respect, than he. But he’s in the right on’t. In our bad world, respect is given where respect is claimed. Mrs. Croaker. Never mind the world, my dear : you were never in a pleasanter place in your life. Let us now think of receiving him with proper respect : ( a loud rapping at the door ) and there he is, by the thundering rap. Croaker. Ay, verily, there he is as close upon the heels of his own express as is an indorsement upon the back ot a bill. Well, I’ll leave you to receive him, whilst I go to chide my Olivia for intending to steal a marriage without mine or her aunt’s consent. I must seem to be angry, or she too may begin to despise my authority. [Exit, Enter Lofty, speaking to his servant. Zofty. And if the Venetian ambassador, or that teasing creature, the marquis, should call, I’m not at home. Dam’ me, I’ll be packhorse to none of them. My dear madam, I have just snatched a moment — And if the expresses to his grace he ready, let them be sent off ; they’re of importance. Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honour Lofty And, Dubardieu, if the person calls about the com- mission, let him know that it is made out. As for Lord Cum- bercourt’s stale request, it can keep cold : you understand me, madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honour Lofty. And, Dubardieu, if the man comes from the Cornish borough, you must do him : you must do him, I say. Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons — And if the Russian ambassador calls ; but he will scarce call to-day, I believe. And now, madam, I have just got time to express my happiness in having the honour of being permitted to profess myself your most obedient humble servant. Mrs. Croaker. Sir, the happiness and honour are all mine ; and yet I’m only robbing the public while I detain you. Lofty. Sink 'the public, madam, when the fair are to be attended. Ah, could all my hours be so charmingly devoted ! Sincerely, don’t you pity us poor creatures in the affairs ? Thus it is eternally ; solicited for places here, teased for pen- THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 71 sions there, and courted every where. I know you pity me. Yes, I see you do. Mrs. Croaker. Excuse me, sir. ‘ Toils of empires pleasures are,’ as Waller says. Lofty. Waller, Waller ; is he of the house ? Mrs. Croaker. The modern poet of that name, sir. Lofty. Oh, a modern ! We men of business despise the moderns ; and as for the ancients, we have no time to read them. Poetry is a pretty thing: enough for our wives and daughters ; but not for us. Why now, here I stand that know nothing of books. I say, madam, I know nothing of hooks ; and yet, I believe, upon a land-carriage fishery, a stamp-act, or a jaghire, I can talk my two hours without feeling the want of them. Mrs. Croaker. The world is no stranger to Mr. Lofty’s eminence in every capacity. Lofty. I vow to gad, madam, you make me blush. I’m nothing, nothing, nothing in the world ; a mere obscure gen- tleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two of the present minis- ters are pleased to represent me as a formidable man. I know they are pleased to bespatter me at all their little dirty levees. Yet, upon my soul, I wonder what they see in me to treat me so. Measures, not men, have always been my mark ; and I vow, by all that’s honourable, my resentment has never done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm — that is as mere men. Mrs. Croaker. What importance, and yet what modesty ! Lofty. Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam ; there I own, I’m accessible to praise : modesty is my foible : it was so, the Duke of Brentford used to say of me. I love Jack Lofty, he used to say ; no man has a finer knowledge of things, quite a man of information : and when he speaks upon his legs, by the Lord he’s prodigious ; he scouts them : and yet all men have their faults ; too much modesty is his, says his grace. Mrs. Croaker. And yet, I dare say, you don’t w r ant assurance when you come to solicit for your friends. Lofty. 0, there indeed I’m in bronze. Apropos, I have just been mentioning Miss Richland’s case to a certain personage ; we must name no names. When I ask, I’m not to be put off, madam. No, no; I take my friend by the button. ‘A fine girl, sir ; great justice in her case. A friend of mine. Borough interest. Business must be done, Mr. Secretary, I say Mr. Secretary, her business must be done, sir,’ That’s my way, madam. Mrs. Croaker. Bless me ! you said all this to the secretary of state, did you ? Lofty. I did not say the secretary, did I ? Well, curse it, since you have found me out, I will not deny it. It rvas to the secretary. Mrs Croaker. This was going to the fountain-head at once ; 72 goldsmith’s works. not applying to the understrappers, as Mr. Honeywood would have had us. Lofty. Honeywood ! he, he ! He was, indeed, a fine solicitor. I suppose you have heard what has just happened to him ? Mrs. Croaker. Poor dear man ! no accident, I hope. Lofty. Undone, madam, that’s all ! His creditors have taken him into custody. A prisoner in his own house. Mrs. Croaker. A prisoner in his own house? How! At this very time ? I’m quite unhappy for him. Lofty. Why, so am I. The man, to be sure, was im- mensely good-natured ; but then, I could never find that he had any thing in him. Mrs. Croaker. His manner, to be sure, was excessively harm- less : some, indeed, thought it a little dull. For my part, I always concealed my opinion. Lofty. It can’t be concealed, madam ; the man was dull, dull as the last new comedy ! A poor impracticable creature ! I tried once or twice to know if he was fit, for business, but he had scarce talents to be groom-porter to an orange-barrow. Mrs. Croaker. How differently does Miss Richland think of him ! for, I believe, with all his faults, she loves him. Lofty. Loves him ! Does she ? You should cure her of that, by all means, Let me see : what if she were sent to him this instant, in his present doleful situation? My life for it, that works her cure. Distress is a perfect antidote to love. Suppose we join her in the next room ? Miss Richland is a fine girl, has a fine fortune, and must not be thrown away. Upon my honour, madam, I have a regard for Miss Richland ; and, rather than she should be thrown away, I should think it no indignity to marry her myself. {Exeunt. Enter Olivia and Leon tine. Leont. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every reason to expect Miss Richland’s refusal, as I did every thing in my power to deserve it. Her indelicacy surprises me. Olivia. Sure, Leontine, there’s nothing so indelicate in being sensible of your merit. If so, I fear I shall be the most guilty thing alive. Leont. But you mistake, my dear. The same attention I used to advance my merit with you, I practised to lessen it with bar. "What, more could I do ? Olivia. Let us now rather consider what’s to be done. We have both dissembled too long — I have always been ashamed, I am now quite weary of it. Sure, I could never have undergone so much for any other but you. Leont. And you shall find my gratitude equal to your kindest compliance. Though our friends should totally forsake us, Olivia, we can draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune. THE GOOD-NATUllED MAN. 7 ; Olivia. Then why should we defer our scheme of humble happiness, when it is now in our power? I may be the favourite of your father, it is true ; but can it ever he thought, that his present kindness to a supposed child will continue to a known deceiver ? leont. I have many reasons to believe it will. As his attach- ments are hut few, they are lasting. His own marriage was a private one, as ours may be. Besides I have sounded him already at a distance, and lind all his answers exactly to our wish. Nay, by an expression or two that dropped from him, I am induced to think he knows of this affair, Olivia. Indeed ! But that would he a happiness too great to be expected. Leont. However it be, I’m certain you have power over him; and am persuaded, if you informed him of our situation, that he would be disposed to pardon it. Olivia. You had equal expectations, Leontine, from your last scheme with Miss Bichland, which you find has succeeded most wretchedly. Leont. And that’s the best reason for trying another. Olivia. If it must be so, I submit. Leont. As we could wish, he comes this way. Now, my dearest Olivia, be resolute. I’ll just retire within hearing, to come in at proper time, either to share your danger, or confirm your victory. [Exit. Enter Croaker. Croaker. Yes, I must forgive her; and yet not too easily neither. It will be proper to keep up the decorums of resentment a little, if it be only to impress her with an idea of my authority. Olivia. How I tremble to approach him! — Might I presume, sir — If I interrupt you — Croaker. No, child, where I have an affection, it is not a little thing can interrupt me. Affection gets over little things. Olivia. Sir, you’re too kind. I’m sensible how ill I deserve this partiality. Yet Heaven knows there is nothing I would not do to gain it. Croaker. And you have hut too well succeeded, you little hussey you. With those endearing ways of yours, on my conscience, I could he brought to forgive anything, unless it were a very great offence indeed. Olivia. But mine is such an offence — When you know my guilt — Yes, you shall know it, though I feel the greatest pain in the confession. Croaker. Why then, if it he so very great a pain, you may spare yourself the trouble, for I know every syllable of the matter before you begin. Olivia. Indeed! Then I’m undone. H 74 goldsmith’s wot. s. Croaker. Ay, miss you wanted to steal a match, without letting me know it, did you? But I’m not worth being consulted, I suppose, when there’s to be a marriage in my own family. No, I’m to have no hand in the disposal of my own children. No, I’m nobody. I’m to be a mere article of family lumber ; a piece of crack’d china to be stuck up in a corner. Oii-via. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your authority could induce us to conceal it from you. Croaker. No, no, my consequence is no more; I’m as little minded as a dead Russian in winter, just stuck up with a pipe in his mouth till there comes a thaw — It goes to my heart to vex her. Olivia. I was prepared, sir, for your anger, and despaired of pardon, even while I presumed to ask it. But your severity shall never abate my affection, as my punishment is but justice. Croaker. And yet you should not despair neither, Livy. We ought to hope all for the best. Olivia. And do you permit me to hope, sir ? Can I ever expect to be forgiven. But hope has too long deceiv’d me. Croaker. Why then, child, it shan’t deceive you now, for I forgive you this very moment ; I forgive you all ; and now you are indeed my daughter. Olivia. 0 transport ! This kindness overpowers me. Croaker. I was always against severity to our children. We have been young and giddy ourselves, and we can’t expect boys and girls to be old before their time. Olivia. What generosity ! But can you forget the many falsehoods, the dissimulation Croaker. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin, you; but where’s the girl that won’t dissemble for a husband? My wife and I had never been married, if we had not dissembled a little beforehand. Olivia. It shall be my future care never to put such gene- rosity to a second trial. And as for the partner of my offence and folly, from his native honour, and the just sense he has of h is duty, I can answer for him that Enter Leontine. Leant. Permit him thus to answer for himself. ( Kneeling.) Thus, sir, lot me speak my gratitude for this unmerited forgive- ness. Yes, sir, this even exceeds all your former tenderness. I now can boast the most indulgent of fathers. The life he gave, compared to this, was but a trifling blessing. Croaker. And, good sir, who sent for you with that fine tragedy face, and flourishing manner; I don’t know what we have to do with your gratitude upon this occasion. Leant. How, sir ! is it possible to be silent when so much THE GOCD-N.YTUIIED MAH. 75 oblig’d ? Would you refuse me the pleasure of being grateful ? Of adding my thanks to my Olivia’s? Of sharing in the transports that you have thus occasioned. Croaker. Lord, sir, we can be happy enough, without your coming in to make up the party. 1 don’t know what’s the matter with the boy all this day; he has got into such a rhodomontade manner all the morning ! Leont. But, sir, I that have so large a part in the benefit, is it not my duty to shew my joy ? Is the being admitted to your favour so slight an obligation ? Is the happiness of marrying my Olivia so small a blessing ? ' Croaker . Marrying Olivia! marrying Olivia! marrying his own sister ! Sure the boy is out of his senses ! His own sister ! Leont. My sister! Olivia. Sister ! How have I been mistaken ! [Aside. Leont. Some curs’d mistake in all this I find. [Aside. Croaker. What does the booby mean, or has he any meaning ? Eh, what do you mean, you blockhead you ? Leont. Mean, sir — why, sir — only when my sister is to be married, that I have the pleasure of marrying her, sir ; this is, of giving her away sir. — I have made a point of it. Croaker. 0, is that all ? Give her away. You have made a point of it. Then you had as good make a point of first f iving away yourself, as I’m going to prepare the writings etween you aud Miss Richland this very minute. What a fuss is here about nothing ! Why, what’s the matter now ? I thought I had made you at least as happy as you could wish. Olivia. 0 ! yes, sir, very happy. Croaker. Do you foresee anything, child ? You look as if you did. I think if anything w r as to be foreseen, I have as sharp a look-out as another : and yet I foresee nothing. [Exit. Leontine, Olivia. Olivia. What can it mean ? Leont. He knows something, and yet for my life I can’t tell what. Olivia. It can’t be the connexion between us, I’m pretty certain. Leont. Whatever it be, my dearest, I’m resolved to put it out of Fortune’s power to repeat our mortification. I’ll haste, and prepare for our journey to Scotland this very evening. My friend Honeywood has promised me his advice and assistance, I’ll go to him, and repose our distresses on his friendly bosom; and I know so much of his honest heart, that if he can’t relieve our uneasiness, he will at least share them. [Exeunt. 76 GOLDSMITH S WOl'.KS. ACT III. Scene, Young Hmeywood' s House. Bailiff, Honeywood, Follower. Bailiff. Look-ye, sir, I have arrested as good men as you in my time ; no disparagement of you neither. Men that would go forty guineas on a game of cribbage. I challenge the town to shew a man in more genteeler practice than myself. Honeyw. Without all question, Mr. , I forget your name, sir ? Bailiff. How can you forget what you never knew ? he, he, he! Honeyw. May I. beg leave to ask your name ? Bailiff. Yes, you may, Honeyw. Then, pray sir, what is your name, sir ? Bailiff. That I didn’t promise to tell you; he, he, he! A joke breaks no bones, as we say among us that practise the law. Honeyw. You may have reason for keeping it a secret, per- haps. Bailiff. The law does nothing without reason. I’m ashamed to tell my name to no man, sir. If you can shew cause as why, upon a special capus, that 1 should prove my name — But come, Timothy Twitch is my name. And now you know my name, what have you got to say to that ? Honeyw. Nothing in the world, good Mr. Twitch, hut that I have a favour to ask, that’s all. Bailiff. Ay, favours are more easily asked than granted, as we say among us that practise the law. I have taken an oath against granting favours. Would you have me perjure myself ? ° Honey w. But my request will come recommended' in so strong a manner, as, I believe, you’ll have no scruple (pulling out his purse ). The thing is only this : I believe I shall be able to discharge this trifle in two or three days at farthest ; but as I would not have the affair known for the world, I have thought of keeping you, and your good friend here, about me till the debt is discharged; for which I shall be properly grateful. Bailiff. Oh ! that’s another maxim, and altogether within my oath. For certain, if an honest man is to get any thing by a thing, there’s no reason why all things should not be done in civility. Honeyw. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr. Twitch ; and your’s is a necessary one. ( Gives him money.) Bailiff. Oh ! your honour ; I hope your honour takes nothing amiss as I does, as I does nothing but my duty in so doing I’m sure no man can say I ever give a gentleman, that was a gen- tleman, ill usage. If I saw that a gentleman was a gentleman, I have taken money not to see him for ten weeks together. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 77 J loneyw. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. Bailiff. Ay, sir, it’s a perfect treasure. I love to see a gentle- man with a tender heart. I don’t know, but I think I have a tender heart myself. If all that I have lost by my heart was put together, it would make a— but no matter tor that. Honeyw. Don’t account it lost, Mr. Twitch. The ingrati- tude of the world can never deprive us of the conscious happiness of having acted with humanity ourselves. Bailiff. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It’s better than gold. I love humanity. People may say that we, in our way, have no humanity ; but I’ll shew you my humanity this moment. There’s my follower here, little Flanigan, with a wife and four children, a guinea or two would be more to him than twice as much to another. Now, as I can’t shew him any humanity myself, I must beg you’ll do it for me. Honey w. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, your’s is a most powerful recommendation. ( Giving money to the follower.) Bailiff. Sir, you’re a gentleman. I see you know what to do with your money. But, to business : we are to be with you here as your iriends, I suppose. But set in case company comes — Little Flanigan here, to be sure, has a good face ; a very good face ; but then, he is a little seedy, as we say among us that practise the law. Not well in clothes. Smoke the pocket- holes. Honey w. "Well, that shall be remedied without delay. Enter Servant. Servant. Sir, Miss Richland is below. Honeyw. How unlucky ! Detain her a moment. We must improve, my good friend, little Mr. Flanigan’s appearance first. Here, let Mr. Flanigan have a suit of my clothes— quick— the brown and silver — Do you hear ? Servant. That your honour, gave away to the begging gentle- man that makes verses, because it is was as good as new. Honeyw. The white and gold then. Servant. That, your honour, I made bold to sell, because it was good for nothing. Honeyw. Well, the first that comes to hand then. The blue and gold. I believe Mr. Flanigan will look best in blue. [Exit Flanigan. Bailiff. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look well in any thing. Ah, if your honour knew that bit of flesh as well as I do, you’d be perfectly in love with him. There’s not a prettier scout in the four counties after a shy-cock than he. Scents like a hound; sticks like a weasel. Ho was master of the ceremo- nies to the black queen of Morocco when I took him to follow me ( Re-enter Flanigan.) Heh, ecod, I think he looks so well that I don’t care if I have a suit from the same place for myself. Honeyw. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. Dear Mr. h 3 78 goldsmith’s works. Twitch, I beg you’ll give your friend directions not to speak. As for yourself, I know you will say nothing without being directed. T , Bailiff. Never you fear me, I’ll shew the lady that 1 have something to say for myself as well as another. One man has one way of talking, and another man has another ; that s all the difference between them. Enter Miss Richland and her Maid. Miss Rich. You’ll be surprised, sir, with this visit. But you know I’ve yet to thank you for choosing my little library. ELoneyw. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary, as it was I that was obliged by your commands. Chairs here. Two of my very good friends, Mr. Twitch and Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, sit without ceremony. Miss Rich. Who can these odd-looking men be ? I fear it is as I was informed. It must be so. [Aside. Bailiff (after a pause ). Pretty weather, very pretty weather, for the time of the year, madam. Follower. Very good circuit weather in the country. Honeyw. You officers are generally favourites among the ladies. My friends, madam, have been upon very disagreeable duty, I assure you. The fair should in some measure recompense the toils of the brave. Miss Rich. Our officers do indeed deserve every favour. The gentlemen are in the marine service, I presume, sir ? Honeyw. Why, madam, they do — occasionally serve in the Fleet, madam. A dangerous service. Miss Rich. Pm told so. And I own, it has often surprised me, that, while we have had so many instances of bravery there, we have had so few of wit at home to praise it. Honeyio. I grant, madam, that our poets have not written as our soldiers have fought : but, they have done all they could, and Hawke or Amherst could do no more. Miss Rich. I’m quite displeased when I see a fine subject spoiled by a dull writer. Honeyw. We should not be so severe against dull writers, madam. It is ten to one, but the dullest writer exceeds the most rigid French critic who presumes to despise him. Follower. Damn the French, the parle-vous, and all that be- longs to them. Miss Rich. Sir ! Honeyw. Ha, ha, ha, honest Mr. Flanigan. A true English officer, Madam : he’s not contented with beating the French, but he will scold them too. Miss Rich. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not convince rae but that severity in criticism is necessary. It was our first adopting the severity of French taste, that has brought them in turn to taste us. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 79 Bailiff. Taste us! By the Lord, madam, they devour us. Give Monseers but a taste, and I’ll be damned, but they come in for a bellyful. Miss Rich. Very extraordinary this. Follower. But very true. Wliat makes the bread rising ? the parle-vous that devour us. What makes the mutton five pence a pound ? the parle-vous that eat it up. What makes the beer threepence-halfpenny a pot — Money tv. Ah ! the vulgar rogues, all will be out. ( Aside. ) Bight, gentlemen, very right, upon my word, and quite to the purpose. They draw a parallel, madam, between the mental taste and that of our senses. We are injur’d as much by French severity in the one, as by French rapacity in the other. That’s their meaning. Miss Rich. Though I don’t see the force of the parallel, yet, I’ll own, that we should sometimes pardon books as we do our friends, that have now and then agreeable absurdities to recom- mend them. Bailiff. That’s all my eye. The king only can pardon, as the law says : for set in case — Moneyw. I’m quite of your opinion, sir; I see the whole drift of your argument. Yes, certainly our presuming to pardon any work, is arrogating a power that belongs to another. If all have power to condemn, what writer can be free ? Bailiff. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus can set him free at any time. For set in case — Moneyw. I’m obliged to you, sir, for the hint. If, madam, as ray friend observes, our laws are so careful of a gentleman’s person, sure we ought to be equally careful of his dearer part,, his fame. Follower. Ay, but if so be a man’s nabb’d, you know — Moneyw. Mr. Flanigan, if you speak for ever, you could not improve the last observation. For my own part I think it conclusive. Bailiff. As for the matter of that, mayhap— Moneyw. Nay, sir, give me leave in this instance to be positive. For where is the necessity of censuring works without genius, which must shortly sink of themselves : what is it, but aiming our unnecessary blow against a victim already under the hands of justice ? Bailiff. Justice! 0, by the elevens, if you talk about justice, I think I am at home there ; for, in a course of law — Moneyw. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern what you’d be at perfectly, and 1 believe the lady must be sensible of the art Avith which it is introduced. I suppose you perceive the meaning, madam, of his course of Iuav. Miss Rich. I protest, sir, I do not. I perceive only that you answer one gentleman before he has finished, and the other before he has well begun. Bailiff. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and I will make 80 goldsmith’s WOKKS. the matter out. This here question is about severity, and justice, and pardon, and the like of they. Now to explain the thing Honey w. 0 ! curse your explanations. [Aside. Enter Servant. Servant. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to speak with you upon earnest business. Honeyw. That’s lucky. ( Aside.) Dear madam, you’ll excuse me, and my good friends here, for a few minutes. There are books, madam, to amuse you. Come, gentlemen, you know I make no ceremony with such friends. After you, sir. Excuse me. Well, if I must ; but I know your natural politeness. Bailiff. Before and behind, you know. Eolloiuer. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and behind. [ Exeunt Honey wood, Bailiff, and Follower. Miss 1 lich. What can all this mean, Garnet ? Garnet. Mean, madam ? why, what should it mean, but what Mr. Lofty sent you here to see ? These people he calls officers, are officers sure enough ; sheriff’s officers ; bailiffs, madam. Miss Rich. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though his per- plexities are far from giving me pleasure, yet, I own there’s something very ridiculous in them, and a just punishment for his dissimulation. Garnet. And so they are. But I wonder, madam, that the lawyer you just employed to pay his debts and set him free, lias not done it by this time. He ought at least to have been here before now. But lawyers are always more ready to get a man into troubles than out of them. Enter Sir William. Sir Will. For Miss Eicliland to undertake setting him free, I own was quite unexpected. It has totally unhinged my schemes to reclaim him. Yet, it gives me pleasure to find, that, among a number of worthless friendships, he has made one acquisition of real virtue : for there must be some softer passion on her side that prompts this generosity. Ah ! here before me ; I’ll endeavour to sound her affections. Madam, as as I am the person that have had some demands upon the gentleman of this house, I hope you’ll excuse me, if, before I enlarged him, I wanted to see yourself. Miss Rich. The precaution was very unnecessary, sir ; I suppose your wants were only such as my agent had power to satisfy. Sir Will.. Partly, madam. But, I was also willing you should be fully apprised of the character of the gentleman you intended to serve. Miss Rich. It must come, sir, with a very ill grace from you. To censure it, after what you have done, would look nke malice ; and, to speak favourably of a character you have THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 81 oppressed, would be impeaching your own. And sure, his tenderness, his humanity, his universal friendship, may atone for many faults. Sir Will. That friendship, madam, which is exerted in too wide a sphere, becomes totally useless. Our bounty, like a drop of water, disappears when diffused too widely. They who pretend most to this universal benevolence, are either deceivers or dupes — men who desire to cover their private ill-nature by a pretended regard for all ; or, men who reasoning themselves into false feelings, are more earnest in pursuit of splendid than of useful virtues. Miss Rich. I am surprised, sir, to hear one who has pro- bably been a gainer by the folly of others, so severe in his censure of it. Sir Will. Whatever I may have gained by folly, madam, you see I am willing to prevent your losing by it. Miss Rich. Your cares for me, sir, are unnecessary. I always suspect those services which are denied where they are wanted, and offered, perhaps, in hopes of a refusal. No, sir, my directions have been given, and I insist upon their being complied with. Sir Will. Thou amiable woman, I can no longer contain the expressions of my gratitude — my pleasure. You see before you one who has been equally careful of his interest : one who has for some time been a concealed spectator of his follies, and only punished in hopes to reclaim them— His uncle. Miss Rich. Sir William Honeywood ! You amaze me. How shall I conceal my confusion ? I fear, sir, you’ll think I have been too forward in my services. I confess I — Sir Will. Don’t make any apologies, madam. I only find myself unable to repay the obligation. And yet, I have been trying my interest of late to serve you. Having learnt, madam, that you had some demands upon government, I have, though unasked, been your solicitor there. Miss Rich. Sir, I am infinitely obliged to your intentions ; but my guardian has employed another gentleman, who assures him of success. Sir Will. Who, the important little man that visits here ! Trust me, madam, he’s quite contemptible among men in power, and utterly unable to serve you. Mr. Lofty’s promises are much better known to people of fashion than his person, I assure you. Miss Rich. How have we been deceived ! As sure as can be, here he conies. Sir Will. Does he ? Remember I’m to continue unknown. My return to England has not as yet been made public. With what impudence he enters ! Enter Lofty. Lofty. Let the chariot — let my chariot drive off. I’ll visit 82 goldsmith’s wokks. his grace’s in a cli ai r. Miss Prchland here before me ? Punctual, as usual, to the calls of humanity. I’m very sorry, madam, things of this kind should happen, especially to a man I have shewn everywhere, and carried amongst us as a particular acquaintance. Miss Rich. I find, sir, you have the art of making the mis- fortunes of others your own. Lofty. My dear madam, what can a private man like me do? One man can’t do every thing ; and then I do so much in this way every day. Let me see, something considerable might be done for him by subscription ; it could not fail if I carried the list. I'll undertake to set down a brace of dukes, two dozen lords, and half the lower house, at my own peril. Sir Will. And, after all, it is more than probable, sir, he might reject the offer of such powerful patronage. Lofty. Then, madam, what can we do? You know I never make promises. In truth, I once or twice tried to do something with him in the way of business ; but as I often told his uncle, Sir William Iloneywood, the man was utterly impracticable. Sir Will. His uncle ! Then that gentleman, I suppose, is a particular friend of your’s ? Lofty. Meaning me, sir? — Yes, madam, as I often said, my dear Sir William, you are sensible I would do any thing, as far as my poor interest goes, to serve your family ; but what can be done ? There’s no procuring first-rate places for ninth-rate abilities. ... , Miss Rich. I have heard of Sir William Honeywood ; he s abroad in employment; he confided in your judgment, I suppose ? ... Lofty. Why yes, madam ; I believe Sir William had some reason to confide in my judgment ; one little reason, perhaps. Miss Rich. Pray, sir, what was it ? Lofty. Why, madam— but let it go no farther — it was I procured him his place. Sir Will. Did you, sir ? Lofty. Either you or I, sir. Miss Rich. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind indeed. Lofty. I did love him, to be sure ; he had some amusing qualities ; no man was fitter to be toastmaster to a club, or had a better head. Miss Rich. A better head ? Lofty. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure, he was as dull as a choice spirit ; but hang it, he was grateful, very grateful ; and grati- tude hides a multitude of faults. Sir Will. He might have reason, perhaps. His place is pretty considerable, I’m told. Lofty. A trifle, a mere trifle, among us men of business. T tie truth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a greater. Sir Will. Dignity of person do you mean, sir? Pm told he’s much about my size and figure, sir. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 83 Lofty. Ay, tall enough for a marching regiment ; but then he wanted a something — a consequence of form — a kind of a — I believe the lady perceives my meaning. Miss Rich. 0 perfectly ! you coin-tiers can do anything I see. Lofty. My dear madam, all this is hut a mere exchange ; we do greater things for one another every day. Why, as thus, now : let me suppose you the first lord of the treasury ; you have an employment in you that I want ; I have a place in me that you want ; do me here, do you there ; interest of both sides, few words, flat, done and done, and it’s over. Sir Will. A thought strikes me. ( Aside.) Now you mention Sir William Iioneywood, madam, and as he seems, sir, an acquaintance of your’s, you will be glad to hear he's arrived from Italy ; I had it from a friend who knows him as well as he does me, and you may depend upon my information. Lofty. The devil he is ! If I had known that, we should not have been quite so well acquainted. ( Aside.) Sir Will. He is certainly returned ; and as this gentleman is a friend of your’s, he can be of signal service to us by intro- ducing me to him ; there are some papers relative to your affairs, that require dispatch and his inspection. Miss Rich. This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a person employed in my affairs : I know you’ll serve us. Ljofty. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. Sir Willie m shall even wait upon him, if you think proper to command it. Sir Will. That would be quite unnecessary. Lofty. Well, we must introduce you, then. Call upon me— let me see — ay, in two days. Sir Will. Noav, or the opportunity will be lost for ever. Lofty. Well, if it must be now, now let it be. JBut damn it, that's unfortunate ; my lord Grig’s cursed Pensacola business comes on this very hour, and I’m engaged to attend — another time — Sir Will. A short letter to Sir William will do. Lofty. You shall have it ; yet, in my opinion, a letter is a very bad way of going to work : face to face, that’s my way. Sir Will. The letter, sir, will do quite as well. Lofty. Zounds, sir, do you pretend to direct me? direct, me in the business of office ? Do you know me, sir ? Who am I ? Miss Rich. Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not so much his as mine : if my commands— but you despise my power. Lofty. Delicate creature ! Your commands could even control a debate at midnight : to a power so constitutional I am all obedience and tranquillity. He shall have a letter : where is my secretary? Dubardieu! And yet, I protest, I don’t like this way of doing business. I think if I spoke first to Sir William — But you will have it so. [Exit with Miss Rich, GOLDSMITH WORKS. 84 Sir William alone . Sir Will. Ha, ha, ha ! This, too, is one of my nephev s associates. 0 vanity, thou constant deceiver, how do all .by efforts to exalt, serve but to sink us ! Thy false colourings, like these employed to heighten beauty, only seem to mind that bloom which they contribute to destroy. I’m not cis- pleased at this interview ; exposing this fellow’s impudence to the contempt it deserves, may be of use to my design; at leist, if he can reflect, it will be of use to himself. Enter Jarvis. Sir Will. How now, Jarvis, where’s your master, my nephew ? Jarvis. At his wit’s end, I believe ; he’s scarce got out of one ecrane, but he’s running his head into another. Sir Will. How so ? Jarvis. The house has but just been cleared of the bailiffs, and now he’s again engaging, tooth and nail, in assisting ffd Croaker’s son to patch up a clandestine match with the vomg lady that passes in the house for his sister. Sir Will. Ever busy to serve others. Jarvis. Ay, anybody but himself. The young couple, it seens, are just setting out for Scotland, and he supplies them with money for the journey. Sir Will. Money ! how is he able to supply others, who las scarce any for himself? Jarvis. Why, there it is ; he has no money, that’s true ; lut then, as he never said No to any request in his life, he las given them a bill drawn by a friend of his upon a merclianf in the city, which I am to get changed ; for you must know fiat I am to go with them to Scotland myself. Sir Will. How ? Jarvis. It seems the young gentleman is obliged to tain a different road from his mistress, as he is to call upon an umle of his that lives out of the way, in order to prepare a pltce for their reception wdrn they return : so they have borroved me from my master, as the properest person to attend the yomg lady down. Sir Will. To the land of matrimony ! a pleasant jour my, Jarvis. Jarvis. Ay, but I’m only to have all the fatigues on’t. Sir Will. Well, it may be shorter, and less fatiguing, tlan you imagine. I know but too much of the young lady’s fanily and connexions, whom I have seen abroad. I have also ris- covered that Miss Richland is not indifferent to my thoughtess nephew ; and will endeavour, though I fear in vain, to establsh that connexion. But come, the letter I wait for must be almost finished; I’ll let you farther into my intentions in the mxt room. [ Exeint . THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 85 ACT IY. Scene, Croalcer s Home. Lofty. Well, sure the devil’s in me of late, for running my head into such defiles, as nothing hut a genius like my own could draw me from. I was formerly contented to husband out my places and pensions with some degree of frugality, but curse it, of late I have given away the whole Court Register in less time than they could print the title-page ; yet, hang it, why scruple a lie or two to come at a fine girl, when I every day tell a thousand for nothing ? Ha ! Iloncywood here before me. Could Miss Richland have set him at liberty ? Enter Honcywood. Mr. Honeywood, I’m glad to see you abroad again. I find my concurrence was not necessary in your unfortunate affair. I had put things in a train to do your business ; but it is not for me to say what I intended doing. Honeyw. It was unfortunate indeed, sir. But -what adds to my uneasiness is, that while you seem to be acquainted with my misfortune, I myself continue still a stranger to my bene- factor. Lofty. How! not know the friend that served you? Honeyw. Can’t guess at the person. Lofty. Inquire. Honeyw. I have ; but all I can learn is, that he chooses to remain concealed, and that all inquiry must be fruitless. Lofty. Must be fruitless ? Lloneyw. Absolutely fruitless. Lofty. Sure of that ? Honeyw. Very sure. Lofty. Then I’ll be damn’d if you shall ever know it from me. Honeyio. How, sir ? Lofty. I suppose now, Mr, Honeywood, you think my rent- roll very considerable, and that I have vast sums of money to throw away ; I know you do. The world, to be sure, says such things of me. Honeyw. The world, by what I learn, is no stranger to your generosity. But where does this tend ? Lofty. To nothing; nothing in the world. The town, to be sure, when it makes such a thing as me the subject of con- versation, has asserted, that I never yet patronized a man of merit. Honeyw. I have heard instances to the contrary, even from yourself. Lofty. Yes, Honeywood, and there are instances to the contrary that you shall never hear from myself. i 86 goldsmith’s works. Eoneyw. Ha, dear sir, permit me to ask you but one question. 4 Lofty. Sir, ask me no questions; I say, sir, ask me no questions; I’ll be damn’d if I answer them. Eoneyw. I will ask no farther. My friend, my benefactor, it is, it must he here that I am indebted for freedom, for honour. Yes, thou worthiest of men, from the beginning I suspected it, but was afraid to return thanks ; which, if unde- served, might seem reproaches. Lofty. I protest I don’t understand all this, Mr. Honey- wood. You treat me very cavalierly, I do assure you, sir.-— Blood, sir, can’t a man be permitted "to enjoy the luxury of his own feelings without all this parade ? Eoneyw. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an action that adds to your honour." Your looks, your air, your manner, all confess it. Lofty. Confess it, sir ! Torture itself, sir, shall never bring me to confess it. Mr. Honeywood, I have admitted you upon terms of friendship. Don’t 'let us fallout: make me happy, and let this be buried in oblivion. You know I hate ostenta- tion ; you know I do. Come, come, Honeywood, you know I always lov’d to be a friend, and not a patron. I beg this may make no kind of distance between us. Come, come, you and I must be more familiar — indeed we must. Eoneyw. Heavens ! Can I ever repay such friendship ? Is there any way ? Thou best of men, can I ever return the obligation ? Lofty. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle. But I see your heart is labouring to be grateful, You shall be grateful. It would be cruel to disappoint you. Eoneyiv. How ! teach me the manner. Is there any way ? Lofty. From this moment you’re mine. Yes, my friend, you 6hall know it — I’m in love. Eoneyiv. And can I assist you ? Lofty. Nobody so well. Eoneyw. In what manner? I’m all impatience. Lofty. You shall make love for me. Eoneyiv. And to whom shall I speak in your favour ? Lofty. To a lady with whom you have great interest, I assure you. Miss Richland. Eoneyiv. Miss Richland ! Lofty. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck the blow up to the hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter. Eoneyw. Heavens ! was ever any thing more unfortunate ? It is too much to be endured. Lofty. Unfortunate indeed ! And yet I can endure it, till you have opened the affair to her for me. Between ourselves, 1 think she likes me : I’m not apt to boast, but I think she does. Eoneyw . Indeed ! But do you know the person you apply to. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 87 Lofty. Yes, I know you are her friend and mine ; that’s enough. To you, therefore, I commit the success of my passion. I’ll say no more, let friendship do the rest. I have only to add, that if at any time my little interest can be of service — hut, hang it, I’ll make no promises — you know my interest is your’s at any time. No apologies, my friend; I’ll not be answered ; it shall be so. [ Exit. Honeyiv. Open, generous, unsuspecting man ! He little thinks that I love her, too ; and with such an ardent passion ! — But, then, it was ever but a vain and hopeless one ; my torment, my persecution ! What shall I do ? Love, friend- ship, a hopeless passion, a deserving friend! Love, that, has been my tormentor ; a friend, that has, perhaps, distressed himself to serve me. It shall be so. Yes, I will discard the fondling hopes of my bosom, and exert all my influence in his favour. And yet to see her in the possession of another ! Insupportable. But, then, to betray a generous, trusting friend ! • — Worse, worse. Yes, I’m resolved. Let me but be the instrument of their happiness, and then quit a country, where I must for ever despair of finding my own. [ Exit. Enter Olivia and Garnet, who carries a milliners box. Olivia. Dear me. I wish this journey were over. No news of Jarvis yet ? I believe the old peevish creature delays purely to vex me. Garnet. Why, to be sure, madam, I did hear him say, a little snubbing before marriage wonld teach you to bear it the better afterward. Olivia. To be gone a full hour, though he had only to get a bill changed in the city ! How provoking ! Garnet. I’ll lay my life Mr. Leontine, that had twice as much to do, is setting off by this time from his inn, and here you are left behind. Olivia. Well, let us be prepared for his coming, however. Are you sure you have omitted nothing, Garnet ? Garnet. Not a stick, madam — all’s here. Yet I wish you could take the white and silver to be married in. It’s the worst luck in the world, in any thing but white. I knew one Bet Stubbs, of our town, that was married in red, and as sure as eggs is eggs, the bridegroom and she had a miff before morning. Olivia. No matter — I’m all impatience till we are out of the house. Garnet. Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot the wedding- ring ! — The sweet little thing ! — I don’t think it would go on my little finger. And what if I put in a gentleman’s night cap, in case of necessity, madam? But here’s Jarvis. Enter Jarvis. Olivia. 0, Jarvis, are you come at last ? We have been ready this half-hour. Now let’s be going — Let us fly. 88 goldsmith’s works. Jarvis. Ay, to Jericho ; for we shall have no going to Scot- land this bout, I fancy. Olivia. How ! What’s the matter ? Jarvis. Money, money, is the matter, madam. We have got no money. What the plague do you send me of your fool’s errand for ? My master’s bill upon the city is not worth a rush. Here it is ; Mrs. Garnet may pin up her hair with it ? Olivia. Undone ! How could Honeywood serve us so ? What shall we do ? Can’t we go without it ? Jarvis. Go to Scotland without money ! To Scotland with- out money! Lord, how some people understand geography! We might as well set sail for Patagonia upon a cork -jacket ! Olivia. Such a disappointment ! What a base, insincere man was your master, to serve us in this manner ! Is this his good- nature ? Jarvis. Nay, don’t talk ill of my master, madam. I won’t bear to hear anybody talk ill of him but myself. Garnet. Bless us ! now I think on’t, madam, you need not be under any uneasiness ; I saw Mr. Leontine receive forty guineas from his father just before he set out, and he can’t yet have left the inn. A short letter will reach him there. Olivia. Well remembered, Garnet; I’ll write immediately. How’s this ? Bless me, my hand trembles so, I can’t write a word. Do you write, Garnet ; and, upon second thought, it will be better for you. Garnet. Truly, madam, I write and indite but poorly : I never was kute at my laming. But I’ll do what I can to please you. Let me see. All out of my own head, I suppose ? Olivia. Whatever you please. Garnet (luriting). Muster Croaker Twenty guineas, madam ? Olivia. Ay, twenty will do. Garnet. At the bar of the Talbot till called for. Expedition — will be blown up — all of a flame — Quick, dispatch — Cupid, the little God of love — I conclude it, madam, with Cupid ; I love to see a love-letter end like poetry. Olivia. Well, well, what you please, any thing. But how shall we send it ? I can trust none of the servants of this family. Garnet. Odso, madam, Mr. Honeywood’s butler is in tho next room ; he’s a dear, sweet man ; he’ll do any thing for me. Jarvis. He ! the dog, he’ll certainly commit some blunder. He’s drunk and sober ten times a day. Olivia. No matter. Ply, Garnet ; anybody we can trust will do. [Exit Garnet.] Well, Jarvis, now we can have nothing more to interrupt us. You may take up the things, and carry them on to the inn. Have you no hands, Jarvis ? Jarvis. Soft and fair, young lady. You, that are going to be married, think things can never be done too fast: but we that are old, and know what we are about, must elope methodically, madam. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 89 Olivia. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to be done over again — Jarvis. My life for it, you would do them ten times over. Olivia. Why will you talk so r If you knew how unhappy they make me — Jarvis. Very unhappy, no doubt: I was once just as un- happy when I was going to be married myself. I’ll tell you a 6tory about that — _ Olivia. A story ! when I’m all impatience to be away. \V as there ever such a dilatory creature ? — Jarvis. Well, madam, if we must march, why we will march ; that’s all. Though, odds bobs, we have still forgot one thing we should never travel without — a case of good razois, and a box of shaving powder. But no matter, I believe we shall be pretty well shaved by the way. {Going. Enter Garnet. Garnet. Undone, undone, madam. Ah, Mr. J arvis, you said right enough. As sure as death,. Mr. Honeywood’s rogue of a drunken butler dropped the letter before he went ten yaids from the door. There’s old Croaker has just picked it up, and is this moment reading it to himselt in the hall. Olivia. Unfortunate! We shall be discovered. Garnet. No, madam, don’t be uneasy, he can make neither head nor tail of it. To be sure, he looks as if he was broke loose from Bedlam about it, but he can’t find what it means for all that. 0 Lud, he is coming this way all iu the horrors ! Olivia. Then let us leave the house this instant, for fear he fhould ask farther questions. In the mean time, Garnet, do you write and send off just such another. [ Exeunt . Enter Croaker. Croalcer. Death and destruction ! Are all the horrors of air, fire, and water, to be levelled only at me ? Am I only to bo singled out for gunpowder-plots, combustibles, and conflagra- tion? Here it is — An incendiary letter dropped at my door. • To Muster Croaker, these, with speed.’ Ay, ay, plain enough the direction : all in the genuine incendiary spelling, and as cramp as the devil. ‘ With speed ! ’ 0, confound your speed. But let me read it once more. (Reads.) ‘Muster Croaker, as sonc as yowe see this, lcve twenty gunnes at the bar of the lal- boot til caled for, or yowe and yower experetion will be al blown up.’ Ah, but too plain. Blood and gunpowder in every line of it. Blown up ! murderous dogs ! All blown up ! Heavens ! what have I and my poor family done, to be all blown up! (Reads.) ‘Our pockets are low, and money we must have. Ay, there’s the reason ; they’ll blow us up, because they have got low pockets. (Reads.) ‘It is but a short time you have to consider ; for if this takes wind, the house will quickly be all i 3 90 goldsmith’s works. of a flame.’ Inhuman monsters ! blow us up, and then burn us. The earthquake at Lisbon was but a bonfire to it. (Beads.) ‘make quick dispatch, and so no more at present. Put may Cupid, the little god of love, go with you wherever you go.’ The little god of love ! Cupid, the little god of love, go with me ! Go you to the devil, you and your little Cupid together ! I’m so frightened, I scarce know whether I sit, stand, or go. Perhaps this moment I’m treading on lighted matches, blazing brimstone, and barrels of gunpowder. They are preparing to blow me up into the clouds. Murder ! We shall all be burnt in our beds ; we shall ail be burnt in our beds ! Enter Miss Richland. Miss Bich. Lord, sir, what’s the matter ? Croaker. Murder’s the matter. We shall all be blown up in our beds before morning. Miss Bich. I hope not, sir. Croaker. What signifies what you hope, madam, when I have a certificate of it here in my hand ? Will nothing alarm my family ? Sleeping and eating, sleeping and eating, is the only work from morning till night in my house. My insensible crew could sleep, though rocked by an earthquake ; and fry beef-stakes at a volcano. Miss Bich. But, sir, you have alarmed them so often already ; we have nothing but earthquakes, famines, plagues, and mad dogs, from year’s end to year’s end. You remember, sir, it is not above a month ago you assured us of a conspiracy among the bakers to poison us in our bread ; and so kept the whole family a week upon potatoes. Croaker. And potatoes were too good for them. But why do I stand talking here with a girl, when I should be facing the enemy without? Here, John, Nicodemus, search the house. Look into the cellars, to see if there be any combustibles below ; and above, in the apartments, that no matches be thrown in at the windows. Let all the fires be put out, and let the engine be drawn out in the yard to play upon the house in case of neces- sity. [Exit. Miss Richland, alone. Miss Bich. What can lie mean by all this? Yet why should I inquire, when he alarms us in this manner almost every day ? But Iloneywood has desired an interview with me in private. What can he mean ? or rather what means this palpitation at his approach ? It is the first time he ever shewed any thing in his conduct that seemed particular. Sure he cannot mean to — • but he’s here. Enter Honeywood. Honey id. I presumed to solicit this interview, madam, before 1 left town, to be permitted — THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 91 Miss Rich. Indeed! Leaving town, sir ?— Honeyiv. Yes, madam ; perhaps the kingdom. I have pre- sumed, I say, to desire the favour of this interview— in order to disclose something which our long friendship prompts. And yet my fears — Miss Rich. His fears ! What are his fears to mine ? ( Aside.) We have indeed been long acquainted, sir ; very long. If I re- member, our first meeting was at the French ambassador’s. — Do you recollect how you were pleased to rally me upon my com- plexion there ? lloneyw. Perfectly, madam ; I presumed to reprove you for painting : but your warmer blushes soon convinced the com- pany, that the colouring was all from nature. Miss Rich. And yet you only meant it, in your good-natured way, to make me pay a compliment to myself. In the same manner you danced that night with the most awkward woman in company, because you saw nobody else would take her out. lloneyw. Yes ; and was rewarded the next night, by dancing with the finest woman in company, whom everybody wished to take out. Miss Rich. Well, sir, if you thought so then, I fear your judgment has since corrected the errors of a first impression. 'We generally shew to most advantage at first. Our sex are like poor tradesmen, that put all their best goods to be seen at the windows. lloneyw. The first impression, madam, did indeed deceive me. I expected to find a woman with all the faults of conscious flattered beauty. I expected to find her vain and insolent. But every day has since taught me that it is possible to possess sense without pride, and beauty without affectation. Miss Rich. This, sir, is a style very unusual with Mr. Honey- wood : and I should be glad to know why he thus attempts to increase that vanity, which his own lesson hath taught me to despise. lloneyw. I ask pardon, madam. Yet, from our long friend- ship, I presumed I might have some right to offer, without offence, what you may refuse without offending. Miss Rich. Sir ! I beg you’d reflect ; though, I fear, I shall scarce have any power to refuse a request of your’s ; yet, you may be precipitate : consider, sir. lloneyw. I own my rashness ; but, as I plead the cause of friendship, of one who loves — Don’t he alarmed, madam — Who loves you with the most ardent passion ; whose whole happiness is placed in you — Miss Rich. I fear, sir, I shall never find whom you mean, by this description of him. lloneyw. Ah, madam, it but too plainly points him out-; though he should be too humble himself to urge his pretensions, or you too modest to understand them. Miss Rich. Well; it would be affectation any longer to pre- 92 goldsmith’s works. tend ignorance ; and I will own, sir, I have long been prejudiced in his favour. It was hut natural to wish to make his heart mine, as he seemed himself ignorant of its value. Honeyw. I see she alwavs loved him. (Aside.) I find, madam, you’re already sensible of his worth, his passion. How happy is my friend, to be the favourite of one with such sense to distinguish merit, and such rave beauty to reward it ! Miss Rich. Your friend ! sir. What friend ? Honeyw. My best friend — My friend Mr. Lofty, madam. Miss Rich. He, sir ! Honeijiv. Yes, he, madam. He is, indeed, what your warmest wishes might have formed him. And to his other qualities, ho adds that of the most passionate regard for you. Miss Rich. Amazement! — Ho more of this, I beg you, sir. Honeyw. I see your confusion, madam, and know how to in- terpret it. And since I so plainly read the language of your heart, shall I make my friend happy, by communicating yoi.r sentiments ? Miss Rich. By no means. Honeyw. Excuse me ; I must ; I know you desire it. Miss Rich. Mr. Honeywood, let me tell you, that you wrong my sentiments and yourself. When I first applied to your friendship, I expected advice and assistance ; but now, sir, I see that it is vain to expect happiness from him who has been so bad an economist of his own ; and that I must disclaim his friendship, who ceases to be a friend to himself. [Exit. Honeyw. How is this ! she has confessed she loved him. and yet she seemed to part in displeasure. Can I have done anything to reproach myself with ? No, I believe not ; yet, after all, these things should not be done by a third person : I should have spared her confusion. My friendship carried me a little too far. Enter Croaker, with the letter in his hand, and Mrs. Croaker. Mrs. Croaker. Ha, ha, ha ! And so, my dear, it’s your supreme wish that I should be quite wretched upon this occasion ? ha, ha ! Croaker. (Mimicking.) Ila, ha, ha ! and so my dear, it’ s your supreme pleasure to give me no better consolation ? Mrs. Croaker. Positively, my dear, what is this incendiary stuff and trumpery to me ? Our house may travel through the air like the house of Loretto, for aught I care, if I’m to be miserable in it. Croaker. Would to Heaven it were converted into a house of correction for your benefit. Have we not every thing t,o alarm us ? Perhaps, this very moment the tragedy is begin- ning. Mrs. Croaker. Then let us reserve our distress till the rising of the curtain, or give them the money they want, and have done with them. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 93 Croaker. Give them my money ! — And pray, what right have they to my money ? Mrs. Croaker. And pray, what right then have you to my good humour ? Croaker. And so your good humour advises me to part with my money ? Why then, to tell your good humour a piece of my mind, I’d sooner part with my wife. Here’s Mr. Honeywood, see what he’ll say to it. My dear Honeywood, look at this incendiary letter dropped at my door. It will freeze you with terror ; and yet lovey here can read it — can read it and laugh. Mrs. Croaker. Yes, and so will Mr. Honeywood. Croaker. If he does, I’ll suffer to be hanged the next minute in the rogue’s place, that’s all. Mrs. Croaker. Speak, Mr. Honeywood; is there any thing more foolish than my husband’s fright upon this occasion? Honeyw. It would not become me to decide, madam ; but doubtless, the greatness of his terrors now, will but invite them to renew their villany another time. Mrs. Croaker. I told you he’d be of my opinion. Croaker. How, sir ! do you maintain that I should lie down under such an injury, and shew, neither by my tears nor com- plaints, that I have something of the spirit of a man in me ? Honeyw. Pardon me, sir. You ought to make the loudest complaints, if you desire redress. The surest way to have redress is to be earnest in tbe pursuit of it. Croaker. Ay, whose opinion is he of now ? Mrs. Croaker. But don’t you think that laughing off your fears is the best way? Honeyw. "What is the best, madam, few can say ; but I’ll maintain it to be a very wise way. Croaker. But we’re talking of the best. Surely the best way is to face the enemy in the field, and not wait till he plunders us in our very bed-chamber. Honeyw. Why, sir, as to the best, that — that’s a very wiso way, too. Mrs. Croaker. But can any thing be more absurd, than to double our distresses by our apprehensions, and put it in the power of every low fellow, that can scrawl ten words of wretched spelling, to torment us ? Honeyw. Without doubt, nothing more absurd. Croaker. How ! would it not be more absurd to despise the rattle till we are bit by the snake. Honeyw. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. Croaker. Then you are of my opinion ? H'Meyw. Entirely. Mrs. Croaker. And you reject mine ? Honeyw. Heavens forbid, madam. No, sure no reasoning can be more just than your’s. We ought certainly to despise malice if we cannot oppose it, and not make the incendiary’s pen as fatal to our repose as the highwayman’s pistol. 94 GOLDSMITH S WORKS. Mrs. Croaker. 0 ! then you think I’m quite right. Honeyw. Perfectly right. Croaker. A plague of plagues, we can’t both be right. I ought either to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. My hat must be on my head, or my hat must be off. Mrs. Croaker. Certainly, in two opposite opinions, if one be perfectly reasonable, the other can’t be perfectly right. Honeyiv. And why may not both be right, madam ; Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking redress, and you in waiting the event with good humour ? Pray let me see the letter again ; I have it. This letter requires twenty guineas to be left at the bar of the Talbot inn ; if it be indeed an incendiary letter, what if you and I, sir, go there, and when the writer comes to be paid his expected booty, seize him ? Croaker. My dear friend, it’s the very thing ; the very thing. While I walk by the door, you shall plant yourself in ambush near the bar; burst out upon the miscreant like a masked battery ; extort a confession at once, and so hang him up by surprise. Honeyw. Yes : but I would not choose to exercise too much severity. It is my maxim, sir, that crimes generally punish themselves. Croaker. Well, but we may upbraid him a little, I sup- pose? (Ironically.) Honey a. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. Croaker. W ell, well, leave that to my own benevolence. Honeyw. Well, I do : but remember that universal benevo- lence is the first law of nature. [. Exeunt Honeywood and Mrs. Croaker. Croaker. Yes : and my universal benevolence will hang the dog, if he had as many necks as a hydra. ACT Y. Scene, An Inn. Enter Olivia, Jarvis. Olivia. Well, we have got safe to the inn, however. Now, if the post-chaise were ready— Jarvis. The horses are just finishing their oats ; and, a s they are not going to be married, they choose to take their owm time. Olivia. You are for ever giving wrong motives to my im - patience. Jarvis. Be as impatient as you will, the horses mast take their own time : besides, you don’t consider, we have got no THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 90 answer from our fellow-traveller yet. If we hear nothing from Mr. Leontine, we have only one way left us. Olivia. What way ? Jarvis. The way home again. Olivia. Not so. I have made a resolution to go, and no- thing shall induce me to break it. Jarvis. Ay ; resolutions are well kept when they jump with inclination. However, I’ll go hasten things without. And I’ll call too at the bar, to see if any tiling should be left for us there. Don’t be in such a plaguy hurry, madam, and we shall go the faster, I promise you. [Exit! J arvis. Enter Landlady. Landlady. What! Solomon; why don’t you move? Pipes and tobacco for the Lamb there — Will nobody answer ! To the Dolphin; quick. The Angel has been outrageous this half hour. Did your ladyship call, madam ? Olivia. No, madam. Landlady. I find, as you’re for Scotland, madam — But, that’s no business of mine ; married or not married, I ask no questions. To be sure, we had a sweet little couple set off from this two days ago, for the same place. The gentleman, for a tailor, was, to be sure, as fine a spoken tailor as ever blew froth from a full pot. And the young lady so bashful, it was near half an hour before we could get her to finish a pint of raspberry between us. Olivia. But this gentleman and I are not going to be mar- ried, I assure you. Landlady. May be not. That’s no business of mine; for certain, Scotch marriages seldom turn out well. There was, of my own knowledge, Miss Macfag, that married her father’s footman — Alaclc-a-day, she and her husband soon parted, and now keep separate cellars in Iledge-lane. Olivia. A very pretty picture of what lies before me. [Aside. Enter Leontine. Leant. My dear Olivia, my anxiety till you were out of danger was too great to be resisted ; I could not help coming to sae you set out, though it exposes us to a discovery. Olivia. May every thing you do prove as fortunate. Indeed, Leontine, we have been most cruelly disappointed. Mr. Iloncywood’s bill upon the city, has, it seems, been protested, and we have been utterly at a loss how to proceed. Leont. How ! An offer of his own, too. Sure he could not moan, to deceive us. Olivia. Depend upon his sincerity; he only mistook the desire for the power of serving us. But let us think no more of it. I believe the post-chase is ready by this. 96 goldsmith’s works. Landlady. Not quite yet ; and, begging your ladyship's pardon, I don’t think your ladyship quite ready for the post- chaise. The north road is a cold place, madam. I have a drop in the house of as pretty raspberry as ever was tipt over tongue. Just a thimbleful, to keep the wind off your stomach. To be sure, the last couple we had here, they said it was a perfect nosegay. Ecod, I sent them both away as good natured —Up went the blinds, round went the wheels, and Drive away, post-boy, was the word. Enter Croaker. Croaker. Well, while my friend Iloneywood is upon the post of danger at the bar, it must be my business to have an eye about me here. I think I know an incendiary’s look; for, wherever the devil makes a purchase, he never fails to set his mark. Ha ! who have we here ? My son and daughter ! what can they be doing here ? Landlady. I tell you, madam, it will do you good ; I think I know by this time what’s good for the north road. It’s a raw night, madam. — Sir — Leont. Not a drop more, good madam. I should now take it as a greater favour, if you hasten the horses ; for I am afraid to be seen myself. Landlady. That shall be done. Wha, Solomon ! are you all dead there ? Wha, Solomon, I say ! [Exit, bawling. Olivia. Well, I dread lest an expedition begun in fear, should end in repentance. — Every moment we stay increases our danger, and adds to my apprehensions. Leont. There’s no danger trust me, my dear; there can be none ; if Honeywood has acted with honour, and kept my father, as he promised, in employment, till we are out of danger, nothing can interrupt our journey. Olivia. I have no doubt of Mr. Honeywood’ s sincerity, and even his desires to serve us. My fears are from your father’s suspicions. A mind so disposed to be alarmed without a cause, will be but too ready when there’s a reason. Leont. Why, let him, when we are out of his power. But, believe me, Olivia, you have no great reason to dread his resentment. His repining temper, as it does no manner of injury to himself, so will it never do harm to others. _ He only frets to keep himself employed, and scolds for his private a nusement. Olivia. I don’t know that; but, I’m sure, on some occa- sions, it makes him look most shockingly. Croaker . ( Discovering himself. ) How does he look now ? — How does he look now ? Olivia. Ah ! Leont. Undone. , Croaker. How do I look now f Sir, I am your very humb le THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. servant. Madam, I am your’s. What, you are going off, are you ? Then, first, if you please, take a word or two from me with you before you go. Tell me first where you are goino- * and when you have told me that, perhaps, I shall know as little as 1 did before. Leont. If that be so, our answer might hut increase your displeasure, without adding to your information. Croaker. I want no information from you, puppy ; and you too, madam, what answer have you got ? Eh ! ( A cry without Stop him.) I think I heard a noise. My friend, Honeywood, without — has he seized the incendiary? Ah, no, for uow'l hear no more on’t. leont. Honeywood without? Then, sir, it was Mr. Honey- wood that directed you hither. 1 Croaker. Ho, sir, it was Mr. Honeywood conducted me hither. Leont. Is it possible ? Croaker. Possible ! Why he’s in the house now, sir. More anxious about me than my own son, sir. Leont. Then, sir, he’s a villain. Ci oaker. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes most care of your father? I’ll not bear it. I tell you I’ll not bear it. Honeywood is a friend to the family, and IT1 have him treated as such. Leont. I shall study to repay his friendship as it deserves. . Croaker ._ Ah, rogue, _ if you knew how earnestly he entered into my griefs, and pointed out the means to detect them, you would love him as I do. (A cry without , Stop him.) Fire and. fury! they have seized the incendiary: they have the villain, the incendiary in view. Stop him, stop an incendiary a murderer ! stop him ! r Exit Olivia. Oh, my terrors! What can this new tumult mean? . Ieon ^ new I suppose, of Mr. Honeywood’s sincerity. But we shall have satisfaction : he shall o'iye me instant, satisfaction. ° Olivia. It must not be, my Leontine, if you value my esteem, or my happiness. Whatever be our fate, let us not add guilt to our misfortunes. Consider that our innocence will shortly be all we have left us. You must forgive him. Leont. Forgive him ! Has he not in every instance betrayed us. forced me to borrow money from him, which appeal a mere trick to delay us : promised to keep my father engaged till we were out of danger, and here brought him to the very scene of our escape ? J Olivia. Don’t be precipitate, we may yet he mistaken. Enter Post-boy, dragging in Jarvis: Honeywood entering soon after . Lost-boy. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. Here is 58 GOLDSMITH 'WORKS. the incendiary dog. I’m entitled to the reward ; I’ll take my oath I saw him ask for money at the bar, and then run for it. Honey w. Come, bring him along, let us see him. Let him learn to blush for his crimes. ( Discovering his mistake.) Death! what’s here? Jarvis, Leontine, Olivia! what can all this mean ? Jarvis. Why, I’ll tell you what it means : that I was an old fool, and that you are my master — that’s all. Honeyw. Confusion ! Leont. Yes, sir, I find you have kept your word with me. After such baseness, I wonder how you can venture to see the man you have injured. Honeyw. My dear Leontine, by my life, my honour— Leont. Peace, peace ; for shame ; and do not continue to aggravate baseness by hypocrisy. I know you, sir, I know you. Honeyw. Why, won’t you hear ? By all that’s just, I knew not— Leont. Hear you, sir, to what purpose? I now see through all your low arts ; your ever complying with every opinion ; your never refusing any request ; your friendship as common as a prostitute’s favours, and as fallacious ; all these, sir, have been long contemptible to the world, and are now perfectly so to me. Honeyio. Ha! contemptible to the world! That reaches me. (Aside.) Leont. All the seeming sincerity of your professions, I now find, were only allurements to betray; and all your seeming regret for their consequences, only calculated to cover the cowardice of your heart. Draw, villain ! Enter Croaker, out of breath. Croaker. AW ere is the villain? Where is the incendiary? (seizing the post-boy.) Hold him fast, the dog ; he has the gallows in his face. Come, you dog ; confess ; confess all, and hang yourself. Lost- bog. Zounds, master ! what do you throttle me for ? Croaker. (Beating him.) Dog, do you resist? do you esist ? Post-boy. Zounds, master! I’m not he; there’s the man that we thought was the rogue, and turns out to be one of the company. Croaker. How! Honeyio. Mr. Croaker, we have been all under a strange mistake here : I find there is nobody guilty ; it was all an error ; entirely an error of our own. Croaker. And I say, sir, that you’re in an error; for there’s guilt, and double guilt: a plot, a damn’d Jesuitical, pestilential plot ; and I must have proof of it. THE GOOD-NATUUao MAX. 99 Honeyw. Do but hear me. Croaker. What, you intend to bring ’em off, I suppose; I’ll hear nothing. Honeyw. Madam, you seem at least calm enough to hear reason. Olivia. Excuse me. Honeyw. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it to you. Jarvis. What signifies explanation, when the thing is done ? Honeyw. Will nobody hear me ? Was there ever such a set, so blinded by passion and prejudice! (To the post-boy.) My good friend, I believe you’ll be surprised when I assure you Post-boy. Sure me nothing — I’m sure of nothing but a good beating. Croaker. Come then, you, madam, if you ever hope for any favour of forgiveness, tell me sincerely all you know of this affair. Olivia. Unhappily, sir, I’m but too much the cause of your suspicious: you see before you, sir, one that with false pre- tences has stept into your family to betray it : not your daughter— Croaker. Not my daughter ! Olivia. Not your daughter — but a mean deceiver — who — support me— I cannot — Honeyw. Help, she’s going, give her air. Croaker. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the air ; I would not hurt an hair of her head, whoseever daughter she may be — not so bad as that neither. [Exeunt all but Croaker. Croaker. Yes, yes, all’s e out ; I now see the whole affair: my son is either married or going to be so, to this lady, whom he imposed upon me as his sister, Ay, certainly so ; and yet I don’t find it afflicts me so much as one might think. There’s the advantage of fretting away our misfortunes beforehand, we never feel them when they come. Enter Miss Richland and Sir William. Sir Will.' But how do you know, madam, that my nephew intends setting off from this place ? Miss Rich. My maid assured me that he was come to this inn, and my own knowledge of his intending to leave the king- dom suggested the rest. But what do I see? my guardian here before us ! Who, my dear sir, could have expected meeting you here ? To what accident do we owe this pleasure ? Croaker. To a fool, I believe . Miss Rich. But to what purpose did you come? Croaker. To play the fool. Miss Rich. But with whom ? Croaker. With greater fools than myself. Miss Rich. Explain. 100 goldsmith’s works. Croaker. Why, Mr. Honeywood brought me here, to do nothing now I am here ; and' my son is going to be married to I donH know who that is here : so now you are as wise as 1 am. Miss Rich. Married ! to whom, sir ? Croaker. To Olivia ; my daughter, as I took her to be ; but who the devil she is, or whose daughter she is, I know no more than the man in the moon. Sir Will. Then, sir, I can inform you ; and though a stranger, yet you shall find me a friend to your family : it will be enough at present to assure you, that both in point of birth and fortune, the young lady is at least, your son’s equal. Being left by her father, Sir J ames Woodvillc — Croaker. Sir James Woodville ! What, of the west? Sir Will. Being left by him, I say, to the care of a mer- cenary wretch, whose only aim was to secure her fortune to himself, she was sent into ‘France, under pretence of education : and there every art was tried to fix her for life in a convent, contrary to her inclinations. Of this I was informed upon my arrival at Paris ; and as I had been once her father’s friend, I did all in my powder to frustrate her guardian’s base intentions. 1 had even meditated to rescue her from his authority, when your son stept in with more pleasing violence, gave her liberty, and you a daughter. Croaker. But I intend to have a daughter of my own choosing, sir. A young lady, sir, whose fortune, by my interest with those that have interest, will be double, what my son has a right to expect. Do you know Mr. Lofty, sir ? Sir Will. Yes, sir ; and know that you are deceived in him. But step this way, and PH convince you. [Croaker and Sir William seem to confer. Enter Honeywood. Eoneyw . Obstinate man, still to persist in his outrage! Insulted by him, despised by all, I now begin to grow con- temptible even to myself. How have I sunk, by too great an assiduity to please ! How have I overtaxed all my abilities, lest the approbation of a single fool should escape me ! But all is now over; I have survived my reputation, my fortune, my friendships : and nothing remains henceforward for me but solitude and repentance. Miss Rich. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that you are setting off, without taking leave of your friends ? The report is, that you are quitting England. Can it be ? Roney w. Yes, madam : and though I am so unhappy as to have fallen under your displeasure, yet, thank Heaven, 1 lcawe you to your happiness ; to one who loves you, and deserves your love ; to one who has power to procure you affluence, and generosity to improve your enjoyment of it. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 101 Miss Rich. And are you sure, sir, that the gentleman you mean is what you describe him ? Moneyw. I have the best assurances of it, his serving me. He does, indeed, deserve the highest happiness, and that is in your power to confer. As for me, weak and wavering as I have been, obliged by all, and incapable of serving any, what happiness can I find, but in solitude ? What hope, but in being forgotten ? Mm Rich. A thousand ; to live among friends that esteem you ; whose happiness it will be to be permitted to oblige you. Moneyw. No, madam ; my resolution is fixed. Inferiority among strangers is easy: but among those that once were equals, insupportable. Nay, to show you how far my resolution can go, I can now speak with calmness of my former follies, my vanity, my dissipation, my weakness. I will even confess, that among the number of my other presumptions, I had the inso- lence to think of loving you. Yes, madam, while I was pleading the passion of another, my heart was tortured with its own. But it is over, it was unworthy our friendship, and let it be forgotten. Miss Rich. You amaze me ! Moneyw. But you’ll forgive it, I know you will ; since the confession should not have come from me" even now, but to convince you of the sincerity of my intention of — never men- tioning it more. . [Going. Miss Rich. Stay, sir, one moment — Ha! he here — Enter Lofty. Lofty. Is the coast clear ? None but friends. I have fol- lowed you here with a trifling piece of intelligence : but it goes no farther ; things are not yet l’ipe for a discovery. I have spirits working at a certain board: your affairs at the Trea- sury will be done in less than— a thousand years. Mum ! Miss Rich. Sooner, sir, I should hope. Lofty. Why, yes, I believe it may if it falls into proper hands, that know where to push, and where to parry; that know how the land lies — eh, Honeywood? Miss Rich. It is fallen into your’s. Lofty. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, your thing is done. It is done, I say- — that’s all. I have just had assur- ances from Lord Ncverout, that the claim has been examined, and found admissible. Quietus is the word, madam. Moneyw. But how ? his lordship has been at Newmarket these ten days. Lofty. Indeed ! then Sir Gilbert Goose must have been most damnably mistaken. I had it of him. . Miss Rich. He ! why, Sir Gilbert and his family have been in the country this month. Lofty. This month ! It must certainly be so — Sir Gilbert's 102 goldsmith’s works. letter did come to me from Newmarket, so that he must hays met his lordship there ; and so it came about. I have his letter about me ; I’ll read it to you. ( Taking out a large bundle.) That’s from Paolia, of Corsica: that’s from ths Marquis of Squilachi. — Have you a mind to see a letter from Count Poniatowski, now king of Poland ? — Honest Pon ( Searching.) 0, sir, what are you here too ? I’ll tell you what, honest friend, if you have not absolutely delivered my letter to Sir William Honeywood, you may return it. The thing will do without him. Sir Will. Sir, I have delivered it, and must inform you it was received with the most mortifying contempt. Croaker. Contempt ! Mr. Lofty, what can that mean ? Lofty. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You’ll find it come to something presently. Sir Will. Yes, sir, I believe you’ll he amazed, if, after waiting some time in the antechamber; after being surveyed with insolent curiosity, by the passing servants, I was at last assured, that Sir William Honeywood knew no such person, and I must certainly have been imposed upon. Lofty. Good ; let me die, very good. Ha, ha, ha ! Croaker. Now, for my life, I can’t find out half the goodness of it. Lofty. You can’t. Ha, ha! Croaker. No, for the soul of me; I think it was as con- founded a bad answer, as ever was sent from one private gentle- man to another. Lofty. And so you can’t find out the force of the message ? Why, I was in the house at that very time. Ha, ha ! It was I that sent that very answer to my own letter. Ha, ha ! Croaker. Indeed ? How ! why ? Lofty. In one word, things between Sir William and me must be behind the curtain. A party has many eyes. He sides ■with Lord Buzzard : I side with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the mystery. Croaker. And so it does, indeed, and all my suspicions are over. Lofty. Your suspicions ! What, then you have been sus- pecting, have you ? Mr. Croaker, you and I were friends, we are friends no longer. Never talk to me. It’s over ; I say, it’s over. Croaker. As I hope for your favour, I did not mean to offend. It escaped me. Don’t be discomposed. Lofty. Zounds, sir, but I am discomposed, and will be dis- composed. To be treated thus! Who am I ? Was it for this I have been dreaded, both by ins and outs ? Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer, and praised in the St. James’s? have I been chaired at Wildman’s, and a speaker at Merchant Taylors’ Hall? have I had my hand to addres-es, and my head in the print-shops, and talk to me of suspects ? THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 103 Croaker. My dear sir, be pacified, What can you have but asking pardon ? Lofty. Sir, I will not be pacified — Suspects ! Who am I ? To be used thus, have I paid court to men in favour to serve my friends, the lords of the Treasury, Sir William Honeywood, and the rest of the gang, and talk to me of suspects ? Who am I, I say ? who am I ? Sir Will. Since, sir, you’re so pressing for an answer, I’ll tell you who you are — a gentleman, as well acquainted with politics as with men in power : as well acquainted with persons of fashion as with modesty : with lords of the Treasury as with truth : and with all, as you are with Sir William Honeywood. I am Sir William Honeywood. [Discovering his ensigns of the Bath. Croaker. Sir William Honeywood ! Honeyw. Astonishment ! my uncle ! [Aside. Lofty. So then, my confounded genius have been all this time only leading me up to the garret, in order to fling me out of the window. Croaker. What, Mr Importance, and are these your works ? Suspect you ! You, who have been dreaded by the ins and outs : you, who have had your hand to addresses, and your head stuck up in print-shops. If you were served right, you should have your head stuck up in the pillory. Lofty. Ay, stick it where you will ; for, by the Lord, it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks at present. Sir Will. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you now see how incapable this gentleman is of serving you, and how little Miss Itichland has to expect from his influence. Croaker. Ay, sir, too well I see it, and I can’t but say I have had some bodings of it these ten days. So I am resolved, since my son has placed his affections on a lady of moderate fortune, to be satisfied with his choice, and not run the hazard of another Mr. Lofty, in helping him to a better. Sir Will. I approve your resolution; and here they come to receive a confirmation of your pardon and consent. Enter Mrs. Croaker, Jarvis, Leontine, Olivia. Mrs. Croaker. Where’s my husband? Come, come lovey, you must forgive them. Jarvis here has been to tell me the , whole affair ; and, I say, you must forgive them. Our own was a stolen match, you know, my dear ; and we never had any reason to repent of it. Croaker. I wish we could both say so : however, this gentle- man, Sir William Honeywood, has been beforehand with you in obtaining their pardon. So if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, I think we can tack them together, without crossing the Tweed for it. [Joining their hands. Leont. How blest, and unexpected ! What, what can we say 104 goldsmith’s works. to such goodness ? But our future obedience shall be the best reply. And, as for this gentleman, to whom we owe Sir Will. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your thanks, as I have here an interest that calls me. ( Turning to LLoneywood.) Yes, sir, you are surprised to see me ; and I own that a desire of correcting your follies led me hither. I saw, with indig- nation, the errors of a mind, that only sought applause from others; the easiness of disposition, which, though inclined to the right, had not courage to condemn the wrong. I saw, with regret, those splendid errors, that still took name from some neighbouring duty. Your charity, that was but injustice; your benevolence, that was but weakness ; and your friend- ship, but credulity. I saw, with regret, great talents and ex- tensive learning only employed to add sprightliness to error, and increase your perplexities. I saw your mind, with a thousand natural charms : but the greatness of its beauty served only to heighten my pity for its prostitution. Lloneyw. Cease to upbraid me, sir : I have, for some time, but too strongly felt the justice of your reproaches. But there is one way still left me. Yes, sir, I have determined, this very hour, to quit for ever a place where I have made myself the voluntary slave of all ; and to seek among strangers that fortitude which may give strength to the mind, and marshal all its dissipated virtues. Yet, ere I depart, permit me to solicit favour for this gentleman : who, notwithstanding what has happened, has laid me under the most signal obligations. Mr. Lofty — Lofty. Mr. Honeywood, I am resolved upon a reformation as well as you. I now begin to find, that the man who first invented the art of speaking truth, was a much cunningcr fellow than I thought him. And, to prove that I design to 6peak truth for the future, I must now assure you, that you owe your late enlargement to another ; as, upon my soul, I had no hand in the matter. So now, if any of the company has a mind for preferment, he may take my place, I’m determined to resign. [Exit. Lloneyw. How have I been deceived ! Sir Will. No, sir, you have been obliged to a kinder, fairer friend, for that favour— to Miss Kichland. Would she com- plete our joy, and make the man she has honoured by her friendship, happy in her love, I should then forget all, and be as blest as the welfare of my dearest kinsman can make me. Miss Rich. After what is past, it would be but affectation to f retend to indifference. Yes, I will own an attachment, which, find, was more than friendship. And if my intreaties cannot' alter his resolution to quit the country, I will even try if my hand has not power to detain him. [ Giving her hand. Lloneyw. Heavens ! how can I have deserved all this ? How express my happiness, my gratitude l A moment, like this, overpays an age of apprehension. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 105 Croaker. Well, now I see content in every face ; but Heaven Bend we be all better this day three months. Sir Will. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect yourself. He who seeks only for applause from without, has all his happiness in another’s keeping. Honeyiv. Yes, sir, I now too plainly perceive my errors. My vanity, in attempting to please all, by fearing to offend any. My meanness, in approving folly, lest fools should dis- approve. Henceforth, therefore, it shall be my study to reserve my pity for real distress ; my friendship for true merit, and my love for her who first taught me what it is to be happy. EPILOGUE,* SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY. As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure, To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure ; Thus on the stage, our play-wrights still depend, For Epilogues and Prologues, on some friend, Who knows each art of coaxing up the tow, And make full many a bitter pill go down. Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, And teaz’d each rhyming friend to help him out. ‘An Epilogue, things can’t go on without it; It could not fail, would you but set about it.’ ‘ Young man,’ cries one (a bard laid up in clover), ‘ Alas young man, my writing days are over ; Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I ; Your brother- doctor there, perhaps, may try.’ ‘ What I, dear sir ?’ the doctor interposes ; ‘ What plant my thistle, sir, among his roses ? No, no ; I’ve other contests to maintain ; To night I head our troops at Warwick-lane. Go, ask your manager.’ — ‘Who me? Your pardon; Those things are not our forte at Covent-garden.’ * The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at Oxford, deferred writing one himself till the very last hour. What is here offered owes all its success to the graceful manner of the actress who spoke it. 103 goldsmith’s works. Our author’s friends, thus placed at happy distance, Give him good words, indeed, hut no assistance. As some unhappy wight, at some new play, At the pit-door stands elbowing away, While oft with many a smile, and many a shrug, He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug : His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes, Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise : He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grin ace ; But not a soul will budge to give him place. Since then, unhelp’d, our bard must now con orm, To ’bide the pelting of this pitiless storm : Blame where you must, be candid where you can. And be each critic the Good-Natured Man. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; on, THE MISTAKES OP A NIGHT: A COMEDY. DRAMATIS PERSONAS. MEN. Sir Charles Marlow. Young Marlow (his son). ITardcastle. Hastings. Tony Lumpkin. Diggory. WOMEN. Mrs. Hardcastlo. Miss Harden -tie. Miss Neville. Maid. Landlord, Servants, dr. ’jx TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. Dear Sir, By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean so much to compliment you as myself. It may do me some honour to inform the public, that I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind, also, to inform them, that the greatest wit may be found in a character, without impairing the most unaffected piety. I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to this performance. The undertaking a Comedy not merely senti- mental, was very dangerous ; and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured to trust it to the public ; and though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason to be grateful. I am, dear Sir, Your most sincere friend and admirer. Oliver. Goldsmith. 109 PROLOGUE, BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. JE 'nter Mr. Woodward, Dressed in black, and holding a handkerchief to his eyes. Excuse me, sirs, I pray — I can’t yet speak — I’m crying now — and have been all the week ! ’ Tis not alone this mourning suit , good masters ; I’ve that within — for which there are no plasters ! Pray would you know the reason why I’m crying ? The comic muse, long sick, is now a dying ! And if she goes my tears will never stop ; For as a play’r I can’t squeeze out one drop : I am undone, that’s all— shall lose my bread — I’d rather, hut that’s nothing — lose my head. When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, Shuter and / shall be chief mourners here. To her a mawkish drab, of spurious breed, Who deals in sentimentals , will succeed ! Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents ; We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments l Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, We now and then take down a hearty cup. What shall we do ? — If Comedy forsake us, They’ll turn us out , and no one else will take us. But why can’t I be moral ? — Let me try — My heart thus pressing — fix’d my face and eye — - With a sententious look, that nothing means (Faces are blocks, in sentimental scenes), Thus I begin — All is not gold that glitters. Pleasure seems sweet , but proves a glass of bitters. When ign’ ranee enters, folly is at hand ; Learning is better far than house and land. Let not your virtue trip , who trips may stumble , And virtue is not virtue , if she tumble. I give it up — morals won’t do for me ; To make you laugh I must play tragedy. One hope remains — hearing the maid was ill, A doctor comes this night to shew his skill. To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion, He in five draughts prepar’d, pretends a potion A kind of magic charm — for be assur’d, If you will swallow it, the maid is cur’d : But desperate the doctor, and her case is, If you reject the dose, and make wry faces ! This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, No pois’nous drugs are mixed with what he gives s Should he succeed, you’ll give him his degree j If not, within he will receive no fee ! The college you, must his pretensions back, Pronounce him regular, or dub him quack. L 110 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; OR, THE MISTAKES OE A NIGHT. ACT I. Scene, A chamber in an old-fashioned house. Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Hardcastle. Mrs. Hardcastle. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you’re very particular. Is there a creature in the whole country, hut ourselves, that does not take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the rust a little ? There’s the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour, Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month’s polishing every winter. Hard. Ay, and bring back, vanity and affectation to last them the whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own fools at home. In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach. Its fopperies come down, not only as inside passengers ; but in the very basket. Mrs. Hard. Ay, your times were fine times, indeed ; you have been telling us of them for many a long year. Here we live in an old rumbling mansion, that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate’s wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing-master ; and all our entertainment, your old stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such old fashioned trumpery. Hard. And I love it. I love every thing that’s old : old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine ; and I believe, Dorothy ( talcing her hand J, you’ll own I have been pretty fond of an old wife. Mrs. Hard. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you’re for ever at youi Dorothy’s, and your old wives. You may be a Darby, but I’ll be no Joan, I promise you. I’m not so old as you’d make me, SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Ill by more than one good year. Add twenty to twenty, and make money of that. Hard. Let me see ; twenty added to twenty make iust fifty and seven. J Mrs. Hard. It’s false, Mr. Hardcastle : I was but twenty when I was brought to bed of Tony, that I had by Mr. Lump- kin, my first husband ; and he s not come to years of discretion yet. Hard. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have taught him finely. Mrs. Hard. No matter, Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. I don’t think a boy wants much learning to spend fifteen hundred a year. Hard. Learning, quotha ! a mere composition of tricks and mischief. Mrs. Hard. Humour, my dear : nothing but humour. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little humour. Hard. I d sooner allow him a horse-pond. If the burning the lootmen’s shoes, frightening the maids, worrying the kittens, be humour, he has it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popt my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle’s face. Mrs. Hard. And am I to blame ? The poor boy was always too sickly to do any good. A school would be his death. When lie comes to be a little stronger, who knows what a year or two’s Latin may do for him ? Hard. Latin for him ! A cat and fiddle. No, no, the ale- house and the stable are the only schools he’ll ever go to. Mrs. Hard. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I believe we shan’t have him long among us. Anybody that looks in his face may see he’s consumptive. Hard. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms. Mrs. Hard. He coughs sometimes. Hard. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way. Mrs. Hard. I’m actually afraid of his lungs. Hard. And truly so am I ; for he sometimes whoops like a speaking-trumpet — ( Tony hallooing behind the scenes ) — 0 there he goes — a very consumptive figure, truly. Enter Tony, crossing the stage. Mrs. Hard. Tony, where are you going, my charmer? W on’t you give papa and I a little of your company, lovey ? Tony. I’m in haste, mother, I cannot stay. Mrs. Hard. You sha’n’t venture out this raw evening, my dear : you look most shockingly. Tony. I can’t stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me down every moment. There’s some fun going forward. Hard. Ay ; the alehouse, the old place ; I thought so. Mrs. Hard. A low, paltry set of follows. 112 goldsmith’s works. Tony. Not so low, neither. There’s Dick Muggins the ex- ciseman, Jack Slang the horse-doctor, little Aminidah, that grinds the music box, and Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter. Mrs. Hard. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for one night at least. Tony. As for disappointing them , I should not so much mind ; but I can’t abide to disappoint myself. Mrs. Hard. ( Detaining him. ) You sha’n’t go. Tony. I will, I tell you. Mrs. Hard. I say you sha’n’t. Tony. We’ll see which is the strongest, you or I. [Exit, hawling her out. Hardcastle, solus. Hard. Ay, there goes a pair that only spoil each other. But is not the whole age in a combination to drive sense and dis- cretion out of doors ? There’s my pretty darling, Kate ; the fashions of the times have almost infected her too. By living a year or two in town, she is as fond of gauze and French frippery as the best of them. Enter Miss Hardcastle. Hard. Blessings on my pretty innocence! Drest out as usual, my Kate. Goodness ! What a quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got about thee, girl ! I could never teach the fools of this age, that the indigent world could be clothed out of the trimmings of the vain. Miss Hard. You know our agreement, sir. You allow me the morning to receive and pay visits, and to dress in my own manner; and in the evening, I put on my housewife’s dress to please you. Hard. Well, remember I insist on the terms of our agree- ment ; and, by the by, I believe I shall have occasion to try your obedience this very evening. Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I don’t comprehend your meaning. Hard. Then, to be plain with you, Kate, I expect the young gentleman I have chosen to be your husband from town this very day. I have his father’s letter, in which he informs me his son is set out, and that he intends to follow himself shortly after. Miss Hard. Indeed ! I wish I had known something of this before. Bless me, how shall I behave r It’s a thousand to one I shan’t like him ; our meeting will be as formal, and so like a thing of business, that I shall find no room for friendship or esteem. Hard. Depend upon it, child, I’ll never control your SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 113 choice ; But Mr. Marlow, whom I have pitched upon, is the sou of my old friend, Sir Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk so often. The young gentleman has been bred a scholar ; and is designed for an employment in the service of his country. I’m told he’s a man of an excellent under- standing. Miss Hard. Is he ? Hard. Very generous, Miss Hard, i believe I shall like him. Hard. Young and brave. Miss Hard. I’m sure I shall like him. Hard. And very handsome. Miss Hard. My dear papa, say no more (kissing his hand) ; he’s mine, and I’ll have him. Hard. And to crown all, Kate, he’s one of the most bashful and reserved young fellows in all the world. Miss Hard. Eh ! you have frozen me to death again. That word reserved has undone all the rest of his accomplish- ments. A reserved lover, it is said, always makes a suspicious husband. Hard. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides in a breast that is not enriched with nobler virtues. It was the very feature in his character that first struck me. Miss Hard. He must have more striking features to catch me, I promise you. However, if he be so young, so handsome, and so every thing, as you mention, I believe he’ll do still. I think I’ll have him. Hard. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. It’s more than an even wager, h e may not have you. Miss Hard. My dear papa, why will you mortify one so ! — Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking my heart at his indif- ference, I’ll only break my glass for its flattery, set my cap to some newer fashion, and look out for some less difficult admirer. Hard. Bravely resolved ! In the mean time, I’ll go prepare the servants for his reception, as we seldom see company ; they want as much training as a company of recruits the first day’s muster. [Exit. Miss Hardcastle, sola. Miss Hard. Lud, this news of papa’s puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome ; these he put last ; but I put them foremost. Sensible, good-natured ; I like all that. But then reserved and sheepish ; that’s much against him. Yet can’t he bo cur’d of his timidity, by being taught to be proud of his wife ? Yes ; and can’t I — But, I vow, I’m disposing of the husband before I have secured the lover. Enter Miss Neville. Miss Hard. I’m glad you’re come, Neville, my dear. Tell 114 goldsmith's works. me, Constance, how do I look this evening ? Is there any thifig whimsical about me ? Is it one of my well-looking days, child? Am I in face to-day ? Miss Nev. Perfectly, my dear. Yet, now I look again— bless me ! — sure no accident has happened among the canary birds, or the gold fishes. Has your brother or the cat been meddling ? Or, has the last novel been too moving ? Miss Hard. No ; nothing of all this. I have been threat- ened— I can scarce get it out — I have been threatened with a lover. Miss Nev. And his name Miss Hard. Is Marlow. Miss Nev. Indeed ! . Miss Hard. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. Miss Nev. As I live, the most intimate friend of Mr. Hastings, my admirer. They are never asunder. I believe you must have seen him when we lived in town. Miss Hard. Never. Miss Nev. He’s a very singular character, I assure you. Among women of reputation and virtue, he is the modestest man alive ; but his acquaintance give him a very different character among creatures of another stamp ; you understand me. Miss Hard. An odd character, indeed. I shall never be able to manage him. What shall I do ! Pshaw, think no more of him, but trust to occurrences for success. But how goes on your own affair, my dear ? has my mother been courting you for my brother Tony, as usual. Miss Nev. I have just come from one of our agreable tete-a tetes. She has been saying a hundred tender things, and setting off' her pretty monster as the very pink of perfection. Miss Hard. And her partiality is such, that she actually thinks him so. A fortune like your’s is no small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole management of it, Pm not sur- prised to see her unwilling to let it go out of the family. Miss Nev. A fortune like mine, which chiefly consists of jewels, is no such mighty temptation. But at any rate if my dear Hastings be but constant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at last. However, I let her suppose that I am in love with her son, and she never once dreams that my affections are fixed upon another. Miss Hard. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost love him for hating you so. Miss Nev. It is a good natured creature at bottom, and I’m sure would wish to see me married to anybody but himself. But my aunt’s bell rings for our afternoon’s walk round the improvements. Ailons ! courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical. Miss Hard. Would it were bed-time, and all were well, [Exeunt. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 115 Scene, An alehouse room , Several shabby felloics, with pmeh and tobacco. Tony at the head of the table, a little higher than, the rest : a mallet in his hand. Omnes. Hurrea, huirea, liurrea, bravo ! 1 Fel. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The ’squire is going to knock himself down for a song. Omnes. Ay, a song, a song. Tony. Then I’ll sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon this alehouse, the Three Pigeons. SONG. Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain, With grammar, and nonsense, and learning; Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, Gives genus a better discerning. Let them brag of their heathenish gods, Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians ; Their quis, and their quees, and their quods. They’re all but a parcel of pigeons. Toroddle, toroddlc, toroll. When methodist preachers come down A preaching that drinking- is sinful, I’ll wager the rascals a crown, They always preach best with a skinful. But when you come down with your pence, For a slice of their scurvy religion, I’ll leave it to all men of sense, „ But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. Then come put the jorum about, And let us be merry and clever ; Our hearts and our liquors are stout, Here’s the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. Let some cry up woodcock or hare. Tour bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons ; But of all the birds in the air. Here’s a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. Omnes. Bravo ! bravo ! 1 Fel. The ’squire has got some spunk in him. 2 Fel. I loves to hear him sing, bekays he never gives us nothing that’s low. 3 Fel. 0 damn any thing that’s low, I cannot bear it. 4 Fel. The genteel thing is the genteel at any time. If so that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly. 3 Fel. I like the maxum of it, Master Muggins. What though I am obligated to dance a bear, a man may be a gentle- man for all that. May this be my poison, if my bear ever 116 goldsmith’s works. dances but to the very genteelest of tunes ; ‘Walter Parted,’ or ‘the Minuet in Ariadne.’ 2 Fel. What a pity it is the ’squire is not come to his own ! It would be well for all the publicans within ten miles round of him. Tony. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I’d then show what it was to keep choice of company. 2 Fel. 0 he takes after his own father for that. To be sure, old ’squire Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever set my eye on. For wunding the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a hare, or a wench, we never had his fellow. It is a saying in the place, that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls, in the whole country. Tony. Ecod, and when I’m of age, I’ll be no bastard I promise you. I have been thinking of Bet Bouncer, and the miller’s gray mare to begin ivith. But come, my boys, drink about and be merry, for you pay no reckoning. Well, Stingo, what’s the matter ? Enter Landlord. Land. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door. They have lost their way upo’ the forest ; and they are talking something about Mr. Hardcastle. Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentle- man that’s coming down to court my sister. Do they seem to be Londoners ? Land. I believe they may. They look woundily like French- men. Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I’ll set them right in a twinkling. (Exit Landlord.) Gentlemen, as they may’nt be good enough company for you, step down for a moment, and I’ll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. \ Exeunt mob. Tony, solus. Tony. Fathcr-in law has been calling me whelp, and hound, this half-year. Now, if I pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old grumblctonian. But then I’m afraid — afraid of what i“ I shall be worth fifteen hundred a-year, and let him frighten me out of that if he can. Enter Landlord, conducting Marlow and Hastings. Marl. What a tedious, uncomfortable day have we had of it ! We were told it was but forty miles across the country, and we have come about threescore. Hast. And all, Marlow, from that unaccountable reserve of yours, that would not let us enquire more frequently on the way*. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 117 Marl. T own, Hastings, I am unwilling- to Lay myself under an obligation to every one I meet ; and often stand the chance of an unmannerly answer. East. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any answer. Tony. No offence, gentlemen ; hut I’m told you have been inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle, in these parts. Do you know what part of the country you are in ? East. Not in the least, sir ; but should thank you for information. Tony. Nor the way you came ? East. No, sir ; but if you can inform us Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, the first thing I have to inform you is, that — you have lost your way. Marl. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so hold as to ask the place from whence you came ? Marl. That’s not necessary towards directing us where we are to go. Tony. No offence ; but question for question is all fair, you know. Pray, gentleman, is not this same Hardcastle a cross- grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face; a daughter, and a pretty son ? East. AVe have not seen the gentleman; but he has the family you mention. Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talkative May-pole The son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that every body is fond of. Marl. Our information differs in this. The daughter is said to be well-bred and beautiful; the son an awkward booby, reared up, and spoiled at his mother’s apron-string. Tony. He-he-hem — Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, that you won’t reach Mr. Hardcastle’s house this night, I believe. East. Unfortunate ! Tony. It’s a damn’d long, dark, boggy, dirty, dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle’ ( winking upon the landlady J ; Mr. Hardcastle’s, of Quagmire Marsh ; you understand me. Land. Master Hardcastle’s ? Lack-a-daisy, my masters, you’re come a deadly deal wrong ! When you came to the bottom of the hill, you should have crossed down Squash-lane. Marl. Cross down Squash-lane ! Land. Then you were to keep straight forward, till you came to four roads. Marl. Come to where four roads meet. ! Tony. Ay; but you must be sure to take only one of them. Marl. 0 sir, you’re facetious. Tony. Then keeping to the right, you are to go side-ways 118 goldsmith’s works. till you come upon Crack-skull common : tliere you must look sharp for the track of the wheel; and go forward, till you come to farmer Murrain’s barn. Coming to the farmer’s barn, you are to turn to the right, then to the left, and then to the right- about again, till you find out the old mill Marl. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out the longi- tude ! Hast. What’s to be done, Marlow ? Marl. This house promises hut a poor reception; though perhaps the landlord can accomodate us. Land. Alack, master, we have but one spare bed in the whole house. Tony. And, to my knowledge, that’s taken up by three lodgers already. (After a pause, in which the rest seem disconcerted.) I have hit it. Don’t you think, Stingo, our landlady could accommodate the gentlemen, by the fire-side, with three chairs and a bolster ? Hast. I hate sleeping by the fire-side. Marl. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster. Tony. You do, do you ?— then let me see — what — if you go on a mile further, to the Buck’s Head ; the old Buck’s Head on the hill, one of the best inns in the whole country ? Hast. 0, ho! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, however. Land. (Apart to Tony.) Sme, you ben’t sending them to your father’s as an inn, be you? Tony. Mum, you fool you. Let them find that out. ( To them.) You have only to keep on straight forward, till you come to a large old house by the road-side. You’ll see a pail’ of large horns over the door. That’s the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly about you. Hast. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants can’t miss the way. Tony. No, no ; But I tell you though, the landlord is rich, and going to leave off business ; so he wants to be thought a gentleman, saving your presence, he ! he ! he ! He’ll be for giving you his company, and ecod, if you mind him, he’ll per- suade you that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of the peace. Land. A troublesome old blade, to be sure ; but keeps as good wine and beds as any in the whole country. Marl. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no further connexion. We are to turn to the right, did you say ? Tony. No, no ? straight forward. I’ll just step myself, and shew you a piece of the way. (To the landlord.) Mum. Land. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleasant damn’ d mischievous son of a whore. [Exeunt. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 119 ACT II. Scene, An old fashioned house. Enter Hardcastle, followed by three or four awkward Servants. Hard. Well, I hope you’re perfect in the table exercise I have been teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places ; and can shew that you have been used to good company, without stirring from home. Omnes. Ay, ay. Hard. When company comes, you are not to pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frighted rabbits in a warren. Omnes. No, no. Hard. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make a show at the side-table ; and you, Eoger, whom I have advanced from the plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. But you’re not to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your pockets, Roger ; and from your head, you blockhead you. See how Diggory carries his hands. They’re a little too stiff, indeed ; but that’s no great matter. Bigg. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being upon drill Hard. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. You must be all attention to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of talking ; you must see us drink, and not think of drink- ing ; you must see us eat, and not think of eating. Bigg. By the laws, your worship, that’s perfectly unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod, he’s always wishing for a mouthful himself. Hard. Blockhead ! is not a belly-full in the kitchen as good as a belly-full in the parlour ? Stay your stomach with that reflection. Bigg. Ecod, I thank your worship. I’ll make a shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantry. Hard. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then, if I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not all burst out a-laughing, as if you made part of the company. Bigg. Then, ecod, your worship must not tell the story of Quid Grouse in the gun-room: I can’t help laughing at that — he ! he ! he! — for the soul of me. We have laughed at that for these twenty years — ha ! ha ! ha ! Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! the story is a good one. Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that— but still remember to be attentive. Suppose one of the company should call for a glass of wine, how will you behave ? A glass of wine, sir, if you please. (2b Diggory.) — Eh, why don’t you move ? 120 goldsmith’s works. Bigg. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage till I see the eatables and drinkables brought upo’ the table, and then I a or as bauld as a lion. Hard. What, will nobody move ? 1 Serv. I’m not to leave this place. 2 Sen. I’m sure it’s no place of mine. 3 Serv. Nor mine, for sartin. Bigg. Wauns, and I’m sure it canna he mine. Hard. You numskulls ; and so while, like your betters, you are quarrelling for places, the guests must be starved. O you dunces ! I find I must begin all over again. But don’t I hear a coach drive into the yard ? To your posts, you block- heads ! I’ll go in the mean time and give my old friend’s son a hearty welcome at the gate. [Exit Hardcastle. Bigg. By the elevens, my place is gone quite out of my head. Roger. I know that my place is to be everywhere. 1 Sen. Where the devil is mine ? 2 Serv. My place is to be no where at all ; and so Ize go about my business. [Exeunt Servants , running about as if frighted , different ways. Enter Servant with candles , shewing in Marlow and Hastings. Serv. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome. This way. Hast. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room, and a good fire. Upon my word, a very well-looking house ; antique, but credi- table. Marl. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master by good housekeeping, it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn. Hast. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good sideboard, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame the bill confoundedly. Marl. Travellers, George, must pay in all places. The only difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries ; in bad inns you are fleeced and starved. Hast. You have lived pretty much among them. In truth, I have been often surprised that you, who have seen so much of the world, with your natural good sense, and your many opportuni- ties, could never yet accquire a requisite share of assurance. Marl. The Englishman’s malady. But tell me, George, where could I have learned that assurance you talk of ? _ My life has been chiefly spent in a college, or an inn ; in seclusion from that lovely part of the creation that chiefly teach men confi- dence. I don’t know that I was ever familiarly acquainted with a single modest woman — except my mother — But among females of another class, you know — • Hast. Ay, among them you are impudent enough of all con- science. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 121 Marl. They are of us, you know. Hast. But in the company of women of reputation I never saw such an idiot, such a trembler : you look, for all the world, as if you wanted an opportunity of stealing out of the room. Marl. Why, man, that’s because I do want to steal out of the room. Faith, I have often formed a resolution to break the ice, and rattle away at any rate. But I don’t know how, a single glance from a pair of fine eyes has totally overset my re- solution. An impudent fellow may counterfeit modesty; but I’ll be hanged if a modest man can ever counterfeit impudence. Hast. If you could but say half the fine things to them that I have heard you lavish upon the bar-maid of an inn, or even a college bed-maker — Marl. Why, George, I can’t say fine things to them. Tlvey freeze, they petrify me. They may talk of a comet, or a burning mountain, or some bagatelle : but to me a modest woman, drest out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole creation. Hast. Ha, ha, ha ! At this rate, man, how can you expect to marry ? Marl. Never, unless, as among kings and princes, my bride were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like an eastern bride- groom, one were to be introduced to a wife he never saw before, it might be endured. But to go through all the terrors of a formal courtship, together with the episode of aunts, grand- mothers, and cousins, and at last to blurt out the broad-staring question, of — Madam , will you marry met No, no; that’s a strain much above me, I assure you. Hast. I pity you. But how do you intend behaving to the lady you are come down to visit at the request of your father ? Marl. As I behave to all other ladies : bow very low ; answer yes, or no, to all her demands — But for the rest, I don’t think I shall venture to look in her face till I see my father’s again. Hast. I’m surprised that one who is so warm a friend can be so cool a lover. Marl. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my chief induce- ment down was to be intrumental in forwarding your happiness, not my own. Miss Neville loves you, the family don’t know you ; as my friend, you are sure of a reception, and let honour do the rest. Hast. My dear Marlow! — But I’ll suppress the emotion. Were I a wretch, meanly seeking to carry off a fortune, you should be the last man in the world I would apply to for as- sistance. But Miss Neville’s person is all I ask ; and that is mine, both from her deceased father’s consent, and her own inclination. Marl. Happy man ! you have talents and art to captivate any woman. I’m doomed to adore the sex, and yet to converse with the only part of it I despise. This stammer in my address, and this awkward prepossessing visage of mine, can never permit M 122 goldsmith’s works. me to soar above the reach of a milliner’s ’prentice, or one of the duchesses of Drury -lane. Pshaw ! this fellow here to in- terrupt us. j Enter Eardcastle. Hard. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow ? Sir, you’re heartily welcome. It’s not my way, you see, to receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them a hearty reception, in the old style, at my gate. I like to see their horses and trunks taken care of. Marl. ( Aside. J He has got our names from the servants already. (To him.) We approve your caution and hospitality, sir. (To Hastings.) I have been thinking, George, of changing our travelling dresses in the morning. I am grown con- foundedly ashamed of mine. Hard. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you’ll use no ceremony in this house. Hast. I fancy, Charles, you’re right : the first blow is half the battle. I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold. Hard. Mr. Marlow — Mr. Hastings — gentlemen, pray be under no restraint in this house. This is Liberty Hall, gentle- men. You may do just as you please here. Marl. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is over. I thiuk to reserve the embroidery, to secure a retreat. Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when he went to besiege De'nain. He first summoned a garrison. Marl. Don’t you think the ventre d'or waistcoat will do with the plain brown ? Hard. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men Hast. I think not : brown and yellow mix but very poorly. Hard. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison, which.might consist of about five thousand men Marl. The girls like finery. Hard. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. Now, says the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to him — You must have heard of George Brooks ; ‘I’ll pawn my dukedom,’ says he, ‘but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood.’ So Marl. What, my good friend, if you gave us a glass of punch in the mean time ? It would help us to carry on the siege with vigour. Hard. Punch, sir i (Aside.) This is the most unaccountable I md of modesty I ever met with. Marl. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, after our journey, will be comfortable. This is Liberty Hall, you know. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 123 Hard. Here’s a cup, sir. Marl. ( Aside . ) So this fellow, in his Liberty Hall, will only iet us have just what he pleases. Hard. {Taking the cup.') I hope you’ll find it to your mind . I have prepared it with my own hands, and I believe you’ll own the ingredients are tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir ? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better acquaint- ance • 7) rifiJcs* Marl. ( Aside J A very impudent fellow this! but he’s a character, and I’ll humour him a little. Sir, my service to y° u - , [Brinks. Hast. (Aside.) I see this fellow wants to give us his com- pany, and forgets that he’s an innkeeper, before he has learned to be a gentleman. Marl. From the excellence of your cup my old friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work, now and then, at elections, I suppose. Hard. No, sir, I have long given that work over. Since our betters have hit upon the expedient of electing each other there’s no business for us that sell ale. Hast. So then you have no turn for politics, I find. Hard. Not in the least. There was a time, indeed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of government, like other people ; but finding myself every day grow more angry, and the government growing no better, I left it to mend itself. Since that, I no more trouble my head about Heyder Alley, or Ally Cawn, than about Ally Croaker. Sir, my service to you. Hast. So that with eating above stairs and drinking below; with receiving your friends within, and amusing them without, you lead a good, pleasant, bustling life of it. Hard. I do stir about a great deal, that’s certain. Half the dilferences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlour. Marl. ( After drinking.) And you have an argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than any in Westminster-Hall. Hard. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy. Marl. (Aside.) Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an innkeeper’s philosophy. Hast. So, then, like an experienced general, you attack them on every quarter. If you find their reason manageable, you attack it with your philosophy ; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with this. Here’s your health, my philosopher. [Brinks. Hard. Good, very good, thank you ; ha ! ha ! Tour general- ship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hear. Marl. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I think it’s almost time to talk about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for supper ? Hard. For supper, sir! (Aside.) Was ever such a request to a man in his own house ? 124 goldsmith’s wokks. Marl. Yes, sir : supper, sir : I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you. Hard. ( Aside.) Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. ( To him.) Why really, sir, as for supper, I can’t well tell. My Dorothy and the cook settle these things between them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them. Marl. You do, do you ? Hard. Entirely. By the by, I believe they are in actual consultation, upon what’s for supper, this moment, in the kitchen. Marl. Then I beg they’ll admit me as one of their privy- council. It’s a way I have got. When I travel, I always choose to regulate my own supper. Let the cook be called. No offence, 1 hope, sir. Hard. 0 no, sir, none in the least ; yet, I don’t know how, our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very communicative upou these occasions. Shou’d we send for her, she might scold us all out of the house. Hast. Let’s see the list of the larder, then, I ask it as a favour. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare. Marl. (To Hardcastle, who looks at them with surprise.) Sir, be’s very right, and it’s my way, too. Hard. Sir, you have a right to command here. Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-nigbt’s supper. I believe it’s drawn out. Your manner, Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Wallop. It was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his supper till he had eaten it. Hast. (Aside.) All upon the high ropes ! His uncle a colonel ! we shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of the peace. But let’s hear the bill of fare. Marl. (Perusing.) What’s here? For the first course; for the second course ; for the dessert. The devil, sir, do you think we have brought down the whole joiner’s company, or the corporation of Bedford, to eat up such a supper ? Two or three things, clean and comfortable, will do. Hast. But let’s hear it. Marl. (Reading.) For the first course, at the top, a pig, and pruin-sauce. Hast. Damn your pig, I say. Marl. And damn your pruin-sauce, I say. Hard. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig, with pruin-sauce, is very good eating. Marl. At the bottom, a calf s tongue and brains. Hast. Let your brains be knocked out, my good sir ; I don’t like them. Marl. Or you may clap them on a plate by themselves ; I do. Hard. (Aside.) Their impudence confounds me. (To them.) Gentlemen you are my guests, make what alterations you please. Is their any thing else you wish to retrench, or alter, gentlemen ? SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 125 Marl. Item. A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and sausages, a florentine, a shaking pudding, and a dish of tiff— taff- — taffety cream ! Hast. Confound your made dishes. I shall be as much at a loss in this house as at a green and yellow dinner at the French ambassador’s table. I’m for plain eating. Hard. I’m sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing you like ; but if there be any thing you have a particular fancy to Marl. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. So much for supper : and now to see that our beds are aired, and properly taken care of. Hard. I entreat you’ll leave all that to me. You shall not stir a step. Marl. Leave that to you ! I protest, sir, you must excuse me : I always look to these things myself. Hard. I must insist, sir, you’ll make yourself easy on that head. Marl. You see I’m resolved on it. (Aside.) A very troublesome fellow this as ever I met with. Hard. Well, sir, I’m resolved at least to attend you. (Aside.) This may be modern modesty, but I never saw any thing look so like old-fashioned impudence. [ Exeunt Marl, and Hard. Hastings solus. Hast. So I find this fellow’s civilities begin to grow trouble- some. But who can be angry at those assiduities which are meant to please him ? Ha! what do I see? Miss Neville, by all that’s happy ! Enter Miss Neville. Miss Nev. My dear Hastings ! To what unexpected good fortune, to what accident, am I to ascribe this happy meeting ? Hast. Bather let me ask the same question, as I could never have hoped to meet my dear Constance at an inn. Miss Nev. An inn ! sure you mistake ! My aunt, my guar- dian, live here. What could induce you to think this house an inn ? Hast. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with whom I came down, and I have been sent here as to an inn, I assure you. A young fellow, whom we accidently met at a house hard by, directed us hither. Miss Nev. Certainly it must have been one of my hopeful cousin’s tricks, of whom you have heard me talk so often, ha! ha ! ha ! ha 1 Hast. He whom your aunt intends for you ? He of whom I have such just apprehensions ? Miss Nev. You have nothing to fear from him, I assure you. You’d adore him, if you knew how heartily he despises me. m 3 126 goldsmith’s works. My aunt knows it too, and has undertaken to court me for him ; and actually begins to think she has made a conquest. Hast. Thou dear dissembler ! You must know, my Con- stance, I have just seized this happy opportunity of my friend’s visit here, to get admittance into the family. The horses that carried us down are now fatigued with their journey ; but they’ll soon be refreshed ; and then, if my dearest girl will trust in her faithful Hastings, we shall soon be landed in France ; where, even among slaves, the laws of marriage are respected. Miss Nev. I have often told you, that though ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little fortune behind with reluctance. The greatest part of it was left me by my uncle, the India direc- tor, and chiefly consists in jewels. I have been for some time persuading my aunt to let me wear them. I fancy I am very near succeeding. The instant they are put into my possession, you shall find me ready to make them and myself your’s. Hast. Perish the baubles ! Your person is all I desire. In the mean time, my friend Marlow must not be let into his mistake ; I know the strange reserve of his temper is such, that if abruptly informed of it, he would instantly quit the house, before our plan was ripe for execution. Miss Nev. But how shall we keep him in the deception ? Miss Hardcastle is just returned from walking; what if we still continue to deceive him? This, this way [ They confer . Enter Marlow. Marl. The assiduities of these good people teaze me beyond bearing. My host seems to think it ill manners to leave me alone and so he claps not only himself but his old fashioned wife on my back. They talk of coming to sup with us too ; and then, I supppose, we are to run the gauntlet through all the rest of the family— What have we got here ?— Hast. My dear Charles ! Let me congratulate you!— Ihe most fortunate accident ! — Wlio do you think is just alighted ? Marl. Cannot guess. , ... __ ... Hast. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle and Miss Neville. Give me leave to introduce Miss Constance Neville to your ac- quaintance. Happening to dine in the neighbourhood, they called, on their return, to take fresh horses here. Miss Hard- castle has just stept into the next room, and will be back m an instant. Was’ nt it lucky ? eh ! , , Marl. (Aside.) I have just been mortified enough ot ah conscience, and here comes something to complete my eniburrass- Hast. Well, but was’nt it the most fortunate thing in the Marl. Oh! yes. Very fortunate — a most joyful encounter - But our dresses, George, you know are in disorder What if wc SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 127 should postpone the happiness till to-morrow? — To morrow, at her own house — It will he every hit as convenient — And rather more respectful — To-morrow let it be. [ Offering to go. Miss Nev. By no means, sir. Your ceremony will displease her. The disorder of your dress will shew the ardour of your impatience ; besides, she knows you are in the house, and will permit you to see her. Marl. 0 ! the devil ! how shall I support it ! Hem ! hem ! Hastings, you must not go. You are to assist me, you know. I shall be confoundedly ridiculous. Yet, hang it! I’ll take courage. Hem ! Hast. Pshaw, man ! it’s hut the first plunge, and all’s over. She’s but a woman, you know. Marl. And of all women, she that I dread most to encounter. Enter Miss Hardcastle, as returning from, walking , a bonnet , &c. Hast. (Introducing him.) Miss Hardcastle, Mr. Marlow, I'm proud of bringing two persons of such merit together, that only want to know, to esteem each other. Miss Hard. (Aside. ) Now for meeting my modest gentleman with a demure face, and quite in his own manner. ( After , a pause, in which he appears very uneasy and disconcerted. ) _ I’m glad of your safe arrival, sir — I’m told you had some accidents by the way. Marl. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some. Yes, madam, a good many accidents ; but should he sorry— madam— or rather glad of any accidents— that are so agreeably concluded. Hem! , , Hast. (To him.) You never spoke better in your whole lite. Keep it up, and I’ll ensure you the victory. Miss Hard. I’m afraid you flatter, sir. You, that have seen so much of the finest company, can find little entertainment in an obscure corner of the country. Marl. ( Gathering courage.) I have lived, indeed, in the world, madam ; hut I have kept very little company. I have been an observer upon life, madam, while others were enjoying it. Miss Nev. But that, I am told, is the way to enjoy it at last. Hast. (To him.) Cicero never spoke better. Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance for ever. Marl. (To him.) Hem! Stand by me, then, and when I’m down, throw in a word or two to set me up again. Miss Hard. An observer like you upon life, were, I fear, dis- agreeably employed, since you must have had much more to censure than to approve. Marl. Pardon me, madam. I was always willing to he amused. The folly of most people is rather an object of mirth than uneasiness. Hast. (To him.) Bravo, Bravo. Never spoke so well in your whole life. Well! Miss Hardcastle, I see that you and 128 goldsmith’s works. Mr. Marlow are going to be very good company, I believe our feeing here will but embarrass the interview. Marl. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We like your com- pany of all things. ( To him.) Zounds ! George, sure you won’t go : how can you leave us ? Hast. Our presence will but spoil conversation, so we’ll retire to the next room. ( To him.) You don’t consider, man, that we are to manage a little tete-a-tete of our own. [Exeunt. Miss Hard. ( After a pause.) But you have not been wholly an observer, I presume, sir : the ladies, I should hope, have employed some part of your addresses. Marl. (Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon me, madam, I — I — I — as yet have studied — only — to— deserve them. Miss Hard. And that, some say, is the very worst way to obtain them. Marl. Perhaps, so, madam. But I love to converse only with the more grave and sensible part of the sex But I’m afraid I grow tiresome. Miss Hard. Not at all, sir ; there is nothing I like so much as grave conversation myself ; I could hear it for ever. Indeed, I have often been surprised how a man of sentiment could ever admire those light, any pleasures, where nothing reaches the heart. Marl. It’s — a disease — of the mind, madam. In the variety of tastes there must be some, who, wanting a relish — for — um- u-um. Miss Hard. I understand you, sir. There must be some, who, wanting a relish for refined pleasures, pretend to despise what they are incapable of tasting. Marl. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better expressed. And I can’t help observing — a — Miss Hard. ( Aside.) Who could ever suppose this fellow impudent upon some occasions ? ( To him.) You were going to observe, sir Marl. I was observing, madam — I protest, madam, I forget what I was going to observe. Miss Hard. (Aside.) I vow, and so do I. (To him.) You were observing, sir, that in this age of hypocrisy, somethin®? about hypocrisy, sir. Marl. Yes, madam in this age of hypocrisy there are few who, upon strict enquiry, do not — a — a— a — Miss Hard. I understand you perfectly, sir. ‘ Marl. ( Aside.) Egad ! and that’s more than I do myself. Miss Hard. You mean that, in this hypocritical age, there are few that do not condemn in public what they practise in private, and think they pay every debt to virtue when they praise it. Marl. True, madam; those who have most virtue in their mouths have least of it in their bosoms. But I’m sure I tire you, madam. -- SUB STOOPS TO CONQUER. 129 Miss Hard. Not in the least, sir; there’s something so agreeable and spirited in your manner ; such life and force — pray, sir, go on. Marl. Yes, madam; I was saying — that there are some occasions — when a total want of courage, madam, destroys all the — and puts us — upon a— a — a— Miss Hard. I agree with you entirely ; a want of courage, upon some occasions, assumes the appearance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most want to excel. I beg you’ll proceed. Marl. Yes, madam; morally speaking, madam— But I see Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. I would not intrude for the world. Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I never was more agreeably enter- tained in all my life. Pray go on. Marl. Yes, madam, I was — But she beckons us to join her. Madam, shall I do myself the honour to attend you ? Miss Hard. Well then, I’ll follow. Marl. {Aside.) This pretty smooth dialogue has done for me, [Exit. Miss Hardcastle, sola . Miss Hard. Ha, ha, ha ! "Was there ever such a sober, senti- mental interview ? I’m certain he scarce look’d in my face the whole time. Yet the fellow, but for his unaccountable bashful- ness, is pretty well too. He has good sense ; but then, so buried in his fears, that it fatigues one more than ignorance. If I could teach him a little confidence, it would be. doing some- body that I know of, a piece of service. But who is that some- body ? — that, faith, is a question I can scarce answer. [Exit. Enter Tony and Miss Neville, followed by Mrs. Hardcastle and Hastings Tony. What do you follow me for, cousin Con ? I wonder you’re not ashamed, to be so very engaging. Miss Nev. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one’s own rela- tions, and not be to blame. Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation you want to make me though ; but it won’t do. I tell you, cousin Con, it won’t do, so I beg you’ll keep your distance ; I want no nearer relationship. [She follows, coquetting him to the back scene. Mrs. Hard. Well! I vow, Mr. Hastings, you are very en- tertaining. There’s nothing in the world I love to talk of so much as Loudon, and the fashions, though I was never there myself. Hast. Never there ! You amaze me ! From your air and manner, I concluded you had been bred all your life either at Eanelagh, St. James’s, or Tower Wharf. Mrs. Hard. 0 1 sir, you’re only pleased to say so. We 130 goldsmith’s works. country persons can have no manner at all. I’m in love with the town, and that serves to raise me above some of our neigh- bouring rustics ; but who can have a manner, that has never seen the Pantheon, the Grotto Gardens, the Borough, and such places, where the nobility chiefly resort? All I can do, is to enjoy London at second hand. I take care to know every tete-a-tete from the Scandalous Magazine, and have all the fashions, as they come out, in a letter from the two Miss Rickets of Crooked-lane. Pray how do you like this head, Mr. Hastings ? Hast. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon my word, madam. Your frizeur is a Frenchman, I suppose ? Mrs. Hard. I protest I dressed it myself from a print in the Ladies’ Memorandum Book for the last year. Hast. Indeed ! such a head in a side-box, at the play-house, would draw as many gazers, as my lady mayoress at a city ball. Mrs. Hard. I vow, since inoculation began, there is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman ; so one must dress a little particular, or one may escape in the crowd. Hast. But that can never be your case, madam, in any dress. [Bowing. Mrs. Hard. Yet what signifies my dressing, when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side as Mr. Hardcastle ? all I can say will not argue down a single button from his clothes. I have often wanted him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and where he was bald, to plaster it over, like my Lord Pately, with powder. Hast. You are right, madam : for as, among the ladies, there are none ugly, so, among the men, there are none old. Mrs. Hard. But what do you think his answer was ? Why, with his usual gothic vivacity, he said, I only wanted him to throw off his wig, to convert it into a tetc for my own wearing. Hast. Intolerable! At your age you may wear what you please, and it must become you. Mrs. Hard. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you take to be the most fashionable age about town ? Hast. Some time ago, forty was all the mode; but I’m told the ladies intend to bring up fifty for the ensuing winter. Mrs. Hard. Seriously ! Then I shall be too young for the fashion. Hast. No lady begins now to put on jewels till she’s past forty. For instance, Miss there, in a polite circle, would be considered as a child, as a mere maker of samplers. Mrs. Hard. And yet Mrs. Niece thinks herself as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels, as the oldest of us all. Hast. Your niece, is she? and that young gentlemen, a brother of your’s, I should presume ? Mrs. Hard. My son, sir. They are contracted to each other. Observe their little sports. They fall in and out ten times a SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 131 day, as if they were man and wife already. ( To them.) "Well, Tony, child, what soft things are you saying to your cousin Constance this evening ? Tony. I have been saying no soft things ; but that it’s very hard to be followed about so. Ecod ! I’ve not a place in the house now, that’s left to myself, but the stable. Mrs. Hard. Never mind him, Con, my dear. He’s in another story behind your back. Miss Nev. There’s something generous in my cousin’s man- ner. He falls out before faces to be forgiven in private. Tony. That’s a damn’d confounded — crack. Mrs. Hard. Ah! he’s a sly one. Don’t you think they’re like each other about the mouth, Mr. Hastings? The Blen- kinsop mouth to a T. They’re of a size, too. Back to back, my pretties, that Mr. Hastings may see you. Come, Tony. Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell you. [Measuring. Miss Nev. 0 lud ! he has almost cracked my head. Mrs. Hard. 0, the monster ! For shame, Tony. You a man, and behave so ! Tony. If I’m a man, let me have my fortin. Ecod, I’ll not be made a fool of no longer. Mrs. Hard. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that I’m to get for the pains that I’ve taken in your education ? I that have rocked you in your cradle, and fed that pretty mouth rvith a spoon ! Did not I work that waistcoat, to make you genteel ? Did not I prescribe for you every day, and weep while the receipt was operating ? Tony. Ecod! you had reason to weep, for you have been dosing me ever since I was born. I have gone through every receipt in the Complete Huswife ten times over ; and you have thoughts of coursing me through Quincy next spring. But, ecod ! I tell you, I’ll not be made a fool of no longer. Mrs. Hard. Wasn’t it all for your good, viper? Wasn’t it all for your good ? Tony. I wish you’d let me and my good alone, then. Snub- bing this way, when I’m in spirits. If I’m to have any good, let it come of itself; not to keep dinging it, dinging it into one so. Mrs. Hard. That’s false ; I never see you when you’re in spirits. No, Tony, you then go to the ale-house, or kennel. I’m never to be delighted with your agreeable wild notes, un- feeling monster ! Tony. Ecod ! mamma, your own notes are the wildest of the two. Mrs. Hard. Was ever the like ? But I see he wants to break my heart, I see he does. Hast. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the young gentle- man a little. I’m certain I can persuade him to his duty. Mrs. Hard. Well ! I must retire. Come, Constance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the wretchedness of my situation. 132 goldsmith’s works. Was ever poor woman so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, pro- voking, undutifiil hoy? [Exeunt airs. Hard. and liliss Neville. Hastings. Tony. Tony, (singing.) There was a young man riding by, And fain would have his will. Rang do didlo dee. Don’t mind her. Let her cry. It’s the comfort of her heart. I have seen her and sister cry over a book for an hour together ; and they said they liked the book the better the more it made them cry. Hast. Then you’re no friend to the ladies, I find, my pretty young gentleman ? Tony. That’s as I find ’urn. Hast. Not to her of your mother’s choosing, I dare answer: and yet she appears to me a pretty, well-tempered girl. Tony. That’s because you don’t know her as well as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her ; and there’s not a more bitter can- tanckerous toad in all Christendom. Hast. (Aside.) Pretty encouragement this for a lover ! Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. She has as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a colt the first day’s breaking. Hast. To me she appears sensible and silent. Tony. Ay, before company. But when she’s with her play- mates, she’s as loud as a hog in a gate. Hast. But there is a meek modesty about her that charms me. Tony. Yes : but curb her never so little, she kicks up, and you’re flung in a ditch. Hast. Well ; but you must allow her a little beauty. — Yes, you must allow her some beauty. Tony. Bandbox ! She’s all a made-up thing, mun. Ah ! could you but see Bet Bouncer, of these parts, you might then talk of beauty. Ecod, she has two eyes as black as sloes, and cbeeks as broad and red as a pulpit cushion. She’d make two of she. Hast. Well, what you say to a friend, that would take this bitter bargain off your hands ? Tony. Anon. Hast. Would you thank him that would take Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and your dear Betsy ? Tony. Ay ; but where is there such a friend ? for who would take her ? Hast. I am he. If you but assist me, I’ll engage to whip her off to France, and you shall never hear more of her. Tony. Assist you ? Ecod, I will, to the last drop of my blood. I’ll clap a pair of horses to your chaise, that shall trundle you off in a twinkling ; and may be, get you a part of her fortin, beside, in jewels, that you little dream of. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 13S Hast. My dear ’squire, this looks like a lad of spirit. Tony. Come along, then, and you shall see more of my spirit before you have done with me. [ Singing . We are the boys. That fears no noise, Where the thundering cannons roar. [Exeunt. ACT III. Enter Hardcastle, solus. Hard. What could my old friend Sir Charles mean, by recommending his son as the modestest young man in town ? To me, he appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. He has taken possession of the easy chair by the fire- side already. He took off his boots in the parlour, and desired me to see them taken care of. I’m desirous to know how his impudence affects my daughter. — She will certainly be shocked at it. Enter Miss Hardcastle, plainly dressed. Hard. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed your dress, as I bid you ; and yet, I believe, there was no great occasion. Miss Hard. I find such a pleasure, sir, in obeying your com- mands, that I take care to observe them without ever debating their propriety. Hard. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you some cause, particularly when I recommended my modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day. Miss Hard. You taught me to expect something extraordi- nary, and I find the original exceeds the description. Hard. I was nexfir so surprised in my life ! He has quite confounded all my faculties ! Miss Hard, I never saw anything like it : and a man of the world, too ! Hard. Ay, he learned it all abroad ; what a fool was I, to think a young man could learn modesty by travelling ! He might as soon learn wit at a masquerade. Miss Hard. It seems all natural to him. Hard. A good deal assisted by bad company, and a French dancing-master. Miss Hard. Sure you mistake, papa ! A French dancing- master could never have taught him that timid look — that awkward address — that bashful manner — N 134 goldsmith’s works. Hard. Whose look ? whose manner, child ? Miss Hard. Mr. Marlow’s : liis roauvaise honte, his timidity struck me at the first sight. Hard. Then your first sight deceived you ; for I think him one of the most brazen first sights that ever astonished my senses. Miss Hard. Sure, sir, you rally ! I never saw any one so modest. Hard. And can you be serious ! I never saw such a bounc- ing, swaggering puppy, since I was born. Bully Dawson was but a fool to him. Miss Hard. Surprising ! He met me with a respectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look fixed on the ground. Hard. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly air, and a familiarity that made my blood freeze again. Miss Hard. He treated me with diffidence and respect ; cen- sured the manners of the age ; admired the prudence of girls that never laughed ; tired me with apologies for being tiresome : then left the room with a bow, and, ‘ Madam, I would not for the world detain you.’ Hard. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his life before ; asked twenty questions, and never waited for an answer ; inter- rupted my best remarks with some silly pun; and when I was in my best story of the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, he asked, if I had not a good hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your father if he was a maker of punch ! Miss Hard. One of us must certainly be mistaken. Hard. If he be what he has shewn himself, I’m determined he shall never have my consent. Miss Hard. And if he be the sullen thing I take him, he shall never have mine. Hard. In one thing then we are agreed — to reject him. Miss Hard. Yes. But upon conditions. For if you should find him less impudent, and I more presuming ; if you find him more respectful, and I more importunate — i don’t know — the fellow is well enough for a man — Certainly we don’t meet many such at a horse race in the country. Hard. If we should find him so — But that’s impossible. The first appearance has done my business. I’m seldom deceived in that. Miss Hard. And yet there may be many good qualities under that first appearance. Hard. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow’s outside to her taste, she then sets about guessing the rest of his furniture. With her, a smooth face stands for good sense, and a genteel figure for every virtue. Miss Hard. I hope, sir, a conversation begun with a compli- ment io my good sense, won’t end with a sneer at my under- sxamong. Ka>d . Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. Brazen can find SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, 135 the art of reconciling contradictions, ho may ylor.se us both, perhaps. Miss Hard. And as one of ns must he mistaken, what if we go to make further discoveries ? Hard. But depend on’t, I’m in the right. Miss Hard. And depend on’t, I’m not much in the wrong. [Exeunt. Enter Tony, running in with a casket. Tony. Ecod ! I have got them. Here they are. My cousin Con’s necklaces, hobs, and all. My mother sha’n’t cheat the poor souls out of their fortin, neither. 0 ! my genius, is that you? Enter Hastings. Hast. My dear friend, how have you managed with your mother ? I hope you have amused her with pretending love for your cousin ; and that you are willing to bo reconciled at last. Our horses will be refreshed in a short time, and we shall soon be ready to set off. Tony. And here’s something to bear your charges by the way. ( Giving the casket.) Your sweetheart’s jewels. Keep them ; and hang those, I say, that would rob you of one of them. Hast. But how have you procured them from your mother ? Tony. Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no fibs. I pro- cured them by the rule of thumb. If I had not a key to every drawer in mother’s bureau, how could I go to the ale-house so often as I do ? An holiest man may rob himself of his own at any time. Hast. Thousands do it every day. But to be plain with you ; Miss Neville is endeavouring to procure them from her aunt this very instant. If she succeeds, it will be the most delicate way at least of obtaining them. Tony. Well, keep them till you know how it will be. But I know how it will be well enough ; she’d as soon part with the only sound tooth in her head. Hast. But I dread the effects of her resentment, when she finds she has lost them. Tony. Never you mind her resentment, leave me to manage that. I don’t value her resentment the bounce of a cracker. Zounds ! here they are. Morrice. Prance, [ Exit Hastings. Tony, Mrs. Hardcastle, Miss Neville, Mrs. Hard. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. Such a girl as you want jewels ! It -will be time enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years’ hence ; when your beauty begins to want repairs. 135 goldsmith’s wonxs. Miss Nev . But what will repair beauty at forty, will cer- tainly improve it at twenty, madam. Mrs. Hard. Your’s, my dear, can admit of none, That natural blush is beyond a thousand ornaments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at present. Don’t you see half the ladies of our acquaintance, my lady Kill- day-light, and Mrs. Crump, and the rest of them, carry their jewels to town, and bring nothing but paste and marcasites back ? Miss Nev. But who knows, madam, but somebody that shall be nameless would like me best with all my little finery about me. , . , Mrs. Hard. Consult your glass, my dear, and then see, it, with such a pair of eyes, you want any better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, my dear, does your cousin Con want any jewels, in your eyes, to set off her beauty ? Tony. That’s as hereafter may be. Miss Nev. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would oblige me. Mrs. Hard. A parcel of old-fasliioncd rose and table-cut things. They would make you look like the court of King Solomon at the puppet-show. Besides, I believe I can’t readily come at them. They may be missing, for aught I know to the contrary. . ,, Tony. (Apart to Mrs. Hardcastle.j Then why don t you tell her so at once, as she’s so longing for them ? Tell her they’re lost. It’s the only way to quiet her. Say they’re lost, and call me to bear witness. Mrs. Hard. (Apart to Tony, j You know, my dear, I m only keeping them for you. So, if I say they’re gone, you’ll bear me witness, will you? He, he, he ! Tony. Never fear me. Ecod ! I’ll say I saw them taken out with my own eyes. Miss Nev. I desire them but for a day, madam. Just to be permitted to show them as relics, and then they may be locked up again. Mrs. Hard. To be plain with you, my dear Constance, if I could find them, you should have them. They’re missing, I assure you. Lost, for aught I know : but we must have patience wherever they are. Miss Nev. I’ll not believe it : this is but a shallow pretence to deny me. I know they’re too valuable to be so slightly kept, and as you are to answer for the loss. Mrs. Hard. Don’t be alarmed, Constance; if they be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But my son knows they are miss- ing, and not to be found. Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are missing, and not to be found. I’ll take my oath on’t. Mrs. Hard. You must learn resignation, my dear : for though we lose our fortune, yet we should not lose our patience. See me, how calm I am. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Miss Nev. Ay, people are generally calm at the misfortunes of others. Mrs. Hard. Norv, I wonder a girl of your good sense should waste a thought upon such trumpery. We shall soon find them ; and, in the mean time, you shall make use of my gar- nets, till your jewels he found. Miss Nev. I detest garnets. Mrs. Hard. The most becoming things in the world, to set off a clear complexion. You have often seen how well they look upon me. You shall have them. [Exit. Miss Nev. I dislike them of all things. You sha’n’t stir.— Was ever any thing so provoking ? to mislay my own jewels, and force me to wear her trumpery ! Tony. Don’t be a fool. If she gives you the garnets, take what you can get. The jewels are your own already. I have stolen them out of her bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your spark, he’ll tell you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her. Miss Nev. My dear cousin. Tony. Vanish. She’s here, and has missed them already. Zounds how she fidgets, and spits about like a Catharine wheel. [Exit Miss Nev. Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. Mrs. Hard. Confusion ! thieves ! robbers ! We are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone. Tony. What’s the matter, what’s the matter, mamma? I hope nothing has happened to any of the good family ? Mrs. Hard. We are robbed. My bureau has been broke open, the jewels taken out, and I’m undone. Tony. Oh ! is that all ? Ha, ha, ha ! By the laws I never saw it better acted in my life. Ecod, I thought you was ruined in earnest ; ha, ha, ha ! Mrs. Hard. Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest. My bureau has been broken open, and all taken away. Tony. Stick to that; ha, ha, ha! stick to that: I’ll bear witness, you know ; call me to bear witness. Mrs. Hard. I tell you, Tony, by all that’s precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined for ever. Tony. Sure, I know they’re gone, and I am to say so. Mrs. Hard. My dearest Tony, but hear me. They’re gone, I say. Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to laugh ; ha, ha ! I know who took them well enough ; ha, ha, ha ! Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a blockhead, that can’t tell the difference between jest and earnest ? I tell you I’m not in jest, booby. Tony. That’s right, that’s right. You must be in a bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect either of us. I’ll bear witness that they are gone. n 3 138 goldsmith’s works. Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a cross-grained brute, that won’t hear me ! Can you bear witness that you’re no better than a fool ? Was ever poor woman so beset with fools on one hand, and thieves on the other ? Tony. I can bear witness to that. Mrs. Hard. Bear witness again, you blockhead you, and I’ll turn you out of the room directly. My poor niece, what will become of her ! Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my distress ? Tony. 1 can bear witness to that. Mrs. Hard. Do you insult me, monster ? I’ll teach you to vex your mother, I will. Tony. I can bear witness to that. [He runs off, she follows him. Enter Miss Hardcastle and Maid Miss Hard. What an unaccountable creature is that brother of mine, to send them to the house as an inn ; ha, ha ! I don’t wonder at his impudence. Maid. But what is more, madam, the young gentleman, as you passed by in your present dress, asked me if you were the bar-maid ? He mistook you for the bar-maid, madam. Miss Hard. Did he ? Then, as I live, I’m resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, how do you like my present dress ? Don’t you think I look something like Cherry in the Beaux’ Stratagem? Maid. It’s the dress, madam, that every lady wears in the country, but when she visits or receives company. Miss Hard. And are you sure he does not remember my face or persoii ? Maid. Certain of it. Miss Hard. I vow, I thought so ; for though we spoke for some time together, yet his fears were such, that he never once looked up dining the interview. Iudeed, if he had, my bonnet would have kept him from seeing me. Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him in his mistake ? Miss Hard. In the first place, I shall be seen, and that is no small advantage to a girl who brings her face to market. Then, I shall, perhaps, make an acquaintance, and that’s no small victory gained over one, who never addresses any but the wildest ol her sex. But my chief aim is to take my gentleman off his guard, and, like an invisible champion of romance, examine the giant’s force before I offer to combat. Maid. But are you sure you can act your part, and disguise your voice, so that he may mistake that, as he has already 'mis- taken your person ? Miss Hard. Never fear me. I think I have got the true bar cant.— Did your honour call?— Attend the Lion there.— Pipes and tobacco tor the Angel. — The Lamb has been outra- geous this half hour. Maid. It will do, madam. But he’s here. [Exit Maid. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. ISO Enter Marlow Marl , What a bawling in every part of the house ! I have scarce a moment’s repose. If I go to the best room, there I find my host and his story. If I fly to the gallery, there we have my hostess, with her courtesy down to the ground. I have at last got a moment to myself, and now for recollection. [ W zlks and muses. Miss Hard. Did you call, sir ? did your honour call? Marl. (Musing.) As for Miss flardcastle, she’s too grave and sentimental for me. Miss Hard. Did your honour call ? [She still places herself before him, he turning away. Marl. No, child. (Musing.) Besides, from the glimpse I had of her, I think she squints. Miss Hard. I am sure, sir, I heard the bell ring. Marl. No, no. ( Musing.) I have pleased my father, how- ever, by coming down, and I’ll to-morrow please myself by re- turning. [ Taking out his tablets, and perusing. Miss Hard. Perhaps the other gentleman called, sir. Marl. I tell you, no. Miss Hard. I should be glad to know, sir. "We have such a parcel of servants. Marl. No, no, I tell you. (Looks full in her face.) Yes, child, I think I did call. I wanted — I wanted — I vow, child, you are vastly handsome. Miss Hard. 0 la, sir, you’ll make one ashamed. Marl. Never saw a more sprightly, malicious eye. Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you got any of your — a — what d’ye call it, in the house ? Miss Hard. No, sir, we have been out of that these ten days. Marl. One may call in this house, I find, to very little pur- pose. Suppose I should call for a taste, just by way of trial, of the nectar of your lips ; perhaps I might be disappointed in that, too. Miss Hard. Nectar ! nectar ! that’s a liquor there’s no call for in these parts. French, I suppose. We keep no French wines, here, sir. Marl. Of the true English growth, I assure you. Miss Hard. Then it’s odd I should not know it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I have lived here these eighteen years. Marl. Eighteen years ! Why one would think, child, you kept the bar before you were born. IIow old are you ? Miss Hard. 0 ! sir, I must not tell my age. They say women and music should never be dated. Marl. To guess at this distance, you can’t be much above forty. ( Approaching.) Yet nearer I do not think so much. (Approaching.) By coming close to some women, they look goldsmith’s works. 14C younger still ; hut when we come very close indeed — [Attempt- ing to kiss her. Miss Hard. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One would think you wanted to know one’s age as they do horses, by mark of mouth. Marl. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill. If you keep me at this distance, how is it possible you and I can ever be acquainted ? Miss Hard. And who wants to be acquainted with you ? I want no such acquaintance, not I ; I’m sure you do not treat Miss Hardcastle, that was here awhile ago, in this obstropulous manner. I’ll warrant me, before her you looked dashed, and kept bowing to the ground, and talked, for all the world, as if you was before a justice of peace. Marl. ( Aside.) Egad! she has hit it, sure enough. ( To her.) In awe of her, child ? ha, ha, ha ! a mere awkward, squinting thing ; no, no. I find you don’t know me. I laughed, and rallied her a little; but I was unwilling to be too severe. No, I could not be too severe, curse me ! Miss Hard. 0 ! then, sir, you are a favourite, I find, among the ladies. Marl. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And yet, hang me, I don’t see what they find in me to follow. At the ladies’ club in town, I’m called their agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my real name, but one I’m known by. My name is Solomons. Mr. Solomons, my dear, at your service. [ Offering to salute her. Miss Hard. Hold, sir ; you were introducing me to your club, not to yourself. And you’re so great a favourite there, you say ? Marl. Yes, my dear; there’s Mrs. Mantrap, Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. Longhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your humble servant, keep up the spirit of the place. Miss Hard. Then it’s a very merry place, I suppose ? Marl. Yes, as merry as cards, suppers, wine, and old women, can make us. Miss Hard. And their agreeable Rattle ; ha ! ha ! ha ! Marl. (Aside.) Egad! I don’t quite like this chit. She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, child ! Miss Hard. I can’t but laugh when I think what time all have for minding their work or their family. Marl. ( Aside .) All’s well, she don’t laugh at me. {To her.) Do you ever work, child ? Miss Hard. Ay, sure. There’s not a screen nor a quilt in the whole house but what can bear witness to that. Marl. Odso ! Then you must show me your embroidery. I embroider, and draw patterns myself a little. If you want a judge of your work, you must apply to me. [Seizing her hand. Miss Hard. Ay, but the colours don’t look well by candle light. You shall see all in the morning. [ Struggling . SHE STOOrS TO CONQUER. 141 Marl. And why not now, my angel ? Such beauty fires beyond the power of resistance. — Pshaw ! the father here ! My old luck : I never nicked seven, that I did not throw ames-ace three times following. [Exit Marlow. Enter Hardcastle, who stands in surprise. Hard. So, madam ! So I find this is your modest lover. This is your humble admirer, that kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only adored at humble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not ashamed to deceive your father so ? Miss Hard. Never trust me, dear papa, but he’s still the modest man I first took him for ; you’ll be convinced of it as well as I. Hard. By the hand of my body, I believe his impudence is infectious! Did’nt I see him seize your hand? Didn’t I see him hawl you about like a milk-maid ? and now you talk of his respect and his modesty, forsooth ! Miss Hard. But if I shortly convince you of his modesty ; that he has only the faults that will pass off with time, and the virtues that will improve with age ; I hope you’ll forgive him. Hard. The girl would actually make one run mad ; I tell you, I’ll not be convinced. I am convinced. He has scarcely been three hours in the house, and he has already encroached on all my prerogatives. You may like his impudence, and call it modesty ; but my son-in-law, madam, must have very different qualifications. Miss Hard. Sir, I ask but this night to convince you. Hard. You shall not have half the time ; for I have thoughts of turning him out this very hour. Miss Hard. Give me that hour then, and I hope to satisfy you. Hard. Well, an hour let it be then. But I’ll have no trifling with your father. All fair and open, do you mind me ? Miss Hard. I hope, sir, you have ever found that I con- sidered your commands as my pride ; for your kindness is such, that my duty as yet has been inclination. [Exeunt. ACT IV. Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. Hast. You surprise me ! Sir Charles Marlow expected hero this night ? Where have you had your information ? Miss Nev. You may depend upon it. I just saw his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells him he intends setting out in a few hours after his son. GOLDSMITH S WORKS. Hast. Then, my Constance, all must be completed before he amvfcs. lie knows me; and should he find me here, would discover my name, and perhaps my designs, to the rest of the lankly. Miss Ncv. The jewels, I hope, are safe. Hast. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Marlow, who keeps the keys oi our baggage. In the mean time, I’ll go to prepare matters for our elopement. I have had the ’squire’s promise of a fresh pair of horses ; and, if I should not see him again, will write him farther directions. [Exit. Miss Nev. Well ! success attend you. In the mean time, I’ll go amuse my aunt with the old pretence of a violent passion for my cousin. [Exit. Enter Marlow, followed by a Servant. Marl. I wonder what Hastings could mean by sending me so valuable a thing as a casket to keep for him, when he knows the only place I have, is the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door. Have you deposited the casket with the landlady, as I ordered you ? Have you put it into her own hands ? Serv. Yes, your honour. Marl. She said she’d keep it safe, did she? Serv. Yes, she said she’d keep it safe enough; she asked me how I came by it, and she said, she had a great mind to make me give an account of myself. [Exit Servant. Marl. Ha, ha, ha ! They’re safe, however, what an un- accountable set of beings have we got amongst! This little bar-maid, though, runs in my head most strangely, and drives out the absurdities of all the rest of the family. She’s mine, she must be mine, or I’m greatly mistaken. Enter Hastings. Hast. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell her, that I intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. Marlow here, and in spirits too ! Marl. Give me joy, George ! Crown me, shadow me with laurels ! Well, George, after all, we modest fellows don’t want for success among the women. Hast. Some women, you mean. But what success has your honour’s modesty been crowned with now, that it grows so insolent upon us ? Marl. Didn’t you see the tempting, brisk, lovely, little thing, that runs about the house, with a bunch of keys to its girdle ? Hast. Well, and what then ? Marl. She’s mine, you rogue you. Such fire, such motion, such eyes, such lips — but, egad ! she would not let me kiss them though. Hast. But are you so sure, so very sure of her ? SHE STOOPS TO CONHUEK. 