to CJD / POEMS, PLAYS, AND ESSAYS ~J^ ,-•' OLIVER GOLDSMITH INTRODUCTORY ESSAY By HENRY T. TUCKERMAN AND MEMOIR BY JOHN AIKEN Elfastratrti bg GARRETT, SCHELL, TAYLOR AND OTHER ARTISTS / NEW YORK THOMAS Y. CROW ELL & CO. 13 Astor Place /8Sf Copyright, By T. Y. Crowell & Co, CONTENTS. Dr. Aikin's Memoirs of the Author 7 Remarks on the Poetry of Dr. Goldsmith, by Dr. Aikin . 38 Verses on the. death of Dr. Goldsmith 55 POEMS. The Traveller ; or, a Prospect of Society 66 The Deserted Village 84 Tb* Hermit, a Ballad 101 Kaunch of Venison, to Lord Clare 110 liation . . 115 Postscript : 122 Double Transformation, a Tale 123 Gift : to Iris, in Bow-street, Covent-garden 127 Elegy on the Death ef a Mad Dog 128 ; Logicians Refuted : Imitation of Dean Swift 129 A new Simile : in the Manner of Swift 131 IV CONTENTS. p Description of an Author's Bed-Chamber. 133 A Prologue by the Poet Laberius, whom Caesar forced upon the Stage 134 An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize 135 On a beautiful Youth struck blind by Lightning. . . . . 130 The Clown's Reply 137 Epitaph on Dr. Parnell 137 Epitaph on Edward Purdon 137 Stanzas on the taking of Quebec. , 138 Stauzas on Woman 138 Sonnet 139 Songs 139 Song, intended to have been sung in the Comedy of She Stoops to Conquer 140 Prologue to Zobeide, a Tragedy 140 Epilogue to the Comedy of the Sisters. ... 143 Epilogue spoken by Mrs. Bulkley and Miss Catley. . . . 144 Epilogue intended for Mrs. Bulkley 147 Epilogue spoken by Mr. Lee Lewes 149 Threnodia A ugustalis . 151 The Captivity : an Oratorio 163 Lines attributed to Dr. Goldsmith 176 PLAYS. The Good-Natured Man, a Comedy 177 She Stoops to Conquer, or the Mistakes of a Night .... 269 CONTENTS. V ESSAYS. Introduction ... 367 Love and Friendship, or the Story of Alcander and Sep- timius, taken from a Byzantine Historian 371 On Happiness of Temper 375 Description of various Clubs 380 On the Policy of concealing our Wants, or Poverty. . . 390 On Generosity and Justice 397 On the Education of Youth .... 401 On the Versatility of popular Favor 414 Specimen of a Magazine in Miniature 418 Rules for Behavior 421 Rules for Raising the Devil , 422 Beau Tibbs : a Character 423 Beau Tibbs — continued 426 On the Irresolution of Youth 431 On Mad Dogs 435 On the Increased Love of Life with Age 440 Ladies' Passion for levelling Distinction of Dress 443 Asem, an Eastern Tale ; or, the Wisdom of Provi- dence in the moral Government of the World. . . . 449 On the English Clergy, and Popular Preachers 458 On the Advantages to be derived from sending a judi- cious Traveller into Asia 464 Reverie at the Boar's-head Tavern, in Eastcheap 469 On Quack Doctors 485 S 113 Player 489 i Russian Assembly 500 astern Apologue 502 VI CONTENTS. Distresses of an English disabled Soldier 507 On the Frailty of Man 514 On Friendship 51G Folly of attempting to learn Wisdom in Ketirement . . 520 Letter by a Common-Council-man at the time of the Coronation 524 A second Letter describing the Coronation 527 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Engraved by George T. Andrew. ARTIST. PAGE. " Tho willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail." F. B. SCHELL. Title. " Bright as the summer, Italy extends." SCHMOLZE. 72 " Though poor the peasant's hut, though small his feast >> SCHMOLZE. 74 " Vain, very vain, my weary search, to find That bliss which only centres in the mind." W. L. Taylor. 82 " Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain." SCHMOLZE. 86 " Sunk are thy bowe - Q s ruin all, And the long gras: uldermg wall." E. H. Garrett. 88 " Even children follow "ing wile." SCHMOLZE. 9 2 And shuddering si te distant deep, Returned and wept, and s ed to weep." E. H. Garrett. 9S Truly, madam, I it poorly." Robert Lewis. zyj " Your beauty at first c For who could se I otion?" Robert Lewis. 35S INTRODUCTORY ESSAY* BY HENKY T. TUCKEHMAN. It is sometimes both pleasing and profitable to recur to those characters in literary history who are emphatically fa- vorites, and to glance at the causes of their popularity. Such speculations frequently afford more important results than the mere gratification of curiosity. They often lead to a clearer perception of the true tests of genius, and indicate the prin- ciple and methods by which the common mind may be ra6si successfully addressed. The advantage of such retrospective inquiries is still greater at a period like the present, when there is such an obvious tendency to innovate upon some of the best established theories of taste ; when the passion for novelty seeks for such unlicensed indulgence, and inventior seems to exhaust itself rather upon forms than ideas. In lit erature, especially, we appear to be daily losing one of the most valuable elements — simplicity. The prevalent taste li- no longer gratified with the natural. There is a growing appetite for what is startling and peculiar, seldom accompa| nied by any discriminating demand for the true and original and yet experience has fully proved that these last are the onl] permanent elements of literature ; and no healthy mind, cog nizant of its own history, is unaware that the only intellect * From " Thoughts on the Poets," by H. T. T. Till INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. ual aliment which never palls upon the taste is that which is least indebted to extraneous accompaniments for its relish. It is ever refreshing to revert to first principles The study of the old masters may sometimes make the modern artist de- spair of his own efforts ; but if he have the genius to discover and follow out the great principle upon which they wrought, lie will not have contemplated their works in vain. He will have learned that devotion to Nature is the grand secret of progress in Art, and that the success of her votaries depends upon the singleness, constancy, and intelligence of their wor- ship. If there is not enthusiasm enough to kindle this flame in its purity, nor energy sufficient to f ullfil the sacrifice required at that high altar, let not the young aspirant enter the priest- hood of art. When the immortal painter of the Transfigura- tion was asked to embody his ideal of perfect female loveli- ness he replied — there would still be an infinite distance be- tween his work and the existent original. In this profound and vivid perception of the beautiful in nature, we perceive the origin of those lovely creations which, for more than three hundred years, have delighted mankind. And it is equally true of the pen as the pencil that what is drawn from life and the heart alone bears the impress of immortality. Yet the practical faith of our day is diametrically opposed to this truth. The writers of our times are constantly making use of artificial enginery. They have, for the most part, abandoned the in- tegrity of purpose and earnest directness of earlier epochs. There is less faith, as we before said, in the natural; and when we turn from the midst of the forced and hot-bed products of the modern school, and ramble in the garden of old English literature, a cool and calm refreshment invigorates the spirit, like the first breath of mountain air to the weary wayfarer. There are few writers of the period more generally beloved GOLDSMITH. IX than Dr. Goldsmith. Of his contemporaries Burke excelled him in splendor of diction, and Johnson in depth of thought. The former continues to enjoy a larger share of admiration, and the latter of respect, but the labors of their less pretending companion have secured him a far richer heritage of love. Of all posthumous tributes to genius this seems the most truly desirable. It recognizes the man as well as the author. It is called forth by more interesting characteristics than talent. It bespeaks a greater than ordinary association of the individ- ual with his works, and, looking beyond the mere embodiment of his intellect, it gives assurance of an attractiveness in his character which has made itself felt even through the artificial medium of writing. The authors are comparatively few who have awakened this feeling of personal interest and affection. It is common, indeed, for any writer of genius to inspire emotions of gratitude in the breasts of those susceptible to the charm, but the instances are rare in which this sentiment is vivified and elevated into positive affection. And few, I apprehend, among the wits and poets of old England, have more widely awakened it than Oliver Goldsmith. I have said this kind of literary fame was eminently desirable. There is, indeed, something inexpressibly touching in the thought of one of the gifted of our race attaching to himself countless hearts by the force of a charm woven in by-gone years, when envi- roned by neglect and discouragement. Though a late it is a beautiful recompense, transcending mere critical approbation, cr even the reverence men offer to the monuments of mind. We can conceive of no motive to effort which can be present- ed to a man of true feeling like the hope of winning the love of his kind by the faithful exhibition of himself. It is a nobler purpose than that entertained by heartless ambition. The appeal is not merely to the judgment and imagination, it is X INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. to the universal heart of mankind. Such fame is emphatically rich. It gains its possessor warm friends instead of mere admirers. To establish such an inheritance in the breast of humanity were indeed worthy of sacrifice and toil. It is an offering- not only to intellectual but to moral graces, and its possession argues for the sons of fame holier qualities than genius itself. It eloquently indicates that its subject is not only capable of interesting the general mind by the power of his creations, but of captivating the feelings by the earnest beauty of his nature. Of all oblations, therefore, we deem it the most valuable. It is this sentiment with which the lovers of painting regard the truest interpreters of the art. They wonder at Michael Angelo but love Raphael, and gaze upon the pensively beautiful delineation he has left us of himself with the regretful tenderness with which we look upon the portrait of a departed friend. The devotees of music, too, dwell with glad astonishment upon the celebrated operas of Bosini and some of the German composers, but the memory of Bellini is absolutely loved. It is well remarked by one of Goldsmith's biographers, that the very fact of his being spoken of always with the epithet "poor" attached to his name is sufficient evidence of the kind of fame he enjoys. Whence, then, the peculiar attraction of his writings, and wherein con- sists the spell which has so long rendered his works the favorites of so many and such a variety of readers ? The primary and all pervading charm of Goldsmith is his truth. It is interesting to trace this delightful characteristic, as it exhibits itself not less in his life than in his writings. We see it displayed in the remarkable frankness which distinguish- ed his intercourse with others, and in that winning simplicity which so frequently excited the contemptuous laugh of the worldly-wise, but failed not to draw towards him the more val- GOLDSMITH. XI uable sympathies of less perverted natures. All who have sketched his biography unite in declaring that he could not dissemble ; and we have a good illustration of his want of tact in concealing a defect in the story which is related of him at the time of his unsuccessful attempt at medical practice in Edinburgh — when, his only velvet coat being deformed by a huge patch on the right breast, he was accustomed, while in the drawing-room, to cover it in the most awkward manner with his hat. It was his natural truthfulness which led him to so candid and habitual a confession of his faults. Johnson ridiculed him for so freely describing the state of his feelings during the representation of his first play ; and, throughout his life, the perfect honesty of his spirit made him the subject of innumerable practical j okes. Credulity is perhaps a weak- ness almost inseparable from eminently truthful characters. Yet, if such is the case, it does not in the least diminish our faith in the superiority and value of such characters. Waiving all moral considerations, we believe it can be demonstrated that truth is one of the most essential elements of real great- ness, and surest means of eminent success. Management, chicanery, and cunning may advance men in the career of the world ; it may forward the views of the politician, and clear the way of the diplomatist. But when humanity is to be ad- dressed in the universal language of genius; when, through the medium of literature and art, man essays to reach the heart of his kind, the more sincere the appeal the surer its effect ; the more direct the call the deeper the response. In a word, the more largely truth enters into a work, the more certain the fame of its author. But a few months since I saw the Parisian populace crowding around the church where the remains of Talleyrand lay in state, but the fever of curiosity alone gleamed from their eyes, undimmed by tears. When Xll INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. Goldsmith died, Reynolds, then in the full tide of success, threw his pencil aside in sorrow, and Burke turned from the fast-brightening vision of renown to weep. Truth is an endearing quality. None are so beloved as the ingenuous. We feel in approaching them that the look of welcome is unaffected — that the friendly g-rasp is from the heart, and we regret their departure as an actual loss. And not less winningly shines this high and sacred principle through the labors of genius. It immortalizes history — it is the true origin of eloquence, and constitutes the living- charm of poetry. When Goldsmith penned the lines — "To rae more clear, congenial to my heart, One native charm than all the gloss of art." he furnished the key to his peculiar genius, and recorded the secret which has embalmed his memory. It was the clearness of his own soul which reflected so truly the imagery of life. He did but transcribe the unadorned convictions that glowed in his mind, and faithfully traced the pictures which nature threw upon the mirror of his fancy. Hence the unrivalled excellence of his descriptions. Rural life has never found a sweeter eulogist. To countless memories have his village landscapes risen pleasantly when the "murmur " rose at even- tide. Where do we not meet with a kind-hearted philosopher delighting in some speculative hobby, equallv dear as the good Vicar's theory of Monogamy ? The vigils of many an ardent student have been beguiled by his portraiture of a country clergyman — brightening the dim vista of futurity as his own ideal of destiny ; and who has not, at times, caught the very solace of retirement from his sweet apostrophe ? The genius of Goldsmith was chiefly fertilized by observa- tion. He was not one of those who regard books as the only, GOLDSMITH. Xill or even the principal, sources of knowledge. He recognized and delighted to study the unwritten lore so richly spread over the volume of nature, and shadowed forth so variously from the scenes of every-day life and the teachings of individual ex- perience. There is a class of minds, second to none in native acuteness and reflective power, so constituted as to flourish almost exclusively by observation. Too impatient of restraint to endure the long vigils of the scholar, they are yet keenly alive to every idea and truth which is evolved from life. With- out a tithe of that spirit of application that binds the German student for years to his familiar tomes, they suffer not a single impression which events or character leave upon their mem- ories to pass unappreciated. Unlearned, in a great measure, in the history of the past, the present is not allowed to pass without eliciting their intelligent comment. Unskilled in the technicalities of learning, they contrive to appropriate, with surprising facility, the wisdom born of the passing moment. No striking trait of character — no remarkable effect in nature — none of the phenomena of social existence, escape them. Like Hogarth, they are constantly enriching themselves with sketches from life ; and as he drew street-wonders upon his thumb-nail, they note and remember, and afterwards elaborate and digest whatever of interest experience affords. Goldsmith was a true specimen of this class. He vindicated, indeed, his claim to the title of scholar, by research and study; but the field most congenial to his taste was the broad universe of na- ture and man. It was his love of observation which gave zest to the roving life he began so early to indulge. His boyhood was passed in a constant succession of friendly visits. He was ever migrating from the house of one kinsman or friend to that of another ; and on these occasions, as well as when at home, he was silently but faithfully observing. The result is easily \ XIV INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. traced in his writings. Few authors, indeed, are so highly in- debted to personal observation for their materials. It is well known that the original of the Vicar of Wakefield was his own father. Therein has he embodied in a charming manner his early recollections of his parent, and the picture is rendered still more complete in his papers on the " Man in Black." The inimitable description, too. of the "Village Schoolmaster'' is drawn from the poet's early teacher ; and the veteran who "shouldered his crutch and told how fields were won" had often shared the hospitality of his father's roof. The leading incident in "She Stoops to Conquer" was his own adventure; and there is little question that, in the quaint tastes of Mr. Burchell, he aimed to exhibit many of his peculiar traits. But it is not alone in the leading characters of his novel, plays and poems that we discover Goldsmith's observing power. It is equally discernible throughout his essays and desultory papers. Most of his illustrations are borrowed from personal experience, and his opinions are generally founded upon experiment. His talent for fresh and vivid delineation is ever most prominently displayed when he is describing what he actually witnessed, or drawing from the rich fund of his early impressions or subse- quent adventures. No appeal to humor, curiosity, or imagina- tion was unheeded ; and it is the blended pictures he contrived to combine from these cherished associations that impart so lively an interest to his pages. One moment we find him noting, with philosophic sympathy, the pastimes of a foreign peasantry ; and another studying the operations of a spider at his garret window, — now busy in nomenclating the peculiari- ties of the Dutch, and anon alluding to the exhibition of Cherokee Indians. The natural effect of this thirst for ex- perimental knowledge was to beget a love for foreign travel. Accordingly, we find that Goldsmith, after exhausting the nar- GOLDSMITH. XV row circle which his limited means could compass at home, projected a continental tour, and long cherished the hope of visiting the East. Indeed, we could scarcely have a stronger proof of his enthusiasm than the long journey he undertook and actually accomplished on foot. The remembrance of his ro- mantic wanderings over Holland, France, Germany, and Italy imparts a singular interest to his writings. It was, indeed, worthy of a true poet that, enamored of nature and delighting in the observation of his species, he should thus manfully go forth, with no companion but his flute, and wander over these fair lands hallowed by past associations and existent beauty. A rich and happy era, despite its moments of discomfort, to such a spirit, was that year of solitary pilgrimage. Happy and proud must have been the imaginative pedestrian as he re- posed his weary frame in the peasant's cottage " beside the murmuring Loire ;" and happier still when he stood amid the green valleys of Switzerland, and looked around upon her snow-capt hills, hailed the old towers of Verona, or entered the gate of Florence — the long-anticipated goals to which his wearv footsteps had so patiently tended. If anything could enhance the pleasure of musing amid these scenes of poetic interest, it must have been the consciousness of having reached them by so gradual and self-denying a progress. There is, in truth, no more characteristic portion of Goldsmith's biography than that which records this remarkable tour; and there are few more striking instances of the available worth of talent. Unlike the bards of old, he wen not his way to shelter and hospitality by appealing to national feeling; for the lands through which he roamed were not his own, and the lay of the last minstrel had long since died away in oblivion. But he gained the ready kindness of the peasantry by playing the flute, as they danced in the intervals of toil ; and won XVI INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. the favor of the learned by successful disputation at the convents and universities — a method of rewarding talent which was extensively practised in Europe at that period. Thus, solely befriended by his wits, the roving poet ram- bled over the continent, and, notwithstanding the vicissi- tudes incident to so precarious a mode of seeing the world, to a mind like his there was ample compensation in the superior opportunities for observation thus afforded. He mingled frankly with the people, and saw things as they were. The scenery which environed him flitted not before his senses like the shifting scenes of a panorama, but became familiar to his eye under the changing aspects of time and season. Man- ners and customs he quietly studied, with the advantage of sufficient opportunity to institute just comparisons and draw fair inferences. In short, Goldsmith was no tyro in the phil- osophv of travel ; and, although the course he pursued was dictated by necessity, its superior results are abundantly evi- denced throughout his works. We have, indeed, no formal narrative of his journeyings; but, what is better, there is scarcely a page thrown off to supply the pressing wants of the moment which is not, enriched by some pleasing reminis- cence or sensible thought garnered from the recollection and scenes of that long pilgrimage. Nor did he fail to embody the prominent impressions of so interesting an epoch of his check- ered life in a more enduring and beautiful form. The poem of " The Traveller," originally sketched in Switzerland, was subsequently revised and extended. It was the foundation of Goldsmith's poetical fame. The subject evinces the taste of the author. The unpretending vein of enthusiasm which runs through it is only equalled by the force and simplicity of the style. The rapid sketches of the several countries it presents are vigorous and pleasing ; and the reflections interspersed GOLDSMITH, XV11 abound with that truly humane spirit, and that deep sympa- thy with the good, the beautiful, and the true, which dis- tinguishes the poet. This production may be regarded as the author's first deliberate attempt in the career of genius. It went through nine editions during his life, and its success contributed, in a great measure, to encourage and sustain him in future and less genial efforts. The faults which are said to have deformed the character of Goldsmith, belong essentially to the class of foibles rather than absolute and positive errors. Recent biographers agree in the opinion, that his alleged devotion to play has either been grossly exaggerated, or was but a temporary mania; and we should infer from his own allusion to the subject, that he had, with the flexibility of disposition that belonged to him, yielded only so far to its seductions as to learn from experience the supreme folly of the practice. It is at all events certain, that his means were to restricted, and his time, while in London, too much occupied, to allow of his en- acting the part of a regular and professed gamester ; and during the latter and most busy years of his life, we have the testimony of the members of the celebrated club to which he was attached, to the temperance and industry of his habits. Another, and in the eyes of the world, perhaps, greater weak- "vness recorded of him, was a mawkish vanity, sometimes ac- companied by jealousy of more successful competitors for the honors of literature. Some anecdotes, illustrative of this unamiable trait, are preserved, which would amuse us, were they associated with less noble endowments or a more unin- teresting character. As it is, however, not a few of them challenge credulity, from their utter w r ant of harmony with certain dispositions which he is universally allowed to have possessed. But it is one of the greatest and most common b* XV111 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY errors in judging of character s to take an isolated and partial, instead of a broad and comprehensive view of the various qualities which go to form the man, and the peculiar circum- stances that have influenced their development, Upon a candid retrospect of Goldsmith's life, it appears to us that the display of vanity, which in the view of many are so de- meaning, may be easily and satisfactorily explained. Few men possess talent of any kind unconsciously, It seems de- signed by the Creator, that the very sense of capacity should urge genius to fulfil its mission, and support its early and lone- ly efforts by the earnest conviction of ultimate success. To be- ings thus endowed, the neglect and contumely of the world — the want of sympathy — the feeling of misappreciation, is often a keen sorrow felt preciselv in proportion to the sus- ceptibility of the individual, and expressed according as he is ingenuous and frank. In the case of Goldsmith, his long and solitary struggle with poverty — his years of obscure toil — his ill-success in every scheme for support, coupled as they were with an in- tuitive and deep consciousness of mental power and poetic gifts, were calculated to render him painfully alive to the su- perior consideration bestowed upon less deserving but more presumputous men, and the unmerited and unjust disregard to his own claims. Weak it undoubtedly was, for him to give vent so childishly to such feelings, but this sprung from the spontaneous honesty of his nature. He felt as thousands have felt under similar circumstances, but, unlike the most of men, " he knew not the art of concealment." Indeed, this free-spoken and candid disposition was inimical to his success in more than one respect. He was ever a careless talker, un- able to play the great man, and instinctively preferring the spontaneous to the formal, and " thinking aloud " to studied GOLDSMITH. XIX and circumspect speech.. The " exquisite sensibility to con- tempt," too, which, lie confesses belonged to him, frequently induced an appearance of conceit, when no undue share existed. The truth, is, the legitimate pride of talent, for want of free and natural scope, often exhibited itself in Gold- smith, greatly to his disadvantage. The fault was rather in his destiny than himself. He ran away from college with the design of embarking for America, because he was re- proved by an unfeeling tutor before a convivial party of his friends ; and descended to a personal rencontre with a printer, who impudently delivered Dodsley's refusal that he should undertake an improved edition of P^ pe. He concealed his name when necessity obliged him to apply for the office of Usher ; and received visits and letters at a fashionable coffee- house, rather than expose the poorness of his lodgings. He joined the crowd to hear his own ballads sung when a stu- dent ; and openly expressed his wonder at the stupidity of people, in preferring the tricks- of a mountebank to the so- ciety of a man like himself. While we smile at, we cannot wholly deride such foibles, and are constrained to say of Goldsmith as he said of the Village Pastor — "And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side." It is not easy to say, whether the improvidence of our poet arose more from that recklessness of the future, characteris- tic of the Irish temperament, or the singular confidence in destiny which is so common a trait in men of ideal tenden- cies. It would naturally be supposed, that the stern lesson of severe experience would have eventually corrected this want of foresight. It was but the thoughtlessness of youth which lured him to forget amid the convivialities of a party, the vessel on board which he had taken passage and em- XX INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. barked his effects, on his first experiment in travelling; but later in life we find hi in wandering out on the first evening of his arrival in Edinburgh, without noting the street or number of his lodging ; inviting a party of strangers in a public garden to take tea with him, without a sixpence in his pocket ; and obstinately persisting, during his last illness, in taking a favorite medicine, notwithstanding it aggravated his disease. A life of greater vicissitude it would be difficult to find in the annals of literature. Butler and Otway were, indeed, victims of indigence, and often, perhaps, found them- selves, like our bard, "in a garret writing for bread, and ex- pecting every moment to be dunned for a milk-score," but- the biography of Goldsmith displays a greater variety of shifts resorted to for subsistence. He was successively an itinerant musician, a half-starved usher, a chemist's appren- tice, private tutor, law-student, practicing physician, eager disputant, hack-writer, and even, for a week or two, one of a company of strolling players. In the History of George Primrose, he is supposed to have described much of his per- sonal experience prior to the period when he became a pro- fessed litterateur. We cannot but respect the independent spirit he maintained through all these struggles with ad- verse fortune. Notwithstanding his poverty, the attempt to chain his talents to the service of a political faction by mer- cenary motives was indignantly spurned, and when his good genius proved triumphant, he preferred to inscribe its first acknowledged offspring to his brother, than, according to the servile habits of the day, dedicate it to any aristocratic pat- ron, "that thrift might follow fawning." With all his in- capacity for assuming dignity, Goldsmith never seems to have forgotten the self-respect becoming one of nature's nobility. The high degree of excellence attained by Goldsmith in GOLDSMITH. XXI such various and distinct species of literary effort, is worthy of remark. As an essayist lie has contributed some of the most pure and graceful specimens of English prose discover- able in the whole range of literature. His best comedy con- tinues to maintain much of its original popularity, notwith- standing the revolutions which public taste has undergone since it was first introduced ; and " The Hermit " is still an acknowledged model in ballad- writing. If from his more finished works we turn to those which were thrown off under the pressing exigencies of his life, it is astonishing what a contrast of subjects employed his pen. During his college days, he was constantly writing ballads on popular events, which he disposed of at five shillings each, and subsequently, after his literary career had fairly commenced, we find him sedulously occupied in preparing prefaces, historical compila- tions, translations, and reviews for the booksellers; one day throwing off a pamphlet on the Cock-lane Ghost, and the next inditing Biographical Sketches of Beau Nash ; at one moment, busy upon a festive song, and at another, deep in composing the words of an Oratorio. It is curious, with the intense sentiment and finished pictures of fashionable life with which the fictions of our day abound, fresh in the mem- orv, to open the Vicar of Wakefield. We seem to be read- ing the memoirs of an earlier era instead of a different sphere of life. There are no wild and improbable incidents, no startling views, and with the exception of Burchell's incog- nito, no attempt to excite interest through the attraction of mystery. And yet, few novels have enjoyed such extensive and permanent favor. It is yet the standard work for intro- ducing students on the continent to a knowledge of our language, and though popular taste at present demands quite a different style of entertainment, yet Goldsmith's novel is XX11 . INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. often reverted to with delight, from the vivid contrast it pre- sents to the reigning school ; while the attractive picture it affords of rural life and humble virtue, will ever render it intrinsically dear and valuable. But the " Deserted Village " is, of all Goldsmith's produc- tions, unquestionably the favorite. It carries back the mind to '■lie early seasons of life, and re-asserts the power of un- sophisticated tastes. Hence, while other poems grow stale, this preserves its charm. Dear to the heart and sacred to the imagination, are those tweet deliniations of unperverted existence. There is true pathos in that tender lament over the superceded sports and ruined haunts of rustic enjoyment which never fails to find a response in every feeling breast. It is an elaborate and touching epitaph, written in the ceme- tery of the world, over what is dear to all humanity. There is a truth in the eloquent defence of agricultural pursuits and natural pastimes, that steals like a well-remembered strain over the heart immersed in the toil and crowds of cities. There is an unborn beauty in the similes of the bird and her " unfledged offspring," the hare that "pants to the place from whence at first he flew," and the "tall cliff that lifts its awful form," which, despite their familiarity, retain their power to delight. And no clear and susceptible mind can ever lose its interest in the unforced, unexaggerated, a.nd heart-stirring numbers, which animate with pleasure the pu'ses of youth, gratify the mature taste of manhood, and fail with soothing sweetness upon the ear of age. We are not surprised at the exclamation of a young lady who had been accustomed to say that our poet was the home- liest of men, after reading the "Deserted Village" — " I shall never more think Dr. Goldsmith ugly ! " This poem passed through five editions in as many months, and from its domes- GOLDSMITH. XX111 tic character became immediately popular throughout Eng- land. Its melodious versification is doubtless, in a measure, to be ascribed to its author's musical taste, and the fascinat- ing ease of its flow is the result of long study and careful revi- sion. Nothing is more deceitful than the apparent facility observable in poetry. No poet exhibits more of this charac- teristic than Ariosto, and yet his manuscripts are filled with erasures and repetitions. Few things appear more negligent- ly graceful than the well-arranged drapery of a statue, yet how many experiments must the artist try before the desired effect is produced. So thoroughly did the author revise the "Deserted Tillage," that not a single original line remained. The clearness and warmth of his style is, to my mind, as indicative of Goldsmith's truth, as the candor of his charac- ter or the sincerity of his sentiments. It has been said of Pitt's elocution, that it had the effect of impressing one with the idea that the man was greater than the orator. A simi lar influence it seems to me is produced by the harmonious versification and elegant diction of Goldsmith. It is not, indeed, by an analysis, however critical, of the intellectual distinctions of any author, that we can arrive at a complete view of his genius. It is to the feelings that we must look for that earnestness which gives vigor to mental efforts, and imparts to them their peculiar tone and coloring. And it will generally be found that what is really and per- manently attractive in the works of genius, independent of mere diction, is to be traced rather to the heart than the head. We may admire the original conception, the lofty im- agery or winning style of a popular author, but what touches us most deeply is the sentiment of which these are the vehi- cles. The fertile invention of Petrarch, in displaying under such a variety of disguises the same favorite subject, is not XXIV INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. so moving as the unalterable devotion which inspires his fancy and quickens his muse. The popularity of Mrs. He- mans is more owing to the delicate and deep enthusiasm than to the elegance of her poetry, and Charles Lamb is not less attractive for his kindly affections than for his quaint humor. Not a little of the peculiar charm of Goldsmith is attributa- ble to the excellence of his heart. Mere talent would scarcely have sufficed to interpret and display so enchantingly the hum- ble characters and scenes to which his most brilliant efforts were devoted. It was his sincere and ready sympathy with man, his sensibility to suffering in every form, his strong social sentiment and his amiable interest in all around, which brightened to his mind's eye what to the less susceptible is unheeded and obscure. Naturally endowed with free and keen sensibilities, his own experience of privation prevented them from indurating through age or prosperity. He cher- ished throughout his life an earnest faith in the better feel- ings of our nature. He realized the universal beauty and power of Love, and neither the solitary pursuits of lit- erature, the elation of success, nor the blandishments of pleasure or society, ever banished from his bosom the gener- ous and kindly sentiments which adorned his character. He was not the mere creature of attainment, the reserved scholar or abstracted dreamer. Pride of intellect usurped not his heart. Pedantry congealed not the fountains of feeling. He rejoiced in the exercise of all those tender and noble senti- ments which are so much more honorable to man than the highest triumphs of mind. And it is these which make us love the man not less than admire the author. Goldsmith's early sympathy with the sufferings of the peasantry is elo- quently expressed in both his poems, and frequently in his prose writings. How expressive that lament for the destruc- tion of the 'Ale-House,' — that it would GOLDSMITH. XXV ' No more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart.' There is more true benevolence in the feeling which prompted such a thought, than in all the cold and calculating philosophy with which so many expect to elevate the lower classes in these days of ultra-reform. When shall we learn that we must sympathize with those we would improve? At college, we are told, one hitter night Goldsmith encountered a poor woman and her infant shivering at the gate, and having no money to give them, bringing out all his bedclothes, and to keep himself from freezing, cut open his bed and slept within it. When hard at work earning a scanty pittance in his garret, he spent every spare penny in cakes for the chil- dren of his poorer neighbors, and when he could do nothing else, taught them dancing by way of cheering their poverty. Notwithstanding his avowed antipathy to Baretti, he visited and relieved him in prison ; and when returning home with the 1001. received from his bookseller for the 'Deserted Vil- lage', upon being told by an acquaintance he fell in with that it was a great price for so little a thing, replied, ' Perhaps it is more than he can afford,' and returning, offered to refund a part. To his poor countrymen he was a constant benefac- tor, and while he had a shilling was ready to share it with them, so that they familiarly styled him ' our doctor.' Iu Ley den, when on the point of commencing his tour, he stripped himself of all his funds to send a collection of flow- er- roots to an uncle who was devoted to Botany ; and on the first occasion that patronage was offered him, declined aid for himself, to bespeak a vacant living for his brother. In truth his life abounds in anecdotes of a like nature. We read one day of his pawning his watch for Pilkington, another of his bringing home a poor foreigner from Temple gardens to be -J XXVI INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. his amanuensis, and again of his leaving the card-table to re- lieve a poor woman, whose tones as she chanted some ditty in passing, came to him above the hum of gaiety and indi- cated to his ear distress. Though the frequent and undeserved subject of literary abuse, he was never known to w r rite severely against anyone. His talents were sacredly devoted to the cause of virtue and humanity. No malignant satire ever came from his pen. He loved to dwell upon the beautiful vindications in Nature, of the paternity of God, and expatiate upon the noblest and most universal attributes of men. ' If I were to love you by rule,' he writes to his brother, 'I dare say I never could do it sincerely,' There was in his nature an instinctive aversion to the frigid ceremonial and meaningless professions which so coldly imitate the language of feeling. Goldsmith saw- enough of the world, to disrobe his mind of that scepticism born of custom which ' makes dotards of us all.' He did not wander among foreign nations, sit at the cottage fireside, nor mix in the thoroughfare and gay saloon, in vain. Travel liberalized his views and demolished the barriers of local pre- judice. He looked around upon his kind with the charitable judgment and interest born of an observing mind and a kind- ly heart — with an infinite love, an infinite pity.' He de- lighted in the delineation of humble life, because he knew it to be the most unperverted. Simple pleasures warmed his fancy because he had learned their preeminent truth. Child- hood with its innocent playfulness, intellectual character with its tutored wisdom, and the uncultivated but ' bold peasantry,' interested him alike. He could enjoy an hour's friendly chat with his fellow-lodger — the watchmaker in Green Arbor Court — not less than a literary discussion with Dr. Johnson. 'I must own,' he writes, 'I should prefer the title of the an- GOLDSMITH. XXV11 cient philosopher, namely, a Citizen of the World — to that of an Englishman, a Frenchman, an ZHuropean, or that of any appellation whatever.' And this title he has nobly earned by the wide scope of his sympathies and 'die beautiful pict- ures of life and nature universally recognized and universally loved, which have spread his name over the world. Pilgrims to the supposed scene of the Deserted Village have long since carried away every vestige of the hawthorn at Lissoy, but the laurels of Goldsmith will never be garnered by the hand of time, or blighted by the frost of neglect, as long as there are minds to appreciate, or hearts to reverence the household lore of English Literature. MEMOIRS OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M. B. BY DR. AIKIN. It cannot be said of this ornament of British literature as has "been observed of most authors, that the memoirs of his life comprise little more than a history of his writings. Goldsmith's life was full of adventure ; and a due considera- tion of his conduct, from the outset to his death, will furnish many useful lessons to those who live after him. Our author, the third son of Mr. Charles Goldsmith, was horn at Elphin, in the county of Roscommon, Ireland, on the 29th of November, 1728. His father, who had been educated at Dublin College, was a clergyman of the established church, and had married Anne, daughter of the Rev. Oliver Jones, master of the diocesan school of Elphin. Ker mother's brother, the Rev. Mr. Green, then rector of Kilkenny West, lent the young couple the house in which our author was born ; and at his death, Mr. Green was succeeded in his benefice by his clerical protegee. Mr. Charles Goldsmith had five sons and two daughters. Henry, the eldest son (to whom the poem of ' The Travel- ler* is dedicated), distinguished himself greatly both at 3 AIKIN S MEMOIRS OP school and at college ; but his marriage at nineteen years o r age appears to have been a bar to his preferment in the church, and we believe that he never ascend sd above a curacy. The liberal education which the father bestowed upon Henry had deducted so much from a narrow income that, when Oliver was born, after an interval of seven years from the birth of the former child, no prospect in life appeared for him, but a mechanical or mercantile occupation. The rudiments of instruction he acquired from a school- master in the village, who had served in Queen Anne's wars as a quarter-master in that detachment of the army which was sent to Spain. Being of a communicative turn, and find- ing a ready hearer in young Oliver, this man used frequent- ly to entertain him with what he called his adventures ; nor is it without probability supposed that these laid the founda- tion of that wandering disposition which became afterwards so conspicuous in his pupil. At a very early age Oliver began to exhibit indications of genius ; for, when only seven or eight years old, he would often amuse his father and mother with poetical attempts, which attracted much notice from them and their friends ; but his infant mind does not appear to have been much elat- ed by their approbation ; for, after his verses had been admired, they were, without regret, committed by him to the flames. He was now taken from the tuition of the quondam sol.aer to be put under that of the Rev. Mr. Griffin, schoolmaster of Elphin ; and was at the same time received into the house of his father's brother, John Goldsmith, Esq., of Ballyo ugh- ter, near that town. * Our author's eldest sister, Catherine (afterwards married OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 9 to Daniel Hodson, Esq., of Lishoy, near Ballymahon), relates that one evening, when Oliver was about nine years of age, a company of young people of both sexes being assembled at his uncle's, the boy was required to dance a hornpipe, a youth undertaking to play to him on the fiddle. Being but lately out of the small-pox, which had much disfigured his countenance, and his bodily proportions being short and thick, the young musician thought to show his wit by comparing our hero to iEsop dancing ; and having harped a little too lang, as the cap* rer thought, on this bright idea, the latter stopped, and said : — Our herald hath proclaim'd this saying, * See iEsop dancing,' — and his Monkey playing. This instance of early wit, we are told, decided his for- tune : for, from that time it was determined to send him to the university ; and some of his relations, who were in the church, offered to contribute towards the expense, particular- ly the Rev. Thos. Cantarine, rector of Kilmore, near Carrick- upon- Shannon, who had married an aunt of Oliver's. The Rev. Mr. Green also, whom we have before mentioned, liber- ally assisted in this friendly design. To further the purpose intended, he was now removed to Athlone, where he continued about two years under the Rev. Mr. Campbell ; who being then obliged by ill-health to resign the charge, Oliver was sent to the school of the Rev. Patrick Hughes, at Edgsworthstown, in the county of Longford.* * We are told that, in his last journey to this school, he had an ad- venture which is thought to have suggested the plot of his comedy of ' She Stoops to Conquer.' — Some friend had given him a guinea; and in his way to Edgeworthstown, which was about twenty miles 10 aikin's memoirs of Under this gentleman he was prepared for the university, and on the 11th of June. 1744, was admitted a Sizer of Trin- ity college, Dublin, *under the tuition of the Rev. Mr. Wilder, one of the Fellows, who was a man of harsh temper and vio- lent passions ; and Oliver being of a thoughtless and gay turn, it caunot be surprising that they should soon be dissatisfied with each other. Oliver, it seems, had one day imprudently invited a party of both sexes to a supper and ball in his rooms ; which com- ing to the ears of his tutor, the latter entered the place in the midst of their jollity, abused the whole company, and in- flicted manual correction en Goldsmith in their presence. This mortification had such an effect on the mind of Oliver, that lie resolved to seek his fortune in some place where he should be unknown : accordingly he sold his books and clothes, and quitted the universitv ; but loitered about the streets, from his father's house, he had amused himself the whole day with viewing the gentlemen's seats on the road; and at nightfall found himself in the small town of Ardagh. Here he inquired for the best house in the place, meaning the best inn; but his informant, taking the question in its literal sense, shewed him to the house of a pri- vate gentleman; where, calling for somebody to take his horse to the stable, our hero alighted, and was shown into the parlor, being supposed to have come on a visit to the master, whom he found sitting by the fire. This gentleman soon discovered Oliver's mis- take ; but being a man of humor, and learning from him the name of his father, (whom he knew), he favored the deception. Oliver ordered a good supper, and invited his landlord and landlady, with their daughters, to partake of it; he treated them with a bottle or two of wine, and at going to bed, ordered a hot cake to be prepared for his breakfast : nor was it till he was about to depart, and called for his bill, that he discovered his mistake. *The celebrated Edmund Burke was at the same time a colle- gian here. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. II considering of a destination, till his money was exhausted. With a solitary shilling in his pocket he at last left Dublin; by abstinence he made this sum last him three days, and then was obliged to part, by degrees, with the clothes off his back, in short, to snch an extremity was he reduced, as to find a handful of gray-peas, given him by a girl at a wake, the most comfortable repast that he had ever made. After numberless adventures in this vagrant state, he found his way home, and was replaced under his morose and merciless tutor, by whom he was again exposed to so many mortifications, as induced an habitual despondence of mind, and a total carelessness about his studies ; the consequence of which was that he neither obtained a scholarship nor became a candidate for the premiums. On the 25th of May, 1747, he received a public admonition for having as- sisted other collegians in a riot occasioned by a scholar hav- ing been arrested, quod seditioni favisset, et tumidtuantibus opem tulisset : In this case, however, he appears to have fared better than some of his companions, who were expelled the university. On the 15th of June following he was elected one of the exhibitioners on the foundation of Erasmus Smyth : but was not admitted to the degree of Bachelor of Arts till February, 1749, which was two years after the usual period. Oliver's father being now dead, his uncle Contarine under- took to supply his place, and wished him to prepare for holy orders. This proposal not meeting with the young man's in- clination, Mr. Contarine next resolved on sending: him to London, that he might study law in the temple. Whilst at Dublin, however, on his way to England, he fell in with a sharper, who cheated him at play of 50^., which had been provided for his carriage, etc. He returned, and received his 12 aikin's memoirs of uncle's forgiveness ; it was now finally settled that he should make physic his profession ; and he departed for Edinburgh, where he settled about the latter part of the year 1752- Here he attended the lectures of Dr. Monroe and the other medical professors ; but his studies were by no means regu- lar ; and an indulgence in dissipated company, with a ready hand to administer to the necessities of whoever asked him, kept him always poor. Having, however, gone through the usual courses of phys^ ic and anatomy in the Scottish university, Goldsmith was about to remove to Leyden to complete his studies; and his departure was hastened by a debt to Mr. Barclay, a tailor in Edinburgh, which he had imprudently made his own by be- coming security for a fellow student who, either from want of principle or of means, Lad failed to pay it ; for this debt he was arrested ; but was released by the kindness of Dr. Sleigh and Mr. Laughlin Maclaine, whose friendship he had acquired at the college. He now embarked for Bourdeaux, on board a Scotch ves. sel called the St. Andrew's, Capt. John Wall master. The ship made a tolerable appearance; and as another induce- ment to our hero, he was informed that sis agreeable passen- gers were to be his company. They had been but two days at sea, however, when a storm drove them into Newcastle- upon-Tyne, and the passengers went ashore to refresh after the fatigue of their voyage. ' Seven men and I,' (says Gold- smith) were on shore the following evening ; but as we were all very merry, the room door burst open, and there entered a sergeant and twelve grenadiers, with their bayonets screwed, who put us all under the King's arrest. It seems my company were Scotchmen in the French service, and had OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 13 "been in Scotland to enlist soldiers for Louis XV. I endeav- ored all I could to prove my innocence ; however, I remained in prison witli the rest a fortnight, and with difficulty got off even then. But hear how Providence interposed in my fav- or : the ship, which had set sail for Bourdeaux before I got from prison, was wrecked at the mouth of the Garonne, and every one of the crew drowned.' — Fortunately, there was a ship now ready at Newcastle, for Holland, on board of which he embarked, and in nine days reached Rotterdam ; whence he travelled by land to Leyden. Here he resided about a year, studying anatomy under Albinus, and chemistry under Gambius ; but here, as former- ly, his little property was destroyed by play and dissipation ; and he is actually believed to have set out on his travels with only one clean shirt, and not a guilder in his purse, trusting wholly to Providence for a subsistence. It is generally understood that, in the history of his Philo- sophic Vagabond (Vicar of Wakefield, chap, xi.), he has re- lated many of his own adventures ; and that when on his pe- destrian tour through Flanders and France, as he had some knowledge of music, he turned what had formerly been his amusement into a present means of subsistence. 