143 21 irl. Why man, she talked of shewing me her work above- stairs, and I’m to improve the pattern. Hast. But how can you, Charles, go about to rob a woman of her honour ? Marl. Pshaw ! pshaw ! We all know the honour of the bar- maid of an inn. I don’t intend to rob her, take my word for it; there’s nothing in this house I sha’n’t honestly pay for. Hast. I believe the girl has virtue. Marl. And if she has, I should be the last man in the world that would attempt to corrupt it. Hast. You have taken care, I hope, of the casket I sent you to lock up ? Is it in safety ? Marl. Yes, yes; it’s safe enough. I have taken care of it. But how could you think the seat of a post-coach, at an inn- door, a place of safety ? Ah ! numbskull ! I have taken better precautions for you, than you did for yourself. — I have — Hast. What? Marl. I have sent it to the landlady, to keep for you. Hast. To the landlady ? Marl. The landlady. Hast. You did ? Marl. I did. She’s to be answerable for its forthcoming, you know. Hast. Yes, she’ll bring it forth, with a witness. Marl. Wasn’t I right? I believe you’ll allow, that I acted prudently upon this occasion. Hast. ( Aside.) He must not see my uneasiness. Marl. You seem a little disconcerted though, methinks. Sure nothing has happened. Hast. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits in all my life. And so you left it Avith the landlady, who, no doubt, very readily undertook the charge ? Marl. Bather too readily. For she not only kept the casket, hut through her great precaution, was going to keep the messenger too. Ha, ha, ha ! Hast. He, he, he ! They are safe, however. Marl. As a guinea in a miser’s purse. Hast. ( Aside.) So now all hopes of fortune are at an end, and Ave must set off Avithout it. ( To him.) Well, Charles, I’ll leave you to your meditations on the pretty bar- maid ; and, he, he, he ! may you be as successful for yourself as you have been for me. [Exit. Marl. Thank ye, George ! I ask no more ; ha, ha, ha ! Enter Hardcastle. Hard. I no longer know my oAvn house. It’s turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got drunk already. I’ll bear it no longer ; and yet, from my respect for his father, I’ll he calm. (To him.) Mr. Marlow, your servant. I’m your very humble servant, [. Bowing low. 144 goldsmith’s works. Marl. Sir, your humble servant. ( Aside.) "What’s to he the wonder now ? Hard. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, sir, that no man alive ought to be more welcome than your father's son, sir. I hope you think so. Marl. I do from my soul, sir. I don’t want much entreaty. I generally make my father’s son welcome wherever he goes. Hard. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. But though I say nothing to your own conduct, that of your servants is in- sufferable. Their manner of drinking is setting a very bad example in this house, I assure you. Marl. I protest, my very good, sir, that’s no fault of mine. If they don’t drink as they ought, they are to blame, I ordered them not to spare the cellar : 1 did, I assure you. ( To the side sceiie.) Here, let one of my servants come up. ( To him.) My positive directions were, that as I did not drink myself, they should make up for my deficiencies below. Hard. Then they had your orders for what they do ! I’m satisfied. Marl. They had, I assure you. You shall hear from one of themselves. Enter Servant, drunk. Marl. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, sirrah. What were my orders ? Were you not told to drink freely, and call for what you thought fit, for the good of the house r Hard. (Aside.) I begin to lose my patience. Jeremy. ' Please your honour, liberty and Fleet-street for ever ! Though I’m but a servant, I’m as good as another man. I’ll drink for no man before supper, sir, damme ! Good liquor will sit upon a good supper ; but a good supper will not sit upon — ( Hiccup ) — upon my conscience, sir. Marl. You see, my old friend, the fellow is as drunk as he can possibly be. I don’t know what you’d have more, unless you’d have the poor devil soused in a beer barrel. Hard. Zouuds ! He’ll drive me distracted if I contain myself any longer. Mr. Marlow, sir ; I have submitted to your insolence for more than four hours, and I see no likelihood of it’s coming to an end. I am now resolved to be master here, sir ; and I desire that you and your drunken pack may leave my house directly. Marl. Leave your house ? — Sure you jest, my good friend ! What, when I’m doing what I can to please you ? Hard. I tell you, sir, you don’t please me ; so I desire you’ll leave my house. Marl. Sure you cannot be serious ! At this time o’night, and Huch a night ! You only mean to banter me. Hard. I tell you, sir, I’m serious; and, now that my passions are roused, I say this house is mine, sir ; this house is mine, and I command you to leave it directly. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 145 Marl. Ha, ha ! A puddle in a storm. I sha’n’t stir- a step, I assure you. ( In a serious tone.) This your house, fellow ! It’s my house. This is my house. Mine while I choose to stay. What right have you to bid me leave this house, sir ? I never met with such impudence, curse me, never in my whole life before. Hard. Nor I, confound me if ever I did. To come to my house, to call for what he likes, to turn me out of my own chair, to insult the family, to order his servants to get drunk, and then to tell me, This house is mine , sir. By all that’s impudent, it makes me laugh. Ha, ha ! Pray, sir (bantering ), as you take the house, what think you of taking the rest of the furniture ? There’s a pair of silver candlesticks, and there’s a fire-screen, and here’s a pair of brazen-nosed bellows ; perhaps you may take a fancy to them. Marl. Bring me your bill, sir, bring me your bill, and let’s make no more words about it. Hard. There are a set of prints, too. What think you of the Bake’s Progress for your own apartment ? Marl. Bring me your bill, I say; and I’ll leave you and your infernal house directly. Hard. Then there’s a mahogany table, that you may see your own face in. Marl. My bill, I say. Hard. I had iorgot the great chair, for your own particular slumbers, after a hearty meal. Marl. Zounds! bring me my bill, I say; and let’s hear no more on’t. Hard. Young man, young man, from your father’s letter to me, I was taught to expect a well-bred modest man, as a visitor here ; but now I find him no better than a coxcomb, and a bully. But he will be down here presently, and shall hear more of it. _ [Exit. Marl. How’s this ? Sure I have not mistaken the house ! Everything looks like an inn. The servants cry, Coming. The attendance is awkward ; the bar-maid, too, to attend us. But she’s here, and will farther inform me. Whither so fast, child? A word with you. Enter Miss Hardcastle. Miss Hard. Let it be short then, I’m in a hurry. (Aside.) I believe he begins to find out his mistake ; but it’s too soon quite to undeceive him. Marl. Pray, child, answer me one question. — What are you, and what may your business in this house be ? Miss Hard. A relation of the family, sir. Marl. What ; a poor relation ? Miss Hard. Yes, sir ; a poor relation, appointed to keep the keys, and to see that the guests want nothing in my nower to give them. * o 116 goldsmith’s works. Marl. That is, you act as the bar-maid of this inn. Miss Hard. 0 law— What brought that in your head ? One of the best families in the country keep an inn ! Ha, ha, ha ! old Mr. Hardcastle’s house an inn ! Marl. Mr. Hardcastle’s house ! Is this house Mr. Hard- castle’s house, child? Miss Hard. Ay, sure. Whose else should it he ? Marl. So then all’s out, and I have been damnably imposed on. 0, confound my stupid head, I shall be laughed at over the whole town. I shall be stuck up in caricatura in all the print shops : the Dullissimo Maccaroni. To mistake this house of all others, for an inn ; and my father’s old friend for an inn- keeper ! What a swaggering puppy must he take me for ! What a silly puppy do I find myself ! There again, may I be hanged, my dear, but I mistook you for the bar-maid. Miss Hard. Dear me ! dear me ! I’m sure there’s nothing in my behaviour to put me upon a level with one of that stamp. Marl. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in for a list of blunders, and could not help making you a subscriber. My stupidity saw everything the wrong way. I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and your simplicity for allurement. But it’s over — This house I no more shew my face in. Miss Hard. I hope, sir, I have done nothing to disoblige you. I’m sure I should be sorry to affront any gentleman wno has been so polite, and said so many civil things to me. I’m sure, I should be sorry ( Pretending to cry ) if he left the family upon my account, I’m sure I should be sorry people said anything amiss, since I have no fortune but my cha- racter. Marl. (Aside.) By heaven, she weeps. This is the first mark of tenderness I ever had from a modest woman, and it touches me. ( To her.) Excuse me, my lovely girl, you are the only part of the family I leave with reluctance. But to be plain with you, the difference of our birth, fortune, and educa- tion make an honourable connexion impossible ; and I can never harbour a thought of bringing ruin upon one, whose only fault was being too lovely. Miss Hard. ( Aside.) Generous man ! I now begin to admire him. ( To him.) But I’m sure my family is as good as Miss Hardcastle’s ; and though I’m poor, that’s no great mis- fortune to a contented mind ; and, until this moment, I never thought that it was bad to want fortune. Marl. And why now, my pretty simplicity ? Miss Hard. Because it puts me at a distance from one, that if I had a thousand pounds, I would give it all to. Marl. (Aside.) This simplicity bewitches me, so that if I stay I’m undone. I must make one bold effort, and leave her. ( To her.) Your partiality in my favour, my dear, touches me most sensibly; and were I to live for myself alone, I could easily fix my choice. But I owe too much to the opinion of the SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 147 •world, too nracli to the authority of a father, so that — I can scarcely speak it — it affects me, Farewell. [Exit. Miss Hard. I never knew half his merit till now. He shall not go, if I have the power or art to detain him. I’ll still preserve the character in which I stooped to conquer ; hut will undeceive my papa, who, perhaps, may laugh him out of his resolution. [Exit. Enter Tony, Miss Neville. Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next time. I have done my duty. She has got the jewels again, that’s a sure thing : but she believes it was a mistake of the servants. Miss Nev. But, my dear cousin, sure you won’t forsake us in this distress. If she in the least suspects that I am going off, I shall certainly be locked up, or sent to my aunt Pedigree’s, which is ten times worse. Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are damn’d bad things ; bnt what can I do ! I have got you a pair of horses that will fly like Whistle-jacket, and I’m sure you can’t say but I have courted you nicely before her face. Here she comes, we must court a bit or two more, for fear she should suspect us. [ They retire , and seem to fondle. Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. Mrs. Hard. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to be sure. But my son tells me it was all a mistake of the servants. I sha’n’t be easy, however, till they are fairly married, and then let her keep her own fortune. But what do I see? Fondling together, as I am alive. I never saw Tony so sprightly before ! Ah ! have I caught you, my pretty doves ? What ! billing, exchang- ing stolen glances, and broken murmurs ? Ah ! Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little now and then, to be sure. But there’s no love lost between us. Mrs. Hard. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the flame, only to make it burn brighter. Miss Nev. Cousin Tony promises to give us more of his com- pany at home. Indeed, he sha’n’t leave us any more. It won’t leave us, cousin Tony, will it ? Tony. 0 ! It’s a pretty creature. No, I’d sooner leave my horse in a pound, than leave you, when you smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you so becoming. Miss Nev. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help admiring that natural humour, that pleasant, broad, red, thoughtless ( patting his cheek J, ah ! it’s a bold face. Mrs. Hard. Pretty innocence ! Tony. I’m sure, I always loved cousin Con’s hazel eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she twists this way and that, over the haspicholls, like a parcel of bobbins. Mrs. Hard. Ah ! he would charm the bird from the tree. I 14S GOLDSMITH'S WOKK.S. was never so happy before. My boy takes after his father, poor Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. The jewels, my dear Con, shall be your’s incontinently. You shall have them. Isn’t he a sweet boy, my dear ? You shall be married to-morrow, and we will put off the rest of his education, like Mr. Drowsy’s sermons, to a fitter opportunity. Enter Diggory. Bigg. Where’s the ’quire? I have got a letter for your worship. Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my letters first. Bigg. I had orders to deliver it into your own hands. Tony. Who does it come from ? Bigg. Your worship mun ask that o’ the letter itself. Tony. I could -wish to know it, though. ( Turning the letter , and gazing on it.) Miss Nev. (Aside.) Undone, undone! A letter to him from Hastings. I know the hand. If my aunt sees it, we are ruin’d for ever. I’ll keep her employed a little, if I can. ( To Mrs. Hardcastle.) But I have not told you, madam, of my cousin’s smart answer just now to Mr. Marlow. We so laughed — You must now, madam — this way a little ; for he must not hear us. [ They confer. Tony. ( Still gazing.) A damn’d cramp piece of penman- ship as ever I saw in my life. I can read your print-hand very well ; but here there are such handles, and shanks, and dashes, that one can scarce tell the head from the tail. To Anthony Lumpkin, Esq. It’s very odd, I can read the outside of my letters, where my own name is, well enough. But when I come to open it, it’s all — buzz. That’s hard, very hard ; for the inside of the letter is always the cream of the correspondence. Mrs. Hard. Ha, ha, ha! Very well. And so my son was too hard for the philosopher. Miss Nev. Yes, madam ; but you must hear the rest, madam. A little more this way, or he may hear us. You’ll hear how he puzzled him again. Mrs. Hard. He seems strangely puzzled now himself, me thinks. Tony. ( Still gazing .) A damned up-and down hand, as if it was disguised in liquor. {Reading.) Bear Sir. Ay, that’s that. There’s a an AT, a T, and an S ; but whether the next be an izzard, or an R, confound me, I cannot tell. Mrs. Hard. What’s that, my dear ? Can I give you any assistance ? Miss Nev. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody reads a cramp hand better than I. ( Twitching the letter from her.) Do you know who it is from ? Tony. Can’t tell, except from Dick Ginger, the feeder. Miss Nev. Ay, so it is. (Tretending to read.) Dear SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 149 ’Squire, Hoping that you’re in health, as I am at this present. The gentlemen of the Shake-bag club has cut the gentlemen of Goose-green quite out of feather. The odds— um— odd battle — um— long fighting— um— Here, here; it’s all about cocks, and fighting ; it’s of no consequence ; here, put it up, put it up. [ Thrusting the crumpled letter upon him. Tony. But I tell you, miss, it’s of all the consequence in the world. I would not lose the rest of it for a guinea. Here, mother, do you make it out. Of no consequence ! [ Giving Mrs. Hardcastle the letter. Mrs. Hard. How’s this? {Reads.) ‘Dear ’Squire, I’m now waiting for Miss Neville, with a post-chaise and pair, at the bottom of the garden, but I find my horses yet unable to perform the journey. I expect you’ll assist us with a pair of fresh horses, as you promised. Despatch is necessary, as the hag (ay, the hag), your mother, will otherwise suspect us. Your’s, Hastings.’ Grant me patience. I shall run distracted. My rage chokes me. Miss Nev. I hope, madam, you’ll suspend your resentment for a few moments, and not impute to me any impertinence, or sinister design, that belongs to another. Mrs. Hard. ( Courtcsymg very low.) Pine spoken, madam, you are most miraculously polite and engaging, and quite the very pink of courtesy and circumspection, madam. ( Changing her tone.) And you, you great ill-fashion’ d oaf, with scarce sense enough to keep your mouth shut. Were you too joined against me ? But I’ll defeat all your plots in a moment. As for you, madam, since you have got a pair of fresh horses ready, it would be cruel to disappoint them. So, if you please, instead of running away with your spark, prepare this very moment to run off with me. Your old aunt Pedigree will keep you secure, I’ll warrant me. You too, sir, may mount your horse, and guard us upon the way. Here, Thomas, Roger, Diggory ! I’ll shew you that I wish you better than you do yourselves. [ Exit, Miss Nev. So, now I’m completely ruined. Tony. Ay, that’s a sure thing. Miss Nev. What better could be expected from being con- nected with such a stupid fool, and after all the nods and signs I made him ? Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own cleverness, and not my stupidity, that did your business. You were so nice, and so busy, with your Shake-bags and Goose-greens, that I thought you could never be making believe. Enter Hastings. Hast. So, sir, I find by my servant, that you have shewn my letter, and betrayed us. Was this well done, young gentleman ? Tony. Here’s another. Ask miss there, who betrayed you. Ecod, it was her doing, not mine. 150 goldsmith’s works. Enter Marlow. Marl. So, I have been finely used here among you. Ren- dered contemptible, driven into ill manners, despised, insulted, laughed at. Tony. Here’s another. We shall have old Bedlam broke loose presently. Miss Nev. And there, sir, is the gentleman to whom we all owe every obligation. Marl. What can I say to him, a mere hoy, an idiot, whose ignorance and age are a protection. Hast. A poor contemptible booby, that would hut disgrace correction. Miss Nev. Yet with cunning and malice enough to make himself merry with all our embarrassments. Hast. An insensible cub. Marl. Replete with tricks and mischief. Tony. Baw ! damme, hut I’ll fight you both, one after the other with baskets. Marl. As for him, he’s below resentment. But your conduct, Mr. Hastings, requires an explanation. You knew of my mis- takes, yet would not undeceive me. Hast. Tortured as I am with my own disappointments, is this a time for explanations ? It is not friendly, Mr. Marlow. Marl. But, sir Miss Nev. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your mistake till it was too late to undeceive you. Be pacified. Enter Servant. Serv. My mistress desires you’ll get ready immediately, madam. The horses are putting to. Your hat and things are in the next room. We are to go thirty miles before morning. [Exit Servant. Miss Nev. Well, well ; I’ll come presently. Marl. (To Hastings.) Was it well done, sir, to assist in rendering me ridiculous ? To hang me out for the scorn of all my acquaintance ? Depend upon it, sir, I shall expect an explanation. Hast. Was it well done, sir, if you’re upon that subject, to deliver what I intrusted to yourself to the care of another, sir ? Miss Nev. Mr. Hastings, Mr. Marlow, why will you in- crease my distress by this groundless dispute? I implore, I entreat you Enter Servant. Serv. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is impatient. Miss Nev. I come. Pray be satisfied. If I leave you thus, I shall die with apprehension. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 151 Enter Servant. Sen. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. Tlie horses are waiting. Miss Nev. 0 , Mr. Marlow, if you knew what a scene of constraint and ill-nature lies before me, I’m sure it would con- vert your resentment into pity. Marl. I’m so distracted with a variety of passions, that I don’t know what I do. Forgive me, madam. George, forgive me. You know my hasty temper, and should not exasperate it. East. The torture of my situation is my only excuse. Miss Nev. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have that esteem for me that I think, that I am sure you have, your constancy for three years will but increase the happiness of our future connexion. If Mrs. Hard. (Within.) Miss Neville! Constance, why Constance, I say ! Miss Nev. I’m coming. Well, constancy. Remember, con- stancy is the word. [Exit. East. My heart, how can I support this ? To be so near happiness, and such happiness ! Marl. ( To Tony.) You see now, young gentleman, the effects of your folly. What might be amusement to you, is here disappointment, and even distress. Tony. ( From a reverie.) Ecod, I’ve hit it. It’s here. Your hands. Your’s, and your’s, my poor sulky. My boots there, ho ! Meet me two hours’ hence at the bottom of the garden ; and if you don’t find Tony Lumpkin a more good-natured fellow than you thought for, I’ll give you leave to take my best horse, and Bet Bouncer into the bargain. Come along. My boots, ho ! [Exeunt. ACT. Y. Scene continues. Enter Hastings and Servant. Hast. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville drive off, you say? Serv. Yes, your honour ; they went off in a post-coach, and the young ’squire went on horseback. They’re thirty miles off by mis time. East. Then all my hopes are over. Serv. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He and the old 152 goldsmith’s works. gentleman of tlie house hare been laughing at Mr. Marlow’s mistake this half hour. They are coming this way. Hast. Then I must not be seen. So, now to my fruitless appointment, at the bottom of the garden. This is about the time. [ Exeunt . Enter Sir Charles and Hardcastle. Hard. Ha, ha, ha ! The peremptory tone in which he sent forth his sublime commands ! Sir Charles. And the reserve with which I suppose he treated all your advances ! Hard. And yet he might have seen something in me above a common innkeeper, too. Sir Charles. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an un- common innkeeper, ha, ha, ha ! Hard. Well, I’m in too good spirits to think of any thing but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union of our families will make our personal friendships hereditary ; and though my daughter’s fortune is but small — Sir Charles. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune to me ? My son is possessed of more than a competence already, and can want nothing but a good and virtuous girl to share his happiness, and increase it. If they like each other as you say they do — Hard. If man ! I tell you they do like each other. My daughter as good as told me so. Sir Charles. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, you know. Hard. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest manner myself ; and here he comes to put you out of your ifs, I warrant him. Enter Marlow. Marl. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon for my strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on my insolence without con- fusion. Hard. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too gravely. An hour or two’s laughing with my daughter will set all to rights again. — She’ll never like you the worse for it. Marl. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation. Hard. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. Marlow: if I am not deceived, you have something more than approbation thereabouts. You take me. Marl. Really, sir, I have not that happiness. Harl , Come, boy, I’m an old fellow, and know what’s what, as well as you that are younger. I know what has past between you ; but mum. Mard. Sure, sir, nothing has past between us but the most profound respect on my side, and the most distant reserve on her’s. You don’t think, sir, that my impudence has been past upon all the rest of the family ? SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, 1S3 Hard. Impudence! No, I don’t say that— Not quite im- pudence Though girls like to be played with, and rumpled a little too, sometimes. But she has told no tales, I assure you. Marl. I never gave her the slightest cause. Hard. Well, well, I like modesty in its place well enough. But this is over-acting, young gentleman. You may be open. Your father and I will like you the better for it. Marl. May I die, sir, if I ever Hard. I tell you, she don’t dislike you; and as I’m sure you like her Marl. Dear sir — I protest, sir Hard. I see no reason why you should not be joined as fast as the parson can tie you. Marl. But hear me, sir Hard. Your father approves the match, I admire it, every moment’s delay will he doing mischief ; so Marl. But why won’t you hear me ? By all that’s just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle the slightest mark of my attachment, or even the most distant hint to suspect me of affection. We had but one interview, and that was formal, modest, and uninteresting. Hard. (Aside.) This fellow’s formal, modest impudence is beyond bearing. Sir Charles. And you never grasped her hand, or made any protestations ? Marl. As Heaven is my witness, I came down in obedience to your commands. I saw the lady without emotion, and parted without reluctance. I hope you’ll exact no farther proofs of my duty, nor prevent me from leaving a house in which I suffer so many mortifications. [Exit. Sir Charles. I’m astonished at the air of sincerity with which he parted. Hard. And I’m astonished at the deliberate intrepidity of his assurance. Sir Charles. I dare pledge my life and honour upon his truth. Hard. Here comes my daughter, and I would stake my happiness upon her veracity. Enter Miss Hardcastle. Hard. Kate, come hither child. Answer us sincerely, and without reserve : has Mr. Marlow made you any professions of love and affection ? Miss Hard. The question is very abrupt, sir ! But since you require unreserved sincerity, I think he has. Hard. ( To Sir Charles.) You see. Sir Charles. And pray, madam, have you and my son had more than one interview ? Miss Hard. Yes, sir - , several. 154 goldsmith’s works. Hard. ( To Sir Charles.) You see. Sir Charles. But did he profess any attachment r Miss Hard. A lasting one. Sir Charles. Did he talk of love ? Miss Hard. Much, sir. Sir Charles. Amazing ! and all this formally ? Miss Hard. Formally. Hard. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied? Sir Charles. And how did he behave, madam ? Miss Hard. As most professed admirers do. Said some civil things of my face ; talked much of his want of merit and the greatness of mine ; mentioned his heart ; gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with pretended rapture. Sir Charles. Now I’m perfectly convinced, indeed. I know his conversation among women to he modest and submissive. This forward, canting, ranting manner by no means describes him, and I am confident he never sat for the picture. Miss Hard. Then what, sir, if I should convince you to your face of my sincerity ? If you and my papa, in about half an hour, will place yourselves behind that screen, you shall hear him declare his passion to me in person. Sir Charles. Agreed. And if I find him what you describe, all my happiness in him must have an end. [Exit. Miss Hard. And if you don’t find him what I describe— I fear my happiness must never have a beginning. [Exeunt. Scene changes to the bach of the garden. Enter Hastings. Hast. What an idiot am I, to wait here for a fellow who probably takes a delight in mortifying me. He never intended to be punctual, and I’ll wait no longer. What do I see? It is he, and perhaps with news of my Constance. Enter Tony, booted and spattered. Hast. My honest ’squire! I now find you a man of your word. This looks like friendship. Tony. Ay, I’m your friend, and the best friend you have in the world, if you knew but all. This riding by night, by the by, is cursedly tiresome. It has shook me worse than the basket of a stage-coach. Hast. But how? Where did you leave your fellow-tra- vellers ? Are they in safety ? Are they housed ? Tony. Five-and-twenty miles in two hours and a half is no such bad driving. The poor beasts have smoked for it. Rabbet me, but I’d rather ride forty miles after a fox, than ten with SUC ] 1 t. Hast. Well, but where have you left the ladies ? I die with impatience. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 1 55 Tony. Left them ? Why, where should I leave them, but where I found them ? Hast. This is a riddle. Tony. Riddle me this then. What’s that goes round the house, and round the house, and never touches the house ? Hast. I’m still astray. Tony. Why that’s it, mon. I have led them astray. By jingo, there’s not a pond or slough within five miles of the place but they can tell the taste of. Hast. Ha, ha, ha! I understand: you took them in a round, while they supposed themselves going forward. And so you have at last brought them home again. Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down Feather-bed- lane, where we stuck fast in the mud : I then rattled them crack over the stones of Up-and-down-hill : I then introduced them to the gibbet on Heavy-tree Heath ; and from that, with a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at the bottom of the garden. Hast. But no accident, I hope. Tony. No, no. Only mother is confoundedly frightened. She thinks herself forty miles off. She’s sick of the journey, and the cattle can scarce crawl. So, if your own horses be ready, you may whip off with cousin, and I’ll be bound that no soul here can budge a foot to follow you. Hast. My dear friend, how can I be grateful? Tony. Ay, now it’s dear friend, noble ’squire. Just now, it was all idiot, cub, and run me through the guts.. Damn your way of fighting, I say. After we take a knock in this part of the country, we kiss and be friends. But, if you had run me through the guts, then I should be dead, and you might go kiss the hangman. Hast. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten to relieve Miss Neville; if you keep the old lady employed, I promise to take care of the young one. _ [Exit Hastings, Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. Vanish. She’s got from the pond, and draggled up to the waist like a mermaid. Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. Mrs. Hard. Oh, Tony, I’m killed. Shook. Battered to death. I shall never survive it. That last jolt, that laid us against the quickset-hedge, has done my business. Tony. Alack, mamma, it was all your own fault. Yon would be for running away by night, without knowing one inch of the way. Mrs. Hard. I wish we were at home again. I never met so many accidents in so short a journey. Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our way ! Whereabouts do you think we are, Tony ? 156 COLDSMITH S WORKS. Tony. By my guess, we should be upon Crackskull Common, about forty miles from home. Mrs. Sard, 0 lud ! 0 lud ! the most notorious spot in all the country. We only want a robbery to make a complete night on’t. Tony. Don’t be afraid, mamma, don’t be afraid. Two of the five that kept here are hanged, and the other three may not find us. Don’t be afraid. Is that a man that’s galloping behind us ? No ; it’s only a tree. Don’t be afraid. Mrs. Hard. The fright will certainly kill me. Tony. Do you see anything like a black hat moving behind the thicket ? Mrs. Hard. 0 death ! Tony. No, it’s only a cow. Don’t be afraid, mamma; don’t be afraid. Mrs. Hard. As I’m alive, Tony, I see a man coming towards us. Ah ! I’m sure on’t. If he perceives us, we are undone. Tony. ( Aside.) Father-in-law, by all that’s unlucky, come to take one of his night- walks. (To her.) Ah ! It’s a high- wayman with pistols as long as my arm. A damn’d ill-looking fellow. Mrs. Hard. Good Heaven defend us ! he approaches. Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave me to manage him. If there be any danger I’ll cough, and cry- hem ! When I cough, he sure to keep close. [Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind a tree , in the bach scene. Enter Hardcastle. Hard. I’m mistaken, or I heard voices of people in want of help. 0, Tony, is that you? I did not expect you so soon back. Are your mother and her charge in safety ? Tony. Very safe, sir, at my Aunt Pedigree’s. Hem ! Mrs. Hard. ( From behind.) Ah, death ! I find there’s danger. Hard. Forty miles in three hours ; sure that’s too much, my youngster. Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make short journeys, as they say. Hem ! Mrs. Hard. ( From behind.) Sure he’ll do the dear boy no harm. Hard. But I heard a voice here ; I should be glad to know from whence it came. Tony. It was I, sir ; talking to myself, sir. I was saying that forty miles in three hours was very good going — hem ! As, to he sure, it was — hem ! I have got a sort of cold by being out in the air. We’ll go in, if you please — hem i Hard. But if you talked to yourself, you did not answer yourself. I am certain I heard two voices, and am resolved ( raising his voice ) to find the other out. goldsmith’s works. 157 Mrs. Hard. ( From behind.) Oh ! he’s coming to find me out. Oh ! Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you — hem ! I’ll lay down my life for the truth — hem ! I’ll tell you all, sir. [. Detaining him. Hard. I tell you I will not be detained. I insist on seeing. It’s in vain to expect I’ll believe you. Mrs. Hard. (Running forward from behind.) 0 lud, he’ll murder my poor boy, my darling. Here, good gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my money, my life ; but spare that young gentlemen, spare my child, if you have any mercy. Hard. My wife ! as I’m a Christian. From whence can she come, or what does she mean ? Mrs. Hard. (Kneeling.) Take compassion on us, good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, our watches, all we have; but spare our lives. We will never bring you to justice: indeed we won’t, good Mr. Highwayman. Hard. I believe the woman’s out of her senses. What, Dorothy, don’t you know me f Mrs. Hard. Mr. Hardcastle, as I’m alive ! My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could have expected to meet you here, in this frightful place, so far from home ? What has brought you to follow us ? Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your wits ? So far from home, when you are within forty yards of your own door ? ( To him.) This is one of your old tricks, you graceless rogue you. ( To her.) Don’t you know the gate and the mulberry- tree; and don’t you remember the horse-pond, my dear? Mrs. Hard. Yes, I shall remember the horse-pond as 1000“ as I live: I have caught my death in it. (To Tony. j And Is it to you, you graceless varlet, I owe all this ? I'll teach you to abuse your mother, I will. Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits on’t. Mrs. Hard. I’ll spoil you, I will ! [Follows him off the stage. Hard. There’s morality, however, in his reply. [Exit. Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. Hast. My dear Constance, why will you deliberate thus ? If we delay a moment, all is lost for ever. Pluck up a little reso- lution, and we shall soon be out of the reach of her malignity. Miss Nev. I find it impossible. My spirits are so sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that I am unable to face any new danger. Two or three years’ patience will at last crown us with happiness. Hast. Such a tedious delay is worse than inconstancy. Let us fly, my charmer. Let us date our happiness from this very moment. Perish fortune. Love and content will increase what we possess beyond a monarch’s revenue. Let me prevail. Miss Nev. No, Mr. Hastings ; no. Prudence once more p 168 goldsmith’s works. comes to my relief, and I will obey its dictates. In tlie moment of passion, fortune may be despised ; but it ever produces a lasting repentance. I’m resolved to apply to Mr. Hardcastle’s compassion and justice for redress. Hast. But though he had the will, he has not the power, to relieve you. Miss Nev. But he has influence, and upon that I am resolved to rely. Hast. I have no hopes. But, since you persist, I must reluctantly obey you. [Exeunt. Scene changes. Enter Sir Charles and Miss Ilardcastle. Sir Charles. What a situation am I in! If what you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If what he says be true, I shall then lose one that, of all others, I most wished for a daughter. Miss Hard, I am proud of your approbation, and to shew I merit it, if you place yourselves as I directed, you shall hear his explicit declaration. But he comes. Sir Charles. I’ll to your father, and keep him to the appointment. [Exit Sir Charles. Enter Marlow. Marl. Though prepared for setting out, I come once more to take leave ; nor did i, till this moment, know the pain I feel in the separation. Miss Hard. ( In her own natural manner.) I believe these sufferings cannot be very great, sir, which you can so easily remove. A day or two longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by shewing the little value of what you now think proper to regret. Marl. ( Aside.) This girl every moment improves upon me. (To her.) It must not be, madam. I have already trifled too long with my heart. My very pride begins to submit to my passion. The disparity of education and fortune, the anger of a parent, and the contempt of my equals, begin to lose their weight, and nothing can restore me to myself but this painful effort of resolution. Miss Hard. Then go, sir. I’ll urge nothing more to detain you. Though my family be as good as her’s you came down to visit; and my education, I hope, not inferior, what are these advantages, without equal affluence ? I must remain contented with the slight approbation of imputed merit ; I must have only the mockery of your addresses, while all your serious aims arc fixed on fortune. Enter Hardcastle and Sir Charles from behind . Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 159 Hard. Ay, ay, make no noise. I’ll engage my Kate covers liim with confusion at last. Marl. By heavens, madam, fortune was ever my smallest consideration. Your beauty at first caught my eye; for who could see that without emotion ? But every moment that I converse with you, steals in some new grace, heightens the picture, and gives it stronger expression. What at first seemed rustic plainness, now appears refined simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, now strikes me as the result of courageous innocence and conscious virtue. Sir Charles. What can it mean ! He amazes me ! Hard. I told you how it would be. Hush ! Marl. I am now determined to stay, madam ; and I have too good an opinion of my father’s discernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approbation. Miss Hard. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, cannot detain you. Do you think I could suffer a connexion in which there is the smallest room for repentance ? Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a transient passion, to load you with con- fusion ? Do you think I could ever relish that happiness which was acquired by lessening your’s ? Marl. By all that’s good, I can have no happiness but what’s in your power to grant me. Nor shall I ever feel repentance, but in not having seen your merits before. I will stay, even contrary to your wishes ; and though you should persist to shun me, I will make my respectful assiduities atone for the levity of my past conduct. Miss Hard. Sir, I must entreat you’ll desist. As our acquaintance began, so let it end, in indifference. I might have given an hour or two to levity ; but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think I could ever submit to a connexion where I must appear mercenary, and you imprudent ? Do you think I could ever catch at the confident addresses of a secure admirer ? Marl. ( Kneeling.) Does this look like security ? Does this look like confidence? No, madam; every moment that shews me your merit, only serves to increase my diffidence and confu- sion. Here let me continue Sir Charles. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how have you deceived me ! is this your indifference, your uninter- esting conversation ? Hard. Your cold contempt? your formal interview? What have you to say now? Marl. That I’m all amazement ! What can it mean ? Hard. It means, that you can say and unsay things at plea- sure. That you can address a lady in private, and deny it in public ; that you have one story for us, and another for my daughter. Marl. Daughter ! — this lady your daughter ! Hard. Yes, sir, my only daughter. My Kate ; whose else should she be ? 160 goldsmith’s works. Marl. Oh, the devil ! Miss Hard. Yes, sir, that very identical tall, squinting lady you were pleased to take me for. ( Gourtesying . ) She that you addressed as the mild, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, forward, agreeable Rattle of the ladies’ club ; ha, ha, ha ! Marl. Zounds, there’s no bearing this; it’s worse than death. Miss Hard. In which of your characters, sir, will you give us leave to address you ? As the faltering gentleman, with looks on the ground, that speaks just to be heard, and hates hyprocisy ; or the loud confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Man- trap, and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morning ? ha, ha, ha ! Marl. 0, curse on my noisy head ; I never attempted to bo impudent yet, that I was not taken down. I must be gone. Hard. By the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not, sir, I tell you. I know she’ll forgive you. Won’t you forgive him, Kate ? We’ll all forgive you. Take courage, man. [They retire, she tormenting him to the back scene, Enter Mrs. Hardcastle, Tony. Mrs. Hard. So, so, they’re gone off. Let them go, I care not. Hard. Who gone ? Mrs. Hard. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr. Hastings, from town. He who came down with our modest visitor here. Sir Charles. Who, my honest George Hastings ? As worthy a fellow as lives; and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice. Hard. Then, by the hand of my body, I’m proud of the connexion. Mrs. Hard. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not taken her fortune ; that remains in this family, to console us for her loss. Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary. Mrs. Hard. Ay, that’s my affair, not your’s. But you know, if your son, when of age, refuses to marry his cousin, her own fortune is then at her own disposal. Hard. Ay, but he’s not of age, and she has not thought proper to wait for his refusal. Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. Mrs. Hard. ( Aside. ) What, returned so soon ; I begin not to like it. Hast. ( To Hardcastle.) For my late attempt to fly off with your niece, let my present confusion be my punishment. We are now come tack, to appeal from your justice to your SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 181 humanity. By her father’s consent, I first paid her my addresses, and our passions were first founded in duty. Miss Nev. Since his death, I have been obliged to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an hour of levity, I was ready even to give up my fortune to secure my choice. But I am now recovered from the delusion, and hope, from your tenderness, what is denied me from a nearer connexion. Mrs. Hard. Pshaw, pshaw! this is all but the whining end of a modern novel. Hard. Be it what it will, I am glad they are come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady’s hand whom I now offer you ? Tony. What signifies my refusing. You know I can’t refuse her till I’m of age, father. Hard. While I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely to conduce to your improvement, I concurred with your mother’s desire to keep it secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I must now declare, you have been of age these three months. Tony. Of age ! Am I of age, father ? Hard. Above three months. Tony. Then you’ll see the first use I’ll make of my liberty. (Talcing Miss Neville's hand.) Witness all men by these pre- sents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, esquire, of blank place, refuse you, Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So, Constantia Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again. Sir Charles. 0 brave ’squire ! Hast. My worthy fiiend ! Mrs. Hard. My undutiful offspring I Marl. Joy, my dear George : I give you joy sincerely. And could I prevail upon my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest man alive, if you would return me the favour. Hast. {To Miss Ilardcastle.) Come, madam, you are now driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I’m sure he loves you, and you must and shall have him. Hard. ( Joining their hands.) And I say, so too. And, Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don’t believe you’ll ever repent your bargain. So now to supper. To-morrow we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us ; and the mistakes of the night shall be crowned with a merry morning. So, boy, take her ; and as you have been mistaken in the Mistress, my wish is, that you may never be mistaken in the Wife. EPILOGUE, BY DR. GOLDSMITH. Well, having stoop’d to conquer with success And gain’d a husband without aid from dress. Still as a bar-maid, I could wish it, too, As I have conquer’d him, to conquer you : And let me say, for all your resolution, That pretty bar-maids have done execution. Our life is all a play, compos’d to please, We have our exits and our entrances. The first act shews the simple country maid, Harmless and young, of ev’ry thing afraid ; Blushes when hir’d and with unmeaning action, I hopes as how to give you satisfaction. Her second act displays a livelier scene, — Th’ unblushing bar-maid of a country inn : Who whisks about the house, at market caters, Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. Next, the scene shifts to town, and there she soars The chop-house toasts of ogling connoisseurs. On ’squires and cits she there displays her arts, And on the gridiron broils her lovers’ hearts — And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, E’en common-councilmen forget to eat. The fourth act shews her wedded to the ’squire, And madam now begins to hold it higher ; Pretends to taste, at operas cries Caro , And quits her Nancy Dawson, for Che Faro ; Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride, Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapsides Ogles and leers with artificial skill, Till having lost in age the power to kill, She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille. Such, through our lives, the eventful history— The fifth and last act still remains for me. The bar-maid now for your protection prays, Turns female barrister, and pleads for Bayes, ESSAYS. INTRODUCTION. There is not, perhaps, a more whimsical figure in nature, than a man of real modesty who assumes an air of impudence ; who, while his heart heats with anxiety, studies ease, and affects good humour. In this situation, however, every unexperienced writer, as I am, finds himself. Impressed with terrors of the tribunal before which he is going to appear, his natural humour turns to pertness, and for real wit he is obliged to substitute vivacity. For my part, as I was never distinguished for address, and have often even blundered in making my bow, I am at a loss whether to he merry or sad on this solemn occasion. Should I modestly decline all merit, it is too probable the hasty reader may take me at my word. If, on the other hand, like labourers in the magazine trade, I humbly presume to promise an epitome of all the good things that were ever said or written, those readers I most desire to please may forsake me. My bookseller, in this dilemma, perceiving my embarrassment, instantly offered his assistance and advice. ‘You must know, sir,’ says he, ‘ that the republic of letters is at present divided into several classes. One writer excels at a plan or a title page ; another works away at the body of the hook ; and a third is a dab at an index. Thus a magazine is not the result of any single man’s industry, hut goes through as many hands as a new pin, before it is fit for the public. I fancy, sir,’ continues he, ‘ I can pro- vide an eminent hand, and upon moderate terms, to draw up a promising plan to smooth up our readers a little ; and pay them, as Colonel Chartres paid his seraglio, at the rate of three-half- pence in hand, and three shillings more in promises.’ 160 goldsmith’s works. He was proceeding in his advice, which, however, I thought proper to decline, by assuring him, that as I intended to pursue no fixed method, so it was impossible to form any regular plan : determined never to be tedious in order to be logical ; wherever pleasure presented, I was resolved to follow. It will be improper, therefore, to pall the reader’s curiosity by lessening his surprise, or anticipate any pleasure I am to procure him, by saying what shall come next. Happy, could any effort of mine but repress one criminal pleasure, or but for a moment fill up an interval of anxiety ! How gladly would I lead mankind from the vain prospects of life, to prospects of innocence and ease, where every breeze breathes health, and every sound is but the echo of tranquillity ! But whatever may be the merit of his intentions, every writer is now convinced that he must be chiefly indebted to good for- tune for finding readers willing to allow him any degree of reputation. It has been remarked, that almost every character which has excited either attention or pity, has owed part of its success to merit, and part to a happy concurrence of circum- stances in its favour. Had Csesar or Cromwell exchanged coun- tries, the one might have been a serjeant, and the other an exciseman. So it is with wit, which generally succeeds more from being happily addressed, than from its native poignancy. A jest calculated to spread at a gaming-table, may be received with perfect indifference should it happen to drop in a mackarel- boat. We have all seen dunces triumph in some companies, where men of real humour were disregarded, by a general com- bination in favour of stupidity. To drive the observation as far as it will go, should the labours of a writer, who designs his performances for readers of a more refined appetite, fall into the hands of a devourer of compilations, what can he expect but contempt and confusion ? If his merits are to be determined by judges who estimate the value of a book from its bulk, or its frontispiece, every rival must acquire an easy superiority, who, with persuasive eloquence, promises four extraordinary pages of letter-press, or three beautiful prints, curiously coloured from Nature. Thus, then, though I cannot promise as much entertainment, or as much elegance, as others have done, yet the reader may be assured he shall have as much of both as I can. He shall, at least, find me alive while I study his entertainment; for I solemnly assure him, I was never yet possessed of the secret of writing and sleeping. During the course of this paper, therefore, all the wit and learning I have are heartily at his service ; which if, after so candid a confession, he should, notwithstanding, still find intolerably dull, or low, or sad stuff, this I protest is more than I know ; I have a clear conscience, and am entirely out of the secret. Yet I would not have him, upon the perusal of a single ESSAYS. 167 paper, pronounce me incorrigible ; he may try a second, which, as there is a studied difference in subject and style, may be more suited to his taste ; if this also fails, I must refer him to a third, or even a fourth, in case of extremity ; if he should still continue refractory, and find me dull to the last, I must inform him, with Bayes in the Rehearsal, that I think him a very odd kind of fellow, and desire no more of his acquaintance ; but still, if my readers impute the general tenor of my subject to me as a fault, I must beg leave to tell them a story. A traveller, in his way to Italy, found himself in a country where the inhabitants had each a large excrescence depending from the chin ; a deformity which, as it was endemic, and the people little used to strangers, it had been the custom, time im- memorial, to look upon as the greatest beauty. Ladies grew toasts from the size of their chins, and no men were beaux whose faces were not broadest at the bottom. It was Sunday ; a country church was at hand, and our traveller was willing to perform the duties of the day. Upon his first appearance at the church-door, the eyes of all were fixed on the stranger ; but what was their amazement, when they found that he actually wanted that emblem of beauty, a pursed chin ! Stifled bursts of laughter, winks, and whispers, circulated from visage to visage ; the prismatic figure of the stranger’s face was a fund of infinite gaiety. Our traveller could no longer patiently con- tinue an object of deformity to point at. ‘ Good folks,’ said he, ‘ I perceive that I am a very ridiculous figure here, but I assure you I am reckoned no way deformed at home.’ LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP ; OR, THE STORY OF ALCANDER AND SEPTIMUS. ( Taken from a Byzantine Historian. ) Athens, even long after the decline of the Roman empire, still continued the seat of learning, politeness, and wisdom. Theo- doric, the Ostrogoth, repaired the schools which barbarity was suffering to fall into decay, and continued those pensions to men of learning, which avaricious governors had monopolized. In this city, and about this period, Alcander and Septimius were fellow-students together ; the one, the most subtle reasoner of all the Lyceum ; the other, the most eloquent speaker in the academic grove. Mutual admiration soon begot a friendship. Their fortunes were nearly equal, and they were natives of the two most celebrated cities in the world ; for Alcander was of Athens, and Septimius came from Rome. In this state of harmony they lived for some time together, when Alcander, after passing the first part of his youth in the GOLDSMITH S WORKS. 1G8 indolence of philosophy, thought at length of entering into the busy world ; and as a step previous to this, placed his affections on Hypatia, a lady of exquisite beauty. The day of their in- tended nuptials was fixed ; the previous ceremonies were per- formed ; and nothing now remained but her being conducted in triumph to the apartment of the intended bridegroom. Alcander’s exultation in his own happiness, or being unable to enjoy any satisfaction without making his friend Septimius a partner, prevailed upon him to introduce Hypatia to his fellow- student ; which he did, with all the gaiety of a man who found himself equally happy in friendship and love. But this was an interview fatal to the future peace of both ; for Septimius no sooner saw her, but he was smitten with an involuntary passion; and though he used every effort to suppress desires at once so imprudent and unjust, the emotions of his mind in a short time became so strong, that they brought on a fever, which the physicians judged incurable. During this illness, Alcander watched him with all the anxiety of fondness, and brought his mistress to join in those amiable offices of friendship. The sagacity of the physicians, by these means, soon discovered that the cause of their patient’s disorder was love ; and Alcander, being apprized of their discovery, at length extorted a confession from the reluctant dying lover. It would but delay the narrative to describe the conflict between love and friendship in the breast of Alcander on this occasion ; it is enough to say, that the Athenians were at that time arrived at such refinement in morals, that every virtue was carried to excess : in short, forgetful of his own felicity, he gave up his intended bride, in all her charms, to the young Roman. They were married privately by his connivance, and this un- looked-for change of fortune wrought as unexpected a change in the constitution of the now happy Septimius. In a few days he was perfectly recovered, and set out with his fair partner for Rome. Here, by an exertion of those talents which he was so eminently possessed of, Septimius, in a few years, arrived at the highest dignities of the state, and was constituted the city judge, or praetor. In the mean time, Alcander not only felt the pain of being separated from his friend and his mistress, but a prosecution was commenced against him by the relations of Hypatia, for having basely given up his bride, as was suggested, for money. His innocence of the crime laid to his charge, and even his eloquence in his own defence, were not able to withstand the influence of a powerful party. He was cast, and condemned to pay an enormous fine. However, being unable to raise so large a sum at the time appointed, his possessions were confiscated, he himself was stripped of the habit of freedom, exposed as a slave in the market-place, and sold to the highest bidder. A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser, Alcander, with some other companions of distress, was carried into that ESSAYS. 