'I passed, (says he) among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among such of the French as were poor enough to be very merry ; for I ever found them sprightly in proportion to their wants. Whenever I approached a peasant's house towards nightfall, I played on my German flute one of my most merry tunes, and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsist- ence for the next day. I once or twice attempted to play for people of fashion; but they always thought my performance odious, and never rewarded me even with a trifle. This was 14 aikin's memoirs of to me tlie more extraordinary ; as whenever I used in better days to play for company, when playing was my amusement, my music never failed to throw them into raptures, and the ladies especially ; but as it was now my only means, it was received with contempt ; a proof h ow ready the world is to underrate those talents by which a man is supported!' At the different monasteries in his tour, especially those of his own nation, his learning generally procured him temporary entertainment ; and thus he made his way to Switzerland, in which country he first cultivated his poetical talents with any particular effect ; for here we find he wrote about two hundred lines of his 'Traveller.' The story which has commonly been told, of his having acted as travelling tutor to a } r oung miser, is now thought to have been too hastily adopted from the aforesaid history of a Philosophic Vagabond, and never to have been the real situ- ation of the author of that historv. From Switzerland, Gold- smith proceeded to Padua, where he stayed six months, and is by some supposed to have taken there his degree of Bache- lor of Physic ; though others are of opinion, that if ever he really took any medical degree abroad, it was at Louvain * After visiting all the northern part of Italy, he travelled, still on foot, through France; and, embarking at Calais, landed at Dover in the summer of 1756, unknown, as he sup- posed, to a single individual, and with not a guinea in his pocket. His first endeavors were to procure employment as an ush- er in some school ; but the want of a recommendation as to character and ability rendered his efforts for some time fruit- * In 1769, it is certain, lie was admitted M. B. at Oxford, which university he visited, in February, in company with Dr. Johnson. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 15 less ; and how lie subsisted is not easy to guess. At length, however, it appears he procured an usher's place; but in what part the school was situated, or how long he continued in it, we do not learn ; though we may form some idea of the uncocgeniality of the place to his mind, from the follow- ing passage in the Philosophic Vagabond : ' I have been an usher at a boarding-school ; and may I die but I would rath- er be an under-turnkey in Newgate. I was up early and late ; I was brow-beat by the master, hated for my ugly face by my mistress, worried by the boys within, and never per- mitted to stir out to meet civility abroad.' When in a fit of disgust he had quitted this academy, his pecuniary necessities soon became pressing ; to relieve which he applied to several apothecaries and chemists for employ- ment as a journeyman; but here his threadbare appearance, awkward manners, and the want of a recommendation, ope- rated sorely to his prejudice ;* till at last a chemist near Fish- street-hill, probably moved by compassion, gave him employ- ment in his laboratory, where he continued till he learned that his old friend Dr. Sleigh, of Edinburgh, was in town : on him (who had, as we have seen, formerly relieved him from embarrassment,) Goldsmith waited, was kindly received, and invited to share his purse during his continuance in London. This timely assistance enabled our author to commence medical practice at Bankside, in South wark, whence he after- *In a letter, dated Dec. 1757, he writes thus: — 'At London, you may easily imagine what difficidties I had to encounter; without friends, recommendations, money or impudence; and that in a country where being born an Irishman was sufficient to keep me unemployed. Many in such circumstances would have had re- course to the friar's cord or the suicide's halter. But with all my follies I had principle to resist the one, and resolution to combat the other.' 16 aikin's memoirs of ward removed to the neighborhood of the Temple ; his suc- cess as a physician is not known, but his income was very small ; for, as he used to say, he got very few fees, though he had abundance of patients. Some addition, however, he now began to derive from the efforts of his pen ; and it ap- pears that he was for awhile with the celebrated Samuel Richardson as corrector of the press. About this time he renewed his acquaintance with one of the young physicians whom he had known at Edinburgh. This was a son of the Rev. Dr. John Milner, a dissenting minister, who kept a classical school of eminence at Peck- ham, in Surrey. Mr. Milner, observing Goldsmith's uncer- tain mode of living, invited him to take the charge of his father's school, the doctor being then confined by illness; to this he consented ; and Dr. Milner, in turn, promised to ex- ert his interest with the India Directors to procure for him some medical establishment in the Company's service. This promise he faithfully performed, aud Goldsmith was actually appointed physician to one of the factories in India in 1758. It appears, however, that our author never availed himself of this post,* but continued in Dr. Milner's academy ; and in this very year sold to Mr. Edward Dilly, for twenty guineas, ' The memoirs of a Protestant condemned to the Galleys of France for his Religion. Written by himself. Translated from the Original, just published at the Hague, by James Willington, 2 vols., 12mo. Towards the latter end of 1753, Goldsmith happened to * Though it is certain that in contemplation of going to India, he circulated Proposals to print by Subscription ' An essay on the Pres- ent State of taste and Literature in Europe,' as a means of defray- ing the expenses of his fitting out for the voyage. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 17 dine at Dr. Milner's table with Mr. Ralph Griffiths, the pro- prietor of The Monthly Review, who invited him to write ar- ticles of criticism for that respectable publication, on the terms of a liberal salary, besides board and lodging. By a written agreement this engagement was to last for a year ; but at the end of seven or eight months it was dissolved by mutual con- sent, and Goldsmith took a miserable apartment in Green-Ar- bor-court, Little Old Bailey.* In this wretched hovel our author completed his 'Inquiry into the Present State of Po- lite Literature in Europe,' which was published in 1759, by Dodsley, and was well received. In October of the same year he began ' The Bee,' a weekly publication, which terminated at the eighth number. About this time, also, he contributed some articles to The Critical Review, one of which (we be- lieve a review of ' Ovid's Epistles translated into English verse by a Mr. Barrett, Master of the Grammar School at Ashford, in Kent) introduced him to the acquaintance of Dr. Smollett, who was then editor of The British Magazine; and for that work Goldsmith wrote most of those ' Essays,' which were afterwards collected and published in a separate volume. By Dr. Smollett, too, he was recommended to some respectable booksellers, particularly to Mr. John Newbery, who well deserved the euiogium bestowed by Warburton on the trade in general, as one of ' the best judges and most lib- eral rewarders of literary merit.' By Mr. Newbery, Gold- smith was engaged at a salary of 100?. a-year, to write for The Public Ledger a series of periodical papers. These he called ' Chinese Letters ;' and they were afterwards collect- ed in two volumes, under the title of ' The Citizen of the * An engraving of the house, illustrated by a description, was giv- en in ' The European Magazine,' vol. xliii, pp. 7, 8. 2* 18 aikin's memoirs of World.' It was soon after this that he commenced his ac- quaintance with Dr. Johnson. The important engagement with Newbery for a hundred pounds a year, encouraged Goldsmith to descend Break-neck- steps * and to hire a decent apartment in Wine-Offiee-court, Fleet-street. Here he dropped the humble Mister, and dub- bed himself Doctor Goldsmith. Here also he put the finish- ing hand to his excellent novel called ' The Vicar of Wake- field/ bat was, when he had done, extremely embarrassed in his circumstances, dunned by his landlady for arrears of rent, and not daring to stir abroad for fear of arrest : in fact, she herself at length had him arrested ; he then summoned reso- lution to send a message to Dr. Johnson ; stating that he was in great distress, and begging that he would come to him as soon as possible. Johnson sent him a guinea, and promised to follow almost immediately. When he arrived, he found Gold- smith in a violent passion with the woman of the house, but consoling himself as well as he could with a bottle of Madeira, which he had already purchased with part of the guinea. Johnson, corking the bottle, desired Goldsmith would be calm, and consider in what way he could extricate himself. The latter then produced his novel as ready for the press. The Doctor looked into it, saw its merit, and went away with it to Mr. Newbery, who gave him 60'. for it ; with this sum he re- turned to Goldsmith, who, with many invectives, paid his landlady her rent. Newbery, however, seems not to have been very sanguine in his hope of this novel ; for he kept the MS. by him near three years imprinted : his ready pur- chase of it, probably, was in the way of a benefaction to its *A steep flight of stairs (commonly so termed) leading from the door of his lodging house in Green- Arbor court to Fleet-market. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 19 distressed author, rather than under any idea of profit by the publication. Early in the year 1763, Goldsmith removed to lodgings at Canonbury-house, Islington, where he compiled several works fcr Mr. Newbery ; among which were ' The Art of Poetry/ 2 vols. 12mo ; a 'Life of Nash; 'and a. 'History of England, in a Series of Letters from a Nobleman to his son.' This latter book was for a long time attributed to George Lord Lyttleton. In the following year he took chambers on the upper story of the Library stair-case in the Inner Temple, and began to live in a genteel style. Still, however, he was little known, except among the booksellers, till the year 1765, when he produced his poem called 'The Traveller ; or, A Prospect of Society,' which had obtained high commendation from Dr. Johnson, who declared 'that there had not been so fine a po- em since the time of Pope ; ' yet such was Goldsmith's diffi- dence that, though he had completed it some years before, he had not courage enough to publish, till urged to it by Johnson's suggestions. This poem heightened his literary character with the booksellers, and introduced him to several persons of superior rank and talents, as Lord Nugent (after- wards earl of Clare), Mr. Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Dr. Nugent, Mr. Bennet Langton, Mr. Topham Beauclerc, etc., and he was elected one of the first members of ' The Literary Club,' which had been just instituted by Johnson, Burke, and Sir Joshua, and met at the Turk's-head, Gerard-street, Soho, every Friday evening. His pathetic ballad of ' The Hermit,' which was also pub- lished in 1765, recommended him to the Countess (afterwards Duchess) of Northumberland, who was a generous patroness 20 aikin's memoies op of merit. In the following year his' Vicar of Wakefield' was printed, and universally read and admired. His reputation being now fairly established as a novelist, a poet, and a critic, Goldsmith turned his thoughts to the dra- ma, and set about his comedy called 'The Good-natured Man.' This he first offered to Garrick, who, after a long fluctuation between doubt and encouragement, at length de- clined bringing it forward at Drury-lane theatre; it was therefore taken to Co vent-garden, accepted by Mr. Colman, and presented for the first time on the 29th of January, 1768. It was acted nine times : and by the profits of the author's three third-nights, with the sale of the copyright, a clear 500?. was produced. With this, and some money which he had reserved out of the produce of a 'Roman History' in 2 vols. 8vo., and other works, he was enabled to descend from his attic story in the Inner Temple, and to purchase for 400?., and furnish elegant- ly, a spacious set of chambers on the first floor, at No. 2, Brick-court, Middle Temple. On the establishment of the Royal Academy, in 1769, Sir Joshua Reynolds recommended Goldsmith to his Majesty for the Honorable Professorship of History, which was graciously conferred on him. In the following year he produced that highly-finished poem called the ' Deserted Village.' Previ- ous to its publication, we are told, the bookseller (Mr. Grif- fin, of Catharine street, Strand), had given him a note of a hundred guineas fur the copy. This circumstance Goldsmith mentioned soon afterwards to a friend, who observed that it was a large sum for so small a performance. ' In truth/ re- plied Goldsmith, 'I think so too ; ifc is near five shillings a couplet, which is much more than the honest man can afford, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 21 and, indeed, more than any modern poetry is worth. I have not been easy since I received it ; I will, therefore, go "back and return him his note ; ' which he actually did ; but the sale was so rapid, that the bookseller soon paid him the hun- dred guineas with proper acknowledgments for the generos- ity of his conduct. Soon after the appearance of the Deserted Village, our author paid a tribute to the memory of Dr. Parnell, in a Life prefixed to a new edition of his ' Poems on several Occasions.' In the year 1771 he produced his ' History of England, from the earliest Times to the Death of George II.,' in 4 vols. 8vo.; for which Mr. Thomas Davies, the bookseller, paid him 500?. The Earl of Lisburne, one day at a dinner of the Royal Academicians, lamented to Goldsmith that he should neglect the muses to compile histories, and write novels, instead of penning poetry with which he was sure to charm his read- ers. 'My lord,' replied our author, 'in courting the muses I should starve ; but by my other labors I eat, drink, wear good clothes, and enjoy the luxuries of life.' Goldsmith had, besides his regular works, much of the oth- enance planning sins anew. All evils here contaminate the mind, That opulence departed leaves behind : For wealth was theirs ; not far removed the date, When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state. At her command the palace learn'd to rise, Again the long fall'ii column sought the skies ; The canvas glow'd beyond e'en nature warm, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form : Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores display'd her sail ; While nought remain'd, of all that riches gave, But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave : And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, Its former strength was but plethoric ill. Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; 7 74 THE TRAVELLER. 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 j)asteboard triumph and the cavalcade Processions form'd for piety and love, A mistress or a saint in every grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd ; The sports of children satisfy the child ; Each nobler aim repress'd by long control Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; While low delights succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind ; As in those dooms where Caesars once bore sway, Defaced by time, and tottering in decay, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; And, wondering man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. My soul, turn from them ! turn we to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread : No product here the barren hills afford, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword ; No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though small. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though small." Page 74. THE TRAVELLER. 75 He sees his little lot the lot of all ; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; jSTo costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. Cheerful, at morn, he wakes from short repose, Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; With patient angle trolls the finny deep, Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep ; Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, And drags the struggling savage into day. At night returning, every labor sped, He sits him down the monarch of the shed ; Smiles by a cheerful fire, and round surveys His children's looks that brighten to the blaze, Whde his loved partner, boastful of her hoard, Displays her cleanly platter on the board ; And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, With many a tale repays the nightly bed. Thus every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill that lifts him to the storms 5 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. 76 THE TRAVELLER. 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 reclrest. Hence from such lands each pleasing science flies, That first excites desire, and then supplies; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame, Their level life is but a smouldering fire, Nor quench'd by want, nor fann'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 sire to son Unalter'd, unimproved the manners run ; And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart Fall blunted from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast May sit like falcons cowering on the nest ; But all the gentler morals, — such as play Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the way, — These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly, To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, THE TRAVELLER. 77 I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please, How often have I led thy sportive choir, With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring Loire ! Where shading elms along the margin grew, And freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew ; And haply, though my harsh touch flatt'ring still, But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill ; Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. Alike all ages : dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze ; And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burden of three score. So blest a life these thoughtless realms display ; Thus idly busy rolls their world away : Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, For honor forms the social temper here : Honor, that praise which real merit gains, Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ; From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, And all are taught an avarice of praise : They please, are pleased ; they give to get esteem ; Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem..- ' But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise ; For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought, Enfeebles all internal strength of thought : 7* 78 THE TRAVELLER. And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; Here Vanity assumes her pert grimace, And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily cheer, To boast one splendid banquet once a-year ; The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land, And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, The firm connected bulwark seems to grow, Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, Scoops out an 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 rescued from his reign. Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil Impels the native to repeated toil, Industrious habits in each bosom reign, And industry begets a love of gain. Hence all the good from opulence that springs, THE TRAVELLER. 79 With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here display'd. Their much-loved wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; But view them closer, craft and fraud appear ; Even liberty itself is barter'd here ; At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, The needy sell it, and the rich man buys. A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, Here wretches seek dishonorable graves, And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. * Heavens; how unlike their Belgic sires of old! Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold, War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ; How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide. There all around the gentlest breezes stray, There gentle music melts on every spray ; Creation's mildest charms are there combined, Extremes are only in the master's mind ! Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state, With daring aims irregularly great, Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by : Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, By forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's hand, Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, True to imagined right above control, — 80 THE TRAVELLER. While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan. And learns to venerate himself as man. Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ! Too blest indeed were such without alloy ; But, fostered e'en by Freedom, ills annoy ; That independence Britons prize too high, Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown ; Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd ; Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, Represt ambition struggles round her shore ; Till, overwrought, the general system feels Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. Nor this the worst. As Nature's ties decay, As duty, love, and honor fail to sway, Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. Hence all obedience bows to these alone, And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; Till time may come, when stript of all her charms, The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame. Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame. One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonor'd die. But 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, THE TRAVELLER. 81 Far from my bosom drive the low desire ! And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ; Thou transitory flower, alike undone By proud contempt, or favor's fostering sun — Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure ! I only would repress them to secure : 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. Oh, then, how blind to all that truth requires, Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, Except when fast approaching danger warms : But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, Contracting regal power to stretch their own ; When I behold a factious band agree To call it freedom when themselves are free, Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home, — Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start, Tear off reserve, and bear my swelling heart ! Till, half a patriot, half a coward grown, I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. Yes, brother, curse with mo that baleful hour, When first ambition struck at regal power ; 82 THE TRAVELLER. And thus, polluting honor in its source, Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore? Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste ? Seen Opulence, her grandeur to maintain, Lead stern Depopulation in her train, And over fields, where scatter'd hamlets rose, In barren, solitary pomp repose ? Have we not seen, at Pleasure's lordly call, The smiling, long-frequented village fall ? Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd, The modest matron, and the blushing maid, Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, To traverse climes beyond the western main, Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with thundering sound ? E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways, Where beasts with man divided empire claim, And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim ; There, while above the giddy tempest flies, And all around distressful yells arise, The pensive exile, bending with his woe, To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, Casts a long look where England's glories shine, And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind : Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose, " Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind." Page 82. THE TRAVELLER. 83 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. TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. Deak 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 j udgment, 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 not pretend to inquire ; but I know you will object (and, indeed, several of our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion), that the depopulation it deplores is no where to be seen, and the dis- orders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own im- agination. To this I can scarcely make any other answer, than that I sincerely believe what I have written ; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I allege, THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 85 and that all my views and inquiries have led me to believe those miseries real, which 1 here attempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an inquiry whether the country be depopulating or not : the discussion would take up much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indif- ferent 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 inveigh against the increase of our luxuries ; and here also I expect the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages ; and all the wis- dom of antiquity in that particular as erroneous. Still, how- ever, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states by which so many vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed, so much has been poured out of late on the other side of the question, that merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in the right. I am, dear Sir, Yonr sincere friend, and ardent admirer, Oliver Goldsmith. THE DESERTED VILLAGE.* Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer" d the laboring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'cl : Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! How often have I paused on every charm, The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighboring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made ! How often have I blest the coming day, * The locality of this poem is supposed to be Lissoy, near Ballyma- han, where the • poet's brother Henry had his living. As usual in such cases, the place afterwards became the fashionable resort of poetical pilgrims, and paid the customary penalty of furnishing relics for the curious. The hawthorn bunk has been converted into snuff-boxes, and now adorns the cabinets of poetical virtuosi. " Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain." Page 86. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 87 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, - And all the village train, from labor 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 frolic' d o'er the ground, And slights of art and feats of strength went round ; And still as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; The dancing pair that simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down ; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter titter'd round the place ; The bashful virgin's sidelono- looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove : These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports, like these With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ! Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green : One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. No more the grassy brook reflects the day, But, chocked 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 : OO THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, aud men decay ; Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; A, breath can make them, as a breath has made ; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintain'd its man : For him light Labor spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; His best companions, innocence and health, And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; Along the lawn, where scatter'cl hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pornp repose, And every want to luxury allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green, — These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here as I take my solitary rounds, / THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 89 Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs — and God has given my share — I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose : I still had hopes — for pride attends us still — Amidst the swains to shew my book-learn'd skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt and all I saw ; And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return and die at home at last. blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreat from cares, that never must be mine ! How blest is he who crowns in shades like these, A youth of labor with an age of ease ; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; No surly porter stands in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 8* 90 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay. While resignation gently slopes the way ; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past. Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; There, as I past with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soft'd from below ; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that low'd to meet their young ; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. The playful children just let loose from school ; The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, — These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail ; No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, But all the bloomy flush of life is fled, All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, £. k are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And .. ng grass o'ertops the mouldering wall." Page 88. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 91 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a-year : Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; The long-remember' d beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd ; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away, Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe : Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; But in his duty prompt at every call, tch'd ; pray 'd and felt, for all ; endearment tries offspring to the skies, :d each dull delay, Allured to brig] 3, and led the way. 92 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevail'd with doublo sway, And fools who came to scoff remain' cl to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With ready zeal each honest rustic ran ; E'en children follow'd, with endearing: wile, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed ; Their welfare pleased him, and their cares clistress'd ; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway loaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. JEternal 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 s j I knew him well, and every 1 Well had the boding tremble The day's disasters in his mornin Full well they laughed with " E'en children followed with endearing wile." Page 92. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 93 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd. Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declared how much he knew, 'T was certain he could write and cipher too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And e'en the story ran — that he could gauge : In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill, For e'en though vanquish/ft, he could argue still; While words of learned length and thund'ring sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew \ That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where graybeard mirth, and smiling toil, retired, Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlor splendors of that festive place : The white-wash' d wall, the nicely-sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ; The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of draws by day; The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose : 94 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay ; While broken tea cups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. Vain, transitory splendors ! Could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart : Thither no more the peasant shall repair, To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his pond'rous strength, and learn 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, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined : But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, — In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 95 The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy ? Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 'T is yours to judge how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains ; this wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss : the man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, Has robb'd the neighboring fields of half their growth ; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; • Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies : — While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all, In barren splendor feebly waits its fall. As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; But when those charms are past — for charms are frail — When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress : 96 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Thus fares the land, by luxury betray 'd : In nature's simplest charms at first array'd : But verging to decline, its splendors rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; While scourged by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band, And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms — a garden and a grave. Where, then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped, what waits him there ? To see profusion that he must not share ; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; To see each joy the sons of pleasure know Extorted from his fellow-creatures' wo. Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies his sickly trade ; Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! Sure these denote one universal joy ! Are these thy serious thoughts ? — Ah, turn thine eyes THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 97 Where the poor houseless shivering female lies : She once, perhaps, in village plenty best, ^ 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 ? E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex-world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they Where wild Altama* murmurs to their wo. Far different there from all that charm'd befc The various terrors of that horrid shore ; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day ; Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in. drowsy clusters cling ; Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake * The Altama (or Ahamaha) is a river in the province of Georgia, United States. 98 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men, more murd'rous still than they ; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, The breezy covert of the warbling grove. That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day That call'd them from their native walks away ; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain For seats like these beyond the western main ; And shuddering still to face the distant deep, Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep ! The good old sire the first prepared to go To new-found worlds, and wept for others' wo ; 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 her father's arms : With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear, Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. 5d > CD p ^ g f a e P- & as Pj ^ Cfq *2- ^ p . o •-s ay 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 Constantino- ple back to London again. [Exit. Honeywood. Poor Croaker ! his situation deserves the utmost pity. I shall scarce recover my spirits these three days. Sure, to live upon such terms, is worse than death itself. An 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 Eutler. Butler. More company below, sir; Mrs. Croaker and Miss Richland; shall I show them up? — but they're showing up themselves. [Exit. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 191 Enter Mrs. Croaker and Miss Richland. Miss Richland. You 're always in such spirits. Mrs. Croaker. We have just come, my dear Hon- eywood, from the auction. There was the old deaf dowager, as usual, bidding like a fury against herself. And then so curious in antiquities ! herself, the most genuine piece of antiquity in the whole collection. Honeywood. Excuse me ladies, if some uneasiness from friendship makes me unfit to share in this good humor : 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 Richland. You would seem to insinuate, mad- am, that I have particular reasons for being disposed to refuse it. Mrs. Croaker. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, do n't be so ready to wish an explanation. Miss Richland. I own I should be sorry Mr. Hon- eywood's long friendship and mine should be misun- derstood. Honeywood. There's no answering for others, mad- am. But I hope you'll never find me presuming to offer more than the most delicate friendship may read- ily allow. Miss Richland. And I shall be prouder of such a tribute from you, than the most passionate professions from others. Ho7ieywood. My own sentiments, madam : friend- ship is a disinterested commerce between equals ; love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves. 192 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. Miss Richland. And without a compliment, I know none more disinterested, or more capable of friendship than Mr. Honey wood. Mrs. Croaker And, indeed, I know nobody that has more friends, at least among the ladies. Miss Fruzz, Miss Oddbody, and Miss Winterbottom, praise him in all companies. As for Miss Biddy Bundle, she's his professed admirer. Miss Richland. Indeed ! an admirer ! — I did not know, sir, you were such a favorite there. But is she seriouly so handsome ? Is she the mighty thing talked •of? Honeywood. The town, madam, seldom begins to praise a lady's beauty, till she 's beginning to lose it. \_Smiling. Mrs. Croaker. But she 's resolved never to lose it, it seems. For as her natural face decays, her skill improves in making the artificial one. Well, nothing diverts me more than one of those fine, old, dressy things, who thinks to conceal her age by everywhere exposing her person ; sticking herself up in the front of a side-box ; trailing through a minuet at Almack's, and then, in the public gardens — looking, for all the world, like one of the painted ruins of the place. Honeywood. 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. Richland. But, then, the mortifications they must suffer, before they can be fitted out for traffic. I have seen one of them fret a whole morning at her hair dresser, when all the fault was her face. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 193 Honeywood. And jet, I '11 engage, has carried that face at last to a very good market. This good-natured town, madam, has husbands, like spectacles, to fit every age from fifteen to fourscore. Mrs. 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 busi- ness for you the whole day. Honeywood. I am sorry, madam, I have an appoint- ment 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 protest you must. You know I never laugh so much as with you. Honeywood. Why, if I must, I must. I Ml swear you have put me into such spirits. Well, do jom find jest, and I '11 find laugh, I promise you. We'll wait for the chariot in the next room. \_Exeunt. Enter Leontine and Olivia. Leontine. There they go, thoughtless and happy. My dearest Olivia, what would I give to see you capa- ble 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 apprehen- sions of a censuring world, when I must be detected Leontine. The world, my love ! what can it say ? . 17 194 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 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 honor, and took refuge in my father's house, — the only one where yours could remain without censure. Olivia. But consider, Leontine, your disobedience and my indiscretion ; your being sent to France to bring home a sister, and instead of a sister, bringing home Leontine. One dearer than a thousand sisters. One that I am convinced will be equally dear to the rest of the family, when she comes to be known. Olivia. And that, I fear, will shortly be. Leontine. Impossible, till we ourselves think pro- per to make the discovery. My sister, you know, has been with her aunt, at Lyons, since she was a child, and you find every creature in the family takes you for her. Olivia. But mayn't she write, mayn't her aunt write ? Leontine. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all my sister's letters are directed to me. Olivia. But won't your refusing Miss Richland, for whom you know the old gentleman intends you, create a suspicion ? Leontine. There, there 's my master-stroke. I have resolved not to refuse her ; nay, an hour hence I have consented to go with my father to make her an offer of my heart and fortune. Olivia. Your heart and fortune? Leontine. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 195 Olivia think so meanly of my honor, or my love, as to suppose I could ever hope for happiness from any but her ? No, my Olivia, neither the force, nor, permit me to add, the delicacy of my passion, leave any room to suspect me. I only offer Miss Richland a heart I am convinced she will refuse ; as I am confident, that, without knowing it, her affections are fixed upon Mr. Honeywood. Olivia. Mr. Honeywood ! You '11 excuse my appre- hensions ; but when your merits come to be put in the balance Leontine. You view them with too much partiality. However, by making this offer, I show a seeming com- pliance with my father's command ; and perhaps, upon her refusal, I may have his consent to choose for myself. Olivia. Well, I submit. And yet, my Leontine, I own, I shall envy her even your pretended addresses. I consider every look, every expression of your esteem, as due only to me. This is folly, perhaps ; I allow it ; but it is natural to suppose, that merit which has made an impression on one's own heart may be powerful over that of another. Leontine. Don't, my life's treasure, don't let us make imaginary evils, when you know we have so many real ones to encounter. At worst, you know, if Miss Richland should consent, or my father refuse his pardon, it can but end in a trip to Scotland ; and Enter Croaker. Croaker. Where have you been, boy ? I have been seeking you. My friend Honeywood here has been 196 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. saying such comfortable things ! Ah ! he 's an example indeed. Where is he ? I left him here. Leontine. Sir, I believe you may see him, and hear him too, in the next room : he 's preparing to go out with the ladies. Croaker. Good gracious ! can I believe my eyes or my ears: I'm struck dumb with his vivacity, and stunned with the loudness of his laugh. Was there ever such a transformation ! (a laugh behind the scenes, Croaker mimics it.) Ha! ha! ha! there it goes; a plague take their balderdash ! yet I could expect noth- ing 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. Leontine. 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 Richland's fortune must not go out of the family ; one may find comfort in the money, whatever one does in the wife. Leontine. But, sir, though in obedience to your desire, I am ready to marry her, it may be possible she has no inclination to me. Croaker. I '11 tell you once for all how it stands. A good part of Miss Richland's large fortune consists in a claim upon 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 .vhole, and a fine girl into the bargain. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 197 Leontine. But, sir, if you will listen to reason- Croaker. Come, then, produce your reasons. I tell you, I'm fixed, determined — so now produce your rea- sons. When I am determined, I always listen to reason because it can then do no harm. Leontine. 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, without any fortune at all. Leontine. 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 be happy in any addition to my fortune, which is taken £rom 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 luleasure, I promise you, — old Ruggins, the curry-comb maker, lying in state. I am told he makes a very handsome corpse, and becomes his coffin prodigiously. He was an inti- mate friend of mine, and these are friendly things we ought to do for each other. \_Exeani, 17* 198 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN, ACT SECOND. Scene — Croaker's house. Miss Richland, Garnet. Miss Richland. 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 Richland. 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 Richland. And brought her home to my guardian as his daughter ? Garnet Yes, and his daughter she will be. If he don't consent to their marriage, they talk of trying what a Scotch parson can do. Miss Richland. 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 concealed all this from me ! Garnet. And, upon my word, madam, I don't much blame her : she was loath to trust one with her secrets, that was so very bad at keeping her own. Miss Richland. But, to add to their deceit, the young gentleman, it seems, pretends to make me serious pro- posals. My guardian and he are to be here presently. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. to open the affair in form. You know I am to lose half my fortune if I refuse him. Garnet. Yet, what can you do ? For being, as you are, in love with Mr. Honey wood, madam Miss Richland. How ! idiot, what do you mean ? In love with Mr. Honey wood ! 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 Richland. Well, no more of this. As to my guardian and his son, they shall find me prepared to receive them : I'm resolved to accept their proposal with seeming pleasure, to mortify them by compliance and so throw the refusal at last upon them. Garnet Delicious ! and that will secure your whole fortune to yourself. Well, who could have thought so innocent a face could cover so much 'cuteness ! Miss Richland. Why, girl, I only oppose my pru- dence to their cunning, and practise a lesson they have taught me against themselves. Garnet. Then you're likely not long to want em- ployment, for here they come, and in close conference. Enter Croaker and Leontine. Leontine. 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 tell you we must have the half or the whole. Come, let me see with what spirit you be- gin : Well, why do n't you ? Eh ! What ? Well, then. 200 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. I must, it seems — Miss Richland, my clear, I believe you guess at our business ; an affair which my son here comes to open, that nearly concerns your happi- ness. Miss Richland. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to be pleased with anything that comes recommended by you. Croaker. How, boy, could you desire a finer open- ing? Why don't you begin, I say? \_To Leontine. Leontine. 'Tis true, madam — my father, madam — has some intentions — hem — of explaining an affair, — which — himself can best explain, madam. Croaker. Yes, my dear ; it comes entirely from my son ; it 's all a request of his own, madam. And I will permit him to make the best of it. Leontine. The whole affair is only this, madam : my father has a proposal to make, which he insists none but himself shall deliver. Croaker. My mind misgives me, the fellow will never be brought on. (Aside.) In short, madam, you see before you one that loves you — one w T hose whole happiness is all in you. Miss Richland. I never had any doubts of your re- gards, 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 ! (Aside.) But then, had you seen him, as I have, weeping, speaking soliloquies and blank verse, sometimes melancholy, and sometimes absent Miss Richland. I fear, sir, he's absent now ; or THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. such a declaration 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 drowned his understanding. Miss Richland. I must grant, sir, there are attrac- tions in modest diffidence above the force of words. A silent address is the genuine eloquence of sincerity. Croaker. Madam, he has forgot to speak any other language ; silence is become his mother-tongue. Miss Richland. And it must be confessed, sir, it speaks very powerfully in his favor. And yet I shall be thought too forward in making such a confession ; shan't I, Mr. Leontine ? Leontine. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. But, if modesty attracts her, impudence may disgust her. I'll try. (Aside.) Do n't imagine from my si- lence, madam, that I want a due sense of the honor 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 Richland. If I could natter myself you thought as you speak, sir Leontine. 