169 region of desolation and sterility. His stated employment was to follow the herds of an imperious master, and his success in hunting was all that was allowed him to supply his precarious subsistence. Every morning awaked him to a renewal of famine or toil, and every change of season served but to aggravate his unsheltered distress. After some years of bondage, however, an opportunity of escaping offered ; he embraced it with ardour ; so that travelling by night, and lodging in caverns by day, to shorten a long story, he at last arrived in Rome. The same day on which Alcander arrived, Septimius sat administering justice in the forum, whither our wanderer came, expecting to be instantly known, and publicly acknowledged by his former friend. Here he stood the whole day amongst the crowd, watching the eyes of the judge, and expecting to be taken notice of ; but he was so much altered by a long succession of hardships, that he continued unnoticed amongst the rest; and in the evening, when he was going up to the praetor’s chair, he was brutally repulsed by the attending lictors. The attention of the poor is generally driven from one ungrateful object to another ; for night coming on, he now found himself under the necessity of seeking a place to lie in, and yet knew not where to apply. All emaciated, and in rags, as he was, none of the citizens would harbour so much wretchedness ; and sleeping in the streets might be attended with interruption or danger ; in short, he was obliged to take up his lodging in one of the tombs without the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty, and despair. In this mansion of horror, laying his head upon an inverted urn, he forgot his miseries for awhile in sleep, and found on his flinty couch more ease than beds of down can supply to the guilty. As he continued here, about midnight, two robbers came to make this their retreat, but happening to disagree about the division of their plunder, one of them stabbed the other to the heart, and left him weltering in blood at the entrance. In these circumstances, he was found next morning dead at the mouth of the vault. This naturally induced a farther inquiry ; an alarm was spread ; the cave was examined : and Alcander being found, was immediately apprehended, and accused of robbery and murder. The circumstances against him w r ere strong, and the wretchedness of his appearance confirmed suspicion. Misfortune and he were now so long acquainted, that he at last became regardless of life. He detested a world where he had found only ingratitude, falsehood, and cruelty ; he was determined to make no defence ; and thus lowering with resolution, he was dragged, bound with cords, before the tribunal of Septimius. As the proofs were positive against him, and he offered nothing in his own vindication, the judge was proceeding to doom him to a most cruel and ignominious death, when the attention of the multitude was soon diverted by another object. The robber, who had been really guilty, was apprehended selling his plunder, and struck with a panic, had confessed his crime. He was a 170 goldsmith's “WORKS. brought bound to the same tribunal, and acquitted every other person of any partnership in his giult. Alcander’s innocence therefore appeared; but the sullen rashness of bis conduct remained a wonder to the surrounding multitude ; but their astonishment was still farther increased, when they saw their judge start from his tribunal to embrace the supposed criminal. Septimius recollected his friend and former benefactor, and hung upon his neck with tears of pity and joy. Need the sequel be related? — Alcander was acquitted, shared the friendship and honours of the principal citizens of Rome, lived afterwards in happiness and ease, and left it to be engraven on his tomb, that no circumstances are so desperate which Providence may not relieve. ON HAPPINESS OF TEMPER. When I reflect on the unambitious retirement in which I passed the early part of my life in the country, I cannot avoid feeling some pain in thinking that those happy days are never to return. In that retreat all nature seemed capable of affording pleasure ; I then made no refinements on happiness, but could be pleased with the most awkward efforts of rustic mirth, thought cross-purposes the highest stretch of human wit, and questions and commands the most rational way of spending the evening. Happy could so charming an illusion continue ! I find that age and knowledge only contribute to sour our dispositions. My present enjoyments may be more refined, but they are infinitely less pleasing. The pleasure the best actor gives, can no way compare to that I have received from a country wag who imitated a quaker’s sermon. The music of the finest singer is dissonance to what I felt when our old dairy-maid sung me into tears with Johnny Armstrong’s Last Good Night, or the Cruelty of Barbara Allen. Writers of every age have endeavoured to show that pleasure is in us, and not in the objects offered for our amusement. If the soul be happily disposed, everything becomes capable of affording entertainment, and distress will almost want a name. Every occurrence passes in review like the figures of a proces- sion ; some may be awkward, others ill-dressed ; but none but a fool is for this enraged with the master of the ceremonies. I remember to have once seen a slave in a fortification in Flanders, who appeared no way touched with his situation. He was maimed, deformed, and chained ; obliged to toil from the appearance of day till night-fall ; and condemned to this for life ; yet, with all these circumstances of apparent wretchedness, he sung, would have danced but that he wanted a leg, and ESSAYS. + 171 appeared the merriest, happiest man of all the garrison. What a practical philosopher was here ! a happy constitution supplied philosophy ; and, though seemingly destitute of wisdom, he was really wise. No reading or study had contributed to disenchant the fairy-land around him. Everything furnished him with an opportunity of mirth ; and, though some thought him, from his insensibility, a fool, he was such an idiot as philosophers should wish to imitate ; for all philosophy is only forcing the trade of happiness, when nature seems to deny the means. They who, like our slave, can place themselves on that side of the world in which every thing appears in a pleasing light, will find something in every occurrence to excite their good humour. The most calamitous events, either to themselves or others, can bring no new affliction ; the whole world is to them a theatre, on which comedies only are acted. All the bustle of heroism, or the rants of ambition, serve only to heighten the absurdity of the scene, and make the humour more poignant. They feel, in short, as little anguish at their own distress, or the complaints of others, as the undertaker, though dressed in black, feels sorrow at a funeral. Of all the men I ever read of, the famous Cardinal de Retz possessed this happiness of temper in the highest degree. As he was a man of gallantry, and despised all that wore the pedantic appearance of philosophy, wherever pleasure was to be sold, he was generally foremost to raise the auction. Being a universal admirer of the fair sex, when he found one lady cruel, he generally fell in love with another, from whom he expected a more favourable reception. If she too rejected his addresses, he never thought of retiring into deserts, or pining in hopeless distress : he persuaded himself, that instead of loving the lady, he only fancied that he had loved her, and so all was well again. When Fortune wore her angriest look, and he at last fell into the power of his most deadly enemy, Cardinal Mazarine (being confined a close prisoner in the castle of Valenciennes), he never attempted to support his distress by wisdom or philosophy, for he pretended to neither. He only laughed at himself and his persecutor, and seemed infinitely pleased at his new situation. In this mansion of distress, though secluded from his friends, though denied all the amusements, and even the conveniences of life, he still retained his good humour, laughed at all the little spite of his enemies, and carried the jest so far as to be revenged by writing the life of his jailer. All that the wisdom of the proud can teach is, to be stubborn or sullen under misfortunes. The cardinal’s example will instruct us to be merry in circumstances of the highest affliction. It matters not whether our good humour be construed by others into insensibility, or even idiotism ; it is happiness to ourselves, and none but a fool would measure his satisfaction by what the world thinks of it ; for my own part, I never pass by one of our prisons for debt, that I do not envy that felicity which is still GOLDSMITH S WORKS. * 172 going forward among those people, who forget the cares of the world by being shut out from its silly ambition. The happiest silly fellow I ever knew, was of the number of those good-natured creatures that are said to do no harm to any hut themselves. Whenever he fell into misery, he usually called it seeing life. If his head was broke by a chairman, or his pocket picked by a sharper, he comforted himself by imitating the Hibernian dialect of the one, or the more fashionable cant of the other. Nothing came amiss to him. His inattention to money-matters had incensed his father to such a degree, that all the intercession of friends in his favour was fruitless. The old gentleman was on his death-bed. The whole family, and Hick among the number, gathered round him. ‘ I leave my second son, Andrew, said the expiring miser, ‘ my whole estate, and desire him to be frugal.’ Andrew, in a sorrowful tone, as is usual on these occasions, prayed Heaven to prolong his life and health to enjoy it himself. ‘ I recommend Simon, my third son, to the care of his elder brother, and leave him beside four thousand pounds.’ — ‘ Ah ! father,’ cried Simon, in great afflic- tion to be sure, ‘ may Heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself ! ’ At last, turning to poor Dick, ‘ As for you, you have always been a sad dog; you’ll never come to good : you’ll never be rich ; I’ll leave you a shilling to buy a halter.’ — ‘ Ah ! father,’ cries Dick, without any emotion, ‘may Heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself!’ This was all the trouble the loss of fortune gave this thoughtless, imprudent creature. However, the tenderness of an uncle recompensed the neglect of a father ; and my friend is now not only exces- sively good-humoured, hut competently rich. Yes, let the world cry out at a bankrupt who appears at a ball, at an author who laughs at the public, which pronounces him a dunce, at a general who smiles at the approach of the vulgar, or the lady who keeps her good-humour in spite of scandal ; but such is the wisest behaviour that any of us can possibly assume. It is certainly a better way to oppose calamity by dissipation, than to take up the arms of reason or resolution to oppose it ; by the first method, we forget our miseries ; by the last, we only conceal them from others ; by struggling with mis- fortunes, we are sure to receive some wounds in the conflict ; but a sure method to come off victorious, is by running away. DESCRIPTION OF VARIOUS CLUBS. I remember to have read in some philosopher (I believe in Tom Brown’s works), that, let a man’s character, sentiments, or complexion, be what they will, he can find company in London ESSAYS. I* 173 to match them. If he he splenetic, he may every day meet companions on the seats in St. James’s Park, with whose groans he may mix his own, and pathetically talk of the weather. If he he passionate, he may vent his rage among the old orators at Slaughter’s coffee-house, and damn the nation because it keeps him from starving. If he be phlegmatic, he may sit in silence at the Humdrum club in Ivy-lane ; and, if actually mad, he may find very good company in Moorfields, either at Bedlam or the Foundry, ready to cultivate a nearer acquaintance. But, although such as have a knowledge of the town may easily class themselves with tempers congenial to their own, a countryman who comes to live in London finds nothing more difficult. With regard to myself, none ever tried with more assiduity, or came off with such indifferent success. I spent a whole season in the search, during which time my name has been enrolled in societies, lodges, convocations, and meetings, without number. To some 1 was introduced by a friend ; to others invited by an advertisement; to these I introduced my- self, and to those I changed my name to gain admittance. In short, no coquette was ever more solicitous to match her ribands to her complexion, than I to suit my club to my temper; for I was too obstinate to bring my temper to conform to it. The first club I entered upon coming to town, was that of the Choice Spirits. The name was entirely suited to my taste ; I was a lover of mirth, good-humour, and even sometimes of fun, from my childhood. As no other passport was requisite but the payment of two shillings at the door, I introduced myself without farther cere- mony to the members, who were already assembled, and had, for some time, begun upon business. The grand, with a mallet in his hand, presided at the head of the table. I could not avoid, upon my entrance, making use of all my skill in physiognomy, in order to discover that superiority of genius in men who had taken a title so superior to the rest of mankind. I expected to see the lines of every face marked with strong thinking ; but, though I had some skill in this science, I could for my life dis- cover nothing but a pert simper, fat, or profound stupidity. My speculations were soon interrupted by the grand, who had knocked down Mr. Spriggins for a song. I was, upon this, whispered by one of the company who sat next me, that I should now see something touched off to a nicety, for Mr. Spriggins was going to give us Mad Tom in all its glory. Mr. Spriggins endeavoured to excuse himself; for, as he was to act a madman and a king, it was impossible to go through the part properly without a crown and chains. His excuses were overruled by a great majority, _ and with much vociferation. The president ordered up the jack-chain ; and, instead of a crown, our per- former covered his brows with an inverted jordan. After he had rattled his chain, and shook his head, to the great delight of the whole company, he began his song. As I have heard few young 174 goldsmith's works. fellows offer to sing in company that did not expose themselves, it was no great disappointment to me to find Mr. Spriggins among the number ; however, not to seem an odd fish, 1 rose from my seat in rapture, cried out, ‘ Bravo ! encore ! ’ and slapped the table as loud as any of the rest. The gentleman who sat next me seemed highly pleased with my taste, and the ardour of my approbation ; and whispering, told me I had suffered an immense loss ; for, had I come a few minutes sooner, I might have heard Geeho Dobbin sung in a tiptop manner, by the pimple-nosed spirit at the president’s right elbow : but he was evaporated before I came. As I was expressing my uneasiness at this disappointment, I found the attention of the company employed upon a fat figure, who with a voice more rough than the Staffordshire giant’s, was giving us the ‘ Softly sweet, in Lydian measure,’ of Alexander’s Feast. After a short pause of admiration, to this succeeded a Welsh dialogue, with the humours of Teague and Taffy; after that came an Old Jackson, with a story between every stanza: next was sung the Dust Cart, and then Solomon’s Song. The glass began now to circulate pretty freely ; those who were silent when sober, would now be heard in their turn ; every man had his song, and he saw no reason why he should not be heard as well as any of the rest : one begged to be heard while he gave Death and the Lady in high taste ; another sung to a plate which he kept trundling on the edges ; nothing was now heard but singing; voice rose above voice, and the whole became one universal shout, when the landlord came to acquaint the com- pany that the reckoning was drunk out. Rabelais calls the moments in which a reckoning is mentioned, the most melan- choly of our lives : never was so much noise so quickly quelled, as by this short but pathetic oration of our landlord. ‘ Drunk out ! ’ was echoed in a tone of discontent round the table : ‘ Drunk out already ! that was very odd! that so much punch could be drunk out already ! impossible ! ’ The landlord, how- ever, seeming resolved not to retreat from his first assurances, the company was dissolved, and a president chosen for the night ensiling. A friend of mine, to whom I was complaining some time after of the entertainment I have been describing, proposed to bring me to the club that he frequented; which, he fancied, would suit the gravity of my temper exactly. ‘We have, at the Muzzy club,’ says he, ‘ no riotous mirth nor awkward ribaldry ; no confusion or bawling ; all is conducted with wisdom and decency : besides, some of our members are worth forty thousand pounds ; men of prudence and foresight every one of them : these are the proper acquaintance, and to such I will to-night introduce you.’ I was charmed at the proposal ; to be acquainted with men worth forty thousand pounds, and to talk wisdom the whole night, were offers that threw me into rapture. At seven o’clock I was accordingly introduced by my friend; ESSAYS 175 not indeed to the company, for, though I made my best bow, they seemed insensible of my approach ; but to the table at which they were sitting. Upon my entering the room, I could not avoid feeling a secret veneration from the solemnity of the scene before me; the members kept a profound silence, each with a pipe in his mouth, and a pewter pot in his hand, and with faces that might easily be construed into absolute wisdom. Happy society, thought I to myself, where the members think before they speak, deliver nothing rashly, but convey their thoughts to each other, pregnaut with meaning, and matured by reflection. In this pleasing speculation I continued a full half hour, expecting each moment that somebody would begin to open his mouth; every time the pipe was laid down, I expected it was to speak ; but it was only to spit. At length, resolving to break the charm myself, and overcome their extreme diffidence, for to this I imputed their silence, I rubbed my hands, and, looking as wise as possible, observed that the nights began to grow a little coolish at this time of the year. This, as it was directed to none of the company in particular, none thought himself obliged to answer ; wherefore I continued still to rub my hands and look wise. My next effort was addressed to a gentleman who sat next me ; to whom I observed, that the beer was ex- tremely good ; my neighbour made no reply, but by a large puff of tobacco smoke. I now began to be uneasy in this dumb society, till one of them a little relieved me by observing, that bread had not risen these three weeks. ‘ Ah ! ’ says another, still keeping the pipe in his mouth, ‘ that puts me in mind of a pleasant story about that — hem — very well ; you must know — but, before I begin — sir, my service to you — where was I ? * My next club goes by the name of the Harmonical Society ; probably from that love of order and friendship which every person commends in institutions of this nature. The landlord was himself founder. The money spent is fourpence each ; and they sometimes whip for a double reckoning. To this club few recommendations are requisite except the introductory fourpence, and my landlord’s good word, which, as he gains by it, he never refuses. We all here talked and behaved as every body else usually does on his club-night ; we discussed the topic of the day, drank each other’s health, snuffed the candles with our fingers, and filled our pipes from the same plate of tobacco. The company saluted each other in the common manner. Mr. Bellows- mender hoped Mr. Currycomb-maker had not caught cold going home the last club-night ; and he returned the compliment by hoping that young Master Bellows-mender had got well again of the chin cough. Doctor Twist told us a story of a parliament man with whom he was intimately acquainted : while the bug- man, at the same time, was telling a better story of a noble lord 176 goldsmith’s works. with whom he could do any thing. A gentleman in a black wig and leather breeches, at the other end of the table, was engaged in a long narrative of the ghost in Cock-lane ; he had read it in the papers of the day, and was telling it to some that sat next him, who could not read. Near him Mr. Dibbins was disputing on the old subject of religion with a Jew pedlar, over the table, while the president vainly knocked down Mr. Leathersides for a song. Besides the combination of these voices, which I could hear all together, and which formed an upper part to the concert, there were several others playing under parts by themselves, and endeavouring to fasten on some luckless neighbour’s ear, who was himself be^t upon the same design against some other. . We have often heard of the speech of a corporation, and this induced me to transcribe a speech of this club, taken in short- hand, word for word, as it was spoken by every member of the companv. It may be necessary to observe, that the man who told of the ghost had the loudest voice, and the longest story to tell, so that his continuing narrative filled every chasm in the conversation. ‘ So, sir, d’ye perceive me, the ghost giving three loud raps at the bed post’ — ‘ Says my lord to me, my dear Smokeum, you know there is no man upon the face of the yearth for whom I have so high ’ — A damnable false heretical opinion of all sound doctrine and good learning ; for I’ll tell it aloud, and spare not that ‘ Silence for a song ; Mr. Leathersides for a song ‘ As I was a walking upon the high way, I met a young damsel ’ — ‘ Then what brings you here ? says the parson to the ghost ’ — 1 Sanconiathon, Manetho, and Berosus ’ — The whole way from Islington turnpike to Dog-house bar ’ — ‘Dam’ — ‘As tor Abel Drugger, sir, he’s damn’d low in it ; my ’prentice boy has more of the gentleman than he’— ‘ For murder will out one time or another : and none but a ghost, you know, gentlemen, can’— ‘Damme if I don’t: for my friend, whom you know, gentlemen, and who is a parliament man, a man of consequence, a dear honest creature, to be sure ; we were laughing last night at ’—‘Death and damnation upon all his posterity by simply barely tasting ’ — ‘ Sour grapes, as the fox said once when he could not reach them ; and I’ll, I’ll tell you a story about that, that will make you burst your sides with laughing. A fox once ’ — < Will nobody listen to the song ?’ — ‘ As I was a walking upon the high way, I met a young damsel both buxom and gay’ — ‘ No ghost, gentlemen, can be murdered ; nor did I ever hear but of one ghost killed in all my life, and that was stabbed in the belly with a’ — ‘ My blood and soul if I do’nt’ — ‘ Mr. Bellowsmender, I have the honour of drinking your very good health’— ‘Blast me if I do’— ‘ Dam’— ‘Blood’— ‘ Bugs’— ‘Fire ’ —‘Whizz’— ‘Blid’— ‘Tit’— ‘Rat’— ‘Trip’— The rest all not, nonsense, and rapid confusion. Were I to be angry at men for being fools, I could here find ESSAYS. 177 ample room for declamation ; but, alas ! I have been a fool myself ; and why should be I angry with them for being some- thing so natural to every child of humanity ? Fatigued with this society, I was introduced, the following night, to a club of fashion. On taking my place, I found the conversation sufficiently easy, and tolerably good-natured ; for my lord and Sir Paul were not yet arrived. I now thought myself completely fitted, and resolving to seek no farther, deter- mined to take up my residence here for the winter ; while my temper began to open insensibly to the cheerfulness I saw diffused on every face in the room : but the delusion soon vanished, when the waiter came to apprise us that his lordship and Sir Paul were just arrived. From this moment, all our felicity was at an end : our new guests bustled into the room, and took their seats at the head of the table. Adieu now all confidence ; every creature strove who should most recommend himself to our members of distinction. Each seemed quite regardless of pleasing any but our new guests ; and what before wore the appearance of friendship, was now turned into rivalry. Yet I could not observe that, amidst all this flattery and obsequious attention, our great men took any notice of the rest of the company. Their whole discourse was addressed to each other. Sir Paul told his lordship a long story of Moravia the Jew ; and his lordship gave Sir Paul a very long account of his new method of managing silkworms : he led him, and con- sequently the rest of the company, through all the stages of feeding, sunning, and hatching ; with an episode on mulberry- trees, a digression upon grass-seeds, and a long parenthesis about his new postilion. In this manner we travelled on, wishing every story to be the last ; but all in vain : < Hills over hills, and Alps on Alps arose.’ The last club in which I was enrolled a member, was a society of Moral Philosophers, as they called themselves, who assembled twice a week, in order to shew the absurdity of the present mode of religion, and establish a new one its stead. . I found the members very warmly disputing when I arrived ; not indeed about religion or ethics, but about who had neglected to lay down his preliminary sixpence upon entering the room. The president swore that he had laid his own down, and so swore all the company. During this contest, I had an opportunity of observing the laws, ana also the members of the society. The president, who had been, as I was told, lately a bankrupt, was a tall pale figure, with a long black wig ; the next to him was dressed in a large white wig, and a black cravat ; a third, by the brownness of his complexion, seemed a native of Jamaica ; and a fourth, by his hue, appeared to be a blacksmith. But their rules will give the most just idea of their learning and principles. 178 goldsmith’s works. ‘ I. We, being a laudable society of Moral Philosophers, intend to dispute twice a week about religion and priestcraft ; leaving behind us old wives’ tales, and following good learning and sound sense : and if so be that any other persons has a mind to be of the society, they shall be entitled so to do, upon paying the sum of three shillings, to be spent by the company in punch. ‘II. That no member get drunk before nine of the clock, upon pain of forfeiting three-pence, to be spent by the company in punch. ‘ III. That as members are sometimes apt to go away with- out paying, every person shall pay sixpence upon his entering the room ; and all disputes shall be settled by a majority ; and all fines shall be paid in punch. ‘ IV. That sixpence shall be every night given to the pre- sident, in order to buy books of learning for the good of the society ; the president has already put himself to a good deal of expense in buying books for the club ; particularly the works of Tully, Socrates, and Cicero, which he will soon read to the society. ‘ V. All them who brings a new argument against religion, and who, being a philosopher, and a man of learning, as the rest of us is, shall be admitted to the freedom of the society, upon paying sixpence only, to be spent in punch. ‘ VI. Whenever we are to have an extraordinary meeting, it shall be advertised by some outlandish name in the news- papers. ‘Saunders Mac Wild, President. ‘Anthony Blewit, Vice-President, his f mark. ‘William Turpin, Secretary, ON THE POLICY OF CONCEALING OUR WANTS OR POVERTY. It is usually said by grammarians, that the use of language is to express our wants and desires; but men who know the world hold, and I think with some show of reason, that he who best knows how to keep his necessities private, is the most likely person to have them redressed ; and that the true use of speech is not so much to express our wants as to conceal them. When we reflect on the manner in which mankmd generally confer their favours, there appears something so attractive in riches, that the large heap generally collects from the smaller : ESSAYS. 179 and the poor finds as much pleasure in increasing the enormous mass of the rich, as the miser, who owns it, sees happiness in its increase. Nor is there in this anything repugnant to the laws of morality. Seneca himself allows, that, in conferring benefits, the present should always be suited to the dignity of the receiver. Thus the rich receive large presents, and are thanked for accepting them. Men of middling stations are obliged to be content with presents something less ; while the beggar, who may be truly said to want indeed, is, well paid if a farthing rewards his warmest solicitations. Every man who has seen the world, and has had his ups and downs in life, as the expression is, must have frequently ex- perienced the truth of this doctrine ; and must know, that to have much, or to seem to have it, is the only way to have more. Ovid finely compares a man of broken fortune to a falling column ; the lower it sinks, the greater weight it is obliged to sustain. Thus, when a man’s circumstances are such that he has no occasion to borrow, he finds numbers willing to lend him; but, should his wants be such, that he sues for a trifle, it is two to one whether he may be trusted with the smallest sum. A certain young fellow, whom I knew, whenever he had occasion to ask his friend for a guinea, used to prelude his request as if he wanted two hundred ; and talked so familiarly of large sums, that none could ever think he wanted a small one. The same gentleman, whenever he wanted credit for a suit of clothes, always made the proposal in a laced coat! for he found by experience, that if he appeared shabby on these occasions, his tailor had taken an oath against trusting, or, what was every whit as bad, his foreman was out of the way, and would not be at home for some time. There can be no inducement to reveal our wants, except to find pity, and by this means relief; but before a poor man opens his mind in such circumstances, he should first consider whether he is contented to lose the esteem of the person he solicits, and whether he is willing to give up friendship to excite compassion. Pity and friendship are passions incom- patible with each other ; and it is impossible that both can reside in any breast, for the smallest space, without impairing each other. Friendship is made up of esteem and pleasures ; pity is composed of sorrow and contempt : the mind may, for some time, fluctuate between them, but it can never entertain both at once. In fact, pity, though it may often relieve, is but, at best, a short-lived passion, and seldom affords distress more than transitory assistance ; with some it scarce lasts from the first impulse till the hand can be put into the pocket ; with others it may continue for twice that space ; and on some of extraor- dinary sensibility, I have seen it operate for half an hour together ; but still, last as it may, it generally produces but beggarly effects; and where, from this motive, we give five 180 GOLDSMITH’S WORKS. farthings, from others we give pounds : whatever be your feel- ings from the first impulse of distress, when the same distress solicits a second time, we then feel with diminished sensibility ; and, like the repetition of an echo, every stroke becomes weaker ; till, at last, our sensations lose all mixture of sorrow, and de- generate into downright contempt. These speculations bring to my mind the fate of a very good- natured fellow who is now no more. He was bred in a count- ing-house, and his father dying just as he was out of his time, left him a handsome fortune, and many friends to advise with. The restraint in which my friend had been brought up, had thrown a gloom upon his temper, which some regarded as prudence ; and, from such considerations, he had every day repeated offers of friendship. Such as had money, were ready to offer him their assistance that way; and they who had daughters, frequently, in the warmth of affection, advised him to marry. My friend, however, was in good circumstances ; he wanted neither their money, friends, nor a wife ; and therefore modestly declined their proposals. Some errors, however, in the management of his affairs, and several losses in trade, soon brought him to a different way of thinking ; and he, at last, considered that it was his best way to let his friends know that their offers were at length acceptable. His first address was to a scrivener, who had formerly made him frequent offers of money and friendship, at a time when, perhaps, he knew those offers would have been refused. As a man, therefore, confident of not being refused, he requested the use of a hundred guineas for a few days, as he just then had occasion for money. ‘And pray, sir,’ replied the scrivener, ‘ do you want all this money ?’ — ‘Want it, sir !’ says the other, ‘ if I did not want it I should not have asked it.’ — ‘ I am sorry for that,’ says the friend ; ‘ for those who want money when they borrow, will always want money when they should come to pay. To say the truth, sir, money is money now; and I believe it is all sunk in the bottom of the sea, for my part ; he that has got a little, is a fool if he does not keep what he has got.* Not quite disconcerted by this refusal, our adventurer was resolved to apply to another, who he knew was the very best friend he had in the world. The gentleman whom he now addressed, received his proposal with all the affability that could be expected from generous friendship. ‘ Let me see ; you want a hundred guineas; and pray, dear Jack, would not fifty answer ? ’ — ‘ If you have but fifty to spare, sir, I must be con- tented.’ — ‘ Fifty to spare ! I do not say that, for I believe I have but twenty about me.’ — ‘ Then I must borrow the other thirty from some other friend.’ — ‘And pray,’ replied the friend, ‘ would it not be the best way to borrow the whole money from that other friend, and then one note will serve for all, you know ? You know, my dear sir, that you need make nc ESSAYS. 181 ceremony with me at any time ; you know I’m your friend ; and when you choose a bit of dinner or so You, Tom, see the gentleman down. You won’t forget to dine with us now and then. Your very humble servant.’ Distressed, but not discouraged, at this treatment, he was at last resolved to find that assistance from love, which he could not have from friendship. A young lady, a distant relation by the mother’s side, had a fortune in her own hands ; and, as she had already made all the advances that her sex’s modesty would permit, he made his proposal with confidence. He soon, however, perceived that no bankrupt ever found the fair one kind. She had lately fallen deeply in love with another, who had more money, and the whole neighbourhood thought it would be a match. Every day now began to strip my poor friend of his former finery ; his clothes flew, piece by piece, to the pawnbroker’s, and he seemed, at length, equipped in the genuine livery of misfortune. But still he thought himself secure from actual necessity ; the numberless invitations he had received to dine, even after his losses, were yet unanswered ; he was therefore now resolved to accept of a dinner, because he wanted one ; and, in this manner he actually lived among his friends a whole week without being openly affronted. The last place I saw him in was at a reverend divine’s. He had, as he fancied, just nicked the time of dinner, for he came in as the cloth was laying. He took a chair without being desired, and talked for some time without being attended to. He assured the company that nothing procured so good an appetite as a walk iu the Parle, where he had been that morning. He went on, and praised the figure of the damask table-cloth ; talked of a feast where he had been the day before, but that the venison was over-done. But all this procured him no invitation ; finding, therefore, the gentleman of' the house insensible to all his letches, he thought proper, at last, to retire, and mend his appetite by a second walk in the Park. You, then, 0 ye beggars of my acquaintance, whether in rags or lace, whether in Ixent-street or the Mall, whether at the Smyrna or St. Giles’s, might I be permitted to advise as a friend, never seem to want the favour which you solicit. Apply to every passion but human pity for redress : you may find permanent relief from vanity, from self-interest, or from avarice, but from compassion never. The very eloquence of a poor man is disgusting ; and that mouth which is opened even by wisdom, is seldom expected to close without the horrors of a petition. To ward off the gripe of Poverty, you must pretend to be a stranger to her, and she will at least use you with ceremony. If you be caught dining upon a half-penny porringer of peas- soup and potatoes, praise the wholesomeness of your frugal repast. You may observe that Dr. Cheyne prescribed peas- » 182 goldsmith’s works. broth for the gravel ; hint that you are not one of those who are always making a deity of your belly. If, again, you are obliged to wear a flimsy stuff in the midst of winter, be the first to remark, that stuffs are very much worn at Paris ; or, if there be found any irreparable defects in any part of your equipage, which cannot be concealed by all the arts of sitting cross-legged, coaxing, or darning, say, that neither you nor Sir Samson Gideon were ever very fond of dress. If you be a philosopher, hint that Plato or Seneca are the tailors you choose to employ ; assure the company that man ought to be content with a bare covering, since what now is so much his pride, was formerly his shame. In short, however caught, never give out ; but ascribe to the frugality of your disposition what others might be apt to attribute to the narrowness of your circum- stances. To be poor, and to seem poor, is a certain method never to rise ; pride in the great is hateful ; in the wise it is ridiculous ; but beggarly pride is a rational vanity, which I have been taught to applaud and excuse. ON GENEROSITY AND JUSTICE. Lysippus is a man whose greatness of soul the whole world admires. His generosity is such, that it prevents a demand, and saves the receiver the confusion of a request. His liberality also does not oblige more by its greatness, than by his inimi- table grace in giving. Sometimes he even distributes his bounties to strangers, and has been known to do good offices to those who professed themselves his enemies. All the world are unanimous in the praise of his generosity ; there is only one sort of people who complain of his conduct. Lysippus does not pay his debts. It is no difficult matter to account for conduct so seemingly incompatible with itself. There is greatness in being generous, and there is only simple justice in satisfying creditors. Gene- rosity is the part of a soul raised above the vulgar. There is in it something of what we admire in heroes, and praise with a degree of rapture. Justice, on the contrary, is a mechanic virtue, only fit for tradesmen, and what is practised by every broker in Change-alley. In paying his debts, a man barely does his duty, and it is an action attended with no sort of glory. Should Lysippus satisfy creditors, who would be at the pains of telling it to the world ? Generosity is a virtue of a very different complexion. It is raised above duty, and from its elevation, attracts the attention and the praises of us little mortals below. In this manner do men generally reason upon justice and ESSAYS. 183 generosity. The first is despised, though a virtue essential to the good of society, and the other attracts our esteem, which too frequently proceeds from an impetuosity of temper, rather directed by vanity than reason. Lysippus is told that his banker asks a debt of forty pounds, and that a distressed acquaintance petitions for the same sum. He gives it without hesitation to the latter, for he demands as a favour what the former requires as a debt. Mankind in general are not sufficiently acquainted with the import of the word justice: it is commonly believed to consist only in a performance of those duties to which the laws of society can oblige us. This, I allow, is sometimes the import of the word, and in this sense justice is distinguished from equity ; but there is a justice still more extensive, and which can be shewn to embrace all the virtues united. Justice may be defined, that virtue which impels us to give to every person what is his due. In this extended sense of the word, it comprehends the practice of every virtue which reason prescribes, or society should expect. Our duty to our Maker, to each other, and to ourselves, are fully answered, if we give them what we owe them. Thus justice, properly speaking, is the only virtue ; and all the rest have their origin in it. The qualities of candour, fortitude, charity, and generosity, for instance, are not in their own nature virtues ; and, if ever they deserve the title, it is owing only to justice which impels and directs them. Without such a moderator, candour might become indiscretion, fortitude obstinacy, charity imprudence, and generosity mistaken profusion. A disinterested action, if it be not conducted by justice, is, at best, indifferent in its nature, and not unfrequently even turns to vice. The expenses of society, of presents, of entertainments, and the other helps to cheerfulness, are actions merely in- different, when not repugnant to a better method of disposing of our superfluities ; but they become vicious when they obstruct or exhaust our abilities from a more virtuous disposition of our circumstances. True generosity is a duty as indispensably necessary as those imposed upon us by law. It is a rule imposed on us by reason, which should be the sovereign law of a rational being. But. this generosity does not consist in obeying every impulse of humanity, in following blind passion for our guide, and impair- ing our circumstances by present benefactions, so as to render us incapable of future ones. Misers are generally characterized as men without honour, or without humanity, who live only to accumulate, and to this passion sacrifice every other happiness. They have been de- scribed as madmen, who, in the midst of abundance, banish every pleasure, and make, from imaginary wants, real necessities. But few, very few, correspond to this exaggerated picture; and, perhaps, there is not one in whom all these circumstances are 184 goldsmith’s works. found united. Instead of this, we find the sober and the industrious branded by the vain and the idle with this odious appellation ; men who, by frugality and labour, raise them- selves above their equals, and contribute their share of industry to the common stock. Whatever the vain or the ignorant may say, well were it for society, had we more of these characters amongst us. In gene- ral, these close men are found at last the true benefactors of society. With an avaricious man we seldom lose in our deal- ings, but too frequently in our commerce with prodigality. A French priest, whose name was Godinot, went for a long time by the name of the Griper. He refused to relieve the most apparent wretchedness, and by a skilful management of his vineyard, had the good fortune to acquire immense sums of money. The inhabitants of Eheims, who were his fellow- citizens, detested him, and the populace, who seldom love a miser, wherever he went, followed him with shouts of contempt. He still, however, continued his former simplicity of life, his amazing and unremitted frugality. He had long perceived the wants of the poor in the city, particularly in having no water but what they were obliged to buy at an advanced price ; where- fore, that whole fortune which he had been amassing, he laid out in an aqueduct, by which he did the poor more useful and lasting service, than if he had distributed his whole income in charity every day at his door. Among men long conversant with books, we too frequently find those misplaced virtues, of which I have been now com- plaining. We find the studious animated with a strong passion for the great virtues, as they are mistakingly called, and utterly forgetful of the ordinary ones. The declamations of philosophy are generally rather exhausted on those supererogatory duties, than on such as are indispensably necessary. A man, therefore, who has taken his ideas of mankind from study alone, generally comes into the world with a heart melting at every fictitious distress. Thus he is induced, by misplaced liberality, to put himself into the indigent circumstances of the person he relieves. I shall conclude this paper with the advice of one of the ancients, to a young man whom he saw giving away all his substance to pretended distress. ‘ It is possible, that the person you relieve may be an honest man; and I know that you who relieve him, are such. You see, then, by your generosity, that you rob a man who is certainly deserving, to bestow .it on one who may possibly be a rogue ; and, while you are unjust in re- warding uncertain merit, you are doubly guilty by stripping yourself.* ESSAYS. ON THE EDUCATION OF YOUTH. As few subjects are more interesting to society, so few have been mere frequently written upon, than the education of youth. Yet it is a little surprising, that it has been treated almost by all in a declamatory manner. They have insisted largely on the advantages that result from it, both to individuals and to society ; and have expatiated in the praise of what none have ever been so hardy as to call in question. Instead of giving us fine but empty harangues upon this sub- ject, instead of indulging each his particular and whimsical systems, it had been much better if the writers on this subject had treated it in a more scientific manner, repressed all the sallies of imagination, and given us the result of their observa- tions with didactic simplicity. Upon this subject, the smallest errors are of the most dangerous consequence, and the author should venture the imputation of stupidity upon a topic, where the slightest deviations may tend to injure the rising generation. However, such are the whimsical and erroneous productions written upon this subject. Their authors have studied to be uncommon, not to be just ; and at present, we want a treatise upon education, not to tell us anything new, but to explode tha errors which have been introduced by the admirers of novelty. It is in this manner books become numerous ; a desire of novelty produces a book, and other books are required to destroy the former. I shall, therefore, throw out a few thoughts upon this subject, which, though known, have not been attended to by others; and shall dismiss all attempts to please, while I study only instruction. The manner in which our youth of London are at present educated, is, some in free-schools in the city, but the far greater number in boarding-schools about town. The parent justly consults the health of his child, and finds an education in the country tends to promote this, much more than a continuance in town. Thus far he is right; if there were a possibility of having even our free-schools kept a little out of town, it would certainly conduce to the health and vigour of, perhaps, the mind as well as the body. It may be thought whimsical, but it is truth ; I have found by experience, that they, who have spent all their lives in cities, contract not only an effemiuacy of habit, but even of thinking. i>uo wutn liiave said that the boarding-schools are preferable to free schools, as being in the country, this is certainly the only advantage I can allow them ; otherwise it is impossible to conceive the ignorance of those who take upon them the impor- tant trust of education. Is any man unfit for any of the profes- sions, he find his last resource in setting up a school. Do any 1S6 goldsmith's works. become bankrupts in trade, they still set up a boarding-school, and drive a trade this way, when all others fail ; nay, I have been told of butchers and barbers, who have turned school- masters ; and, more surprising still, made fortunes in their new profession. Could we think ourselves in a country of civilized people, could it be conceived that we have any regard for posterity, when such are permitted to take the charge of the morals, f enius, and health, of those dear little pledges, who may one ay be the guardians of the liberties of Europe ; and who may serve as the honour and bulwark of their aged parents ? Tho care of our children, is it below the state ? Is it fit to indulge the caprice of the ignorant with the disposal of their children in this particular ? For the state to take the charge of all its children, as in Persia or Sparta, might at present be incon- venient ; but surely, with great ease, it might cast an eye to their instructors. Of all professions in society, I do not know a more useful, or a more honourable one, than a schoolmaster; at the same time that I do not see any more generally despised, or whose talents are so ill-rewarded. Were the salaries of schoolmasters to be augmented from a diminution of useless sinecures, how might it turn to the advan- tage of this people ! a people whom, without flattery, I may, in other respects, term the wisest and greatest upon earth. But while I would reward the deserving, I would dismiss those utterly unqualified for their employment: in short, I would make the business of a schoolmaster every way more respectable by increasing their salaries, and admitting only men of proper abilities. It is true we have schoolmasters appointed, and they have some small salaries ; but where at present there is only one schoolmaster appointed, there should, at least, be two ; and wherever the salary is at present twenty pounds, it should be a hundred. Do we give immoderate benefices to those who instruct ourselves, and shall we deny even subsistence to those who instruct our children ? Every member of society should be paid in proportion as he is necessary ; and I will be bold enough to say, that schoolmasters in a state are more necessary than clergymen, as children stand in more need of instruction than their parents. But instead of this, as I have already observed, we send them to board in the country, to the most ignorant set of men that can be imagined. But, lest the ignorance of the master be not sufficient, the child is generally consigned to the usher. This is commonly some poor needy animal, little superior to a footman either in learning or spirit, invited to his place by an advertise- ment, and kept there merely from his being of a complying disposition, and making the children fond of him. ‘ You give your child to be educated to a slave,’ says a philosopher to a rich man ; ‘ instead of one slave, you will have two.’ ESSAYS. 187 It were well, however, if parents, upon fixing their children in one of these houses, would examine the abilities of the usher as well as the master; for, whatever they are told to the contrary, the usher is generally the person most employed in their educa- tion. If, then, a gentleman, upon putting his son to one of these houses, sees the usher disregarded by the master, he may depend upon it, that he is equally disregarded by the boys ; the truth is, in spite of all their endeavours to please, they are generally the laughing-stock of the school. Every trick is played upon the usher ; the oddity of his manners, his dress, or his language, are a fund of eternal ridicule ; the master himself, now and then, cannot avoid joining in the laugh ; and the poor wretch, eternally resenting this ill usage, seems to live in a state of war with all the family. This is a very proper person, is it not, to give children a relish for learning ? They must esteem learning very much, when they see its professors used with such little ceremony ! If the usher be despised, the father may be assured his child will never be properly instructed. But let me suppose, that there are some schools without these inconveniences, where the masters and ushers are men of learn- ing, reputation, and assiduity. If there are to be found such, they cannot be prized in a state sufficiently. A boy will learn more true wisdom in a public school in a year, than by a private education in five. It is not from masters, but from their equals, youth learn a knowledge of the world; the little tricks they play each other, the punishment that frequently attends the commission, is a just picture of the great world; and all the ways of men are practised in a public school in miniature. It is true, a child is early made acquainted with some vices in a school ; but it is better to know these when a boy, than be first taught them when a man ; for their novelty then may have irre- sistible charms. In a public education, boys early learn temperance ; and if the parents and friends would give them less money upon their usual visits, it would be much to their advantage ; since it may justly be said, that a great part of their disorders arise from surfeit, ‘ plus occidit gula quam gladius.’ And now I am come to the article of health, it may not be amiss to observe, that Mr. Locke, and some others, have advised that children should be inured to cold, to fatigue, and hardship, from their youth ; but Mr. Locke was but an indifferent physician. Habit, I grant, has great in- fluence over our constitutions ; but we have not precise ideas upon this subject. We know that among savages, and even among our peasants, there are found children born with such constitutions, that they cross rivers by swimming, endure cold, thirst, hunger, and want of sleep, to a surprising degree; that when they happen to fall sick, they arc cured without the help of medicine, by nature alone. Such examples are adduced to persuade us to imitate their manner of education, an#accustom ourselves betimes to 188 goldsmith’s works. support the same fatigues. But had these gentlemen considered first how many lives are lost in this ascetic practice; had they considered, that- those savages and peasants are generally not so long-lived as they who_ have led a more indolent life ; that the more laborious the life is, the less populous is the country ; had they considered, that what physicians call the ‘ stamina vital ’ by fatigue and labour become rigid, and thus anticipate old age’; that the number who survive those rude trials, bears no propor- tion to those who die in the experiment ; had these things been properly considered, they would not have thus extolled an educa- tion begun in fatigue and hardships. Peter the Great, willin'' to mure the children of his seamen to a life of hardship, ordered that they should only drink sea-water ; but they unfortunately all died under the trial. But while I would exclude all unnecessary labours, yet still I would recommend temperance in the highest degree. No luxurious dishes with high seasoning, nothing given children to iorce an appetite; as little sugared or salted provisions as pos- i i , t ! I0U S' h . ever s0 pleasing- ; but milk, morning and night, should be their constant food. This diet would make them more healthy than any of those slops that are usually cooked by the mistress of a boarding-school ; besides, it corrects any consump- ti ve habits, not unfrequently found amongst the children of city parents. J As boys should be educated with temperance, so the first gieatcst lesson that should be taught them is to admire frugality. It is by the exercise of this virtue alone, they can ever expect to be useful members of society. It is true, lectures continually lepeated upon this subject, may make some boys, when they grow up, run into an extreme, and become misers ; but it were well, had we more misers than we have amongst us. I know few characters more useful in society ; for a man’s havino- a larger or smaller share of money lying useless by him, no way injures the commonwealth ; since, should every miser now exhaust his stores, this might make gold more plenty, but it would not increase the commodities or pleasures of life ; they would still remain as they are at present; it matters not, there- fore, whether men are misers or not, if they be only frugal, laborious, and fill the station they have chosen. If they deny themselves the necessaries of life, society is no way injured by their folly. J Instead, therefore, of romances, which praise young men of spirit, who go through a variety of adventures, and at last con- clude a life of dissipation, folly, and extravagance, in riches and matrimony, there should be some men of wit employed to com- pose books that might equally interest the passions of our youth, where such a one might be praised for having resisted allure- ments when young, and how, he at last, became lord-mayor; how he was married to a lady of great sense, fortune, and beauty; to be as explicit as possible, the old story of Whitting- ESSAYS. 189 ton, were his cat left out, might he more serviceable to the tender mind, than either Tom Jones, Joseph Andrews, or a hundred others, where frugality is the only good quality the hero is not possessed of. Were our schoolmasters, if any of them have sense enough to draw up such a work, thus employed, it would be much more serviceable to their pupils, than all the grammars and dictionaries they may publish these ten years. . . , Children should early be instructed m the arts from which they may afterward draw the greatest advantages. When the wonders of nature are never exposed to our view, we have.no great desire to become acquainted with those parts of learning which pretend to account for the phenomena. One of the ancients complains, that as soon as young men have left school, and are obliged to converse in the world, they fancy themselves transported into a new region, ‘lit, cum in forum venennt, existiment so in alium terrarum orbem delates.’ We should early, therefore, instruct them in the experiments, if I may so express it, of knowledge, and leave to maturer age the account- in 0- for the causes. But, instead of that, when boys begin natural philosophy in colleges, they have not the least curiosity for those parts of the science which are proposed for their instruction ; they have never before seen the phenomena, and consequently have no curiosity to learn the reasons. Might natural philosophy, therefore, be made their pastime in school, by this means it would in college become their amusement. In several of the machines now in use, there would be ample field both for instruction and amusement; the different sorts of the phosphorus, the artificial pyrites, magnetism, electricity, the experiments upon the rarefaction and weight of the air, and those upon clastic bodies, might employ their idle hours ; and none should be called from play to see such experiments but such as thought proper. At first, then, it would be sufficient if the instruments, and the effects of their combination, were only shewn ; the causes should be deferred to a maturer age, or to those times when natural curiosity prompts us to discover the wonders of nature. Man is placed in this world as a spec- tator ; when he is tired of wondering at all the novelties about him, and not till then, does he desire to be made acquainted with the causes that create those wonders. What I have observed with regard to natural philosophy, I would extend to every other science whatsoever. We should teach them as many of the facts as were possible, and defer the causes until they seemed of themselves desirous of knowing them. A mind thus leaving school, stored with all the simple experiences of science, would be the fittest in the world for the college-course; and though such a youth might not appear. so bright or so talkative, as those who had learned the real prin- ciples and causes of some of the sciences, yet he would make a wiser man, and would retain a more lasting passion for letters, 190 goldsmith’s works. than he who was early burdened with the disagreeable institu- tion of effect and cause. In history, such stories alone should he laid before them as might catch the imagination ; instead of this, they are too fre- quently obliged to toil through the four empires, as they are called, where their memories are burdened by a number of disgusting names, that destroy all their future relish for our best historians, who may be termed the truest teachers of wisdom. Every species of flattery should be carefully avoided ; a boy who happens to say a sprightly thing, is generally applauded so much, that he sometimes continues a coxcomb all his life after. He is reputed a wit at fourteen, and becomes a blockhead at twenty. Nurses, footmen, and such, should therefore be driven away as much as possible. I was even going to add, that the mother herself should stifle her pleasure or her vanity, when little master happens to say a good or a smart thing. Those modest, lubberly boys, who seem to want spirit, generally go through their business with more ease to themselves, and more satisfaction to their instructors. There has, of late, a gentleman appeared, who thinks the study of rhetoric essential to a perfect education. That bold male eloquence, which often, without pleasing, convinces, is generally destroyed by such institutions. Convincing eloquence is infinitely more serviceable to its possessor, than the most florid harangue, or the most pathetic tones, that can be imagined ; and the man who is thoroughly convinced himself, who under- stands his subject, and the language he speaks in, will be more apt to silence opposition, than he who studies the force of his periods, and fills our ears with sounds, while our minds are destitute of conviction. it was reckoned the fault of the orators at the decline of the Koman empire, when they had been long instructed by rhetori- cians, that their periods were so harmonious, as that they could be sung as well as spoken. What a ridiculous figure must one of these gentlemen cut, thus measuring syllables, and weighing words, when he should plead the cause of his client! Two architects were once candidates for the building a certain temple at Athens ; the first harangued the crowd very learnedly upon the different orders of architecture ; and showed them in what manner the temple should be built; the other, who got up alter him, only observed, that what his brother had spoken he could do ; and thus he at once gained his cause. To teach men to be orators, is little less than to teach them to be poets ; and for my part, I should have too great a regard for my child, to wish him a manor only in a bookseller’s shop. Another passion which the present age is apt to run into, is to make children learn all things ; the languages, the sciences, music, the exercises, and painting. Thus the child soon be- comes a talker in all, but a master in none. He thus acquires a ESSAYS. 191 superficial fondness for everything, and only shews his ignorance when he attempts to exhibit his skill. As I deliver my thoughts without method, or connexion, so the reader must not be surprised to find me once more address- ing schoolmasters on the present method of teaching the learned languages, which is commonly by literal translations. I would ask such, if they were to travel a journey, whether those parts of the road in which they found the greatest difficulties, would not he the most strongly remembered ? Boys who, if I may continue the allusion, gallop through one of the ancients with the assistance of a translation, can have hut a very slight acquaintance either with the author or his language. It is by the exercise of the mind alone that a language is learned ; but a lite.al translation on the opposite page, leaves no exercise lor the memory at all. The boy will not be at the fatigue of re- membering, when his doubts are at once satisfied by a glance of the eye ; whereas, were every word to be sought from a dic- tionary, the learner would attempt to remember them, to save himself the trouble of looking out for them for the future. To continue in the same pedantic strain, of all the various grammars now taught in the schools about town, I would recommend only the old common one ; I have forgot whether Lily’s, or an emendation of him. The others may be improve- ments ; but such improvements seem to me only mere gram- matical niceties, no way influencing the learner ; but perhaps loading him with subtilties, which, at a proper age, he must be at some pains to forget. Whatever pains a master may take to make the learning of the languages agreeable to his pupil, he may depend upon it, it will be at first extremely unpleasant. The rudiments of every language, therefore, must be given as a task, not as an amuse- ment. Attempting to deceive children into instruction of this kind, is only deceiving ourselves ; and I know no passion capable of conquering a child’s natural laziness but fear. Solo- mon has said it before me ; nor is there any more certain, though perhaps more disagreeable truth, than the proverb in verse, too well known to repeat on the present occasion. It is very probable that parents are told of some masters who never use” the rod, and consequently are thought the properest in- structors for their children; but, though tenderness is a requisite quality in an instructor, yet there is too often the truest tender- ness in well-timed correction. Some have justly observed, that all passions should be banished on this terrible occasion ; but I know not how, there is a frailty attending human nature that few masters are able to keep their temper whilst they correct. I knew a good-natured man, who was sensible of his own weakness in this respect, and consequently had recourse to the following expedient to prevent his passions from being engaged, yet at the same time admi- nister justice with impartiality. Whenever any of his pupils 192 goldsmith’s works. committed a fault, lie summoned a jury of his peers, I mean of the boys of his own or the next classes to him : his accusers stood forth ; he had liberty of pleading in his own defence, and one or two more had the liberty of pleading against him ; when found guilty by the pannel, he was consigned to the footman, who attended in the house, and had previous orders to punish, but with lenity. By this means, the master took off the odium of punishment from himself ; and the footman, between whom and the boys there could not be even the slightest intimacy, was placed in such a light as to be shunned by every boy in the school. ON THE VERSATILITY OF POPULAR FAVOUR, An alehouse-keeper, near Islington, who had long lived at the sign of the French King, upou the commencement of the last war with France, pulled down his old sign, and put up that of the Queen of Hungary. Under the influence of her red face and golden sceptre, he continued to sell ale, till she was no longer the favourite of his customers ; he changed her, there- fore, some time ago, for the King of Prussia; who, may probably be changed in turn, for the next great man that shall be set up for vulgar admiration. Our publican, in this, imitates the great exactly ; who deal out their figures, one after the other, to the gazing crowd. When we have sufficiently wondered at one, that is taken in, and another exhibited in its room, which seldom holds its station long ; for the mob are ever pleased with variety. I must own, I have such an indiff erent opinion of the vulgar, that I am ever led to suspect that merit which raises their shout ; at least, I am certain to find those great, and sometimes good men, who find satisfaction in such acclamations, made worse by it ; and history has too frequently taught me, that the head which has grown this day' giddy with the roar of the miRion, has the very next been fixed upon a pole. As Alexander VI. was entering a little town in the neigbonr- hood of Rome, which had been just evacuated by the enemy, he perceived the townsmen busy in the market-place in pulling down from a gibbet a figure which had been designed to repre- sent himself. There were also some knocking down a neigh- bouring statue of one of the Orsini family, with whom he was at \var, in order to put Alexander’s effigy in its place. It is possible, a man who knew less of the world would have con- demned the adulation of those bare-faced flatterers ; but Alexander seemed pleased at their zeal, and turning to Borgia, his son, said with a smile, ‘ Vides, mi fill, quam lcve discrimen 194 goldsmith’s works. that is not thus furnished with its little great men. The head of a petty corporation, who opposes the designs of a prince, who would tyrannically force his subjects to save their best clothes for Sundays ; the puny pedant, who finds one undiscovered pro- perty in the polype, or describes an unheeded process in the skeleton of a mole, and whose mind, like his microscope, perceives nature only in detail ; the rhymer, who makes smooth verses, and paints to our imagination, when he should only speak to our hearts; all equally fancy themselves walking forward to immortality, and desire the crowd behind them to look on. The crowd takes them at their word. Patriot, philo- sopher, and poet, are shouted in their train. ‘ Where was there ever so much merit seen ? No times so important as our own ; ages, yet unborn, shall gaze with wonder and applause!’ To such music, the important pigmy moves forward, bustling and swelling, and aptly compared to a puddle in a storm. I have lived to see generals who once had crowds hallooing after them wherever they went, who were be-praised by news- papers and magazines, those echoes of the voice of the vulgar, and yet they have long sunk into merited obscurity, with scarce even an epitaph left to flatter. A few years ago the herring- fishery employed all Grub-street; it was the topic in every coffee-house, and the burden of every ballad. We were to drag up oceans of gold from the bottom of the sea; we were to supply all Europe with herrings upon our own terms. At present we hear no more of this. We have fished up very little gold, that I can learn; nor do we furnish the world with herrings, as was expected. Let us wait for a few years longer, and we shall find all our expectations a herring-fishery. SPECIMEN OF A MAGAZINE IN MINIATURE. We essayists, who are allowed but one subject at a time, are by no means so fortunate as the writers of magazines, who write upon several. If a magaziner be dull upon the Spanish war, he soon has us up again with the ghost in Cock-lane ; if the reader begins to doze upon that, he is quickly roused by an eastern tale ; tales prepare us for poetry, and poetry for the meteoro- logical history of the weather. It is the life and soul of a magazine, never to he long dull upon one subject; and the reader, like the sailor’s horse, has at least the comfortable refreshment of having the spur often changed. As I see no reason why they should carry off all the rewards of genius, I have some thoughts for the future, of making this essay a magazine in miniature : I shall hop from subject to subject, and if properly encouraged, I intend in time to adorn ESSAYS. 195 my feuille -volant with pictures. But to begin, in the usual form, with A modest Address to the Public. The public has been so often imposed upon by the unper- forming promises of others, that it is with the utmost modesty we assure them of our inviolable design of giving the very best collection that ever astonished society. The public we honour and regard, and therefore to instruct and entertain them is our highest ambition, with labours calculated as well to the head as the heart. If four extraordinary pages of letter-press be any recommendation of our wit, we may at least boast the honour of vindicating our own abilities. To say more in favour of the Infernal Magazine, would be unworthy the public ; to say less, would be injurious to ourselves. As we have no interested motives for this undertaking, being a society of gentlemen of distinction, we disdain to eat or write like hirelings ; we are all gentlemen, resolved to sell our sixpenny magazine merely for our own amusement. Be careful to ask for the Infernal Magazine. DEDICATION. TO THAT MOST INGEXIOUS OF ALL PATROXS, THE TRIPOLINE AMBASSADOR. May it please your Excellency, As your taste in the fine arts is universally allowed and admired, permit the authors of the Infernal Magazine to lay tin, following sheets humbly at your Excellency’s toe ; and should our labours ever have the happiness of one day adorning the courts of Fez, we doubt not that the influence wherewith we are honoured, shall be ever retained, with the most warm ardour, by, May it please your Excellency, Your most devoted humble servants, The Authors of the Infernal Magazine, A SPEECH SPOKEN BY THE INDIGENT PHILOSOPHER TO PERSUADE HIS CLUB AT CATEATION NOT TO DECLARE WAR AGAINST SPAIN. My honest friends and brother politicians, I perceive that the intended war with Spain makes many of you uneasy. Yester- day, as we were told, the stocks rose, and you were glad ; to-day they fall, and you are again miserable. But, my dear ]96 goldsmith’s works. friends, what is the rising or falling of the stocks to us, who hare no money. Let Nathan Ben Funk, the Dutch Jew, be glad or sorry for this ; but, my good Mr. Bellows-ruonder, what is all this to you or me ? You must mend broken bellows, and I write bad prose, as long as we live, whether we like a Spanish war or not. Believe me, my honest friends, whatever you may talk of liberty and your own reason, both that liberty and reason are conditionally resigned by every poor man in every society ; and as we were born to work, so others are born to watch over us while we are working. In the name of common sense then, my good friends, let the great keep watch over us, and let us mind our business, and perhaps we may at last get money our- selves, and set beggars at work in our turn. I have a Latin sentence that is worth its weight in gold, and which I shall beg leave to translate for your instruction. An author, called Lily’s Grammar, finely observes, that ‘Mis in presenti perfectum format;’ that is, ‘Ready money makes a perfect man.’ Let us then get ready money, and let them that will spend theirs by going to war with Spain. RULES FOR RAISING THE DEYIL. ( Translated from the Latin of JDaneeus de Sortiaraiis, a Writer cotemporary with Galvin , and one of the Reformers of our Church.) The person who desires to raise the devil, is to sacrifice a dog, a cat, and a hen, all of his own property, to Beelzebub. He is to swear an eternal obedience, and then to receive a mark in some unseen place, either under the eyelid, or in the roof of the mouth, inflicted by the devil himself. Upon this fie has power given him over three spirits ; one for earth, another for air, and a third for the sea. Upon certain times the devil holds an assembly of magicians, in which each is to give an account of what evil he has done, and what he wishes to do. At this assembly he appears in the shape of an old man, or often like a goat with large horns. They, upon this occasion, renew their vows of obedience ; and then form a grand dance in honour of their false deity. The deity instructs them in every method of injuring mankind, in gathering poisons, and of riding upon occasion through the air. He shews them the whole method, upon examination, of giving evasive answers ; his spirits have power to assume the form of angels of light, and there is but one method of detecting them, viz. to ask them, in proper form, what method is the most certain to propagate the faith over all the world? To this they are not permitted by the superior power to make a false reply, nor are they willing to give tbe true one ; wherefore they continue silent, and are thus detected. ESS ATS. 197 RULES FOR BEHAVIOUR, DRAWN UP BY THE INDIGENT PHILOSOPHER. If you be a rich man, you may enter the room with three loud hems, march deliberately up to the chimney, and turn your back to the fire. If you be a poor man, I would advise you to shrink into the room as fast as you can, and place yourself, as usual, upon the corner of a chair, in a remote corner. When you are desired to sing in company, I would advise you to refuse ; for it is a thousand to one but that you torment us with affectation or a bad voice. If you be young, and live with an old man, I would advise you not to like gravy. I was disinherited myself for liking gravy. Do not laugh much in public : the spectators that are not as merry as you, will liate you, either because they envy your hap- piness, or fancy themselves the subject of your mirth. BEAU TIBBS : A CHARACTER. Though naturally pensive, yet I am fond of gay company, and take every opportunity of thus dismissing the mind from duty. From this motive I am often found in the centre of a crowd ; and wherever pleasure is to be sold, am always a pur- chaser. In those places, without being remarked by any, I join in whatever goes forward, work my passions into a similitude of frivolous earnestness, shout as they shout, and condemn as they happen to disapprove. A mind thus sunk for awhile below its natural standard, is qualified for stronger flights, as those first retire who would spring forward with greater vigour. Attracted by the serenity of the evening, a friend and I lately went to gaze upon the company in one of the public walks near the city. Here we sauntered together for some time, either praising the beauty of such as were handsome, or the dresses of such as had nothing else to recommend them. We had gone thus deliberately forward for some time, when my friend, stopping on a sudden, caught me by the elbow, and led me out of the public walk. I could perceive by the quickness of his pace, and by his frequently looking behind, that he was attempt- ing to avoid somebody who followed : we now turned to the right, then to the left : as we went forward, he still went (aster, but in vain ; the person whom he attempted to escape, hunted us through every doubling, and gained upon us each moment ; so that at last we fairly stood still, resolving to face what we could not avoid, s 3 198 goldsmith’s works. Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with all the famili- arity of an old acquaintance. ‘ My dear Charles,’ cries he, shaking my friend’s hand, ‘where have you been hiding this half a century? Positively I had fancied you had gone down to cultivate matrimony and your estate in the country.’ During the reply, I had an opportunity of surveying the appearance of our new companion. His hat was pinched up with peculiar smartness : his looks were pale, thin, and sharp ; round his neck he wore a broad black riband, and in bis bosom a buckle studded with glass ; his coat was trimmed with tarnished twist; he wore by his side a sword with a black hilt; and his stockings of silk, though newly washed, were grown yellow by long service. I was so much engaged with the peculiarity of his dress, that I attended only to the latter part of my friend’s reply ; in which he complimented Mr. Tibbs on the taste of bis clothes and the bloom in his countenance. ‘ Psha, psha, Charles,’ cries the figure, ‘ no more of that if you love me : you know I hate flattery, on my soul I do ; and yet to be sure an intimacy with the great will improve one’s appearance, and a course of venison will fatten ; and yet, faith, I despise the great as much as you do : but there are a great many damned honest fellows among them, and we must not quarrel with one half, bceause the other wants breeding. If they were all such as my Lord Mudler, one of the most good-natured creatures that ever squeezed a lemon, I should myself be among the number of their admirers. I was yesterday to dine at the Duch ms of Piccadilly’s. My Lord was there. Ned, says he to me, Ned, says he, I will hold gold to silver, I can tell where you were poaching last night. Poaching ! my lord, says I ; faith you have missed already ; for I stayed at home and let the girls poach for me. That is my way : I take a fine woman as s ome animals do their prey ; stand still, and swoop, they fall into my mouth.’ ‘ Ah, Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow,’ cried my companio n, with looks of infinite pity. ‘ I hope your fortune is as muc h improved as your understanding in such company.’ ‘ Improved ! ’ replied the other, ‘ you shall know — but let it go no farther, — a great secret — five hundred a year to begin with. — My lord’s word of honour for it — His lordship took me in his own chariot yesterday, and we had a tete a tete dinner in the country, where we talked of nothing else.’ ‘ I fancy you forgot, sir,’ cried I ; ‘ you told us but this moment of your dining yesterda y in town ! ’ ‘ Did I say so ? ’ replied he coolly. ‘ To be sure, if I said so, it was so. — Dined in town : egad, now I remember , I did dine in town ; but I dined in the country, too ; for you m ust know, my boys, I eat two dinners. By the by, I am grow as nice as the devil in my eating. I will tell you a pleasant affair about that : we were a select party of us to dine at Lady Grog-ram’s, an affected piece, but let it go no farther ; a se.cret : Well, says I, I will hold a thousand guineas, and say Don first, ESSAYS. 199 that — But, dear Charles, you are an honest creature ; lend me half-a-crown for a minute or two, or so, just till— But hark’ee, ask me for it the next time we meet, or it may he twenty to one but I forget to pay you.’ When he left us, our conversation naturally turned upon so extraordinary a character. ‘ His very dress,’ cries my friend, ‘ is not less extraordinary than his conduct. If you meet him this day, you find him in rags: if the next, in embroidery. With those persons of distinction of whom he talks so fami- liarly, he has scarce a coffee-house acquaintance. However, both for the interest of society, and, perhaps for his own, Heaven has made him poor ; and while all the world perceives his wants, he fancies them concealed from every one. An agree- able companion, because he understands flattery ; and all must be pleased with the first part of his conversation, though all are sure of its ending with a demand on their purse. While his youth countenances the levity of his conduct, he may thus earn a precarious subsistence ; but, when age comes on, the gravity of which is incompatible with buffoonery, then will he find himself forsaken by all : condemned in the decline of life to hang upon some rich family whom he once despised, there to undergo all the ingenuity of studied contempt ; to be employed only as a spy upon the servants, or a bugbear to fright chh- dren into duty.’ BBAH TIBBS— CONTINUED. There are some acquaintances whom it is no easy matter to shake off. My little beau yesterday overtook me again in one of the public walks, and slappiug me on the shoulder, saluted me with an air of the most perfect familiarity. His dress -was the same as usual, except that he had more powder in his hair, wore a dirtier shirt, and had on a pair of Temple spectacles, and his hat under his arm. As I knew him to be a harmless, amusing little thing, I could not return his smiles with any degree of severity ; so we walked forward on terms of the utmost intimacy, and in a few minutes discussed all the usual topics preliminary to particular con- versation. The oddities that marked his character, however, soon began to appear ; he bowed to several well-dressed persons, who, by their manner of returning the compliment, appeared perfect strangers. At intervals, he drew out a pocket-book, seeming to take memorandums before all the company with much impor- tance and assiduity. In this manner, he led me through the length of the whole Mall, fretting at his absurdities, and fancy- ing myself laughed at as well as him by every spectator. 200 goldsmith’s works. When we were got to the end of our procession, ‘ Blast me,’ cries he, with an air of vivacity, ‘ I never saw the park so thin in my life before; there’s no company at all to-day. Not a single face to be seen.’ — ‘ No company,’ interrupted I, peevishly, ‘ no company where there is such a crowd ? Why, man, there is too much. W r hat are the thousands that have been laughing at us but company ? ’ ‘ Lord, my dear,’ returned he with the utmost good humour, ‘ you seem immensely chagrined : but, blast me, when the world laughs at me, I laugh at the world, and so we are even. My Lord Trip, Bill Squash the Creolian, and I, sometimes make a party at being ridiculous ; and so we say and do a thousand things for the joke’s sake. But I see you are grave ; and if you are for a fine grave sentimental com- panion, you shall dine with my wife to-day ; I must insist on’t; I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of as elegant qualifica- tions as any in nature ; she Avas bred, but that’s betAveen ourselves, under the inspection of the Countess of Shoreditch. A charming body of voice ! But no more of that, she shall give us a song. You shall see my little girl, too, Carolina Wil- helmina Amelia Tibbs, a sweet pretty creature : I design her for my Lord Drumstick’s eldest son ; but that’s in friendship, let it go no farther ; she’s but six years old, and yet she walks a minuet, and plays on the guitar immensely already. I intend she shall be as perfect as possible in every accomplishment. In the first place, I’ll make her a scholar ; I’ll teach her Greek myself, and I intend to learn that language purposely to instruct her ; but let that be a secret.’ Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he took me by the arm and hauled me along. We passed through many dark alleys and Avinding Avays ; for, from some motives to me unknoAvn, he seemed to have a particular aversion to every frequented street ; at last, however, Ave got to the door of a dismal-looking house in the outlets of the toAvn, where he informed me he chose to reside for the benefit of the air. We entered the loAver door, Avhich seemed ever to lie most hospitably open ; and I began to ascend an old and creaked staircase ; when as he mounted to sherv me the way, he demanded, Avhether I delighted in prospects ; to which, answer- ing in the affirmative, ‘ Then,’ said he, ‘ I shall shew you one of the most charming out of my windoivs : Ave shall see the ships sailing, and the Avhole country for tAventy miles round, tiptop, quite high. My Lord SAA r amp Avould give ten thousand guineas for such a one; but as I sometimes pleasantly tell him, I always love to keep my prospects at home, that my friends may come to see me the oftener.’ By this time Ave were arrived as high as the stairs would permit us to ascend, til Ave came to Avbat he Avas facetiously pleased to call the first floor doAvn the chimney ; and, knocking at the door, a voice with a Scotch accent from Avithin demanded, ‘ Wha’s there r’ My conductor answered that it Avas him. But ESSAYS. 201 this not satisfying the querist, the voice again repeated the demand ; to which he answered louder than before ; and now the door was opened by an old maid servant with cautious reluctance. When we were got in, he welcomed me to his house with great ceremony, and turning to the old woman, asked where her lady was. ‘ Good troth,’ replied she in the northern dialect, ‘ she’s washing your twa shirts at the next door, because they have taken an oath against lending out the tub any longer.’ — ‘My two shirts!’ cries he, in a tone that faltered with con- fusion, ‘what does the idiot mean ?’ — ‘ I ken what I mean well enough,’ replied the other ; ‘ she’s washing your twa shirts at the next door, because ’ ‘ Fire and fury, no more of thy stupid explanations,’ cried lie. ‘ Go and inform her we have got company. Were that Scotch hag,’ continued he, turning to me, ‘ to be for ever in my family, she would never learn politeness, nor forget that absurd poisonous accent of her’s, or testify the smallest specimen of breeding or high life ; and yet it is very surprising, too, as I had her from a parliament man, a friend of mine, from the Highlands, one of the politest men in the world ; but that’s a secret.’ We waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs’ arrival, during which interval I had a full opportunity of surveying the chamber and all its furniture ; which consisted of four chairs with old wrought bottoms, that he assured me were his wife’s em- broidery ; a square table that had been once japanned ; a cradle in one corner, a lumber-cabinet in the other ; a broken shep- herdess, and a mandarine without a head, were stuck over the chimney ; and round the walls several paltry unframed pictures, which he observed were all of his own drawing. ‘ What do you think, sir, of that head in the corner, done in the manner of Grisoni ? There is the true keeping in it ; its my own face ; and, though there happens to be no likeness, a countess offered me a hundred for its fellow : I refused her, for hang it, that would be mechanical, you know.’ The wife at last made her appearance ; at once a slattern and coquette : much emaciated, but still carrying the remains of beauty. She made twenty apologies for being seen in such an odious dishabille, but hoped to be excused, as she had stayed out all night at Vauxhall Gardens with tire countess, who was excessively fond of the horns. ‘And, indeed, my dear,’ added she, turning to her husband, ‘ his lordship drank your health in a humper.’— ‘ Poor Jack!’ cries he, ‘a dear good-natured creature, I know' he loves me; but I hope, my dear, you have given orders for dinner ; you need make no great preparations neither, there are but three of us ; something elegant, and little will do ; a turbot, an ortolan, or a ’ ‘ Or what do you think, my dear,’ interrupts the wife, ‘ of a nice pretty bit of ox- cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a little of my own sauce r’ — ‘ The very thing,’ replies he ; ‘it will eat best with some 2^2 GOXP'MTTH’S WORKS. Bmart bottled beer ; but be sure to let’s have the sauce bis grace was so fond of. I hate your immense loads of meat ; that is country all over ; extremely disgusting to those who are in the least acquainted with high life.’ By this time my curiosity began to abate, and my appetite to increase ; the company of fools may at first make us smile, but at last never fails of rendering us melancholy. I therefore pretended to recollect a prior engagement, and after having ehown my respects to the house, by giving the old servant a piece of money at the door, I took my leave ; Mr. Tibbs assur- ing me, that dinner, if 1 stayed, would be ready at least in less than two hours. ON THE IRRESOLUTION OF YOUTII. As it has been observed, that few are better qualified to give others advice, than those who have taken the least of it them- selves ; so, in this respect, I find myself perfectly authorized to offer mine ; and must take leave to throw together a few obser- vations upon that part of a young man’s conduct on his entering into life, as it is called. The most usual way among young men who have no resolu- tion of their own, is first to ask one friend’s advice, and follow it for some time ; then to ask the advice of another, and turn to that ; so of a third, still unsteady, always changing. How- ever, every change of this nature is for the worse ; people may tell you of your being unfit for some peculiar occupations in life ; but heed them not ; whatever employment you follow with perseverance and assiduity, will be found fit for you ; it will be your support in youth, and comfort in age. In learning the useful part of every profession, very moderate abilities will suffice : great abilities are generally obnoxious to the possessors. Life has been compared to a race; but the allusion still im- proves by observing, that the most swift are ever the most apt to stray from the course. To know one prolession only, is enough for one man to know; a. id this, whatever the professors may tell you to the contrary, is soon learned. Be contented, therefore, with one good em- ployment ; for if you understand two at a time, people will give you business in neither. A conjuror and a tailor once happened to converse together. ‘ Alas !’ cries the tailor, ‘what an unhappy poor creature am I ! If people take it into their heads to live without clothes, I am undone ; I have no other trade to have recourse to.’ — ‘ Indeed, friend, I pity you sincerely,’ replies the conjuror; ‘but, thank Heaven, things are not quite so bad with me : for, if one trick should fail, I have a hundred tricks more for them yet. How- ESSAYS. 203 ever, if at any time you are reduced to oeggary, apply to me, and I will relieve you.’ A famine overspread the land ; the tailor made a shift to live, because his customers could not be without clothes ; but the poor conjuror, with all his hundred tricks, could find none that had money to throw away ; it was in vain that he promised to eat fire, or to vomit pins ; no single creature would relieve him, till he was at last obliged to beg from the very tailor whose calling he had formerly despised. There are no obstructions more fatal to fortune than pride and resentment. If you must resent injuries at all, at least suppress your indignation till you become rich, and then show away. The resentment of a poor man is like the efforts of a harmless insect to sting ; it may get him crushed, but cannot defend him. Who values that anger which is consumed only in empty menaces ? Once upon a time, a goose fed its young by a pond side ; and a goose, in such circumstances, is always extremely proud, and excessively punctilious. If any other animal, without the least design to offend, happened to pass that way, the goose was immediately at it. The pond, she said, was her’s, and she would maintain her right in it, and support her honour, while she had a bill to hiss it, or a wing to flutter. In this manner, she drove away ducks, pigs, and chickens ; nay, even the insidious cat was seen to scamper. A lounging mastiff, however, happened to pass by, and thought it no harm if he should lap a little of the water, as he was thirsty. The guardian goose flew at him like a fury, pecked at him with her beaks, and slapped him with her feathers. The dog grew angry, and had twenty times a mind to give her a sly snap ; but suppressing his indignation, because his master was nigh : ‘ A pox take thee,’ cries he, ‘ for a fool ; sure those who have neither strength nor weapons to fight, at least should be civil.’ So saying, he went forward to the pond, quenched his thirst, in spite of the goose, and followed his master. Another obstruction to the fortune of youth is, that while they are willing to take offence from none, they are also equally desirous of giving nobody offence. From hence they endeavour to please all, comply with every request, and attempt to suit themselves to every company ; have no will of their own, but, like wax, catch every contiguous impression. By thus attempt- ing to give universal satisfaction, they at last find themselves miserably disappointed : to bring the generality of admirers on our side, it is sufficient to attempt pleasing a very few. A painter of eminence was once resolved to finish a piece which should please the whole world. When, therefore, he had drawn a picture, in which his utmost skill was exhausted, it was exposed in the public market-place, with directions at the bottom for every spectator to mark with a brush, that lay by, every limb and feature which seemed erroneous. The spectators came, and in the general applauded ; but each, willing to shew 204 goldsmith’s works. his talent at criticism, stigmatized whatever he thought proper. At evening, when the painter came, he was mortified to find the picture one universal blot, not a single stroke that had not the marks of disapprobation. Not satisfied with this trial, the next day he was resolved to try them in a different manner ; and exposing his picture as before, desired that every spectator would mark those beauties he approved or admired. The people complied; and the artist returning, found his picture covered with the marks of beauty ; every stroke that had been yesterday condemned, now received the character of approba- tion. ‘ Well,’ cries the painter, ‘ I now find that the best way to please all the world, is to attempt pleasing one half of it.’ ON MAD DOGS. Indulgent nature seems to have exempted this island from many of those epidemic evils which are so fatal in other parts of the world. A want of rain for a few days beyond the expected season, in some parts of the globe, spreads famine, desolation, and terror, over the whole country ; hut, in this fortunate island of Britain, the inhabitant courts health in every breeze, and the husbandman ever sows in joyful expectation. But, though the nation be exempt from real evils, it is not more happy on this account than others. The people are afflicted, it is true, with neither famine nor pestilence ; but then there is a disorder peculiar to the country, which every season makes strange ravages among them ; it spreads with pestilential rapidity, and infects almost every rank of people ; what is still more strange, the natives have no name for this peculiar malady, though well known to foreign physicians by the appel- lation of Epidemic Terror. A season is never known to pass in which the people are not, visited by this cruel calamity in one shape or another, seemingly different, though ever the same; one year it issues from a baker’s shop in the shape of a sixpenny loaf, the next it takes the appearance of a comet with a fiery tail, the third it threatens like a flat-bottomed boat, and the fourth it carries consternation in the bite of a mad dog. The people, when once infected, lose their relish for happiness, saunter about with looks of despon- dence, ask after the calamities of the day, and receive no comfort but in heightening each other’s distress. It is insignificant how remote or near, how weak or powerful, the object of terror may be, when once they resolve to fright and be frighted; the merest trifles sow consternation and dismay ; each proportions his fears, not to the object, but to the dread he discovers in the counte- nance of others ; for when once the fermentation is begun, it ESSAYS. 2U5 goes on of itself, though the original cause be discontinued ■which at first set it in motion. A dread of mad dogs is the epidemic terror which now prevails, and the whole nation is at present actually groaning under the malignity of its influence. The people sally from their houses with that circumspection which is prudent in such as expect a mad dog at every turning. The physician publishes his prescription, the beadle prepares his halter, and a few of unusual bravery, arm themselves with boots and buif gloves, in order to face the enemy, if he should offer to attack them. In short, the whole people stand bravely upon their defence, and seem, by their present spirit, to show a resolution of being tamely bit by mad dogs no longer. Their manner of knowing whether a dog be mad or no, some- what resembles the ancient Gothic customs of trying witches. The old woman suspected was tied hand and foot, and thrown into the water. If she swam, then she was instantly carried off to be burnt for a witch ; if she sank, then indeed she was acquitted of the charge, but drowned in the experiment. In the same manner a crowd gather round a dog suspected of madness, and they begin by teazing the devoted animal on every side. If lie attempts to stand upon the defensive, and bite, then he is unanimously found guilty, for ‘ a mad dog always snaps at everything.’ If, on the contrary, he tries to escape by running away, then he can expect no compassion, for * mad dogs always run straight forward before them.’ It is pleasant enough for a neutral being like me, who have no share in those ideal calamities, to mark the stages of this national disease. The terror at first feebly enters with a disre- garded story of a little dog that had gone through a neighbour- ing village, which was thought to be mad by several who had seen him. The next account comes, that a mastiff ran through a certain town, and had bit five geese, which immediately ran mad, foamed at the bill, and died in great agonies soon after. Then comes an affecting story of a little boy bit in the leg, and gone down to be dipped in the salt water. When the people have sufficiently shuddered at that, they are next congealed with a frightful account of' a man who was said lately to have died from a bite he had received some years before. This relation only prepares the way for another, still more hideous ; as how the master of a family, with seven small children, were all bit by a mad lap-dog ; and how the poor father first perceived the infection, by calling for a draught of water, where he saw the lap-dog swimming in the cup. When epidemic terror is thus once excited, every morning comes loaded with some new disaster : as in stories of ghosts^ each loves to hear the account, though it only serves to make him uneasy ; so here, each listens with eagerness, and adds to the tidings with new circumstances of peculiar horror. A lady, for instance, in the country, of very weak nerves, has been 206 GOLDSMITH S WORKS. frighted by the barking of a dog; and this, alas ! too frequently happens. The story soon is improved, and spreads, that a mad dog had frighted a lady of distinction. These circumstances begin to grow terrible before they had reached the neighbouring village ; and there the report is, that a lady of quality was bit by a mad mastiff. This account every moment gathers new strength, and grows more dismal as it approaches the capital ; and, by the time it has arrived in town, the lady is described, with wild eyes, foaming mouth, running mad upon all fours, barking like a dog, biting her servants, and at last smothered between two beds by the advice of her doctors ; while the mad mastiff is, in the meantime, ranging the whole country over, slavering at the mouth, and seeking whom he may devour. My landlady, a good-natured woman, but a little credulous, waked me some mornings ago before the usual hour, with horror and astonishment in her looks. She desired me, if I had any regard for my safety, to keep within ; for a few days ago, so dismal an accident had happened, as to put all the world upon their guard. A mad dog down in the country, she assured me, had bit a farmer, who soon becoming mad, ran into his own yard, and bit a fine brindled cow ; the cow quickly became as mad as the man, began to foam at the mouth, and raising herself up, walked about on her hind legs, sometimes harking like a dog, and sometimes attempting to talk like the farmer. Upon examining the grounds of this story, I found my landlady had it from one neighbour, who had it from another neighbour, who heard it from very good authority. Were most stories of this nature well examined, it would be found that numbers of such as have been said to suffer are in no way injured : and that of those who have been actually bitten, not one in a hundred was bit by a mad dog. Such accounts, in general, therefore only serve to make the people miserable by false terrors; and sometimes fright the patient into actual frenzy, by creating those very symptoms they pretended to deplore. JBut even allowing three or four to die in a season of this terrible death (and four is probably too large a concession), yet still it is not considered how many are preserved in their health and in their property by this devoted animal’s services. The midnight robber is kept at a distance ; the insidious thief is often detected ; the healthful chase repairs many a worn con- stitution ; and the poor man finds in his dog a willing assistant, eager to lessen his toil, and content with the smallest retri- bution. ‘ A dog,’ says one of the English poets, ‘is an honest creature, and I am a friend to dogs.’ Of all the beasts that graze the lawn, or hunt the forest, a dog is the only animal, that, leaving his fellows, attempts to cultivate the friendship of man ; to man, he looks, in all his necessities, with speaking eye, for assistance ; exerts for him all the little service in his power with cheerful- ESSAYS. 207 ness and pleasure ; for him bears famine and fatigue with patience and resignation ; no injuries can abate his fidelity, no distress induce him to lorsake his benefactor ; studious to please, and fearing to offend, he is still an humble, stediast dependant; and in him alone fawning is not flattery. How unkind, then, to torture this faithful creature, who has left the forest to claim the protection of man ! How ungrateiul a return to the trusty animal for all its services ! ON THE INCREASED LOVE OF LIFE WITH AGE. Age, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases our desire of living. Those dangers, which, in the vigour of youth, we had learned to despise, assume new terrors as we grow old. Our caution increasing as our years increase, fear becomes at last tire prevailing passion of the mind ; and the small remainder of life is taken up in useless efl'orts to keep off our end, or provide for a continued existence. Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which even the wise are liable ! If I should judge of that part of life which lies before me by that which I have already seen, the prospect is hideous. Experience tells me, that my past enjoyments have brought no real felicity ; and sensation assures me, that those I have felt are stronger than those which are yet to come. Yet experience and sensation in vain persuade ; hope, more powerful than either, dresses out the distant prospect in fancied beauty ; some happiness in long perspective, still beckons me to pursue ; and, like a losing gamester, every new disappointment increases ’ my ardour to continue the game . Whence, then, is this increased love of life, which grows upon us with our years ? Whence comes it, that we thus make greater efforts to preserve om- existence, at a period when it becomes scarce worth the keeping ! Is it that nature, attentive to the preservation of mankind, increases mu wishes to live, while she lessens our enjoyments ; and, as she robs the senses of every pleasure, equips imagination in the spoil ! Life would be insupportable to an old man, who, loaded with infirmities, feared death no more than when in the vigour of manhood ; the numberless calamities of decaying nature, and the consciousness of surviving every pleasure, would at once induce him, with his own hand, to terminate the scene of misery : but, happily, the contempt of death forsakes him at a time when it could only he prejudicial ; and life acquires an imaginary value in proportion as its real value is no more. Our attachment to every object around us increases, in general, from the length of om- acquaintance with it. ‘ I would 208 goldsmith's works. not choose,’ says a French philosopher, 1 to see an old post pulled up with which I had been long acquainted.’ A mind long habituated to a certain set of objects, insensibly becomes fond of seeing them ; visits them from habit, and parts from them with reluctance : from hence proceeds the avarice of the old in every kind of possession ; they love the world and all that it produces; they love life and all its advantages; not because it gives them pleasure, but because they have known it long. Chinvang the Chaste, ascending the throne of China, com- manded that all who were unjustly detained in prison, during the preceding reigns, should be set free. Among the number who came to thank their deliverer on this occasion, there appeared a majestic old man, who, falling at the emperor’s feet, addressed him as follows : ‘ Great father of China, behold a wretch, now eighty-five years old, who was shut up in a dungeon at the age of twenty-two. I was imprisoned, though a stranger to crime, or without being even confronted by my accusers. I have now lived in solitude and darkness for more than sixty years, and am grown familiar with distress. As yet dazzled with the splendour of that sun to which you have restored me, I have been wandering the streets to find out some friend that would assist, or relieve, or remember me ; but my friends, my family, and relations, are all dead, and I am forgotten. Permit me, then, 0 Chinvang, to wear out the wretched remains of life in my former prison ; the walls of my dungeon are to me more pleasing than the most splendid palace : I have not long to live, and shall be unhappy except I spend the rest of my days where my youth was passed, in that prison from whence you were pleased to release me.’ The old man’s passion for confinement is similar to that we all have for life. We are habituated to the prison ; we look round with discontent, are displeased with the abode ; and yet the length of our captivity only increases our fondness for the cell. The trees we have planted, the houses we have built, or the posterity we have begotten, all serve to bind us closer to earth, and embitter our parting. Life sues the young like a new acquaintance ; the companion, as yet unexhausted, is at once instructive and amusing ; its company pleases ; yet, for all this, it is but little regarded. To us, who are declined in years, life appears like an old friend ; its jests have been anticipated in former conversation ; it has no new story to make us smile, no new improvement with which to surprise ; yet still we love it ; husband the wasting treasure with increasing frugality, and feel all the poignancy of anguish in the fatal separation. Sir Philip Mordaunt was young, beautiful, sincere, brave — an Englishman. He had a complete fortune of his own, and the love of the king his master, which was equivalent to riches. Life opened all her treasures before him, and promised a long succession of future happiness. He came, tasted of the enter- Essays. 209 tainment, but was disgusted even at the beginning. He pro- fessed an aversion to living ; was tired of walking round the same circle ; had tried every enjoyment, and found them all grow weaker at every repetition. ‘ If life be, in youth, so dis- pleasing,’ cried he to himself, ‘ what will it appear when age comes on ? If it he at present indifferent, sure it will then be execrable.’ This thought embittered every reflection; till, at last, with all the serenity of perverted reason, he ended the debate with a pistol! Had this self-deluded man been apprized, that existence grows more desirable to us the longer we exist, he would then have faced old age without shrinking ; he would have boldly dared to live ; and served that society, by his future assiduity, which he basely injured by his desertion. ON THE LADIES’ PASSION FOR LEVELLING ALL DISTINCTION OF DRESS. Foreigners observe that there are no ladies in the w orld more beautiful, or more ill-dressed, than those of England. Our countrywomen have been compared to those pictures, where the face is a work of a Raphael, but the draperies thrown out by some empty pretender, destitute of taste, and entirely unac- quainted with design. If I were a poet, I might observe, on this occasion, that so much beauty, set off with all the advantages of dress, would be too powerful an antagonist for the opposite sex ; and therefore it was wisely ordered, that our ladies should want taste, lest their admirers should entirely want reason. Rut to confess a truth, I do not find they have greater aversion to fine clothes than the women of any other country whatsoever. I cannot fancy that a shopkeeper’s wife in Cheap- side has a greater tenderness for the fortune of her husband, than a citizen’s wife in Paris; or that miss in a boarding-school is more an economist in dress than mademoiselle in a nunnery. Although Paris may he accounted the soil in w'hich almost every fashion takes its rise, its influence is never so general there as with us. They study there the happy method of uniting grace and fashion, and never excuse a woman for being awkwardly dressed, by saying her clothes are in the mode. A French woman is a perfect architect in dress; she never, with Gothic ignorance, mixes the orders; she never tricks out a squabby Doric shape with Corinthian finery ; or, to speak with- out metaphor, she conforms to general fashion only when it happens not to he repugnant to private beauty. The English ladies, on the contrary, seem to have no other standard of grace hut the run of the town. If fashion gives the t '6 210 goldsmith’s works. word, every distinction of beauty, complexion, of stature, ceases. Sweeping trains, Prussian bonnets, and trollopees, as like each other as if cut from the same piece, level all to one standard. The Mall, the gardens, and playhouses, are filled with ladies in uniform; and their whole appearance shews as little variety of taste as if their clothes were bespoke by the colonel of a marching regiment, or fancied by the artist who dresses the three battalions of guards. But not only the ladies of every shape and complexion, but of every age, too, are possessed of this unaccountable passion for levelling all distinction in dress. The lady of no quality travels first behind the lady of some quality ; and a woman of sixty is as gaudy as her grand-daughter. A triend of mine, a good- natured old man, amused me the other day with an account of his journey to the Mall. It seems, in his walk thither, he, for some time, followed a lady, who, as he thought, by her dress, was a girl of fifteen. It was airy, elegant, and youthful. My old friend had called up all his poetry on this occasion, and fancied twenty cupids prepared for execution in every folding of her white negligee. He had prepared his imagination for an angel’s face ; but what was his mortification to find that the imaginary goddess was no other than his cousin Hannah, some years older than himself ! But to give it in his own words : ‘ After the transports of our first salute,’ said he, ‘ were over, I could not avoid running my eye over her whole appearance. Her gown was of cambric, cut short before, in order to discover a high-heeled shoe, which was buckled almost at the toe. Her cap consisted of a few bits of cambric, and flowers of painted paper stuck on one side of her bead. Her bosom, that had felt no hand but the hand of time these twenty years, rose, suing to be pressed. I could, indeed, have wished her more than a handkerchief of Paris net to shade her beauties ; for, as Tasso says of the rose-bud, “ Quanto si mostra men, tanto e piu bella.” A female breast is generally thought most beautiful as it is more sparingly discovered. ‘ As my cousin had not put on all this finery for nothing, she was at that time sallying out to the Park, where I had over- taken her. Perceiving, however, that I had on my best wig, she offered, if I would squire her there, to send home the foot- man. Though I trembled for our reception in public, yet I could not, with any civility, refuse ; so, to be as gallant as pos- sible, I took her hand in my arm, and thus we marched on together. ‘When we made our entry at the Park, two antiquated figures, so polite and so tender, soon attracted the eyes of the company. As we made our way among crowds who were out to shew their finery as well as we, wherever we came, I perceived we brought good-humour with us. The polite could not forbear smiling, and the vulgar burst out into a horse-laugh, at our grotesque figures. Cousin Hannah, who was perfectly conscious ESSAYS. 