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. Leontine. Ask the sick if they long for health ; ask misers if they love money ? ask 202 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 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 Richland. Why, indeed, sir, his uncommon ardor almost compels me — forces me to repty. And yet I'm afraid he '11 despise a conquest gained with too much ease ; won 't you, Mr. Leontine ? Leontine. Confusion ! (Aside.) Oh, by no means, madam, by no means. And yet, madam, you talked of force. There is nothing I would avoid so much as compulsion in a thing of this kind. No, madam, I will still be generous, and leave you at liberty to re- fuse. Croaker. But I tell you, sir, the lady is not at lib- erty. It's a match. You see she says nothing. Silence gives consent. Leontine. 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 explanations. Get you gone, I say ; I'll not hear a word. Leontine. 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 Richland and Leontine. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 203 Enter Mrs. Croaker. Mrs. Croaker. Mr. Croaker, I bring you something my dear, that I believe will make you smile. Croaker. I '11 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. Pooh ! it's from your sister at Lyons, and contains 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 ! Read what it contains. Croaker {reading.) i Dear Nick, — An English gentleman, of large for- tune, has for some time made private, though honora- ble, 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 do n't come every day, your own good sense, his large furtune, and family considerations, will induce you to forgive her. Yours ever. Bachael Croaker. 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 slyly the lit- tle baggage has carried it since she came home ; not a 204 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. word on 't to the old ones for the world. Yet I thought I saw some thing 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 most serious part of the nuptial engagement. Mrs. Croaker. What ! would you have me think of their funeral ! But come, tell me, my dear, do n't you owe more to me than you care to confess ? — Would you have ever been known to Mr. Lofty, who has un- dertaken Miss Richland's claim at the Treasury, but for me ? Who was it first made him an acquaintance at Lady Shabbaroon's rout. Who got him to promise us his interest ? Is not he a back-stair favorite — one that can do what he pleases with those that do what they please ? Is not 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 him- self. Mrs. Croaker That, perhaps, may be owing to his nicety. Great men are not easily satisfied. Enter French Servant. Servant. An expresse from Monsieur Lofty. He vil be vait upon your honors instammant. He be only giving four five instruction, read two tree memorial, THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 205 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 master know that we are extremely honored by this honor. W^as there anything ever in a higher style of breeding ? All messages among the great are now done by ex- press. \_Exit French Servant. Croaker. To be sure, no man does little things 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 thun- dering rap. Croaker. Ay, verily, there he is ! as close upon the heels of his own express, as an endorsement upon the back of a bill. Well, I'll leave you to receive him, whilst I go to chide my little 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 de- spise my authority. [Exit. Enter Lofty, speaking to his Servant. Lofty. And if the Venetian ambassador, or that teasing creature, the Marquis, should call, I'm not at home. Damme, I'll be pack-horse to none of them. — My dear madam, I have just snatched a moment — And if the expresses to his Grace be ready, let them 18 206 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. be sent off ; they are of importance. Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honor ■ Lofty. And, Dubardieu ? if the person calls about the commission, let him know that it is made out. As for Lord Cumbercourt's stale request, it can keep cold : you understand me. — Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honor 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 honor of being permitted to profess myself your most obedient, humble servant. Mrs. Croaker. Sir, the happiness and honor 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 charm- ingly devoted ! Sincerely, don't you pity us poor crea- tures in affairs ? Thus it is eternally ; solicited for places here, teased for pensions there, and courted everywhere. I know you pity me. Yes, I see you do. Mrs. 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 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 20T wives and daughters, but not for us. Why now, here I stand, that know nothing of books. I say, madam, I know nothing of books; 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 gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two of the pres- ent ministers are pleased to represent me as a formidable man. I know they are pleased to bespatter me at all their little, dirty levees. Yet, upon my soul, I wonder what they see in me to treat me so ! Measures, not men, have always been my mark, and I vow, by all that's honorable, my resentment has never clone the men, as mere men, any manner of harm,— that is, as mere men. Mrs. Croaker. What importance, and yet what mod- esty ! 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 knowl- edo-e 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 want assurance when you come to solicit for your friends. Lofty. Oh, there, indeed, I'm in bronze. Apropos ! I have just been mentioning Miss Eichland's case to a 208 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 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. Busi- ness must be done, Mr. Secretary. I say, Mr. Secre- tary, 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 was to the Secretary. Mrs. Croaker. This was going to the fountain-head at once, 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 hap- pened 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 immensely good-natured. But then, I could never find that he had anything in him. Mrs. Croaker. His manner, to be sure, was exces- sive harmless ; 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, impracti- THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 209 cable 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 per- fect 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 honor, madam, I have a regard for Miss Richland ; and, rather than she should be thrown away I should think it no indignity to marry her myself. [Exeunt. Enter Olivia and Leontine. Leontine. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every reason to expect Miss Richland's refusal, as I did everything in my power to deserve it. Her indelicacy susprises me. Olivia. Sure, Leontine, there 's nothing so indeli- cate in being sensible of your merit. If so, I fear I shall be the most guilty thing alive. Leontine. But you mistake, my dear. The same attention I used to advance my merit with you, I prac- tised to lesson it with her. What more could I do ? Olivia. Let us now rather consider what is to be done. We have both dissembled too long. I have 18* 210 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. always been ashamed — I am now quite weary of it. Sure, I could never have undergone so much for any other but you. Leontine. 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. Olivia. Then why should we defer our scheme of humble happiness, when it is now in our power ? I may be the favorite of your father, it is true ; but can it ever be thought, that his present kindness to a sup- posed child, will continue to a known deceiver ? Leontine. I have many reasons to believe it will. As his attachments are but few, they are lasting. His own marriage was a private one, as ours may be. Be- sides, I have sounded him already at a distance, and find all his answers exactly to our wish. Nay, by an expression or two that dropped from him, I am in- duced to think he knows of this affair. Olivia. Indeed ! But that would be a happiness too great to be expected. Leontine. 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 par- don it. Olivia. You had equal expectations, Leontine, from your last scheme with Miss Richland, which you find has succeeded most wretchedly. Leontine. And that 's the best reason for trying an- other. Olivia. If it must be so, I submit. Leontine. As we could wish, he comes this way. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 211 Now, my dearest Olivia, be resolute. I'll just retire within hearing, to come in at a proper time, either to share your clanger, 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 deco- rums 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 but too well succeeded, you little hussy, you. With those endearing ways of yours, on my conscience, I could be brought to forgive any- thing, 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 be 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. 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 212 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN, 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 cracked china, to be stuck up in a corner. Olivia. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your au- thority could induce us to conceal it from } 7 ou. Croaker. No, no, my consequence is no more ; I'm as little minded as a dead Russian in winter, just stuck np with a pipe in its mouth till there comes a thaw — It goes to my heart to vex her. (Aside. 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 deceived 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. Oh transport! this kindness overpowers me. Croaker. I was alwa} T s against severity to our chil- dren. 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. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 213 Olivia. It shall be my future care never to put such generosity to a second trial. And as for the part- ner of m}* offence and folly, from his native honor, and the just sense he has of his duty, I can answer for him that Enter Leontine. Leontine. Permit him thus to answer for himself. (Kneeling.} Thus, sir, let me speak my gratitude for this unmerited forgiveness. Yes, sir, this even exceeds all your former tenderness : I now can boast the most indulgent of fathers. The life he gave, compared to this, was but a trifling blessing. Croaker. And, good sir, who sent for you, with that fine tragedy face, and flourishing manner ? I do n't know what we have to do with your gratitude upon this occasion. Leontine. How, sir ! is it possible to be silent, when so much obliged ? Would you refuse me the pleasure of being grateful ? of adding my thanks to my Olivia's ? of sharing in the transports that you have thus occa- sioned ? Croaker. Lord, sir, we can be happy enough with- out your coming in to make up the party. I don't know what's the matter with the boy all this day ; he has got into such a rhodomontade manner all this morning! Leontine. But, sir, I that have so large a part in the benefit, is it not my duty to show my joy ? Is the be- ing admitted to your favor so slight an obligation ? Is the happiness of marrying Olivia so small a blessing? Croaker. Marrying Olivia ! marrying Olivia ! marry- ing his own sister ! Sure the boy is out of his senses. His own sister! 214 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. Leontine. My sister ! Olivia. Sister ! how have I been mistaken ! \_Aside. Leontine. Some cursed 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 ? Leontine. Mean, sir? — why, sir — only when my sister is to be married, that I have the pleasure of mar- rying her, sir, — that is, of giving her away, sir, — I have made a point of it. Croaker. Oh, is that all ? Give her away. You have made a point of it ? Then you had as good make a point of first giving away yourself, as I 'm going to prepare the writings between you and Miss Richland this very minute. What a fuss is here about nothing ! Why what 's the matter now ? I thought I had made you at least as happy as you could wish. Olivia. Oh, yes, sir ; very happy. Croaker. Do you foresee any thing, child ? You look as if you did. I think if any thing was to be foreseen, I have as sharp a look-out as another ; and yet I fore- see nothing. \_Exit Leontine and Olivia. Olivia. What can it mean ? Leontine. He knows something, and yet ? for my life, I can't tell what. Olivia. It can't be the connection between us, I'm pretty certain. Leontine. Whatever it be, my dearest, I'm resolved to put it out of fortune's power to repeat our mortifi- cation. I '11 haste and prepare for our journey to Scot- THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 215 land, this very evening. My friend Honeywood has promised me his advice and assistance. I '11 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 re- lieve our uneasiness, he will at least share them. \_jExeunt. ACT THIRD. Scerve. — young hoxeywood's house. Bailiff, Honeywood, Follower. Bailiff. Lookye, sir, I have arrested as good men as you in my time — no disparagement of you neither — men that would go forty guineas on a game of crib- bage. I challenge the town to show a man in more genteeler practice than myself. Honeywood. Without all question, Mr. I for- get your name, sir. Bailiff. How can you forget what you never knew ? he ! he ! he ! Honeywood. May I beg leave to ask your name ? Bailiff. Yes, you may. Honeywood. Then, pray sir, what is your name ? Bailiff. That I didn't promise to tell you. — He! he ! he ! — A joke breaks no bones, as we say among us that j>ractise the law. Honeywood. You may have reason for keeping it a secret, perhaps ? Bailiff. The law does nothing without reason. I'm ashamed to tell my name to no man, sir. If you can 216 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. show cause, as why, upon a special capus, that I should prove my name — But, come, Timothy Twitch is my name. And, now you know my name, what have you to say to that ? Honeywood. Nothing in the world, good Mr. Twitch, but that I have a favor to ask, that's all. Bailiff. Ay, favors are more easily asked than granted, as we say among us that practise the law. I have taken an oath against granting favors. Would you have me perjure myself ? Honeywood. But my request will come recommend- ed in so strong a manner, as, I believe, you '11 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 thoughts 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 maxum, 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. Honeywood. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr. Twitch ; and yours is a necessary one. [ Gives him money. Bailiff. Oh ! your honor ; I hope your honor 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 gentleman, ill usage. If I saw that a gentleman was a gentleman, I have taken money not to see him for ten weeks together. Honeyivood. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 217 Bailiff. Ay, sir, it's a perfect treasure. I love to see a gentleman with a tender heart. I don't know, but I think I have a tender heart myself. If all that I have lost by my heart was put together, it would make a — but no matter for that. Honeywood. Don't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. The ingratitude of the world can never deprive us of the conscious happiness of having acted with humanity ourselves. 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 show you my humanity this moment. There's my follower here, little Flanigan, with a wife and four children — a guinea or two would be more to him, than twice as much to another. Now, as I can't show him an hu- manity myself, I must beg leave you'll do it for me. Honeywood. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours 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 friends, 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 prac- tise the law, — not well in clothes. Smoke the pocket- holes. Honeywood. Well, that shall be remedied without delay. 19 218 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN Enter Servant. Servant. Sir, Miss Richland is below. Honeywood. How unluckey ! 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 honor gave away to the begging gentleman that makes verses, because it was as good as new. Honeywood. The white and gold then. Servant. That, your honor, I made bold to sell, be- cause it was good for nothing. Honeywood. Well, the first that comes to hand then — the blue and gold. I believe Mr. Flanigan would look best in blue. \Exit Flanigan. Bailiff. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look well in anything. Ah, if your honor 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 weasal. He was master of the ceremonies to the black Queen of Morocco, when I took him to fol- low 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. Honeywood. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. Dear Mr. Twitch, I beg you '11 give your friend direc- tions not to speak. As for yourself, I know you will say nothing without being directed. Bailiff. Never you fear me ; I '11 show the lady I THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 219 have something to say for myself as well as another. One man has one way of talking, another man has an- other, that's all the difference between them. Enter Miss Richland and Garnet. Miss Richland. You '11 be surprised, sir, with this visit. But you know I'm yet to thank you for choos- ing my little library. Honeywood. 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 Richland. 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. Honeywood. You officers are generally favorites 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 Richland. Our officers do indeed deserve every favor. The gentlemen are in the marine service, I pre- sume, sir ? Honeywood. Why, madam, they do — occasionally serve in the fleet, madam. A dangerous service ! Miss Richland. I 'm told so. And I own it has often surprised me, that while we have had so many in- stances of bravery there, we have had so few of wit at home to j>raise it. Honeywood. I grant, madam, that our poets have not 220 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. written as our sailors have fought ; but they have done all they could, and Hawke or Amherst could do no more. Miss Richland. I 'm quite displeased when I see a fine subject spoiled by a dull writer. Honeywood. 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 pre- sumes to despise him. Follower. Damn the French, the parle vous, and all that belongs to them ! Miss Richland. Sir! Honeywood. 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 Richland. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not convince me 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. Bailiff. Taste us ! By the Lord, madam, thev de- vour us. Give Mounseers but a taste, and I '11 be damn'd but they come in for a bellyfull. Miss Richland. Very extraordinary this ! Follower. But very true. What makes the bread rising ? the parle vous that devour us. What makes the mutton fivepence a pound ? the parle vous that eat it up. What makes the beer threepence-halfpenny a pot ? Honeywood. Ah ! the vulgar rogues ; all will be out {Aside.) Right, 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 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 221 are injured as much by the French severity in the one, as by French rapacity in the other. That 's their meaning. Miss Richland. Though I do n't see the force of the parallel, yet I'll own, that we should sometimes par- don books, as we do our friends, that have now and then agreeable absurdities to recommend them. Bailiff. That's all my eye. The King only can pardon, as the law says : for, set in case Honeywood. 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 Honeywood. I'm obliged to you, sir, for the hint. If, madam, as my friend observes, our laws are so care- ful of a gentlemen's person, sure we ought to be equal- ly careful of his dearer part, his fame. Follower. Ay, but if so be a man's nabb'd, yoii know Honeywood. Mr. Flanigan, if you spoke forever, you could not improve the last observation. For my own part, I think it conclusive. Bailiff. As for the matter of that, mayhap Honeywood. Nay, sir, give me leave, in this instance, to be positive. For where is the necessity of censur- ing works without genius, which must shortly sink of themselves ? what is it, but aiming an unnecessary blow against a victim already under the hands of justice ? Bailiff. Justice ! Oh, by the elevens ! if you talk 19* 222 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. about justice, I think I am at home there: for, in a course of law Honeyivood. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern what you 'd be at, perfectly ; and I believe the lady must be sensible of the art with which it is introduced. I suppose you perceive the meaning, madam, of his course of law. Miss Richland. 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 the matter out. This here question is about severity, and justice, and pardon, and the like of they. Now, to explain th« thing Honeywood. Oh ! curse your explanations ! \_Aside. Enter Servant. Servant. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to speak with you upon earnest business. Honeywood. That's lucky. {Aside.) Dear madam you '11 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. . Follower. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and be- hind. \_Exeunt Honeywood, Bailiff \ and Follower. Miss Richland. What can all this mean, Garnet ? Garnet. Mean, madam ! why, what should it mean, but what Mr. Lofty sent you here to see ? These peo- ple he calls officers, are officers sure enough : sheriff's officers — bailiffs, madam. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 223 Miss Richland. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though his perplexities are far from giving me pleasure, yet I own there is 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, has not done it by this time. He ought at least to have been here before now. But lawyers are always more ready to get a man into troubles than out of them. Enter Sir William. Sir William. For Miss Richland to undertake set- ting him free, I own, was quite unexpected. It has to- tally unhinged my schemes to reclaim him. Yet it gives me pleasure to find, that among a number of worth- less friendships, he has made one acquisition of real value ; for there must be some softer passion on her side, that prompts this generosity. Ha ! here before me ? I'll endeavor to sound her affections. Madam, as I am the person that have had some demands upon the gentleman of this house, I hope you'll excuse me, if, before I enlarged him, I wanted to see yourself. Miss Richland. The precaution was very unnecessa- ry, sir. I suppose your wants were only such as my agent had power to see yourself. Sir William. Partly, madam. But I was also will- ing you should be fully apjDrized of the character of the gentleman you intended to serve. Miss Richland. It must come, sir, with a very ill grace from you. To censure it, after what you have done, would look like malice ; and to speak favorably 224 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. of a character you have oppressed, would be impeach- ing your own. And sure his tenderness, his human- ity, his universal friendship, may atone for many faults. Sir William. That friendship, madam, which is ex- erted in too wide a sphere, becomes totally useless. Our bounty, like a drop of water, disappears when dif- fused too widely. They who pretend most to this uni- versal 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 them- selves into false feelings, are more earnest in pursuit of splendid, than of useful, virtues. Miss Richland. I am surprised, sir, to hear one, who has probably been a gainer by the folly of others, so severe in his censure of it. Sir William. Whatever I have gained by folly, mad- am, you see I am willing to prevent your losing by it. Miss Richland. Your cares for me, sir, are unne- cessary ; I always suspect those services which are de- nied 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 William. Thou amiable woman ! I can no long- er contain the expressions of my gratitude — my pleas- ure. 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 Richland. Sir William Honey wood ! You amaze me. How shall I conceal my confusion? I fear, sir, you '11 think I have been too forward in my services. I confess I THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 225 Sir William. Don't make any apologies, madam. I only find myself unable to repay the obligation. And yet, I have been trying my interest of late to serve you. Having learned, madam, that you had some de- mands upon Government, I have, though unasked, been your solicitor there. Miss Richland. Sir, I'm infinitely obliged to your intentions. But my guardian has employed another gentlemen, who assures him of success. Sir William. Who, the important little man that visits here ? Trust me, madam, he 's quite contempti- ble 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 Richland. How have we been deceived ! As sure as can be, here he comes. Sir William. Does he ? Remember I'm to con- tinue unknown. My return to England has not as yet been made public. With what impudence he enters ! Enter Lo Lofty. Let the chariot — let my chariot drive off; I'll visit to his Grace's in a chair. Miss Richland here before me ! Punctual as usual, to the calls of humanity. I 'm very sorry, madam, things of this kind should hap- pen, especially to a man I have shown everywhere, and carried amongst us as a particular acquaintance. Miss Richland. I find, sir, you have the art of making the misfortunes of others jouv own. Lofty. My dear madam, what can a private man 226 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. like me do ? One man can't do everything ; and then 1 do so much in this way every day. Let me see — some- thing considerable might be done for him by subscrip- tion ; it could not fail if I carried the list. I'll under- take to set down a brace of dukes, two dozen lords, and half the Lower house, at my own peril. Sir William. And, after all, it's more than proba- ble, sir, he might reject the oiler of such powerful pat- ronage. 