211 of the rectitude of her own appearance, attributed all this mirth to the oddity of mine ; while I as cordially placed the whole to her account. Thus, from being two of the best-natured creatures alive, before we got half way up the Mall, we both began to grow peevish, and like two mice on a string, endeavoured to revenge the impertinence of others upon ourselves. “I am amazed, cousin Jeffery,” says Miss, “that I can never get you to dress like a Christian. I knew we should have the eyes of the Park upon us, with your great wig, so frizzled, and yet so beggarly, and your monstrous muff. I hate those odious muff's.” 1 could have patiently borne a criticism on all the rest of my equipage ; but as I had always a peculiar veneration for my muff', I could not forbear being piqued a little ; and throwing my eyes with a spiteful air on her bosom, “ I could heartily wish, Madam,” replied I, “that, for your sake, my muff was cut into a tippet.” ‘ As my cousin, by this time, was grown heartily ashamed of her gentleman-usher, and as I was never very fond of any kind of exhibition myself, it was mutually agreed to retire for awhile to one of the seats, and, from that retreat, remark on others as freely as they bad remarked on us. ‘ When seated, we continued silent for some time, employed in very different speculations. I regarded the whole company, now passing in review before me, as drawn out merely for my amusement. For my entertainment the beauty had, all that morning, been improving her charms ; the beau had put on lace, and the young doctor a big wig, merely to please me. But quite different were the sentiments of cousin Hannah : she regarded every well-dressed woman as a victorious rival ; hated every face that seemed dressed in good-humour, or wore the appearance of greater happiness than her own. I perceived her uneasiness, and attempted to lessen it, by observing that there was no company in the Park to-day. To this she readily assented; “And yet,” says she, “it is full enough of scrubs of one kiud or another.” My smiling at this observation gave her spirits to pursue the bent of her inclination, and now she began to exhibit her skill in secret history, as she found me disposed to listen. “ Observe,” says she to me, “that old woman in tawdry sdk, and dressed out beyond the fashion. That is Miss Biddy Evergreen. Miss Biddy, it seems, has money; and as she con- siders that money was never so scarce as it is now, she seems resolved to keep what she has to herself. She is ugly enough, you see; yet, I assure you, she has refused several offers, to my knowledge, within this twelvemonth. Let me see, three gentle- men from Ireland, who study the law, two waiting captains, her doctor, and a Scotch preacher who had liked to have carried her off. All her time is passed between sickness and finery. Thus she spends the whole week in a close chamber, with no other company but her monkey, her apothecary, and cat ; and comes dressed out to the Park every Sunday, to shew her airs, to get 212 GOLDSMITH 1 S WORKS. new lovers, to catch a new cold, and to make new work for the doctor. ‘ “There goes Mrs. Roundabout, I mean the fat lady in the lustring trollopee. Between you and I she is hut a cutler’s wife. See how she’s dressed, as fine as hands and pins can make her, while her two marriageable daughters, like hunters in stuff gowns, are now taking sixpenny-worth of tea at the White- Conduit House. Odious puss, how she waddles along, with her train two yards behind her ! She puts me in mind of my Lord Bantam’s Indian sheep, which are obliged to have their monstrous tails trundled along in a go-cart. For all her airs, it goes to her husband’s heart to see four yards of good lustring wearing against the ground, like one of his knives on a grind- stone. To speak my mind, cousin Jeffery, I never liked those tails : for suppose a young fellow should be rude, and the lady should offer to step back in the fright instead of retiring, she treads upon her train, and falls fairly on her back ; and then you know, cousin — her clothes may be spoiled. ‘“Ah! Miss Muzzard! I knew we should not miss her in the Park ; she in the monstrous Prussian bonnet. Miss, though so very fine, was bred a milliner ; and might have had some custom if she had minded her business ; but the girl was loud of finery, and, instead of dressing her customers, laid out all her goods in adorning herself. Every new gown she put on, impaired her credit ; she still, however, went on, improving her appearance and lessening her little fortune, and is now, you see, become a belle and a bankrupt.” ‘ My cousin was proceeding in her remarks, which were inter- rupted by the approach of the very lady she had been so freely describing. Miss had perceived her at a distance and approached to salute her. I found by the warmth of the two ladies’ pro- testations, that they had been long intimate, esteemed friends and acquaintance. Both were so pleased at this happy ren- counter, that they were resolved not to part for the day. So we all crossed the Park together, and I saw them into a hackney- coach at St. James’s.’ ASEM; AN EASTERN TALE: OR, THE WISDOM OF PROVIDENCE IN THE MORAL GOVERNMENT OF THE WORLD. Where Tauris lifts his head above the storm, and presents nothing to the sight of the distant traveller, but a prospect of nodding rocks, falling torrents, and all the variety of tremendous nature ; on the bleak bosom of this frightful mountain, secluded from society, and detesting the ways of men, lived Asem the man-hater. ESSAYS. 213 Asem had spent his youth with men ; had shared in their amusements : and had been taught to love his fellow- creatures with the most ardent affection ; but, from the tenderness of his disposition, he exhausted all his fortune in relieving the wants of the distressed. The petitioner never sued in vain; the weary traveller never passed his door; he only desisted from doing good when he had no longer the power of relieving. From a fortune thus spent in benevolence, he expected a grateful return from those he had formerly relieved ; and made his application with confidence of redress ; the ungrateful world soon grew weary of his importunity ; for pity is hut a short- lived passion. He soon, therefore, began to view mankind in a very different light from that in which he had before beheld them : he perceived a thousand vices he had never before sus- pected to exist ; wherever he turned, ingratitude, dissimulation, and treachery, contributed to increase his detestation of them, liesolved, therefore, to continue no longer in a world which he hated, and which repaid his detestation with contempt, he retired to this region of sterility, in order to brood over his resentment in solitude, and converse with the only honest heart he knew ; namely, his own. A cave was his only shelter from the inclemency of the weather ; fruits, gathered with difficulty from the mountain’s side, his only food ; and his drink was fetched with danger and toil from the headlong torrent. In this manner he lived, sequestered from society, passing the hours in meditation, and sometimes exulting that he was able to live independently of his fellow-creatures. At the foot of the mountain an extensive lake displayed its glassy bosom, reflecting on its broad surface the impending horrors of the mountain. To this capacious mirror he would sometimes descend, and, reclining on its steep banks, cast an eager look on the smooth expanse that lay before him. ‘ How beautiful,’ he often cried, ‘is nature! How lovely, even in her wildest scenes ! How finely contrasted is the level plain that lies beneath me, with yon awful pile that hides its tremendous head in clouds ! But the beauty of these scenes is no way com- parable with their utility; from hence a hundred rivers are supplied, which distribute health and verdure to the various countries through which they flow. Every part of the universe is beautiful, just, and wise, but man ; vile man is a solecism in nature, the only monster in the creation. Tempests and whirl- winds have their use ; but vicious, ungrateful man is a blot in the fair page of universal beauty. Why was I born of that detested species, whose vices are almost a reproach to the wisdom of the Divine Creator? Were men entirely free from vice, all would he uniformity, harmony, and order. A world of moral rectitude should he the result a perfectly moral agent. Why, ’ ^ Alla! must I he thus confined in darkness, doubt, 214 goldsmith’s works. Just as he uttered the word despair, he was going: to plunge into the lake beneath him, at once to satisfy his doubts, and put a period to his anxiety; when he perceived a most majestic being walking on the surface of the water, and approaching the hank on which he stood. So unexpected an object at once checked his purpose ; he stopped, contemplated, and fancied he saw something awful and divine in his aspect. ‘Son of Adam,’ cried the genius, ‘ stop thy rash purpose; the Father of the Faithful has seen thy justice, thy integrity, tliy miseries; and hath sent me to afford and administer relief. Give me thine hand, and follow, without trembling, wherever I shall lead ; in me behold the genius of conviction, kept by the great prophet, to turn from their errors those who go astray, not from curiosity, but a rectitude of intention. Follow me and be wise.’ Asem immediately descended upon the lake, and his guide conducted him along the surface of the water; till, coming near the centre of the lake, they both began to sink ; the waters closed over their heads ; they descended several hundred fathoms, till Asem, just ready to give up his life as inevitably lost, found him- self with his celestial guide in another world, at the bottom of the waters, where human foot had never trod before. His astonishment was beyond description, when he saw a sun like that he had left, a serene sky over his head, and blooming verdure under his feet. ‘ I plainly perceive your amazement,’ said the genius ; ‘ but suspend it for awhile. This world was formed by Alla, at the request, and under the inspection, of our great prophet ; who once entertained the same doubts which filled your mind when I found you, and from the consequence of which you w'ere so lately rescued. The rational inhabitants of this world are formed agreeable to your own ideas ; they are absolutely without vice. In other respects it resembles your earth ; but differs from it in being wholly inhabited by men who never do wrong. If you find this world more agreeable than that you so lately left, you have free permission to spend the remainder of your days in it ; but permit me, for some time, to attend you, that I may silence your doubts, and make you better acquainted with your company and your nerv habitation.’ ‘ A world without vice ! Eational beings without immorality ! * cried Asam, in a rapture ; ‘ I thank thee, 0 Alla, who hast at length heard my petitions; this, this indeed will produce happiness, ecstasy, and ease. 0 for an immortality, to spend it among men who are incapable of ingratitude, injustice, fraud, violence, and a thousand other crimes that render society miserable ? * ‘ Cease thine acclamations,’ replied the genius. ‘Look around thee ; reflect on every object and action before us, and communi- cate to me the result of thine observations. Lead wherever you think proper, I shall be your attendant and instructor.’ Asem ESSAYS. 21.3 and his companion travelled on in silence for some time, the former being entirely lost in astonishment; but, at last, re- covering bis former serenity, he could not help observing that the face of the country bore a near resemblance to that he had left, except that this subterranean world still seemed to retain its primaeval wildness. ‘ Here,’ cried Asem, ‘ I perceive animals of prey, and others that seem only designed for their subsistence ; it is the very same in the world over our heads. But had I been permitted to instruct our prophet, I would have removed this detect, and formed no voracious or destructive animals, which only prey on the other parts of the creation.’ — ‘ Your tenderness for inferior animals, is, I find, remarkable,’ said the genius, smiling. ‘ But witli regard to meaner creatures, this world exactly resembles the other; and, indeed, for obvious reasons; for the earth can support a more considerable number of animals, by their thus becoming food for each other, than if tlxey had lived entirely on her vegetable productions. So that animals of different natures thus formed, instead of lessening their multitudes, subsist in the greatest number possible. But let us hasten on to the in- habited country before us, and see what that offers for instruc- tion.’ They soon gained the utmost verge of the forest, and entered the country inhabited by men without vice ; and Asem anti- cipated in idea the rational delight he hoped to experience in such an innocent society. But they had scarce left the confines of the wood, when they beheld one of the inhabitants flying with hasty steps, and terror in his countenance, from an army of squirrels that closely pursued him. ‘Heavens!’ cried Asem, ‘ why does he fly ? What can he fear from animals so con- temptible ? ’ He had scarce spoken, when he perceived two dogs pursuing another of the human species, who, with equal terror and haste, attempted to avoid them. ‘ This,’ cried Asem to his guide, ‘ is truly surprising; nor can I conceive the reason for so strange an action.’ — ‘ Every species of animals,’ replied the genius, ‘ has of late grown very powerful in this country ; for the inhabitants, at first, thinking it unjust to use either fraud or force in destroying them, they have insensibly increased ; and now frequently ravage their harmless frontiers.’ — But they should have been destroyed,' cried Asem ; ‘ you see the con- sequence of such neglect. — ‘ Where is then that tenderness you so lately expressed for subordinate animals ? ’ replied the genius, smiling : • you seem to have forgot that branch of justice.’ — ‘ I must acknowledge my mistake,’ returned Asem ; ‘ I am now convinced that we must be guilty of tyranny and injustice to the brute creation, if we would enjoy the world ourselves. But let us no longer observe the duty of man (o these irrational crea- tures, but survey their connexious with one another.’ As they walked farther up the country, the more he was sur- prised to see no vestiges of handsome houses, no cities, nor any 216 goldsmith’s works. mark of elegant design. His conductor, perceiving his surprise, observed that the inhabitants of this new world were perfectly content with their ancient simplicity ; each had a house, which, though homely, was sufficient to lodge his little family ; they were too good to build houses which could only increase their own pride, and the envy of the spectator ; what they built was for convenience, and not for show. ‘ At least, then,’ said Asem, ‘ they have neither architects, painters, nor statuaries, in their society ; but these are idle arts, and may be spared. However, before I spend much more time here, you should have my thanks for introducing me into the society of some of their wisest men : there is scarce any pleasure to me equal to a refined conversa- tion ; there is nothing of which I am so much enamoured as wisdom.’ — ‘Wisdom!’ replied his instructor : ‘ how ridiculous ! We have no wisdom here, for we have no occasion for it; true wisdom is only a knowledge of our own duty, and the duty of others to us; but of what use is such wisdom here? Each intuitively performs what is right in himself, and expects the same from others. If by wisdom you should mean vain curiosity and empty speculation, as such pleasures have their origin in vanity, luxury, or avarice, we are too good to pursue them.’ — ‘ All "this may be right,’ says Asem ; ‘ but methinks I observe a solitary disposition prevail among the people ; each family keeps separately within their own precincts, without society, or with- out intercourse.’ — ‘ That, indeed, is true,’ replied the other; ‘ here is no established society, nor should there be any ; all societies are made either through fear or friendship : the people we are among are too good to fear each other ; and there are no motives to private friendship, where all are equally meritorious.’ — ‘ Well, then,’ said the sceptic, ‘ as I am to spend my time here, if I am to have neither the polite arts, nor wisdom, nor friendship, in such a world, I should be glad, at least, of an easy companion, who may tell me his thoughts, and to whom I may communicate mine.’ — ‘ And to what purpose should either do this ? ’ says the genius : ‘ flattery or curiosity are vicious motives, and never allowed of here ; and wisdom is out of the question.’ ‘ Still, however,’ said Asem, ‘ the inhabitants must be happy ; each is contented with his own possessions nor avariciously en- deavours to heap up more than is necessary for his own subsist- ence : each has therefore leisure for pitying those who stand in need of his compassion.’ He had scarce spoken when his ears were assailed with the lamentations of a wretch who sat by the way-side, and, in the most deplorable distress, seemed gently to murmur at his own misery. Asem immediately ran to his relief, and found him in the last stage of a consumption. ‘ Strange,’ cried the son of Adam, ‘ that men who are free from vice should thus suffer so much misery without relief!’ — ‘Be not surprised,’ said the wretch, who was dying ; ‘ would it not be the utmost injustice for beings, who have only just sufficient ESSAYS. 21 ? to support themselves, and are content with a bare subsistence, to take it from their own mouths to put it into mine? They never are possessed of a single meal more than is necessary ; and what is barely necessary cannot be dispensed with.' — ‘They should have been supplied with more than is necessary,’ cried Asem; ‘and yet I contradict my own opinion but a moment before ; all is doubt, perplexity, and confusion. Even the want of ingratitude is no virtue here, since they never received a favour. Tiiey have, however, another excellence yet behind; the love of their country is still, I hope, one of their darling virtues.’ — ‘ Peace, Asem,’ replied the guardian, with a counte- nance not less severe than beautiful, ‘ nor forfeit all thy preten- sions to wisdom ; the same selfish motives by which we prefer our own interest to that of others, induce us to regard our country preferable to that of another. Nothing less than uni- versal benevolence is free from vice, and that you see is practised here.’ — ‘ Strange! ’ cries the disappointed pilgrim, in an agony of distress ; ‘ what sort of a world am I now introduced to ? There is scarce a single virtue, but that of temperance, which they practise ; and in that they are no way superior to the brute creation. There is scarce an amusement which they enjoy ; fortitude, liberality, friendship, wisdom, conversation, and love of country, are all virtues entirely unknown here ; thus it seems that to be unacquainted with vice is not to know virtue. Take me, 0 my genius, back to that very world which I have despised ; a world which has Alla for its contriver, is much more wisely formed than that which has been projected by Mahomet. In- gratitude, contempt, and hatred, I can now suffer, for perhaps I have deserved them. When I arraigned the wisdom of Provi- dence, I only shewed my own ignorance ; henceforth let me keep from vice myself, and pity it in others.’ He had scarce ended, when the genius, assuming an air of terrible complacency, called all his thunders around him, and vanished in a whirlwind. Asem, astonished at the terror of the scene, looked for his imaginary world ; when, casting his eyes around, he perceived himself in the very situation, and in the very place, wherehe first began to repine and despair ; his right foot had been just advanced to take the fatal plunge, nor had it been yet withdrawn; so instantly did Providenoe strike the series of truths just imprinted on his soul. He now departed from the water-side in tranquillity, and leaving his horrid man- sion, travelled to Segestan, his native city ; where he diligently applied himself to commerce, and put in practice that wisdom he had learned in solitude. The frugality of a few years soon pro- duced opulence ; the number of his domestics increased ; his friends came to him from every part of the city, nor did he receive them with disdain ; and a youth of misery was con- cluded with an old age of elegance, affluence, and ease. tr 218 goldsmith’s works. ON THE ENGLISH CLERGY AND POPULAR PREACHERS. It is allowed on all hands, that our English divines receive a more liberal education, and improve that education by frequent study, more than any others of this reverend ^profession m Europe. In general, also, it may be observed, that a greater decree of gentility is affixed to the character of a student m England than elsewhere ; by which means our clergy have an opportunity of seeing better company while young, and of sooner wearing off those prejudices which they are apt to imbibe even in the best-regulated universities, and which may be justly termed the vulgar errors of the wise. Yet, with these advantages, it is very obvious, that the clergy are nowhere so little thought of, by the populace, as heie , ana though our divines are foremost with respect to abilities, yet they are found last in the effects of their ministry ; the vulgar, in general, appearing noway impressed with a sense of religious duty. I am not for whining at the depravity of the times, or for endeavouring to paint a prospect more gloomy than in nature; but certain it is, no person who has travelled will con- tradict me, when I aver, that the lower orders °f mankind, in other countries, testify, on every occasion, the profoundest awe of religion; while, in England, they are scarcely awakened into a sense of its duties, even in circumstances of the greatest distress. This dissolute and fearless conduct foreigners are apt to attri- bute to climate and constitution; may not the vulgar being pretty much neglected in our exhortations from the pulpit, be a conspiring cause ? Our divines seldom stoop to their mean capacities ; and they who want instruction most, find least in our religious assemblies. Whatever may become of the higher orders of mankind, who are generally possessed of collateral motives to virtue, the vulgar should be particularly regarded, whose behaviour in civil life is totally hinged upon their hopes and fears. Those who constitute the basis of the great fabric of society, should be particularly regarded ; for, in policy, as architecture, ruin is most fatal when it begins from the bottom. Men of real sense and understanding prefer a prudent mediocrity to a precarious popularity : and fearing to outdo their duty, leave it half done. Their discourses from the pulpit are generally dry, methodical, and unaffecting : delivered with the most insipid calmness ; insomuch, that should the peaceful preacher lift his head over the cushion, which alone he seems to address, he might discover his audience, instead of being awak- ened to remorse, actually sleeping over his methodical and laboured composition. This method of preaching is, however, by some called an ESSAYS. 219 address to reason, and not to the passions ; this is styled the making of converts from conviction ; but such are indifferently acquainted with human nature, who are not sensible that men seldom reason about their debaucheries till they are committed. Reason is but a weak antagonist when headlong passion dic- tates: in all such cases we should arm one passion against another : it is with the human mind as in nature ; from the mixture of two opposites, the result is most frequently neutral tranquillity. Those who attempt to reason us out of our follies, begin at the wrong end, since the attempt naturally presupposes us capable of reason ; but to be made capable of this, is one great point of the cure. There are but few talents requisite to become a popular preacher ; for the people are easily pleased, if they perceive any endeavours in the orator to please them ; the meanest qualifi- cations will work this effect, if the preacher sincerely sets about it. Perhaps little, indeed very little more is required, than sincerity and assurance ; and a becoming sincerity is always certain of producing a becoming assurance. ‘ Si vis me flere, dolendum est primum tibi ipsi,’ is so trite a quotation, that it almost demands an apology to repeat it ; yet though all allow the justice of the remark, liow few do we find put it in pratice ! Our orators, with the most faulty bashfulness, seem impressed rather with an awe of their audience, than with a just respect for the truths they are about to deliver : they, of all professions seem the most bashful, who have the greatest right to glory in their commission. The French preachers generally assume all that dignity which becomes men who are ambassadors from Christ ; the English divines, like erroneous envoys, seem more solicitous not to offend the court to which they are sent, than to drive home the interests of their employer. The bishop of Massillon, in the first sermon he ever preached, found the whole audience, upon his getting into the pulpit, in a disposition no way favourable to his intentions ; their nods, whispers, or drowsy behaviour, shewed him that there was no great profit to be expected from his sowing in a soil so improper ; however, he soon changed the disposition of his audience by his manner of beginning. ‘If,’ says he, ‘a cause, the most important that could be conceived, were to be tried at the bar before qualified judges ; if this cause interested ourselves in particular ; if the eyes of the whole kingdom were fixed upon the event ; if the most eminent counsel were employed on both sides ; and if w r e had heard from our infancy of this yet undetermined trial; would you not all sit with due attention, and warm expectation, to the pleadings on each side ? Would not all your hopes and fears be hinged upon the final decision ? and yet, let me tell you, you have this moment a cause of much greater importance before you ; a cause where not one nation, but all the world, are spectators; tried not before a fallible tribunal, but the 220 goldsmith’s works. awful throne of Heaven ; where not your temporal and transi- tory interests are the subject of debate, hut your eternal happi- ness or misery; where the cause is still undetermined, but, perhaps, the very moment I am speaking may fix the irrevocable decree that shall last for ever : and yet "notwithstanding all this, you can hardly sit with patience to hear the tidings of your own salvation ; I plead the cause of Heaven, and yet I am scarcely attended to,’ &c. The style, the abruptness of a beginning like this, in the closet would appear absurd ; but, in the pulpit, it is attended with the most lasting impressions: that style whibh, in the closet, might justly be called flimsy, seems the true mode of eloquence here. I never read a fine composition under the title of a sermon, that I do not think the author has miscalled his piece ; for the talents to be used in writing well entirely differ from those of speaking well. The qualifications for speaking, as has been already observed, are easily acquired; they are accomplishments which may be taken up by every candidate who will be at the pains of stooping. Impressed with a sense of the truths he is about to deliver, a preacher disregards the applause op the contempt of his audience, and he insensibly assumes a just and manly sincerity. With this talent alone we see what crowds are drawn around enthusiasts, even destitute of common sense ; what numbers converted to Christianity. Folly may sometimes set an example for wisdom to practise ; and our regular divines may borrow instruction from even methodists, who go their circuits, and preach prizes among the populace. Even Whitfield may be placed as a model to some of our young divines : let them join to their own good sense his earnest manner of delivery. It will be perhaps objected, that by confining the excellencies of a preacher to proper assurance, earnestness, and openness of style, I make the qualifications too trifling for estimation ; there will be something called oratory brought up on this occasion ; action, attitude, grace, elocution, may be repeated as absolutely necessary to complete the character : but let us not be deceived ; common sense is seldom swayed by fine tones, musical periods, just attitudes, or the display of a white handkerchief; oratorial behaviour, except in very able hands indeed, generally sinks into awkward and paltry affectation. It must be observed, however, that these rules are calculated only for him who would instruct the vulgar, who stand in most need of instruction ; to address philosophers, and to obtain the character of a polite preacher among the polite — a much more useless, though more sought for character — requires a different method of proceeding. All I shall observe on this head is, to entreat the polemic divine, in his controversy with the deist, to act rather offensively than to defend; to push home the grounds of his belief, and the impractibility of their’s, rather than to spend time in solving the objections of every opponent. ‘ It is ESSAYS. 221 ten to one,’ says a late writer on tire art of war, but that the assailant who attacks the enemy in his trenches is always victorious.’ Yet, upon the whole, our clergy might employ themselves more to the benefit of society, by declining all controversy, than by exhibiting even the profoundest skill to polemic disputes : their contests with each other often turn on speculative trifles ; and their disputes with the deist are almost at an end, since they can have no more than victory ; and that they are already possessed of, as their antagonists have been driven into a confession of the necessity of revelation, or an open avowel of atheism. To con- tinue the dispute longer would endanger it ; the sceptic is ever expert at puzzling a debate which he finds himself unable to continue, ‘and, like an Olympic boxer, generally fights best when undermost.’ ON THE ADVANTAGES TO BE DERIVED FROM SEND- ING A JUDICIOUS TRAVELLER INTO ASIA. I have frequently been amazed at the ignorance of almost all the European travellers, who have penetrated any considerable way eastward into Asia. They have all been influenced either by motives of commerce or piety, and their accounts are such as might reasonably be expected from men of a very narrow or very prejudiced education — the dictates of superstition, or the result of ignorance. Is it not surprising, that, of such a variety of adventurers, not one single philosopher should be found among the number? For, as to the travels of Gemelli, the learned are long agreed that the whole is but an imposture. There is scarce any country, how rude or uncultivated soever, where the inhabitants are not possessed of some peculiar secrets, either in nature or art, which might be transplanted with suc- cess; thus, for instance, in Siberian Tartary, the natives extract a strong spirit from milk, which is a secret probably unknown to the chemists in Europe. In the most savage parts of India they are possessed of the secret of dying vegetable substances scarlet, and likewise that of refining lead into a metal, which, for hardness and colour, is little inferior to silver ; not one of which secrets but would, in Europe, make a man’s fortune. The power of the Asiatics in producing winds, or bringing down rain, the Europeans are apt to treat as fabulous, because they have no instances of the like nature among them- selves : but they would have treated the secrets of gunpowder, and the mariner’s compass, in the same manner, had they been told the Chinese used such arts before the invention was com- mon with themselves at home. Of all the English philosophers, I must reverence Bacon, that u 3 222 goldsmith’s works. great and hardy genius ; he it is, who, undaunted by the seeming difficulties that oppose, prompts human curiosity to examine every part of nature ; and even exhorts man to try whether he cannot subject the tempest, the thunder, and even earthquakes, to human control. Oh ! had a man of his daring spirit, of his genius, penetration, and learning, travelled to those countries which have been visited only by the superstitious and mercenary, what might not mankind expect! How would he enlighten the regions to which he travelled ! and what a variety of knowledge and useful improvement would he not bring back in exchange! There is probably no country so barbarous, that would not disclose all it knew, if it received equivalent information ; and I am apt to think, that a person who was ready to give more knowledge than he received, would be welcome wherever he came. All his care in travelling should only be, to suit his intellectual banquet to the people with whom he conversed ; he should not attempt to teach the unlettered Tartar astronomy, nor yet instruct the polite Chinese in the arts of subsistence : he should endeavour to improve the barbarian in the secrets of living comfortably : and the inhabitant of a more refined country, in the speculative pleasures of science. How much more nobly would a philosopher, thus employed, spend his time, than by sitting at home, earnestly intent upon adding one star more to his catalogue, or one monster more to his collection ; or still, if possible, more triflingly sedulous, in the incatenation of fleas, or the sculpture of cherry-stones. I never consider this subject without being surprised that none of those societies so laudably established in England for the promotion of arts and learning, have ever thought of sending one of their members into the most eastern parts of Asia, to make what discoveries he was able. To be convinced of the utility of such an undertaking, let them but read the relations of their own travellers. It will there be found, that they are as often deceived themselves as they attempt to deceive others. The merchants tell us, perhaps, the price of different com- modities, the methods of baling them up, and the properest manner for a European to preserve his health in the country. The missionary, on the other hand, informs us with what pleasure the country to which he was sent embraced Christianity, and the numbers he converted ; what methods he took to keep Lent in a region where there were no fish, or the shifts he made to cele- brate the rites of his religion, in places where there was neither bread nor wine ; such accounts, with the usual appendages of marriages and funerals, inscriptions, rivers, and mountains, make up the whole of an European traveller’s diary ; but as to all the secrets of which the inhabitants are possessed, those are universally attributed to magic; and when the traveller can give no other account of the wonders he sees performed, he very contentedly ascribes them to the devil. ESSAYS. 223 It was a usual observation of Boyle, the English chemist, that, if every artist would but discover what new observations occurred to him in the exercise of his trade, philosophy would thence gain innumerable improvements. It may be observed with still greater justice, that, if the useful knowledge of every country, howsoever barbarous, was gleaned by a judicious observer, the advantages would be inestimable. Are there not, even in Europe, many useful inventions known or practised but in one place ? Their instrument, as an example, for cutting down corn in Ger- many, is much more handy and expeditious, in my opinion, than the sickle used in England. The cheap and expeditious manner of making vinegar, without previous fermentation, is known only in a part of France. If such discoveries, therefore, remain still to be known at home, what funds of knowledge might not be collected in countries yet unexplored, or only passed through by ignorant travellers in hasty caravans. The caution witli which foreigners are received in Asia, may be alleged as an objection to such a design. But how readily have several European merchants found admission into regions the most suspicious, under the character of sanjapins, or northern pilgrims ? To such not even China itself denies access. To send out a traveller properly qualified for these purposes, might be an object of a national concern : it would, in some measure, repair the breaches made by ambition ; and might shew that there were still some who boasted a greater name than that of patriots, who professed themselves lovers of men. The only difficulty would remain in choosing a proper person for so arduous an enterprise. He should be a man of a philo- sophical turn ; one apt to deduce consequences of general utility from particular occurrences ; neither swollen with pride, nor hardened by prejudice ; neither wedded to one peculiar system, nor instructed only in one particular science ; neither wholly a botanist, nor quite an antiquarian : his mind should be tinctured with miscellaneous knowledge, and his manners humanized by an intercourse with men. He should be, in some measure, an enthusiast to the design : fond of travelling, from a rapid imagi- nation, and an innate love of change ; furnished with a body capable of sustaining every fatigue, and a heart not easily terri- fied at danger. A REVERIE AT THE BOAR’S HEAD TAVERN, IN EASTCIIEAP. The improvements we make in mental acquirements only render us each day more sensible of the defects of our constitution : with this in view, therefore, let us often recur to the amusements of youth ; endeavour to forget age and wisdom, and, as far as inno- cence goes, be as much a boy as the best of them. 224 goldsmith’s works. Let idle declaimers mourn over the degeneracy of the age, hut, in my opinion, every age is the same. This I am sure of^ that man, in every season, is a poor, fretful being, with no other means to escape the calamities of the times, but by endeavouring to forget them; for, if he attempts to resist, he is certainly un- done. If I feel poverty and pain, I am not so hardy as to quarrel with the executioner, even while under correction : I hnd myself no way disposed to make fine speeches, while I am making wry faces. In a word, let me drink when the fit is on, to make me insensible ; and drink when it is over, for joy that I feel pain no longer. The character of old Falstaff, even with all his faults, gives me more consolation than the most studied efforts of wisdom : I here behold an agreeable old fellow, forgetting age, and shewing me the way to be young at sixty-five. Sure I am well able to be as merry, though not so comical, as he. Is it not in my power to have, though not so much wit, at least as much viva- city ? — Age, care, wisdom, reflection, begone ! — I give you to the winds. Let’s have t'other bottle : here’s to the memory of Shakspeare, Falstaff, and all the merry men of Eastcheap. Such were the reflections that naturally arose while I sat at the Boar’s Head Tavern, still kept at Eastcheap. Here, by a pleasant fire, in the very room where old Sir John Falstaff cracked his jokes, in the very chair which was sometimes honoured by Prince Henry, and sometimes polluted by his immoral, merry companions, I sat and ruminated on the follies of youth ; wished to be young again ; hut was resolved to make the best of life while it lasted, and now and then compared past and present times together. I considered myself as the only living representative of the old knight; and transported my imagination back to the times when the prince and he gave life to the revel, and made even debauchery not disgusting. The room also conspired to throw my reflection back into antiquity ; the oak floor, the Gothic windows, and the ponderous chimney- piece, had long withstood the tooth of time : the watchman had gone twelve : my companions had all stolen off, and none now remained with me but the landlord. From him I could have wished to know the history of a tavern that had such a long succession of customers ; I could not help thinking that an account of this kind would be a pleasing contrast of the manners of different ages ; but my landlord could give me no information. He continued to doze, and sot, and tell a tedious story, as most other landlords usually do, and, though he said nothing, yet was never silent ; one good joke followed another good joke, and the best joke of all was generally begun towards the end of a bottle. I found at last, however, liis wine and his conversa- tion operate by degrees: he insensibly began to alter his appearance. His cravat seemed quilled into a ruff, and his breeches swelled into a fardingale. I now fancied him chauging sexes; and, as my eyes began to close in slumber, I imagined ESSAYS. 22.3 my fat landlord actually converted into as fat a lanldady. How- ever, sleep made but few changes in my situation : the tavern, the apartment, and the table, continued as before ; nothing- suffered mutation but my host, who was fairly altered into a gentlewoman, whom I knew to be dame Quickly, mistress of this tavern in the days of Sir John ; and the liquor we were drink- ing, which seemed converted into sack and sugar. ‘ My dear Mrs. Quickly,’ cried I, (for I knew her perfectly well at first sight) “I am heartily glad to see you. How have you left Falstaff, Pistol, and the rest of our friends below stairs ? Brave and hearty, I hope ? ’ — ‘ In good sooth,’ replied she, ‘ he did deserve to live for ever ; but he maketh foul work o’nt where he hath flitted. Queen Proserpine and he have quarrelled, for his attempting a rape upon her divinity ; and were it not that she still had bowels of compassion, it more than seems probablo he might have now been sprawling in Tartarus.” I now found that spirits still preserve the frailties of the flesh ; and that, according to the laws of criticism and dreaming, ghosts have been known to be guilty of even more than Platonic affec- tion : wherefore, as I found her too much moved on such a topic to proceed, I was resolved to change the subject ; and, desiring she would pledge me in a bumper, observed with a sigh, that our sack was nothing now to what it was in former days. ‘ Ah, Mrs. Quickly, those were merry times when you drew sack for Prince Henry : men were twice as strong, and twice as wise, and much braver, and ten thousand times more charitable, than now. Those were the times ! The battle of Agincourt was a victory, indeed ! Ever since that, we have only been degene- rating ; and I have lived to see the day when drinking is no longer fashionable. When men wear clean shirts, and women shew their necks and arms, all are degenerated, Mrs. Quickly : and we shall probably, in another century, be fritted away into beaux or monkeys. Had you been on earth to see what I have seen, it would congeal all the blood in your body (your soul I mean.) Why, our very nobility now have the intolerable arrogance, in spite of what is every day remonstrated from the press ; our very nobility, I say, have the assurance to frequent assemblies, and presume to be as merry as the vulgar. See, my very friends have scarce manhood enough to sit till eleven : and I only am left to make a night on’t. Pr’ythee do me the favour to console me a little for their absence by the story of your own adventures, or the history of the tavern where we are now sitting, I fancy the narrative may have something singular.’ ‘ Observe this apartment,’ interrupted my companion, ‘ of neat device and excellent workmanship — In this room I have lived, child, woman, and ghost, more than three hundred years ; I am ordered by Pluto to keep an annual register of every transaction that passeth here : and I have whilom compiled three hundred tomes, which eftsoons may be submitted to thy regards.’ — * None of your whiloms nor eftsoons, Mrs. Quickly, if you please,’ 226 GOLDSMITH S WORKS. I replied ; 4 1 know you can talk every whit as well as I can : for. as you have lived here so long, it is hut natural to suppose you should learn the conversation of the company. Believe me, dame, at best, you have neither too much sense, nor too much language, to spare ; so give me both as well as you can : but, first, my service to you; old women should water their clay a little now and then ; and now to your story.’ ‘ The story of my own adventures,’ replied the vision, ‘ is but short and unsatisfactory ; for, believe me, Mr. Bigmarole, believe me, a woman with a butt of sack at her elbow is never long-lived. Sir John’s death afflicted me to such a degree, that I sincerely believe, to drown sorrow, I drank more liquor myself than I drew for my customers : my grief was sincere, and the sack was excellent. The prior of a neighbouring convent, (for our priors then had as much power as a Middlesex justice now,) he, I say, it was who gave me a licence for keeping a disorderly house ; upon condition that I should never make hard bargains with the clergy: that he should have a bottle of sack every morning, and the liberty of confessing which of my girls he thought proper in private every night. I had continued for several years to pay this tribute ; and he, it must be confessed, continued as rigorously to exact it. I grew old insensibly ; my customers continued, however, to compliment my looks while I was by, but I could hear them say I was wearing when my back was turned. The prior, however, still was constant, and so were half his convent ; but one fatal morning he missed the usual beverage, for I had incautiously drunk over-night the last bottle myself. What will you have on’t? The very next day Doll Tearsheet and I were sent to the house of correction, and accused of keeping a low bawdy-house. In short, we were so well purified there with stripes, mortification, and penance, that we were afterward utterly unfit for worldly conversation : though sack would have killed me, had I stuck to it, yet I soon died for want of a drop of something comfortable, and fairly left my body to the care of the beadle. ‘ Such is my own history ; but that of the tavern, where I have ever since been stationed, affords greater variety. In the history of this, which is one of the oldest in London, you may view the different manners, pleasures, and follies of men, at different periods. — You will find mankind neither better nor worse now than formerly : the vices of an uncivilized people are generally more detestable, though not so frequent, as those in polite society. It is the same luxury which formerly stuffed your alderman with plum-porridge, and now crams him with turtle. It is the same low ambition that formerly induced a courtier to give up his religion to please his king, and now per- suades him to give up his conscience to please his minister. It is the same vanity that formerly stained our ladies’ cheeks and necks with woad, and now paints them with carmine. Your ancient Briton formerly powdered his hair with red earth, like ESSAYS. 227 brick-dust, in order to appear frightful ; your modern Briton cuts his hair on the crown, and plasters it with hogs’ -lard and flour ; and this to make him look killing. It is the same vanity, the same folly, and the same vice, only appearing different, as viewed through the glass of fashion. In a word, all mankind are a .’ ‘Sure the woman is dreaming,’ interrupted I. — ‘None of your reflections, Mrs. Quickly, if you love me; they only give me the spleen. Tell me your history at once. I love stories, hut hate reasoning.’ ‘ If you please then, sir,’ returned my companion, * I’ll read you an abstract, which I made, of the three hundred volumes I mentioned just now : — ‘ My body was no sooner laid in the dust, than the prior and several of his convent came to purify the tavern from the pollu- tions with which they said I had filled it. Masses were said in every room, relics were exposed upon every piece of furniture, and the whole house washed with a deluge of holy water. My habitation was soon converted into a monastery ; instead of cus- tomers now applying for sack and sugar, my rooms were crowded with images, relics, saints, whores, and friars. Instead of being a scene of occasional debauchery, it was now filled with con- tinued lewdness. The prior led the fashion, and the whole convent imitated his pious example. Matrons came hither to confess their sins, and to commit new. Virgins came hither who seldom went virgins away. Nor was this a convent pecu- liarly wicked ; every convent at that period was equally fond of pleasure, and gave a boundless loose to appetite. The laws allowed it; each priest had a right to a favourite companion, and a power of discarding her as often as he pleased. The laity grumbled, quarrelled with their wives and daughters, hated their confessors, and maintained them in opulence and ease. These, these were happy times, Mr. Rigmarole : these were times of piety, bravery, and simplicity !’— ‘Not so very happy, neither, good madam ; pretty much like the present : those that labour, starve ; and those that do nothing, wear fine clothes and live in luxury.’ ‘In this manner the fathers lived, for some years, without molestation : they transgressed, confessed themselves to each other, and were forgiven. One evening, however, our prior keeping a lady of distinction somewhat too long at confession, her husband unexpectedly came upon them, and testified all the indignation which was natural upon such an occasion. The prior assured the gentleman that it was the devil who had put it into his heart ; and the lady was very certain, that she was under the influence of magic, or she could never have behaved in so unfaithful a manner. The husband, however, was not to be put off by such evasions, but summoned both before the tribunal of justice. His proofs were flagrant, and he expected large damages. Such, indeed, he had a right to expect, were 228 goldsmith’s WORKS. the tribunals of those days constituted in the same way as they are now. The cause of the priest was to he tried before an assembly of priests ; and a layman was to expect redress only from their impartiality and candour. What plea, then, do you think the prior made to obviate this accusation ? He denied the fact, and challenged the plaintiff to try the merits of their cause by single combat. It was a little hard, you may be sure, upon the poor gentleman, not only to be made a cuckold, but to be obliged to fight a duel into the bargain ; yet such was the justice of the times. The prior threw down his glove, and the injured husband was obliged to take it up, in token of his accepting the challenge. Upon this, the priest supplied his champion, for it was not lawful for the clergy to fight ; and the defendant and plaintiff, according to custom, were put in prison ; both ordered to fast and pray, every method being previously used to induce both to a confession of the truth. After a month’s imprisonment, the hair of each was cut, their bodies anointed with oil, the field of battle appointed, and guarded by soldiers, while his majesty presided over the whole in person. Both the champions were sworn not to seek victory either by fraud or magic. They prayed and confessed upon their knees ; and, after these ceremonies, the rest was left to the courage and conduct of the combatants. As the champion whom the prior had pitched upon, had fought six or eight times upon similar occasions, it was no way extraordinary to find him victorious in the present combat. In short, the husband was discomfited ; he was taken from the field of battle, stripped to his shirt, and, after one of his legs was cut off, as justice ordained in such cases, he was hanged as a terror to future offenders. These, these were the times, Mr. Rigmarole ! you see how much more just, and wise, and valiant, our ancestors were than we.’ — ‘I rather fancy, madam, that the times then were much like our own ; where a multiplicity of laws give a judge as much power as a want of law ; since he is ever sure to find among the num- ber some to countenance his partiality.’ ‘ Our convent, victorious over their enemies, now gave a loose to every demonstration of joy. The lady became a nun, the prior was made a bishop, and three Wick'liffites were burned in the illuminations and fire-works that were made on the present occasion. Our convent now began to enjoy a very high degree of reputation. There was not one in London that had the character of hating heretics so much as our’s. Ladies of the first distinction chose from our convent their confessors; in short, it flourished, and might have flourished to this hour, but for a fatal accident, which terminated in its overthrow. The lady whom the prior had placed in a nunnery, and whom he continued to visit for some time with great punctuality, began at last to perceive that she was quite forsaken. Secluded from conversation, as usual, she now entertained the visions of a devotee; found herself strangely disturbed! but hesitated in ESSAYS. 229 determining whether she was possessed by an angel or a demon. She was not long in suspense : for, upon vomiting a large quan- tity of crooked pins, and finding the palms of her hands turned outwards, she quickly concluded that she was possessed by the devil. She soon lost entirely the use of speech, and when she seemed to speak, every body that was present perceived that her voice was not her own, but that of the devil within her. In short, she was bewitched; and all the difficulty lay in deter- mining who it could be that bewitched her. The nuns and the monks all demanded the magician’s name, but the devil made no reply ; for he knew they had no authority to ask questions. By the rules of witchcraft, when an evil spirit has taken posses- sion, he may refuse to answer any questions asked him, unless they are put by a bishop, and to these he is obliged to reply. A bishop, therefore, was sent for, and now the whole secret came out : the devil reluctantly owned that he was the servant of the prior ; that by his command he resided in his present habitation ; and that, without his command, he was resolved to keep in possession. The bishop was an able exorcist; he drove the devil out by force of mystical arms ; the prior was arraigned for witchcraft ; the witnesses were strong and nume- rous against him, not less than fourteen persons being by who heard the devil speak Latin. There was no resisting such a cloud of witnesses ; the prior was condemned ; and he who had assisted at so many burnings, was burned himself in turn. These were times, Mr. Rigmarole ; the people of those times were not infidels, as now, but sincere believers ! ’ — ‘ Equally faulty with ourselves, they believed what the devil was pleased to tell them ; and we seem resolved, at last, to believe neither God nor devil.’ ‘ After such a stain upon the convent, it was not to be supposed it could subsist any longer; the fathers were ordered to decamp, and the house was once again converted into a tavern. The king conferred it on one of his cast-off mistresses ; she was constituted landlady by royal authority ; and, as the tavern was in the neighbourhood of the court, and the mistress a very polite woman, it began to have more business than ever, and some- times took not less than four shillings a-day. ‘But perhaps you are desirous of knowing what were the peculiar qualifications of women of fashion at that period ; and in a description of the present landlady, you will have a tole- rable idea of all the rest. This lady was the daughter of a nobleman, and received such an education in the country as became her quality, beauty, and great expectations. She could make shifts and hose for herself, and all the servants of the family, when she was twelve years old. She knew the names of the four-and-twenty letters, so that it was impossible to bewitch her ; and this was a greater piece of learning than any lady in the whole country could pretend to. She was always up early, and saw breakfast served in the great hall by six o’clock. At x 230 goldsmith’s works. this scene of festivity she generally improved good humour, by telling her dreams, relating stories of spirits, several of which she herself had seen, and one of which she was reported to have killed with a black-hafted knife. From hence she usually went to make pastry in the larder, and here she was followed by her sweethearts, who were much helped on in conversation by strug- gling with her for kisses. About ten, miss generally went to play at hot cockles and blindtnan’s buff in the parlour ; and when the young folks (for they seldom played at hot cockles when grown old) were tired of such amusements, the gentlemen enter- tained miss with the history of their greyhounds, bear-baitings, and victories at cudgel-playing. If the weather was fine, they ran at the ring, or shot at butts, while miss held in her hand a riband, with which she adorned the conqueror. Her mental qualifications were exactly fitted to her external accomplish- ments. Before she was fifteen, she could tell the story of J ack the Giant Killer ; could name every mountain that was inhabited by fairies ; knew a witch at first sight ; and could repeat four Latin prayers without a prompter. Her dress was perfectly fashionable ; her arms and her hair were completely covered ; a monstrous muff was put round her neck, so that her head seemed like that of John the Baptist placed in a eharger. In short, when completely equipped, her appearance was so very modest, that she discovered little more than her nose. These were the times, Mr. Rigmarole, when every lady that had a good nose might set up for a beauty ; when every woman that could tell stories might be cried up for a wit.’ — ‘ I am as much displeased at those dresses which conceal too much, as at those which dis- cover too much : I am equally an enemy to a female dunce, or a female pedant.’ ‘ You may be sure that miss chose a husband with qualifica- tions resembling her own ; she pitched upon a courtier equally remarkable for hunting and drinking, who had given several proofs of his great virility among the daughters of his tenants and domestics. They fell in love at first sight (for such was the gallantry of the times), were married, came to court, and madam appeared with superior qualifications. The king was struck with her beauty. All property was at the king’s command ; the husband was obliged to resign all pretensions in his wife to the sovereign whom God anointed, to commit adultery where he thought proper. The king loved her for some time ; but, at length, repenting of his misdeeds, and instigated by his father’s confessor, from a principle of conscience, removed her from his levee to the bar of this tavern, and took a new mistress in her stead. Let it not surprise you to behold the mistress of a king degraded to so humble an office. As the ladies had no mental accomplishments, a good face was enough to raise them to the royal couch ; and she who was this day a royal mistress, might the next, when her beauty palled upon enjoyment, be D 302 goldsmith’s works. CHAP. II. FAMILY MISFORTUNES — THE LOSS OP FORTUNE ONLY SERVES TO INCREASE THE PRIDE OF THE WORTHY. The temporal concerns of our family were chiefly committed to my wife’s management; as to the spiritual, I took them entirely under my own direction. The profits of my living, which amounted to about thirty-five pounds a year, I made over to the orphans and widows of the clergy of our diocese ; for, having a sufficient fortune of my own, I was careless of temporalities, and felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty without reward. I also set a resolution of keeping no curate, and of being acquainted with every man in the parish, exhorting 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 cus- tomers. 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 main- tained, 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 : to express it in one word, I valued myself upon being a strict monogamist. I was early initiated into this important dispute, on which so many laborious volumes have been written. I published some tracts upon the subject myself, which, as they never sold, I have the consolation of thinking are read only by the happy few. Some of my friends called this my weak side ; but, alas ! they had not, like me, made it a subject of long contemplation. The more I reflected upon it, the more important it appeared. I even went a step beyond Whiston in displaying my principles : as he had engraven upon his wife’s tomb that she was the only wife of William Whiston ; so I wrote a similar epitaph for my wife, though still living, in which I extolled her prudence, economy, and obedience, till death ; and, having got it copied fair, with an elegant frame, it was placed over the chimney- piece, where it answered several very useful purposes. It admonished my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity to her ; it inspired her with a passion for fame, and constantly put her in mind of her end. It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often recom- mended, that my eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his affections upon tne daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, who was a dignitary in the church, and in circumstances to give her THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 303 a large fortune ; but fortune was her smallest accomplishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all (except my two daughters) to be completely pretty. Her youth, health, and innocence, were still heightened by a complexion so transparent, and such a 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 alliance. Being con- vinced, by experience, that the days of courtship are the most happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen the period : and the various amusements which the young couple every day shared in each other’s company, seemed to increase their passion. W e were generally awaked in the morning by music, and on fine days rode a-hunting. The hour between breakfast and dinner the ladies devoted to dress and study : they usually read a page, and then gazed at themselves in the glass, which even philosophers might own often presented the page of greatest beauty. At dinner, my wife took the lead ; for, as she always insisted upon carving everything herself, it being her mother’s way, she gave us, upon these occasions, the 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 two-penny hit. Nor can I here pass over an ominous circum- stance that happened the last time we played together ; I only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw deuce-ace five times running. Some months were elapsed in this manner, till, at last, it was thought convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the young couple, who seemed earnestly to desire it. During the prepa- rations 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 wmch I intended shortly to publish, in defence of my favourite 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 intended alliance; but, on the day before that appointed for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the subject at large 304 GOLDSMITH’S TVORKS. It was managed with proper spirit on both sides ; he asserted that I was heterodox ; I retorted the charge : he replied, and I rejoined. In the mean time, while the controversy was hottest, I was called out by one of my relations, who, with a face of concern, advised me to give up the dispute, at least till my son’s wedding was over. ‘ How ! ’ cried I, ‘relinquish the cause of truth, and let him be a husband, already driven to the very verge of absurdity ? You might as well advise me to give up my fortune as my argument.’ — ‘Your 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 tne pound. I was unwilling to shock you or the family with the account, till after the wedding : but now it may serve to moderate your wrath in the argument : for I suppose your own prudence will enforce the necessity of dissem- bling, at least till your son has the young lady’s fortune secure.’ • — ‘Well,’ returned I, ‘if what you tell me be true, and if I am to be a beggar, it snail never make me a rascal, and 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 any sense of the expression.’ It would be endless to describe the different sensations of both families, when I divulged the news of our misfortune ; but what others felt was slight, to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr. Wilmot, who seemed before sufficiently inclined to break off the match, was by this blow soon determined ; one virtue he had in perfection, which was prudence — too often the only one that is left us at seventy-two. CHAP. III. A MIGRATION THE FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES OF OUR LIVES ARE GENERALLY FOUND AT LAST TO BE OF OUR OWN FROCURING. The only hope of our family now was, that the report of our misfortunes might be malicious or premature ; but a letter from my agent in town soon came with a confirmation of every par- ticular. The loss of fortune to myself alone, would have been trifling : the only uneasiness I felt was for my family, who were to be humbled, without an education to render them callous to contempt. THE VICAB OP WAKEFIELD. 805 Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to restrain their affliction ; for premature consolation is hut 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 neighbourhood, where I could still enjoy my principles without molestation. With this proposal 1 joyfully closed, having determined to increase my salary by managing a little farm. Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get together the wrecks of my fortune ; and, all debts collected and paid, out of fourteen thousand pounds we had but four hundred remaining. My chief attention, therefore, was now to bring down the pride of my family to their circumstances ; for I well know that aspiring beggai-y is wretchedness itself. ‘ You cannot he ignorant, my children,’ cried I, ‘ that no prudence of our’s could have prevented our late misfortune ; but prudence may do much in disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my fondlings, and wisdom bids us to conform to our humble situation. Let us, then, without repining, give up those splen- dours with which numbers are wretched, and seek, in humble circumstances, that peace with which all may be happy. The poor live pleasantly without our help ; why then should we not learn to live without their’s ? No, my children, let us from this moment give up all pretensions to gentility ; we have still enough left for happiness, if we are wise, and let us draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortunes.’ As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send him to town, where his abilities might contribute to our support and his own. The separation of friends and families is, perhaps, one of the most distressful 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 blessing from me. This I gave him from my heart, and which, added to five guineas, was all the patrimony I had now to bestow. ‘ 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, in will be your comfort on the way : these two lines in it are worth a million — “I have been young, and now am old; yet never saw I the righteous man forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread.” Let this be your consolation as you travel on. Go, my boy, whatever be thy fortune, let me see thee once a year; still keep a good heart, and farewell.’ As he was possessed of integrity and honour, I was under no apprehen- sions from throwing him naked into the amphitheatre of life ; for I knew he would act a good part, whether vanquished or victorious. D D 3 306 goldsmith’s works. His departure only prepared tlie way for our own, which arrived a few days afterwards. The leaving a neighbourhood in which we had'enjoyed so many hours of tranquillity was not without a tear, which scarce fortitude itself could suppress. Besides, a journey of seventy miles, to a family that had hitherto never been above ten miles from home, tilled us with apprehen- sion, and the cries of the poor, who followed us for some miles, contributed to increase it. The first day’s journey brought us in safety within thirty miles of our further retreat, and we put up for the night at an obscure inn, in a village by the way. When we were shown a room, I desired the landlord, in my usual way, to let us have his company, with which he complied, as what he drank would increase the bill the next morning. He knew, however, the whole neighbourhood to which I was removing, particularly Squire Thornhill, who was to be my landlord, and who lived within a few miles of the place. This gentleman he described as one who desired to know little more of the world than its pleasures ; being particularly remarkable for his attachment to the fair sex. He observed, that no virtue was able to resist his arts and assiduity, and that there was scarce a farmer’s daughter within ten miles round but what had found him successful and faithless. Though this account gave me some pain, it had a very different effect upon my daughters, whose features seemed to brighten with the expectation of an approaching triumph ; nor was my wife less pleased and confi- dent 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 headle to spare an old broken soldier that was to be whipped through the town for dog stealing.’ The hostess, however, still persisting in the first assertion, he was preparing to leave the room, swearing that he would be satisfied one way or another, when I begged the landlord would introduce me to a stranger of so much charity as he described. With this he complied, showing in a gentleman who seemed to be about thirty, dressed in clothes that once were laced. His person was well formed, and his face marked with the lines of thinking- He had 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 tor the stranger, at seeing a gentleman in sucli 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, m giving what money I had about me, has shown me that there are still some men like you. I must, however, previously entreat being informed of the name and residence of my benefactor, in order to repay him as soon as possible.’ la THE VICAR OP -WAKEFIELD. 807 this I satisfied him fully, not only mentioning my name, and late misfortune, but the place to which I was going to remove. ‘ This,’ cried he, ‘ happens still more lucky than I hoped for, as I am going the same way myself, having been detained here two or three days by the floods, which, I hope, by to-morrow, will be found passable.’ I testified, the pleasure I should have in his company, and my wife and children joining in entreaty, he was prevailed upon to stop supper. The stranger’s conversa- tion, which was at once pleasing and instructive, induced me to wish for a continuance of it; but it was now high time to retire, and take refreshment against the fatigues of the follow- ing 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, observing, with a smile, that as we were ill mounted, he would be too generous to attempt leaving us behind. As the floods were not yet sub- sided, 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 surprised me most was, that though he was a money-borrower, he defended his opinions with as much obstinacy as if he had been my patron. He now and then also informed me to whom the different seats belonged that lay in our view as we travelled the road. ‘ That,’ cried he, pointing to a very magnificent house which stood at some distance, ‘belongs to Mr. Thornhill, a young gentleman who enjoys a large fortune, though entirely dependent on the will of his uncle, Sir William Thornhill, a gentleman who, content with a little himself, permits his nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town.’ — ‘What!’ cried I, ‘is my young landlord, then, the nephew of a man whose virtues, generosity, and singularities, are so universally known? I have heard Sir William Thornhill represented as one of the most generous, yet whimsical, men in the kingdom ; a man of consummate benevolence.’ ‘ Something, perhaps, too much so,’ replied Mr. Burchell : ‘ at least he carried benevolence to an excess when young, for his passions were then strong, and as they all were upon the side of virtue, they led it up to a romantic extreme. He early began to aim at the qualifications of the soldier and the scholar ; was soon distinguished in the army, and had some reputation among men of learning. Adulation ever follows the ambitious ; for such alone receive most pleasure from flattery. He was surrounded with crowds, who showed him only one side of their character ; so that he began to lose a regard for private interest in universal sympathy. He loved all mankind ; for fortune prevented him from knowing that they were rascals. Physicians tell us of a disorder in which the whole body is so exquisitely sensible, that the slightest touch gives pain : what some have thus suffered in their persons, this 308 goldsmith’s works. gentleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress, whetner real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, and his soul laboured under a sickly sensibility of the miseries of others. Thus dis- posed to relieve, it will be easily conjectured he found numbers disposed to solicit : his profusion began to impair his fortune, hut not his good-nature ; that, indeed, was seen to increase as the other seemed to decay ; he grew improvident as he grew poor; and though he talked like a man of sense, his actions were those of a fool. Still, however, being surrounded with importunity, and no longer able to satisfy every request that was made upon him, instead of money he gave promises. They were all he had to bestow, and he had not resolution enough to give any man pain by a denial. By this he drew round him crowds of dependents, whom he was sure to disappoint, yet he wished to relieve. These hung upon him for a time, and left him with merited reproaches and contempt. But, in proportion as he became contemptible to others, he became despicable to himself. His mind had leaned upon their adulation, and, that support taken away, he could find no pleasure in the applause of his heart, which he had never learned to reverence. The world now began to wear a different aspect ; the flattery of his friends began to dwindle into simple approbation. Approbation soon took the more friendly form of advice ; and advice, when rejected, produces 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 f ain that of another. I now found that — that — I forgot what was going to observe ; in short, sir, he resolved to respect himself, and laid down a plan of restoring his falling fortune. For this purpose, in his own whimsical manner, he travelled through Europe on foot, and now, though he has scarce attained the age of thirty, his circumstances are more rational and moderate than before ; but he still preserves the character of a humorist, and finds most pleasure in eccentric virtues.’ My attention was so much taken up by Mr. Burchell’s account, that I scarce looked forward, as we went along, till we were alarmed by the cries of my family ; when toning, I perceived my youngest daughter in the midst of the rapid stream, thrown from her house, and struggling with the torrent. She had sunk twice, nor was it in my power to disengage myself in time to bring her relief. My sensations were even too violent to permit my attempting her rescue: she must certainly have perished, had not my companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to her relief, and, with some difficulty, brought her in safety to the opposite shore. By taking the current a little farther up, the rest of the family got safely over ; where we had an opportunity of joining our acknowledgments to her’s. Her gratitude may be more readily imagined than described : she thanked her deliverer more with looks than words, and continued to lean upon his arm, as if still willing to THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 809 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 we went, that she liked him extremely, and protesting that if he had birth and fortune to entitle him to match into such a family as our’s, she knew no man she would sooner fix upon. I could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty strain, but I was never much displeased with those harmless delusions that tend to make us more happy. CHAP. IV. A rUOOF THAT EVEN THE HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAY GRANT HAPPINESS, WHICH DEFENDS NOT ON CIRCUMSTANCES, BUT CONSTITUTION. The place of our retreat was 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 superfluities. Item o to 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 Christmas carol, sent true love knots on Valentine-morning, eat pancakes on Shrovetide, showed their wit on the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas-eve. Being apprized of our approach, the whole neighbourhood came out to meet their minister, dressed in their fine clothes, and preceded by a pipe and tabor ; a feast was also provided for our reception, at which we sat cheerfully down; and what the conversation wanted in wit, was made up in laughter. Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a prattling river before ; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted of about twenty acres of excellent land, having given a hundred pounds for my predecessor’s good-will. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my enclosures, the elms and hedgerows appearing with inexpressible beauty. My house consisted of but. one story, and was covered with thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness ; the walls on the inside were 310 GOLDSMITH’S WORKS. nicely white-washed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with pictures of their own designing. Though the same room served us for parlour and kitchen, that only made it 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 relieved, 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 our children. The little republic to which I gave laws, was regulated in the following manner : by sun-rise we all assembled in our common apartment, the fire being previously kindled by the servant; after we had saluted each other with proper ceremony, for I always thought fit to keep up some mechanical forms of good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys friendship, we all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another day. This duty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our usual industry abroad, while my wife and my 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 beween my wife and daughters, and in philosophical arguments between my son and me. As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labours after it was gone down, but returned home to the expecting family ; where smiling looks, a neat hearth, and a pleasant fire, were prepared for our reception. Nor were we without guests ; sometimes Farmer Flamborough, our talkative neighbour, and often the blind piper, would pay us a visit, and taste our goose- berry wine ; for the making of which we had lost neither the recipe nor the reputation. These harmless people had several ways of being good company ; for while one played, the other would sing some soothing ballad — Johnny Armstrong’s Last Good-night, or the cruelty of Barbara Allen. The night was concluded in the manner we began the morning, my youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons of the day; and he that read 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 finery, which all in my sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How well soever 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 laces, ribands, bugles, and catgut ; my wife herself retained a passion for crimson paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say it became her. The first Sunday, in particular, their behaviour served to mortify me. I had desired my girls the preceding night to be dressed early the next day ; for I always loved to be at church a good while before the rest of my congregation. They punc- THE VICAR OP WAKEEIELD. 311 tually obeyed my directions : but when we were to assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters, dressed out in all their former splendour, their hair plastered up with pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up into a heap behind, and rustling at every motion. I could not help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from whom I expected more discretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only resource was to order my son, with an impor- tant air, to call our coach. The girls were amazed at the com- mand; but I repeated it with more solemnity than before. ‘Surely, my dear, you jest,’ cried my wife, ‘we can walk it perfectly well; we want no coach to carry us now.’ — ‘You mistake, child,’ returned I, ‘ we do want a coach : for if we walk to church in this trim, the very children of the parish will hoot after us.’— ‘ Indeed,’ replied my wife, ‘I always imagined that my Charles was fond of seeing his children neat and°handsome about him.’ — ‘ You may be as neat as you please,’ interrupted I, ‘ and I shall love you the better for it ; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These rufflings, and pinkings, and patchings, 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 to 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 may be clothed from the trimmings of the vain.’ This remonstrance had the proper effect; they went with great composure to change their dress ; and the next day I had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own request, employed in cutting up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two little ones ; and what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved by this curtailing. CHAP. Y. A NEW AND GREAT ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED — WHAT WB PLACE MOST HOPES UPON GENERALLY PROVES MOST RATAL. At a small distance from the house, my predecessor had made a seat overshaded by a hedge of hawthorn and honeysuckle. Here, when the weather was fine, and our labour soon finished, we usually sat together to enjoy an extensive landscape, in the calm of the evening. Here, too, we drank tea, which now was become an occasional banquet ; and as we had it but seldom, it 312 goldsmith’s "WORKS. diffused a new joy, the preparation for it being made with no small bustle and ceremony. On these occasions, our two little ones always read for us, and they were regularly served after we had done. Sometimes, to give a variety to our amusements, the girls sung to the guitar : and while they thus formed a little concert, my wife and I would stroll down the sloping field, that was embellished with blue-bells and centaury, talk of our chil- dren with rapture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both health and harmony. In this manner, we began to find that every situation in life may bring its own peculiar pleasures : every morning waked us to a repetition of toil ; but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity. It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holiday, for I kept such as intervals of relaxation from labour, that I had drawn out my family to our usual place of amusement, and our young musicians began their usual concert. As we were thus engaged, we saw a stag bound nimbly by, within about twenty paces of where we were sitting, and, by its panting, it seemed pressed by the hunters. We had not much time to reflect upon the poor animal’s distress, when we perceived the dogs and horsemen come sweeping along at some distance behind, and making the very path it had taken. I was instantly for returning in with my family ; but either curiosity or surprise, or some more hidden motive, held my wife and daughters to their seats. The huntsman, who rode foremost, passed us with great swiftness, followed by four or five persons more, who seemed in equal haste. At last, a young gentleman, of a more genteel appearance than the rest, came forward, and for a while regarding us, instead of pursuing the chase, stopped short, and giving his horse to a servant who attended, 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 pre- sumption out of countenance. Upon which he let us know that his name w r as Thornhill, and that he was the owner of the estate that lay for some extent around 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 instruments 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 counteracted by one from their mother, so that, with a cheerful air, they gave us a favourite song of Dryden’s. Mr. Thornhill seemed highly delighted with their performance and choice, and then took up the guitar himself. He played but very indifferently ; however, my eldest daughter repaid his former applause with interest, and assured him that his tones THE VICAR OF 'WAKEFIELD. 313 were louder than even those of her master. At this compliment he bowed, which she returned with a courtesy. He praised her taste, and she commended his understanding : an age could not have made them better acquainted. While the fond mother too, equally happy, insisted upon her landlord’s stepping in, and taking a glass of her gooseberry. The whole family seemed earnest to please him : my girls attempted to entertain him with topics they thought most modern ; while Moses, on the contrary, gave him a question or two from the ancients, for which he had the satisfaction of being laughed at : my little ones were no less busy, and fondly stuck close to the stranger. All my endeavours could scarce keep their dirty fingers from handling and tarnishing the lace on his clothes, and lifting up the flaps of his pocket-holes, to see what was there. At the approach of evening, he took leave : but not till he had requested permission to renew his visit, which, as he was our landlord, we most readily agreed to. As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council on the conduct of the day. She was of opinion, that it was a most fortunate 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 was directed to me, I protested I could see no reason for it neither ; nor why Mr. Simpkins got the ten thousand pounds’ 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, Soph, my dear, what do you think of my new visitor ? Don’t you think he seemed good-natured?’ — ‘Immensely so, indeed mamma,’ replied she; ‘I think he has a great deal to say about everything, and is never at a loss; and the more trilling the subject, the more he has to say.’ — ‘ Yes,’ cried Olivia, ‘ he is well enough for a man ; but, for my part, I don’t much like him, he is so extremely impudent and familiar ; but on the guitar he is shocking.’ These two last speeches I interpreted by contraries. I found by this, that Sophia inter- nally despised, as much as Olivia secretly admired him. ‘ Whatever may be your opinion of him, my children,’ cried I, ‘ to confess a truth, he has not prepossessed me in his favour. Disproportioned friendships ever terminate in disgust ; and I thought, notwithstanding all his ease, that he seemed perfectly sensible of the distance between us. Let us keep to com- panions of our own rank. There is no character more con- temptible than a man that is a fortune-hunter; and I can see no reason why fortune-hunting women should not be con- temptible, too. Thus, at best, we Shall be contemptible if his views are honourable; hut if they be otherwise! I should shudder but to think of that ! It is true, I have no apprehen- E E 314 goldsmith’s works. sions from the conduct of my children, but I think there are some from his character.’ I would have proceeded, but for the interruption of a servant from the squire, who, with his compli- ments, sent us a side of venison, and a promise to dine with us some days after. This well-timed present pleaded more power- fully in his favour than anything I had to say could obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied with just having pointed out danger, and leaving it to their own discretion to avoid it. That virtue which requires to be ever guarded is scarcely worth the sentinel. CHAP. VI. THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRE-SIDE. 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 undertook the task with alacrity. ‘ I am sorry,' cried I, ‘ that we have no neighbour or stranger to take part in this good cheer ; feasts of this kind acquire a double relish from hospitality.’ — ‘ Bless me ! ’ cried my wife, ‘ here comes our good friend Mr. Burchell, that saved our Sophia, and that run you down fairly in the argument.’ — ‘ Confute me in argument, child ! ’ cried I, ‘ you mistake there, my dear. I believe there are but few that can do that : I never dispute your abilities at making a goose-pie, and I beg you’ll leave argument to me.’ As I spoke, poor Mr. Burchell entered the house, and was welcomed by the family, who shook him heartily by the hand, while little Dick officiously reached him a chair. I was pleased with the poor man’s friendship for two reasons : because I knew that he wanted mine, and I knew 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 a halfpenny whistle. He generally came for a few days into our neighbourhood once a year, and lived upon the neighbour’s hospitality. He sat down to supper among us, and my wife was not sparing of her gooseberry-wine. The tale went round; he sung us old songs, and gave the children the THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 315 Btorv of the Buck of Beverland, with the History of Patient Grizzle, the Adventures of Catskin, and then Fair Rosamond s Bower. Our cock, which always crew at eleven, now told us it was time for repose : but an unforeseen difficulty started about lodging the stranger : all our beds were already taken up, and it was too late to send him to the next alehouse In this dilemma, little Dick offered him his part of the bed, if bis 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. their s. ‘Well done, my good children,’ cried I, ‘hospitality is one of the first Christian duties. The beast retires to his shelter and the bird flies to its nest ; but helpless man can only find refuge from his fellow-creature. The greatest stranger in this worl , was He who came to save it : he never had a house, as if willing to see what hospitality was left remaining amongst 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 %n 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, observing the assiduity of Mr. Bu^hell m aiding my daughter Sophia m her part of the task. When he had finished his own, he would join in her s, and enter into a close conversation: but I had too good an opinion of Sophia s understanding, and was too well 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 unfortu- nate guest. ‘What a strong instance,’ said I, is that poor man of the miseries attending a youth of levity and extrava- gance ' He by no means wants sense, which only serves to lo-o-ravate bis former folly. Poor forlorn creature ! where are now the revellers, the flatterers, that he could once inspire and command ? Gone, perhaps, to attend the bagnio pander, grown rich by his extravagance. They once praiseu 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 per- haps deserves poverty ; for he has neither the ambition to be independent, nor the skill to be useful.’ I rompted, perhaps, by some secret reasons, I delivered this observation with too much acrimony, which my Sophia gently reproved. Whatso- ever his former conduct may have been, papa, his circumstanees should exempt him from censure now. His present indigence is a sufficient punishment for former folly : and I have heard my papa himself say, that we should never strike one unneces- 316 goldsmith’s works. sary blow at a victim over whom Providence holds the scourge of its resentment.’ — ‘You are right, Sophia,’ cried my son Moses ; ‘ and one of the ancients finely represents so malicious a conduct, by the attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas, whose skin, the fable tells us, had been wholly stripped off by another ; besides, I don’t know if this poor man’s situation be so bad as my father would represent it. We are not to judge of the feelings of others by what we might feel if in their place. However dark the habitation of the mole to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds the apartments sufficiently lightsome. And, to confess the truth, this man’s mind seems fitted to his station ; for I never heard any one more sprightly than he was to-day, when he conversed with you.’ This was said without the least design : however, it excited a blush, which she strove to cover by an affected laugh ; assuring him that she scarcely took any notice of what he said to her ; but that she believed he might once have been a very fine gentleman. The readiness with which she undertook to vindicate herself, and her blushing, were symptoms I did not internally approve: but I repressed my suspicions. As we expected our landlord 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 ; but little Dick informed me, in a whisper, that they were making a wash for the face. Washes of all kinds I had a natural antipathy to ; for I knew that, instead of mending the complexion, they spoiled it. I therefore approached my chair, by slow degrees, to the fire, and grasping the poker, as if it wanted mending, seemingly by accident, overturned the whole composition ; and it was too late to begin another. CHAP. VII. A. TOWN WIT DESCRIBED — THE DULLEST FELLOWS MAT LEARN TO BE COMICAL FOR A NIGHT OR TWO. When the morning arrived on which we were to entertain our young landlord, it may be easily supposed what provisions were exhausted to make an appearance. It may be also conjectured, that my wife and daughters expanded their gayest plumage on this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came with a couple of friends, his chaplain, and feeder. The servants, who were numerous, he politely ordered to the next alehouse: but my wife, in the THE VICAIi OF WAKEFIELD. 317 triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining them all; for which, by the bye, our family was pinched for three weeks after. As Mr. Burchell had hinted to us, the day before, that he was making some proposals of marriage to Miss Wilmot, my son George’s former mistress, this a good deal damped the heartiness of his reception : but accident, in some measure, relieved our embarrassment ; for, one of the company happening to mention her name, Mr. Thornhill observed, with an oath, that he never knew 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 informa- tion of a lamp under the clock of St. Dunstan’s.’ At this he laughed, and so did we : the jests of the rich are ever successful. Olivia, too, could not avoid whispering, loud enough to be heard, that he had an infinite fund of humour. After dinner, I began with my usual toast, the church ; for this I was thanked by the chaplain, as he said the church was the only mistress of his affections. ‘ Come, tell us honestly, Frank,’ said the squire, with his usual 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 tha chaplain. — ‘Right, Frank,’ cried the squire : ‘ for may this glass suffocate me, but a fine girl is worth all the priestcraft in the creation ; for what are tithes and tricks but an imposition, all a confounded imposture ? and I can prove it.’- — ‘ I wish you would,’ cried my son Moses, ‘ and I think,’ continued he, ‘ that I should be able to answer you.’ — ‘Very well, sir,’ cried the squire, who immediately smoked him, and winked on the rest of the company to prepare us for the sport : ‘ if you are for a cool argument upon the subject, I am ready to accept the chal- lenge. 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 you’ll not deny that whatever is, is : if you don’t grant me that, I can go no further.’ — ‘ Why,’ returned Moses, ‘ I think 1 may grant that, and make the best of it.’ — -‘I hope, too,’ returned the other, ‘ you will 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 three angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones. — ‘Nothing can be plainer,’ returned t’other, and looked round him with his usual importance. ‘Very well,’ cried the squire, speaking very quick ; ‘ the premises being thus settled, I pro- ceed to observe, that the concatenation of self-existences, proceeding in a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally produce a problematical dialogism, which, in some measure, proves that the essence of spirituality may be referred to the second pre- dicable.’ — ‘ Hold, hold,’ cried the other, ‘ I deny that. Do you e e 3 318 goldsmith's works. think I can thus tamely submit to such heterodox doctrines ? — ‘ What ! ’ replied the squire, as if in a passion, ‘ not submit ! Answer me one plain question. Do you think Aristotle right, when he says, that relatives are related?’ — ‘Undoubtedly,’ replied the other. ‘If so, then,’ cried the squire, ‘answer me directly to what I propose : Whether do you judge the analy- tical investigation ot the first part of my enthymem deficient secundum quoad, or quoad minus ? and give me your reasons, I 6ay, directly. ‘ I protest,’ cried Moses, ‘I don’t rightly com- prehend the force of your reasoning; but if it be reduced to one single proposition, I fancy it may then have an answer.’ — • ‘0, 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 suck as consider what powerful ingredients a good figure, fine clothes, and fortune, are in that character, will easily forgive her. Mr. Thornhill, notwithstanding his real ignorance, talked with ease, and could expatiate upon the common topics of conversation with fluency. It is not sur- prising, then, that such talents should win the affections of a girl, who, by education, was taught to value an appearance in herself, and, consequently, to set a value upon it in another. Upon his departure, we again entered into a debate upon the merits of our young landlord. As he directed his looks and conversation to Olivia, it was no longer doubted but that she was the object that induced him to be our visiter. Nor did she seem to be much displeased at the innocent raillery of her brother and sister upon this occasion. Even Deborah, herself, seemed to share the glory of the day, and exulted in her daughter s victory, as if it were her own. ‘ And now, my dear/ Cried she to me, ‘I’ll fairly own, that it was I that instructed my girls to encourage our landlord’s addresses. I had always some ambition, and you now see that I was right ; for who knows how this may end?’ — ‘Ay, who knows that, indeed!’ answered I, with a groan : ‘ for my part, I don’t much like it : and I could have been better pleased with one that was poor and honest than this fine gentleman, with his fortune and infidelity • foi, depend on t, if he be what I suspect him, no freethinker shall ever have a child of mine.’ ‘ Sure, father,’ cried Moses, ‘ you are too severe in this ; for Heaven will never arraign him for what he thinks, but for what he does. Every man has a thousand vicious thoughts, which arise without his power to suppress. Thinking freely of religion may be involuntary with this gentleman ; so that allowing his THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 319 Beutiments to be wrong, yet, as he is purely passive in his assent, he is no more to he blamed for his errors than the governor of a city without walls, for the shelter he is obliged to afford an invading enemy.’ 4 True, my son,’ cried I ; 4 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 as- senting to the proofs that offer. So that, though our erroneous opinions be involuntary when formed, yet, as we have been wilfully corrupt, or very negligent, in forming them, we deserve punishment for our vice, or contempt for our folly.’ My wife now kept up the conversation, though not the argu- ment; she observed, that several very prudent men of our acquaintance were freethinkers, and made very good husbands ; and she knew some sensible girls that had skill enough to make converts of their spouses : 4 And who knows, my dear,’ continued she, 4 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. 4 It does not occur to me that I ever put such books into her hands ; you certainly overrate her merit.’ — ' Indeed, papa,' replied Olivia, 4 she does not; I have read a great deal of con- troversy. I have read the disputes between Thwackum and Square ; the controversy between Robinson Crusoe and Friday, the savage : and I am now employed in reading the controversy in Religious Courtship.’ — 4 Very well,’ cried 1, 4 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.’ CHAP. VIII. AN AMOUR, WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FORTUNE, YET MAY BE PRODUCTIVE OF MUCH. The next morning we were again visited by Mr. Burchell, though I began, for certain reasons, to be displeased with the frequency of his return ; but I could not refuse him my com- pany and fire-side. It is true, his labour more than requited his entertainment; for he wrought amongst us with vigour, and, either in the meadow or at the hay-rick, put himself fore- most. Besides, he had always something amusing to say, that lessened our toil, and was at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, that I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose from an attachment he discovered to my daughter : he would, in a jesting manner, call her his little mistress, and when he bought each of the girls a set of ribands, her’s was the 320 goldsmith’s works. finest. I knew not how, but he every day seemed to become more amiable, his wit to improve, and his simulicity 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 red-breast came and picked the crumbs from our handstand every sound seemed but the echoe of tranquillity. I never sit thus,’ says Sophia, i but I think of the two lovers so sweetly described by Mr. Gay, who were struck dead in each other’s arms. There is something so pathetic in the description, that I have read it a hundred times with new rapture.’ ‘ In my opinion, cried my son, ‘ the finest strokes in that description are much below those in the Acis and Galatea of Ovid. The Eoman 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 Borne, is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant unages, without a plot or connexion ; a string of epithets that improve the sound without carrying on the sense. But, perhaps, madam, while I thus reprehend others, you’ll think it just that I should give them an opportunity to retaliate ; and indeed, I have made this remark only to have an opportunity of intro- ducing 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’ning as I go.’ * Forbear, my son,’ the Hermit cries, ‘ To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. * Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still ; And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 321 * 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 the pensive guest : And spread his vegetable store, And gaily press’d and smil’d ; And skill’d in legendary lore, The ling’ring hours beguiled. Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries : The cricket chirrups in the hearth. The crackling faggot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To soothe the stranger’s woe : For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. 322 goldsmith’s WOUKS. His rising cares the Hermit spied, With answering care opprest. *And whence, unhappy youth,’ he cried, ‘ The sorrows of thy breast ? * Prom better habitations spum’d, Reluctant dost thou rove ? Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d, Or unregarded love r 4 Alas ! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay : And those who prize the paltry things More trifling still than they. 1 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, ‘Por shame, fond youth ! thy sorrows hush And spurn the sex,’ he said : But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray’d. Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view, like colours o’er the morning skies; As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms : The lovely stranger stands contest A maid, in all her charms ! And, ‘ Ah ! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn,’ she cried ; 4 Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude Where heaven and you reside : 4 But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray ; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. * My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he ; And all his wealth was mark’d as mine ; He had but only me. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 323 e To win me from his tender arms. Unnumbered suitors came : Who praised me for imputed charms, And felt or feign’d a flame. * Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove : Amongst the rest young Edwin bow’d, But never talk’d of love. In humble, simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he ; Wisdom and worth were all he had, But these were all to me. * The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heav’n refined, Could nought of purity display, To emulate his mind. ♦The dew, the blossom on the tree With charms inconstant shine ; Their charms were his, but, woe to me, Their constancy was mine ! 1 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 wond’ring fair one turn’d to chide, ’Twas Edwin’s self that prest 1 ‘ Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restored to love and thee ! 824 goldsmith’s works. * 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 distributed by the report of a gun just by us ; and, imme- diately after, a man was seen bursting through the hedge to take up the game he had killed. This sportsman was the squire’s chaplain, who had shot one of the blackbirds that so agreeably entertained us. So loud a report, and so near, startled my daughters ; and I could perceive that Sophia, in the fright, had thrown herself into Mr. Burchell’s arms for protection. The gentleman came up, and asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirming that he was ignorant of our being so near. lie, therefore, sat down by my youngest daughter, and, sportsman like, offered her what he had killed that morning. She was going to refuse, but a private look from her mother soon induced her to correct the mistake, and accept his present, though with some reluctance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride in a whisper ; observing that Sophy had made a con- quest of the chaplain, as well as her sister had of the squire. I suspected, however, with more probability, that her affections were placed upon a different object. The chaplain’s errand was to inform us, that Mr. Thornhill had provided music and re- freshments, and intended that night giving the young ladies a hall by moon-light on the grass -plot before our door. ‘ Nor can I deny,’ continued he, ‘ but I have an interest in being first to deliver this message, as I expect for my reward to be honoured with Miss 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 intentions, but resigned her up to the chaplain, adding that he was to go that night five miles, being invited to a harvest supper. His refusal appeared to me a little extraordinary, nor could I conceive how so sensible a girl as my youngest, could thus prefer a man of broken for- tunes to one whose expectations were much greater. But as men are most capable of distinguishing merit in women, so the ladies often form the truest judgment of us. The two sexes seem placed as spies upon each other, and are furnished with different abilities, adapted for mutual inspection. rni£ VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 325 CHAP. IX. TWO LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED. — ‘SUPERIOR FINERY EVER SEEMS TO CONFER SUPERIOR BREEDING. Mr. Burciiell had scarcely taken leave, and Sophia consented to dance with the chaplain, when my little ones came running out to tell us, that the squire was come with a crowd of company. Upon our return, we found our landlord with a couple of under- gentlemen, and two young ladies richly dressed, whom he intro- duced as women of very great distinction and fashion from town. We happened not to have chairs enough for the whole company ; but Mr. Thornhill immediately proposed that every gentleman should sit in a lady’s lap. This I positively objected to, notwithstanding a look of disapprobation from my wife. Moses was, therefore, despatched to borrow a couple of chairs ; and, as we were in want of ladies to make up a set of country- dancers, 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 circum- stance was not averted to : though the Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned the very best dancers in the parish, and understood the jig and the roundabout to perfection, yet they were totally unac- quainted with country-dances. This at first discomposed us; however, after a little shoving and dragging, they at last went merrily on. Our music consisted of two fiddles, with a pipe and tabor. The moon shone bright; Mr. Thornhill and my eldest daughter led up the ball, to the great delight of the spectators ; for the neighbours, hearing what was going forward, came flocking about us. My girl moved with so much grace and vivacity, that my wife could not avoid discovering the pride of her heart, by assuring me, that though the little chit did it so cleverly, all the steps were stolen from herself. _ The ladies of the town strove hard to he equally easy, but without success. They swam, sprawled, languished, and frisked ; but all would not do : the gazers, indeed, owned it was fine, hut neighbour Flamborough observed, that Miss Livy’s feet seemed as pat to the music as its echo. After the dance had continued about an hour, the two ladies, who were apprehensive of catching cold, moved to break up the ball. One of them, I thought, expressed her sentiments upon this occasion in a very coarse manner, when she observed, that, by the living jingo , she was all of a muck of sweat. Upon our return to'the house, we found a very elegant cold supper, which Mr. Thornhill had ordered to be brought with him. The conversation, at this time, was more reserved than before. The two ladies threw my girls quite into the F F 326 goldsmith’s works. shade : for they would talk of nothing hut high life, and high, lived company ; with other fashionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shakspeare, and the musical glasses. ’Tis true, they once , or twice mortified us sensibly by slipping out an oath ; but that appeared to me as the surest symptom of their distinction (though I am since informed that swearing is perfectly un- fashionable). Their finery, however, threw a veil over any grossness in their conversation. My daughters seemed to regard their superior accomplishments with envy; and whatever ap- peared amiss, was described to tip-top quality breeding. But the condescension of the ladies was still superior to their other accom- plishments. 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 pleasures, are my maxims; but curse me, if a settlement of half my estate could give my charming Olivia pleasure, it should be her 1 s, and the only favour 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 fashionable cant to disguise the insolence of the basest proposal ; but I made an effort to suppress my resentment. ‘ Sir,’ cried I, ‘the family which you now condescend to favour with your company, has been bred with as nice a sense of honour as you. — Any attempts to injure that may be attended with very dangerous consequences. Honour, sir, is our only possession at present, and of that last treasure we must be particularly careful.’ I was soon sorry for the warmth with which I had spoke this, when the young gentleman, grasping my hand, swore he commended my spirit, though he disapproved my suspicions. ‘ As to your present hint,’ continued he, ‘ I protest nothing was further from my heart than such a thought. No, by all that’s tempting, the virtue that will stand a regular seige was never to my taste ; for all my amours are carried by a coup do main.' The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of the rest, seemed highly displeased with this last stroke of freedom, and began a very discreet and serious dialogue upon virtue ; in this, my wife, the chaplain, and I, soon joined ; and the squire himself was at last brought to confess a sense of sorrow for his former ex- cesses. We talked of the pleasures of temperance, and. of the sunshine in the mind unpolluted with guilt. I was so well THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 327 pleated, that my little ones were kept up beyond their usual time to be edified by so much good conversation. Mr. Thorn- hill