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 Honeywood, the man was impracticable. Sir William. His uncle ! then that gentleman, I suppose, is a particular friend of yours. Lofty. Meaning me, sir ? Yes, madam, as I often said, My dear Sir William, your are sensible I would do anything, as far as my poor interest goes, to serve your family : but what can be done ? there 's no pro- curing first-rate places for ninth-rate abilities. 3Ess Richland. I have heard of Sir William Hon- eywood ; 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 lit- tle reason, perhaps. Miss Richland. Pray, sir, what was it ? Lofty. Why, madam, — but let it go no farther — it was I procured him his place. Sir William. Did you, sir ? THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 227 Lofty. Either you or I, sir ? Miss Richland. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind in- deed. Lofty. I did love him, to be sure ; he had some amusing qualities ; no man was fitter to be a toast mas- ter to a club, or had a better head. Miss Richland. 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 gratitude hides a multitude of faults. Sir William. He might have reason, perhaps. His place is pretty considerable, I'm told. Lofty. A trifle, a mere trifle among us men of busi- ness. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a greater. Sir William. Dignity of person, do you mean, sir? I 'm told he 's much about my size and figure, sir? 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 Richland. Oh, perfectly ! you courtiers can do anything, I see. Lofty. My dear madam, all this is but a mere ex- change ; 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 William. A thought strikes me. (Aside.) Now you mention Sir William Honeywood, madam, and as 228 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. he seems, sir, an acquaintance of yours, you'll be glad to hear he is arrived from Italy : I had it from a friend who knows him as well as he does me, and you may depend on my information. Lofty. (Aside.) The devil he is ! If I had known that, we should not have been quite so well acquainted. Sir William. He is certainly returned ; and as this gentleman is a friend of yours, he can be of signal ser- vice to us, by introducing me to him : there are some papers relative to your affairs that require despatch, rtnd his inspection. Miss Richland- This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a person employed in my affairs — I know you'll serve us. Lofty. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. Sir William shall even wait upon him, if you think proper to command it. Sir William. That would be quite unnecessary. Lofy. Well, we must introduce you then. Call »retend ignorance ; and I will own, sir, I have long been prejudiced in his favor. It was but natural to wish to make his heart mine, as he seemed himself ignorant of its value. Honeyivood. I see she always loved him. (Aside.) I find, madam, you're already sensible of his worth, his passion. How happy is my friend to be the favor- ite of one with such sense to distinguish merit, and such beauty to reward it ! Miss Richland. Your friend, sir ! what friend ? Honeyivood. My best friend — my friend Mr. Lofty, madam. Miss Richland. He, sir ? Honeywood. Yes, he, madam. He is, indeed, what your warmest wishes might have formed him : and to 244 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. his other qualities he adds that of the most passionate regard for you. Miss Richland. Amazement ! — No more of this, I beg you, sir. Honeywood. I see your confusion, madam, and know how to interpret it. And, since I so plainly read the language of your heart, shall I make my friend happy, by communicating your sentiments ? Miss Richland.. By no means. Honeywood. Excuse me, I must ; I know you de- sire it. Miss Richland. 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. Honeywood. 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 net : yet, after all, these things should not be done by a third person : I should have spared her confusion. My friendship carried me a little too far. Enter Croaker, with the letter in his hand, and Mrs. Croaker. Mrs. Croaker. Ha ! ha ! ha ! And so, my dear, it's your supreme wish that I should be quite wretched upon this occasion ? Ha ! ha ! Croaker. {Mimicking. ) Ha ! ha ! ha ! And so, my THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 245 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 everything to alarm us ? Perhaps this very moment the tragedy is beginning. Mrs. Croaker. Then let us reserve our distress till the rising of the curtain, or give them the money they want, and have done with them. Croaker. Give them my money ! — and pray, what right have they to my money ? Mrs. Croaker. And pray, what right, then, have you to my good-humor ? Croaker. And so your good-humor advises me to part with my money? Why, then, to tell your good- humor a piece of my mind, I 'd sooner part with my wife. Here is Mr. Honeywood ; see what he '11 say to it. My dear Honeywood, look at this incendiary letter dropped at my door. It will freeze you with terror ; and yet lovey can read it — can read it and laugh. Mrs. Croaker. Yes, and so will Mr. Honeywood. Croaker. If he does, I '11 suffer to be hanged the next minute in the rogue's place, that 's all. Mrs. Croaker. Speak, Mr. Honeywood; is there anything more foolish than my husband's fright upon this occasion ? Honeywood. It would not become me to decide, 21* 246 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. madam ; but, doubtless, the greatness of his terrors now will but invite them to renew their villany anoth- er time. Mrs. Croaker. I told you, he'd be of my opinion. Croaker. How, sir ! Do you maintain that I should li" down under such an injury, and show, neither by m fears nor complaints, that I have something of the spirit of a man in me ? Honeywood. Pardon me, sir. You ought to make the loudest complaints, if you desire redress. The surest way to have redress is to be earnest in the pur- suit of it. Croaker. Ay, whose opinion is he of now ? Mrs. Croaker. But don't you think that laughing off our fears is the best way ? Honeywood. What is the best, madam, few can say ; but I '11 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. Honeywood. Why, sir, as to the best, that — that's a very wise way too. Mrs. Croaker. But can anything be more absurd, than to double our distress by our apprehensions, and put it in the power of every low fellow, that can scrawl ten words of wretched spelling, to torment us ? Honeywood. Without doubt, nothing more absurd. Croaker. How ! would it not be more absurd to de- spise the rattle till we are bit by the snake ? Honeywood. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. Croaker. Then your are of my opinion. Honeywood. Entirely. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. » 247 Mrs. Croaker. And you reject mine ? Honeywood. Heavens forbid, madam ! No, sure no reasoning can be more just than yours. We ought certainly to despise malice, if we cannot oppose it, and not make the incendiary's pen as fatal to our repose as the highwayman's pistol. Mrs. Croaker. Oh, then you think I'm quite right 1 Honeywood. Perfectly right. Croaker. A plague of plagues, we can't be both right. I ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. My hat must be on my head, or my hat must be off. Mrs. Croaker. Certainly, in two opposite opinions, if one be perfectly reasonable, the other can 't be per- fectly right. Honeywood. And why may not both be right, mad- am? Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking redress, and you in waiting the event in good-humor? Pray, let me see the letter again. I have it. This letter re- quires twenty guineas to be left at the bar of the Tal- bot 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. Honeywood. Yes, but I would not choose to exer- cise too much severity. It is my maxim, sir, that crimes generally punish themselves. Croaker. Well, but we may upbraid him a little, I ''Ironically.) 248 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. Honey wood. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. Croaker. Well, well, leave that to my own benevo- lence. Honeywood. Well, I do ; but remember that uni- versal benevolence is the Jaw 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 FIFTH. Scene. — an inn. Enter Olivia and 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, as they are not going to be married, they choose to take their own time. Olivia. You are for ever giving wrong motives to my impatience. Jarvis. Be as impatient as you will, the horses must take their own time ; besides, you do n't consider we have got no answer from our fellow-traveller yet. If we hear nothing from Mr. Leontine, we have only one way left us. Olivia. What way ? Jarvis. The way home again. Olivia. Not so. I have made a resolution to go, and nothing- shall induce me to break it. Jarvis. Ay ; resolutions are well kept, when they jump with inclination. However, I'll go hasten things without. And I '11 call, too, at the bar to see if any THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 249 thing should be left for us there. Do n't be in such a plaguy hurry, madam, and we shall go the faster, I promise you. [Exit. 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 are for Scotland, madam, — but that 's no business of mine ; married, or not married, I ask no questions. To be sure, we had a sweet little couple set 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 lad} 7 so bashful, it was near half an hour before we could get her to finish a pint of rasberry between us. Olivia. But this gentleman and I are not going to be married, I assure you. Landlady. May be not. That 's no business of mine for certain Scotch marriages seldom turn out well. There was, of my own knowledge, Miss Macfag, that married her father's footman. Alack-a-day, she and her husband soon parted, and now keep separate cel- lars in Hedge-lane. Olivia. (Aside.) A very pretty picture of what lies before me ! Enter Leoniine. Leontine. My dear Olivia, my anxiety, till you were 250 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. out of danger, was too great to be resisted. I could not help coming to see you set out, though it exposes us to a discovery. Olivia. May everything you do prove as fortunate. Indeed, Leontine, we have been most cruelly disap- pointed. Mr. Honey wood's bill upon the city has, it seems, been protested, and we have been utterly at a loss how to proceed. Leontine. How ! an offer of his own too ! Sure he could not mean to deceive us ? Olivia. Depend upon his sincerity ; he only mis- took the desire for the power of serving us. But let us . think no more of it. I believe the post-chaise is ready by this. Landlady. Not quite } 7 et ; and begging your lady- ship'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 rasp- berry as ever was tipt over tongue. Just a thim- bleful to keep the wind off your stomach. To be sure the last couple we had here, they said it was a j^erfect nosegay. Ecod, I sent them both away as good-na- tured — Up went the blinds, round went the wheels, and Drive away, post boy ! was the word. Enter Croaker. Croaker. Well, while my friend Honeywood is up- on the post of danger at the bar, it must be my busi- ness to have an eye about me here. I think I know an incendiary's look, for wherever the evi] mak^ a purchase, he never fails to set his maik. Ha! who THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 251 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 — Leontine. Not a drop more, good madam. I should now take it as a greater favor, 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. Leontine. There's no danger, trust me, my dear ; there can be none. If Honey wood has acted with hon- or, 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 sin- cerity, and even his desire to serve us. My fears are from your father's suspicions. A mind so disposed to be alarmed without a cause, will be but too ready when there's a reason. Leontine. Why, let him, when we are out of his power. But believe me, Olivia, you have no great reason to dread his resentment. His repining temper, as it does no manner of injury to himself, so will it never do harm to others. He only frets to keep him- self employed, and scolds for his private amusement. 252 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. Olivia. I do n't know that ; but I'm sure, on some occasions, it makes liim look most shockingly. Croaker discovering himself. Croaker. How does he look now ? — How does he look now ? Olivia. Ah ! Leontine. Undone ! Croaker. How do I look now ? Sir, I am your very humble servant. Madam, I am yours ! 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 going ; and when you have told me that, perhaps I shall know as little as I did before. Leontine. If that be so, our answer might but in- crease your displeasure, without adding to your infor- mation. Croaker. I want no information from you, puppy ; and you too, good madam, what answer have you got ? Eh ! {A cry without, Stop him.) I think I heard a noise. My friend, Honeywood without — has he seized the incendiary ? Ah, no, for now I hear no more on't. Leontine. Honeywood without ! Then, sir, it was Mr. Honeywood that directed you hither? Croaker. No, sir, it was not Mr. Honeywood con- ducted me hither. Leontine. Is it possible ? Croaker. Possible ! why he 's in the house now, sir ; more anxious about me than my own son, sir. Leontine. Then, sir, he's a villain. Croaker. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes most care of your father? I'll not bear it. I tell you THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 253 I '11 not bear it. Hone ywood is a friend to the family, and I'll have him treated as such. Leontine. I shall study to repay his friendship as it deserves. Croaker. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly he entered into my griefs, and pointed out the means to detect them, you would love him as I do. {A cry with- out, Stop him.) Fire and fury ! they have seized the incendiary : they have the villian, the incendiary in view. Stop him ! stop an incendiary ! a murderer ? stop him ! \_Exit. Olivia. Oh, my terrors ! what can this tumult mean ? Leontine. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr. Honey- wood's sincerity. But we shall have satisfaction : he shall give 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 that we have left us. You must forgive him. Leontine. Forgive him ! Has he not in every in- stance betrayed us ? Forced me to borrow money from him, which appears a mere trick to delay us ; promised to keep my father engaged till we were out of danger, and here brought him to the very scene of our escape ? Olivia. Don't be precipitate. We may yet be mistaken. Enter Post-boy, dragging in Jarvis ; Honeywood enter- ing soon after. Post-boy. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. 22 254 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. Here is the incendiary dog. I'm entitled to the re- ward ; I'll take my oath I saw him ask for the money at the bar, and then run for it. Honeywood. Come, bring him along. Let us see him. Let him learn to blush for his crimes. (Dis- covering 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. Honeywood. Confusion ! Leontine. Yes, sir, I find you have kept your word with me. After such baseness, I wonder how you can venture to see the man you have injured ! Honeywood. My dear Leontine, by my life, my honor Leontine. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not con- tinue to aggravate baseness by hypocrisy. I know you, sir, I know you. Honeywood. Why, won't you hear me ? By all that 's just, I knew not Leontine. Hear you, sir ! to what purpose ? I now see through all your low arts ; your ever complying with every opinion ; your never refusing any request ; your friendship's as common as a prostitute's favors, and as fallacious ; all these, sir, have long been con- temptible to the world, and are now perfectly so to me. Honeywood. Ha ! contemptible to the world ' that reaches me. \_Aside. Leontine. All the seeming sincerity of your profes- sions, I now find were only allurements to betray ; and all your seeming regret for their consequence, only cal- THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 255 culated to cover the cowardice of your heart. Draw villain ! Enter Croaker, out of breath. Croaker. Where is the villain ? Where is the in- cendiary ? (Seizing the Postboy.) Hold him fast, the dog ; he has the gallows in his face. Come, you dog, confess, confess all, and hang yourself. Postboy. Zounds ! master, what do you throttle me for? Croaker. (Beating him.) Dog, do you resist ? do you resist ? Postboy. Zounds! master, I'm not he; there's the man that we thought was the rogue, and turns out to be one of the company. Croaker. How ! Honeywood. Mr. Croaker, we have all been under a strange mistake here ; I find there is nobody guilty ; it was all an error — entirely an error of our own. Croaker. And I say, sir, that you 're in error ; for there's guilt and double guilt, a plot, a damned Jesuit- ical, pestilential, plot, and I must have proof of it. Honeywood. Do but hear me. Croaker. What ! you intend to bring 'em off, I sup- pose ? I '11 hear nothing. Honeywood. Madam, you seem at least calm enough to hear reason. Olivia. Excuse me. Honeywood. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it to you. Jarvis. What signifies explanations when the thing is done ? 256 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. Honeywood. Will nobody hear me ? Was there ever such a set, so blinded by passion and prejudice? {To the Postboy.) My. good friend, I believe you '11 be surprised when I assure you Postboy. Sure me nothing — I'm sure of nothing but a good beating. Croaker. Come then you, madam, if you ever hope for any favor or forgiveness, tell me sincerely all you know of this affair. Olivia. Unhappily, sir, I 'm but too much the cause of your suspicions : You see before you, sir, one that, with false pretences, has stept into your family to be- tray it ; not your daughter Croaker. Not my daughter ! Olivia. Not your daughter — but a mean deceiver — who — support me, I cannot Honeywood. Help, she 's going : give her air. Croaker. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the air ; I would not hurt a hair of her head, whose ever daughter she may be — not so had as that neither. \_Exit all but Croaker. Yes, yes, all's out ; I now see the whole affair : my son is either married, or going to be so, to this lady, whom he imposed upon me as his sister. Ay, certain- ly so ; and yet I do n'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 William. But how do 3 7 ou know, madam, that my nephew intends setting off from this place ? THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 257 Miss Richland. My maid assured me he was come to this inn, and my own knowledge of his intending to leave the kingdom, suggested the rest. But what do I see ? my guardian here before us ! Who, my dear sir, could have expected meeting you here ? To what accident do we owe this pleasure ? Croaker. To a fool, I believe. Miss Richland. But to what purpose did you come ? Croaker. To play the fool. Miss Richland. But with whom ? Croaker. With greater fools than myself. Miss Richland. Explain. Croaker. Why, Mr. Honeywood brought me here to do nothing now I am here ; and my son is going to be married to I do n't know who, that is here : so now you are as wise as I am. Miss Richland. 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 William. Then, sir, I can inform you ; and, though a stranger, yet you shall find me a friend to your family. It will be enough, at present, to assure 3^ou, that both in point of birth and fortune, the young lady is at least your son's equal. Being left by her father, Sir James Woodville Croaker. Sir James Woodville ! What ! of the West? Sir William. Being left by him, I say, to the care of a mercenary wretch, whose only aim was to secure her fortune to himself, she was sent to France, under 22* 258 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. pretence of education ; and there every art was tried to fix her for life in a convent, contrary to her inclina- tions. Of this I was informed upon my arrival at Paris ; and, as I had been once her father's friend, I did all in my power to frustrate her guardian's base in- tentions. I 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 William. Yes, sir : and know that you are de- ceived in him. But step this way, and I'll convince you. [ Croaker and Sir William seem to confer. Enter Honeywood. Honeywood. Obstinate man, still to persist in his outrage ! Insulted by him, despised by all, I now be- gin to grow contemptible 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 friend- ships, and nothing remains henceforward for me but solitude and repentance. Miss Richland. 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 ? THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 259 Honeywood. Yes, madam ; and though I am so un- happy as to have fallen under your displeasure, yet, thank Heaven ! I leave you to happiness — to one who loves you, and deserves your love — to one who has power to procure you affluence, and generosity to im- prove your enjoyment of it. Miss Richland. And are you sure, sir, that the gen- tleman you mean is what you describe him ? Honeywood. I have the best assurances of it — his serving me. He does indeed deserve the highest hap- piness, 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 forgotton ? Miss Richland. A thousand : to live among friends that esteem you, whose happiness it will be to be per- mitted to oblige you. Honeywood. No, madam, my resolution is fixed. Inferiority among strangers is easy ; but among those that once were equals, insupportable. Nay, to show you how far my resolution can go, I can now speak with calmness of my former follies, my vanity, my dis- sipation, my weakness. I will even confess, that, among the number of my other presumptions, I had the insolence to think of loving you. Yes, madam, while I was pleading the passion of another, my heart was tortured with its own. But it is over ; it was un- worthy our friendship, and let it be forgotten. Miss Richland. You amaze me ! Honeywood. But you'll forgive it, I know you will ; since the confession should not have come from me 260 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. even now, but to convince you of the sincerity of my intention of — never mentioning it more. \ Going. Miss Richland. Stay, sir, one moment — Ha ! he here Enter Lofty. Lofty. Is the coast clear ? None but friends ? I have followed you here with a trifling piece of intelligence ; but it goes no farther ; things are not yet ripe for a discovery. I have spirits working at a certain board ; your affair at the Treasury will be done in less than — a thousand years. Mum ! Miss Richland. 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, Honey wood ? Miss Richland. It has fallen into yours. Lofty. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, your thing is done. It is done, I say, that's all. I have just had assurances from Lord Neverout, that the claim has been examined, and found admissible. Quietus is the word, madam. Honeywood. 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 Richland. He ! why, Sir Gilbert and his fam- ily have been in the country this month. Lofty. This month ! it must certainly be so — Sir Gilbert's letter did come to me from Newmarket, so that he must have met his lordship there ; and so it THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 261 came about. I have his letter about me ; I'll read it to you. {Taking out a large bundle.) That's from Paoli of Corsica, that from the Marquis of Squilachi. Have you a mind to see a letter from Count Ponia- towski, now King of Poland? Honest Pon — {Search- ing.) Oh, 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 William. Sir, I have delivered it ; and must in- form you, it was received with the most mortifying con- tempt. Croaker. Contempt! Mr. Lofty, what can that mean? Lofty. Let him go on, let him go on, I say, You'll find it come to something presently. Sir William. Yes, sir ; I believe you'll be amazed, if, after waiting sometime in the antechamber — after being surveyed with insolent curiosity by the passing servants, I was at last assured, that Sir William Hon- eywood 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 confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from one private gentleman to another. Lofty. And so you can 't find out the force of the message ? Why, I was in the house at that very time. 262 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN, 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 sus- picions are over. Lofty. Your suspicions ! what, then you have been suspecting, you have been suspecting, have you ? Mr. Croaker, you and I were friends — we are friends no longer. Never talk to me. It's over ; I say, it's over. Croaker. As I hope for your favor, I did not mean to offend. It escaped me. Don't be discomposed. Lofty. Zounds ! sir, but I am discomposed, and will be discomposed. To be treated thus ! Who am I ? Was it for this I have been dreaded both by ins and outs? Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer, and praised in the St. James's ; have I been chaired at Wildman's, and a speaker at Merchant Tailors' Hall ; have I had my hand to addresses, and my head in the print-shops, — and talk to me of suspects ? Croaker. My dear sir, be pacified. What can you have but asking pardon ? Lofty. Sir, I will not be pacified — Suspects ! Who am I ? To be used thus ! Have I paid court to men in favor to serve my friends, the lords of the Treasury, Sir William Honeywood, and the rest of the gang, and talk to me of suspects ! Who am I, I say, who am I ? Sir William. Since you are so pressing for an an- THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 263 swer, 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 ! Honeywood. Astonishment ! my uncle ! (Aside.) Lofty. So then, my confounded genius has been all this time only leading me up to the garret, in order to fling me out of the window. Croaker. What, Mr. Importance, and are these your works ? Suspect you ! You, who have been dreaded by the ins and outs ; you who have had your hand to addresses, and 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 William. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you now see how incapable this gentleman is of serving you, and how little Miss Richland has to expect from his influence. Croaker. Ay, sir, too well I see it ; and I can't but say I have had some boding of it these ten days. So I'm resolved, since my son has placed his affections on a lady of moderate fortune, to be satisfied with his choice, and not run the hazard of another Mr. Lofty in helping him to a better. 264 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. Sir William. I approve your resolution ; and here they come to receive a confirmation of your pardon and consent. Whiter Mrs. Croaker, Jarvis, Leontine, and Olivia. Mrs. Croaker. Where 's my husband ? Come, come, lovey, you must forgive them. Jarvis here has been to tell me the whole affair ; and I say, you must for- give 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, thic gentleman, Sir William Honeywood, has been before- hand with you in obtaining their pardon. So, if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, I think we can tack them together without crossing the Tweed for it. [Joining their hands. Leontine. How blest and unexpected ! What, what can we say to such goodness ? But our future obedi- ence shall be the best reply. And as for this gentle- man, to whom we owe Sir William. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your thanks, as I have here an interest that calls me. {Turning to Honeywood.) Yes, sir, you are surprised to see me ; and I own that a desire of correcting your follies led me hither. I saw with indignation the errors of a mind that only sought applause from others ; that easiness of disposition which, though inclined to the right, had not the courage to condemn the wrong. I saw with regret those splendid errors, that still took name from some neighboring duty ; } 7 our charity, that was but injustice ; your benevolence, that was but THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 265 weakness ; and your friendship but credulity. I saw with regret, great talents and extensive 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. Honeywood. Cease to upbraid me, sir ; I have for some time but too strongly felt the justice of your re- proaches. But there is one way still left me. Yes, sir, I have determined this very hour to quit forever 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 dis- sipated virtues. Yet, ere I depart, j)ermit me to solicit favor for this gentleman who, notwithstanding what has happened, has laid me under the most signal obli- gations. Mr. Lofty Lofty. Mr. Honeywood, I'm resolved upon a refor- mation as well as you. I now begin to find that the man who first invented the art of speaking truth, was a much cunninger fellow than I thought him. And to prove that I design to speak truth for the future, I must now assure you, that you owe your late enlarge- ment to another ; as, upon my soul, I had no hand in the matter. So now, if any of the company has a mind Dreferment, he may take my place ; I'm deter- :d to resign. [Exit, oneywood. How have I been deceived ! ir William. No, sir, you have been obliged to a er, fairer friend, for that favor, — to Miss Rich- Would she complete our joy, and make the man 23 266 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. she has honored by her friendship happy in her love, I should then forget all, and be as blest as the welfare of my dearest kinsman can make me. Miss Richland. After what is past, it would be but affectation to pretend to indifference. Yes, I will own an attachment, which I find was more than friendship. And if my entreaties cannot alter his resolution to quit the country, I will even try if my hand has not power to detain him. [ Giving her hand. Honeywood. HeaVens ! how can I have deserved all this? How express my happiness — my gratitude? A moment like this overpays an age of apprehension. Croaker. Well, now I see content in every face ; but Heaven send we be all better this day three months ! Sir William. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect yourself. He who seeks only for applause from with- out, has all his happiness in another's keeping. Honeywood. Yes, sir, I now too plainly perceive my errors ; my vanity, in attempting to please all by fearing to offend any ; my meanness, in approving folly lest fools should disapprove. Henceforth, there- fore, it shall be my study to reserve my pity for real distress ; my friendship for real merit ; and my love for her who first taught me what it is to be happy. \Exeunt omnes. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 267 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 ejjilogues and prologues on some friend, Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, And makes full many a bitter pill go down. Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, And teased each rhyming friend to help him out : An epilogue ! things can't go on without it ! It could not fail, would you but set about it : ' Young man,' cries one (a bard laid up in clover), 'Alas ! young man, my writing days are over ! Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I ; Your brother-doctor there, perhaps, may try.' ' What I, dear sir ? ' the Doctor interposes, ' What, plant my thistle, sir, among his roses ! No, no, I've other contests to maintain ; To-night I head our troops at Warwick-Lane. 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. 268 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance, Give him good words indeed, but no assistance. As some unhappy wight, at some new play, At the pit-door stands elbowing a way, 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, Sinks as he sinks, and as he rises rise : He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grimace ; But not a soul will badge to give him place. Since, then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform ' To 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,' Blame where you must, be candid where you can, And be each critic the Good-Natured Man. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. A COMEDY. She Stoops to Conquer was represented for the first time, March 15, 1773. It was very successful, and became a stock play. Gold- smith originally entitled it, The Old House a New Inn. DEDICATION. TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, IX. 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 honor to inform the public, that I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the inter- ests of mankind also to inform them that the greatest wit may be found in a character, without impairing the most un- affected piety. I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiali- ty to this performance. The undertaking a comedy, not merely sentimental, was very dangerous; and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured to trust it to the public; and though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason to be grateful. I am, dear Sir, Tour most sincere friend and admirer, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 23* DRAMATIS PERSONS. MEN. Sir Charles Marlow. Young Marlow (his son] Hardcastle. Hastings. Tony Lumpkin. Diggory. WOMEN. Mrs. Hardcastle. Miss Hardcastle. Miss Neville. Maid. Landlord, Servants, etc. f SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. PROLOGUE. BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. Enter 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 player, I can 't squeeze out one drop ; I am undone, that 's all, — shall lose my bread, — I 'd rather, — but that 's nothing, — lose my head. Yv 7 hen the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here. To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed. d I are dead to all intents; )on speak Greek as sentiments. i grown, to keep our spirits up, 272 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 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, Pleasures seem sweet, but prove a glass of bitters. When ign'rance enters, folly is at hand : Learning is better far than house or land. Let not your virtue trip : who trips may stumble, And virtue is not virtue if she tumble.' I give it up — morals won't do for me ; To make you laugh, I must play tragedy. One hope remains, — hearing the maid was ill, A Doctor comes this night to show his skill ; To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion, He, in Five Draughts prepared, presents a potion, A kind of magic charm ; for, be assured, If you will swallow it, the maid is cured : But desperate the Doctor's and her case is, If you reject the dose and make wry faces. This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, No pois'nous drugs are mixed in what he gives. Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree ; If not, within he will receive no fee. The college, you, must his pretensions back, Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Qu; SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 273 ACT FIRST. Scene I. — a chamber in an old-fashioned house. Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Hardcasth. Mrs. Hardcastle. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're very particular. Is there a creature in the whole coun- try but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the rust a little ? There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbor Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every winter. Hardcastle. Ay, and bring back vanity and affecta- tion to last them the whole year. I wonder why Lon- don cannot keep its own fools at home. In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stage coach. Its fopperies come down not only as inside passengers, but in the very basket. Mrs. Hardcastle. Aye, your times were fine times in~ deed : you have been telling us of them for many a long year. Here we live in an old rumbling mansion, that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing master ; and all our entertainment your old stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marl- borough. I hate such old-fashioned trumpery. Hardcastle. And I love it. I love everything that's old : old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine ; and, I believe, Dorothy, (taking her hand,) you'll own, I've been pretty fond of an old wife. 274 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Mrs. Hardcastle. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for- ever at your Dorothys, and your old wives. You may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I promise you. I'm not so old as you'd make me, by more than one good year. Add twenty to twenty and make money of that. Hardcastle. Let me see ; twenty added to twenty, makes just fifty and seven. Mrs. Hardcastle. It 's false, Mr. Hardcastle ; I was- but twenty when I was brought to-bed of Tony, that I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband ; and he's not come to years of discretion yet. Hardcastle. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have taught him finely. Mrs. Hardcastle. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. I don't think a boy wants much learning to spend fif- teen hundred a-year. Hardcastle. Learning, quotha ! a mere composition of tricks and mischief. Mrs. Hardcastle. Humor, my dear, nothing but humor. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little humor. Hardcastle. I 'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If burning the footman's shoes, frightening the maids, and worrying the kittens, be humor, he has it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popt my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face. Mrs. Hardcastle. And I am to blame ? The poor boy was always too sickly to do any good. A school would be his death. When he comes to be a little SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 275 stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin may do for him ? Hardcastle. Latin for him ! A cat and fiddle. No, no ; the alehouse and the stable are the only schools he '11 ever go to. Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long among us. Anybody that looks in his face may see he 's con- sumptive. Hardcastle. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms. Mrs. Hardcastle. He coughs sometimes. Hardcastle. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way. Mrs. Hardcastle. I'm actually afraid of his lungs. Hardcastle. And truly so am I ; for he sometimes whoops like a speaking trumpet — {Tony hallooing be- hind the scenes.) — Oh, there he goes — a very consump- tive figure, truly ! Enter Tony, crossing the stage. Mrs. Hardcastle. Tony, where are you going, my charmer ? Won't you give papa and I a little of your company, lovey ? Tony. I'm in haste, mother ; I cannot stay. Mrs. Hardcastle. You shan't venture out this raw evening, my dear ; you look most shockingly. Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me down every moment. There's some fun ooiucr forward. Hardcastle. Ay, the alehouse, the old place; I thought so. 276 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Mrs. Hardcastle. A low, paltry set of fellows. Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Mug- gins, the exciseman, Jack Slang, the horse-doctor, little Aminadab, that grinds the music-box, and Tom Twist, that spins the pewter platter. Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for one night at least. Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not so much mind ; but I can't abide to disappoint myself. Mrs. Hardcastle. {Detaining him.) You shan't go. Tony. I will, I tell you. Mrs. Hardcastle. I say you shan't. Tony. We'll see which is the strongest, you or I. \_Exit, hauling her out. Hardcastle. (Alone.) Ay, there goes a pair that only spoil each other. But is not the whole age in combination to drive sense and discretion out of doors ? There's my pretty darling, Kate ! the fashions of the times have almost infected her too. Ity living a year or two in town, she is as fond of gauze and French frippery as the best of them. JEnter Miss Hardcastle. Hardcastle. Blessings on my pretty innocence ! drest out as usual, my Kate. Goodness ! what a quan- tity of superfluous silk hast thou got about thee, girl ! I could never teach the fools of this age, that the indi- gent world could be clothed out of the trimmings of the vain. Miss Hardcastle. You know our agreement, sir. You allow me the morning to receive and pay visits, SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 277 and to dress in my own manner ; and in the evening I put on my housewife's dress to please you. Hardcastle. Well, remember I insist on the terms of our agreement, and, by the by, I believe I shall have occasion to try your obedience this very evening. Miss Hardcastle. I protest, sir, I don't comprehend your meaning. Hardcastle. Then, to be plain with you, Kate, I ex- pect the young gentleman I have choson to be your husband from town this very day. I have his father's letter, in which he informs me his son is set out, and that he intends to follow him shortly after. Miss Hardcastle. Indeed ! I wish I had known something of this before. Bless me, how shall I be- have. It's a thousand to one I shan't like him ; our meeting will be so formal, and so like a thing of busi- ness, that I shall find no room for friendship or esteem. Hardcastle. Depend upon it, child, I never will con- trol your choice ; but Mr. Marlow, whom I have pitched upon, is the son of my old friend, Sir Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk so often. The young gentleman has been bred a scholar, and is designed for an employment in the service of his country. I am told he's a man of an excellent understanding. . Miss Hardcastle. Is he ? Hardcastle. Very generous. Miss Hardcastle. I believe I shall like him. Hardcastle. Young and brave. Miss Hardcastle. I'm sure I shall like him. Hardcastle. And very handsome. 24 278 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, say no more, (kissing his hand) he's mine — I'll have him. Hardcastle. And, to crown all, Kate, he's one of the most bashful and reserved young fellows in all the world. Miss Hardcastle. Eh ! you have frozen me to death again. That word reserved has undone all the rest of his accomplishments. A reserved lover, it is said, al- ways makes a suspicious husband. Hardcastle. On the contrary, modesty seldom re- sides in a breast that is not enriched with nobler vir- tues. It was the very feature in his character that first struck me. Miss Hardcastle. He must have more striking feat- ures to catch me, I promise you. However, if he be so young, so handsome, and so everything as you men- tion, I believe Jie'll do still. I think I'll have him. Hardcastle. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. It's more than an even wager he may not have you. Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, why will you mor- tify one so ? Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking my heart at his indifference, I'll only break my glass for its flattery, set my cap to some newer fashion, and look out for some less difficult admirer. Hardcastle. Bravely resolved ! In the mean time, I '11 go prepare the servants for his reception : as we seldom see company, they want as much training as a company of recruits the first day's muster. \_Exit. Miss Hardcastle. (Alone.) Lud, this news of papa's puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome ; these he put last, but I put them foremost. Sensible, good-na- SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 279 tured ; I like all that. But then, reserved and sheep- ish ; that's much against him. Yet can't he be cured of his timidity by being taught to be proud of his wife ? Yes; and can't I — but I vow I'm disposing of the husband, before I have secured the lover. Enter Miss Neville. Miss Hardcastle. I'm glad you 're come, Neville, my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this even- ing ? Is there anything whimsical about me ? Is it one of my well-looking days, child ? am I in face today ? Miss Neville. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look again — bless me! — sure no accident has happened among the canary birds or the gold fishes ? Has your brother or the cat been meddling ? or has the last novel been too moving ? Miss Hardcastle. No ; nothing of all this. I have been threatened — I can scarce get it out — I have been threatened with a lover. Miss Neville. And his name Miss Hardcastle. Is Marlow. Miss Neville. Indeed ! Miss Hardcastle. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. Miss Neville. As I live, the most intimate friend of Mr. Hastings, my admirer. They are never asunder. I believe you must have seen him when we lived in town. Miss Hardcastle. Never. Miss Neville. He's a very singular character, I as- sure you. Among women of reputation and virtue, he is the modestest man alive ; but his acquaintance give him a very different character among creatures of an- other stamp — you understand me. 280 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Miss Hardcastle. An odd character indeed. I shall never be able to manage him. What shall I do ! Pshaw, think no more of him, but trust to occurrences for suc- cess. But how goes on your own affair, my dear? has my mother been courting you for my brother Tony, as usual ? Miss Neville. I have just come from one of our agreeable tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a hundred tender things, and setting off her pretty monster as the very pink of perfection. Miss Hardcastle. And her partiality is such, that she actually thinl^s him so. A fortune like yours is no small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole man- agement of it, I'm not surprised to see her unwilling to let it go out of the family. Miss Neville. A fortune like mine, which chiefly consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. But, at any rate, if 'my dear Hastings be but constant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at last. How- ever, I let her suppose that I am in love with her son ; and she never once dreams that my affections are fixed upon another. Miss Hardcastle. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost love him for hating you so. Miss Neville. It is a good-natured creature at bot- tom, and I'm sure would wish to see me married to any body but himself. But my aunt's bell rings for our afternoon's walk round the improvements. Allons ! Courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical. Miss Hardcastle. Would it were bed-time, and all were well. \_Exeunt. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 281 Scene n. — an alehouse room. Several shabby fellows with punch and tobacco ; Tony at the head of the table, a little higher than the rest, a mal- let in his hand. Omnes. Hurrea ! hurrea ! hurrea ! bravo ! First Fellow. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The Squire is going to knock himself clown 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 quoss, and their quods, They 're all but a parcel of pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. When methodist preachers come down, A-preaching that drinking is sinful, I'll wager the rascals a crown, They always preach best with a skinfull. But Avhen 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. 24* 282 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Let some cry up woodcock or hare, Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons ; But of all the birds in the air, Here's health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. Omnes. Bravo, bravo ! First Fellow. The Squire has got some spunk in hhn. Second Fellow. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays he never gives us nothing that's low. Third Fellow. Oh, damn anything that's low, I can- not bear it. Fourth Fellow. The genteel thing is the genteel thing any time ; if so be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly. Third Fellow. I like the maxum of it, Master Muggins. What though I am obligated to dance a bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that. May this be my poison, if my bear ever dances but to the very genteelest of tunes ; ' Water Parted,' or i The minuet in Ariadne.' Second Fellow. What a pity it is the Squire is not come to his own. It would be well for all the publi- cans with ten miles round of him. Tony. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I 'd then show what it was to keep choice of company. Second Fellow. Oh, he takes after his own father for that. To be sure, old Squire Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For winding the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a hare or a wench, he never had his fellow. It was a saying in the place, that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls, in the who'e county. 4 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 283 Tony. Ecod, and when I 'm of age I '11 be no bastard, I promise you. I have been thinking of Bet Bouncer and the miller's gray mare to begin with. But come, my boys, drink about and be merry, for you pay no reckon- ing. Well, Stingo, what 's the matter? Enter Landlord. Landlord. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door. They have lost their way upon the forest; and they are talking something about Mr. Hardcastle. Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentleman that 's coming down to court my sister. Do they seem to be Londoners ? Landlord. I believe they may. They look woundily like Frenchmen. Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I '11 set them right in a twinkling. \_Exit Landlord. Gentlemen, as they may n't be good enough company for you, step down for a moment, and I '11 be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. [Exeunt mob. Tony. (Alone.) Father-in-law has been calling me whelp and hound this half year. Now, if I pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian. But then I 'm afraid, — afraid of what ? I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a year, and let him frighten me out of that if he can. Enter Landlord, conducting Marlow and Hastings. Marlow. What a tedious, uncomfortable day have we had of it ! We were told it was but forty miles across the country, and we have come above threescore. 284 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Hastings. And all, Marlow, from that unaccounta- ble reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire more frequently on the way. » Marlow. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay myself under an obligation to every one I meet ; and often stand the chance of an unmannerly answer. Hastings. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any answer. Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told you have been inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle, in these parts. Do you know what part of the country you are in? Hastings. Not in the least, sir, but should thank you for information. Tony. Nor the way you came ? Hastings. No, sir ; but if you can inform us Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, the first thing I have to inform you is, that — you have lost your way. Marlow. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. Tony. Pray, gentleman, may I be so bold as to ask the place from whence you came ? Marlow. That's not necessary towards directing us where we are to go. Tony. No offence ; but question for question is all fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face : a daughter, and a pretty son? Hastings. We have not seen the gentleman ; but he has the family you mention. \ SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 285 Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talkative maypole ; the son, a pretty, well-bred, agree- able youth, that every body is fond of? Marlow. Our information differs in this. The daughter is said to be well-bred, and beautiful; the son an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at his mother's aj)ron-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. Hastings. Unfortunate ! Tony. It's a damned long, dark, boggy, dirty, dan- gerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle's (winking upon the Landlord), Mr. Hardcastle's, of Quagmire Marsh — you understand me? Landlord. Master Hardcastle's ! Lock-a-daisy, my masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong! When you came to the bottom of the hill, you should have crossed down Squash Lane. Marloiv. Cross down Squash Lane ? Landlord. Then you were to keep straight forward, till you came to four roads. Marlow. Come to where four roads meet ? Tony. Ay ; but you must be sure to take only one of them. Marlow. sir, you're facetious. Tony. Then keeping to the right, you are to go sideways, till you come upon Crack-skull common : there you must look sharp for the track of the wheel, and go forward till you come to farmer Murrain's barn. 286 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Coming to the farmer's barn, you are to turn to the right, and then to the left, and then to the right about again, till you find out the old mill Marlow. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out the longitude. Hasting?. What's to be done, Marlow ? Marlow. This house promises but a poor reception ; though perhaps the landlord can accommodate us. Landlord. Alack, master, we have but one spare bed in the whole house. Tony. And to my knowledge, that 's taken up by three lodgers already. {After a pause in which the rest seem disconcerted.} I have hit it : do n't you think, Stingo, our landlady could accommodate the gentlemen by the fireside, with — three chairs and a bolster ? Hastings. I hate sleeping by the fireside. Marlow. And I detest your three chairs and a bol- ster. Tony. You do, do you ? — then, let me see, — what if you go on a mile farther, to the Buck's Head ; the old Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best inns in the whole country. Hastings. O ho ! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, however. Landlord. {Apart to Tony.) Sure, you be n't send- ing 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 pair of large horns over the door. That's the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly about you. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 287 Hastings. Sir, we are obliged to you. The ser- vants 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 '11 be for giving you his company ; and, ecod, if you mind him, he'll persuade you that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of peace. Landlord. A troublesome old blade, to be sure ; but as keeps good wines and beds as any m the whole country. Marlow. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no further connection. We are to turn to the right, did you say ? Tony. No, no, straight forward ; I'll just step my- self, and show you a piece of the way. ( To the Land- lord.} Mum ! Landlord. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleas- ant — damned mischievous son of a whore. [Exeunt. ACT SECOND. Scene I. — an old-fashioned house. Enter Hardcastle, followed by three or four awkward Servants. Hardcastle. Well, I hope you are perfect in the table exercise I have been teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places, and can show that you have been used to good company, without ever stirring from home. 288 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Omnes. Ay, ay. Hardcastle. When company comes, you are not to pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frighted rabbits in a warren. Omnes. No, no. Hardcastle. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make a show at the side table ; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. But you're not to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your pockets, Roger — and from your head, you blockhead, you. See how Diggory carries his hands. They 're little too stiff, indeed, but that 's no great matter. Diggory. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill for the malitia. And so being upon drill Hardcastle. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. You must be all attention to the guests ; you must hear us talk, and not think of talking ; you must see us drink, and not think of drinking ; you must see us eat, and not think of eating. Diggory. By the laws, your worship, that 's par- fectly unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod, he 's always wishing for a mouth- ful himself. Hardcastle. Blockhead ! is not a bellyful in the kitchen as good as a bellyful in the parlor ? Stay your stomach with that reflection. Diggory. Ecod, I thank your worship, I '11 make a shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantry. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 289 Ilardcastle. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then, if I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not all burst out a-laughing, as if you made part of the company. Diggory. Then, ecod, your worship must not tell the story of the Ould Grouse in the gun-room ; I can't help laughing at that — he ! he ! he ! — for the soul of me. We have laughed at that these twenty years — ha ! ha ! ha. Ilardcastle. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The story is a good one. Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that ; but still, remember to be attentive. Suppose one of the company should call for a glass of wine, how will you behave ? A glass of wine, sir, if you please, ( To Dig- gory) — Eh, why do n't you move ? Diggory. Ecod, your worship, I never have cour- age, till I see the eatables and drinkables brought upo' the table, and then I'm as bauld as a lion. Ilardcastle. What, will nobody move ? First Servant. I'm not to leave this pleace. Second Servant. I'm sure it's no pleace of mine. Third Servant. Nor mine, for sartain. Diggory. Wauns, and I'm sure it canna be mine. Ilardcastle. You numskulls ! and so w r hile, 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 do n't I hear a coach drive in- to the yard ? To your posts, you blockheads. I'll go in the meantime, and give my old friend's son a hearty welcome at the gate. [Exit Ilardcastle. Diggory. By the elevens, my place is quite gone out my head. 25 290 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Roger. I know that my place is to be every where. First Servant. Where the devil is mine ? Second Servant. My pleace is to be no where at all, and so Ize go about my business. [Exeunt Servants, running about as if frightened, several ways. Enter Servant, with candles, showing in Marlow and Hastings. Servant. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome ! This way. Hastings. After the disappointments of the day, wel- come once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room and a good fire. Upon my word, a very well-looking house : antique, but creditable. Marlow. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master by good house-keeping, it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn. Hastings. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good side- board, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame a reckoning confoundedly. Marlow. Travellers, George, must pay in all places; the only difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries, in bad inns you are fleeced and starved. Hastings. You have lived pretty much among them. In truth I have been often surprised, that you who have seen so much of the world, with your natural good sense, and your many opportunities, could never yet acquire a requisite share of assurance. Marlow. The Englishman's malady. But tell me, SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 291 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 confidence. I don't know that I was ever familiarly acquainted with a single modest wo- mau, except my mother. — But among females of another class, you know Hastings. 'Ay, among them you are impudent enough, of all conscience. Marlow. They are of us, you know. Hastings. But in the company of women of reputation I never saw such an idiot — such a trembler; you look for all the world as if you wanted an apportunity of steal- ing out of the room. Marlow. Why, man, that 's because I do want to steal out of the room. Faith, I have often formed a resolution to break the ice, and rattle away at any rate. But I do n't know how, a single glance from a pair of fine eyes has totally overset my resolution. An impudent fellow may counterfeit modesty, but I '11 be hanged if a modest man can ever counterfeit impudence. Hastings. 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 Marlow. Why, George, I can 't say fine things to them — they freeze, they petrify me. They may talk of a comet, or a burning mountain, or some such bagatelle, but to me a modest woman, dressed out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole creation. Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! At this rate, man, how can er expect to marry ? 292 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Marlow. Never; unless as among kings and princes my bride were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like an Eastern bridegroom, one were to be introduced to a wife he never saw before, it might be endured. But to go through all the terrors of a formal courtship, together with the episode of aunts, grandmothers, and cousins, and at last to blurt out the broad staring question of ' Mad- am, will you marry me ? ' No, no, that 's a strain much above me, I assure you. Hastings. I pity you. But how do you intend be- having to the lady you are come down to visit at the re- quest of your father? Marlow. As I behave to all other ladies : bow very low ; answer yes or no to all her demands. But for the rest, I do n't think I shall venture to look in her face till I see my father's again. Hastings. I 'm surprised that one who is so warm a friend can be so cool a lover. Marlow. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my chief inducement down was to be instrumental in forwarding your happiness, not my own. Miss Neville loves you, the family do n't know you ; as my friend, you are sure of a reception, and let honor do the rest. Hastings. My dear Marlow ! — But I '11 suppress the emotion. Were I a wretch, meanly seeking to carry off a fortune, you should be the last man in the world I would apply to for assistance. But Miss Neville's per- son is all I ask, and that is mine, both from her deceased father's consent, and her own inclination. Marlow. Happy man ! You have talents and art to captivate any woman. I 'm doomed to adore the sex, SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 293 and yet to converse with the only part of it I despise. This stammer in my address, and this awkward, unpre- possessing visage of mine can never permit me to soar above the reach of a milliner's 'prentice, or one of the Duchesses of Drury lane. Pshaw ! this fellow here to interrupt us. Enter Hardcastle. Hardcastle. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr. Mar low? Sir, you are heartily welcome. It 's not my way, you see, to receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them a hearty reception in the old style at my gate. I like to see their horses and trunks taken care of. Marlow. {Aside.) He has got our names from the servants already. (To Mm.) We approve your caution and hospitality, sir. (To Hastings.) I have been think- ing, George, of changing our travelling dresses in the morning. I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine. Hardcastle. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no cere- mony in this house. Hastings. I fancy, Charles, you 're right; the first blow is half the battle. I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold. Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow — Mr. Hastings — gentle- men, pray be under no restraint in this house. This i? Liberty-hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you please here. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too we may want ammunition before it is over. I've the embroidery to secure a retreat. 25* ' 294 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Hardcastle. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when we went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the garrison Marlow. Do n't you think the ventre aVor waistcoat will do with the plain brown ? Hardcastle. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men Hastings. I think not : brown and yellow mix but very poorly. Hardcastle. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men — — Marlow. The girls like finery. Hardcastle. Which might consist of about five thou- sand men, well appointed 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 '11 pawn my dukedom,' says he, 'but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood.' So Marlow. What, my good friend, if you gave us a glass of punch in the mean time ; it would help us to carry on the siege with vigor. Hardcastle. Punch, sir ! (Aside.) This is the most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with. Marlow. Yes, sir, punch. A glass i punch after our journey, will be comfortable. This is Liber- ty-hall, you know. Enter Roger with a cup. Hardcastle. Here's a cup, sir. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 295 Marlow. [Aside.) So this fellow, in his Liberty- hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. Hardcastle. {Taking the cup.) I hope you'll find it to } r our mind. I have prepared it with my own hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients are tol- erable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. (Drinks.) Marlow. (Aside.) A very impudent fellow this ; but he's a character, and I '11 humor him a little. Sir, my service to you. (Drinks.) Hastings. (Aside.) I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and forgets that he's an innkeeper, before he has learned to be a gentleman. Marlow. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in this part of the county. Warm work, now and then, at elections, I suppose. Hardcastle. No, sir, I have long given that work over. Since our betters have hit upon the expedient of electing each other, there is no business l for us that sell ale.' Hastings. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I find. Hardcastle. Not in the least. There was a time, indeed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of govern- ment, like other people ; but, finding myself every day grow more angry, and the government growing no bet- ter, I left it to mend itself. Since that, I no more trouble my head about Hyder Ally, or Ally Cawn, than about Ally Croaker. Sir, my service to you. Hastings. So that with eating above stairs and drinking below, with receiving your friends within and 296 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. amusing them without, you lead a good, pleasant, bust- ling life of it. Hardcastle. I do stir about a great deal, that's cer- tain. Half the differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlor. Marlow. (After drinking.) And you have an ar- gument in your cup, old gentleman, better than any in Westminster-hall. Hardcastle. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy. Marlow. (Aside.) Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an innkeeper's philosphy. Hastings. So, then, like an experienced general, you attack them on every quarter. If you find their reason manageable, you attack it with your philosophy ; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with this. Here 's your health, my philosopher. (Drinks.) Hardcastle. Good, very good, thank you ; ha ! ha ! ha ! Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hear. Marlow. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I believe it 's almost time to talk about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for supper ? Hardcastle. For supper, sir ! (Adde.) Was ever such a request to a man in his own house ! Marlow. Yes, sir, supper, sir ; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you. Hardcastle. (Aside.) Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. ( To him.) W r hy, really sir, as for supper SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 297 I can 't well tell. My Dorothy and the cook-maid settle these things between them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them. Marlow. You do, do you ? Hardcastle. Entirely. By the by, I believe they are in actual consultation upon what 's for supper this mo- ment in the kitchen. Marlow. Then I beg they '11 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 oifence, I hope, sir. Hardcastle. 0, no, sir, none in the least; yet I don't know now, our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very com- municative upon these occasions. Should we send for her, she might scold us all out of the house. Hastings. Let 's see your list of the larder, then. I ask it as a favor. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare. Marlow. ( To Hardcastle, who looks at them with sur- prise.') Sir, he 's very right, and it 's my way, too. Hardcastle. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's sup- per; I believe it 's drawn out. — Your manner, Mr. Has- tings, 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. Enter Roger. Hastings. (Aside.) All upon the high rope ! His uncle a colonel! we shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of the peace. But let 's hear the bill of fare. Marlow. (Perusing.) What's here? For the first 298 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. course ; for the second course ; for the dessert. The devil, sir, do you think we have brought down the whole Joiners' Company, or the Corporation of Bed- ford, to eat up such a supper ? Two or three little things, clean and comfortable, will do. Hastings. But let's hear it. Marloiv. {Reading.) £ For the first course, — at the top a pig, and pruin-sauce.' Hastings. Damn } T our pig, I say. Marlow. And damn your pruin-sauce, say I. Hardcastle. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig with pruin-sauce is very good eating. Marloiv. 'At the bottom a calf's tongue and brains.' Hastings. Let your brains be knocked out, my good sir, I don't lik^ them. Marlow. Or you may clap them on a plate by them- selves. Hardcastle. {Aside.) Their impudence confounds me. {To them.) Gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations }^ou please. Is there anything else you wish to retrench, or alter, gentlemen ? Marlow. c Item : A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and sausages, a Florentine, a shaking pudding, and a dish of tiff — taif — taffety cream ! ' Hastings. Confound your made dishes ; I shall be as much at a loss in this house as at a green and yellow dinner at the French ambassador's table. I'm for plain eating. Hardcastle. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have no- thing you like ; but if there be any thing you have a particular fancy to SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 299 Marlow. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as an- other. Send us what you please. So much for sup- per. And now to see that our beds are aired, and pro- perly taken care of. Hardcastle. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not stir a step. Marlow. Leave that to you ! I protest, sir, you must excuse me : I always look to these things myself. Hardcastle. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself easy on that head. Marlow. You see I'm resolved on it. (Aside.) A very troublesome fellow this, as ever I met with. Hardcastle. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to at- tend you. (Aside.) This may be modern modesty, but I never saw any thing look so like old-fashioned impudence. \_Exeunt Marlow and. Hardcastle. Hastings. (Alone.) So I find this fellow's civil- ities begin to grow troublesome. But who can be an- gry 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 Neville. My dear Hastings ! To what unex- pected good fortune — to what accident, am I to as- cribe this happy meeting ? Hastings. Rather let me ask the same question, as I could never have hoped to meet my dearest Con- stance at an inn. Miss Neville. An inn 1 sure you mistake : my aunt, my guardian, lives here. • What could induce you to think this house an inn ? 300 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Hastings. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with whom I came down, and I, have been sent here as to an inn, I assure you. A young fellow whom we accidentally met at a house hard by, directed us hither. Miss Neville. Certainly it must be one of my hope- ful cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard me talk so often ; ha ! ha ! ha ! Hastings. He whom your aunt intends for you ? he of whom I have such just apprehensions? Miss Neville. You have nothing to fear from him, I assure you. You'd adore him if you knew how heartily he despises me. My aunt knows it too, and has undertaken to court me for him, and actually be- gins to think she has made a conquest. Hastings. Thou dear dissembler ! You must know, my Constance, I have just seized this happy opportu- nity of my friend's visit here to get admittance into the family. The horses that carried us down are now fatigued with their journey, but they'll soon be re- freshed ; and, then, if my dearest girl will trust in her faithful Hastings, we shall soon be landed in France, where even among the slaves the laws of marriage are respected. Miss Neville. I have often told you, that though ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little fortune be- hind with reluctance. The greatest part of it was left me by my uncle, the India director, and chiefly consists in jewels. I have been for some time persuading my aunt to let me wear them. I fancy I'm very near succeed- ing. The instant they are put into my possession, you shall find me ready to make them and myself yours. Hastings. Perish the baubles ! Your person is all SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 301 I desire. In the meantime, my friend Marlow must not be let into his mistake. I know the strange re- serve of his temper is such, that if abruptly informed of it, he would instantly quit the house before our plan was ripe for execution. Miss Neville. 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. Marlow. The assiduities of these good people tease me beyond bearing. My host seems to think it ill manners to leave me alone, and so he claps not only him- self, but his old-fashioned wife on my back. They talk of coming to sup with us too ; and then, I suppose, we are to run the gauntlet through all the rest of the fam- ily. What have we got here ? Hastings. My dear Charles ! Let me congratulate you — The most fortunate accident I — Who do you think is just alighted ? Marlow. Cannot guess. Hastings. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle and Miss Neville. Give me leave to introduce Miss Con- stance Neville to your acquaintance. Happening to dine in the neighborhood, they called on their return to take fresh horses here. Miss Hardcastle has just stept into the next room, and will be back in an instant. Was n't it lucky ? eh ! Marlow. (Aside.) I have been mortified enough of all conscience, and here comes something to complete my embarrassment. 26 302 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Hastings. Well, but was n't it the most fortunate thing in the world ? Marlow. Oh, yes. Very fortunate — a most joyful encounter. But our dresses, George, you know, are in disorder — What if we should postpone the happi- ness till to-morrow ? — to-morrow at her own house — It will be every bit as convenient — and rather more respectful — To-morrow let it be. [ Offering to go. Hastings. By no means, sir. Your ceremony will displease her. The disorder of your dress will show the ardor of your impatience. Besides, she knows you are in the house, and will permit you to see her. Marlow. Oh, the devil ! How shall I support it ? — Hem ! hem ! Hastings you must not go. You are to assist me, you know. I shall be confoundedly ridic- ulous. Yet hang it ! I'll take courage. Hem ! Hastings. Pshaw, man ! it's but the first plunge, and all's over. She's but a women, you know. Marlow. And of all women, she that I dread most to encounter. Enter Miss Hardcastle, as returned from walking. Hastings. {Introducing them.) Miss Hardcastle, Mr. Marlow, I'm proud of bringing two persons of such merit together, that only want to know, to esteem each other. Miss Hardcastle. {Aside.) Now for meeting my modest gentleman with a demure face, and quite in his own manner. {After a pause, in which he appears very uneasy and disconcerted.) I'm glad of your safe arrival, sir. I'm told you had some accidents by the way. Marlow. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 303 Yes, madam, a good many accidents, but should be sorry — madam — or rather glad of any accidents — that are so agreeably concluded. Hem ! Hastings. {To him.) You never spoke better in your whole life. Keep it up, and I '11 insure you the vic- tory. Miss Hardcastle. I 'm afraid you flatter, sir. You that have seen so much of the finest company, can find little entertainment in an obscure corner of the country. Marlow. { Gathering courage^) I have lived, indeed, in the world, madam ; but I have kept very little com- pany. I have been but an observer upon life, madam, while others were enjoying it. Miss Neville. But that, I am told, is the way to enjoy it at last. Hastings. {To him.) Cicero never spoke better. Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance for ever. Marlow. {To him.) Hem ! stand by me then, and when I'm down, throw in a word or two to set me up again. Miss Hardcastle. An observer, like you, upon life, were, I fear, disagreeably employed, since you must have had much more to censure than to approve. Marlow. Pardon me, madam. I was always will- ing to be amused. The folly of most people is rather an object of mirth than uneasiness. Hastings. {To him.) Bravo, bravo. Never spoke so well in your whole life. Well, Miss Hardcastle, I see that you and Mr. Marlow are going to be very good compan} 7 . I believe our being here will but embarrass the interview. 304 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Marloiv. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We like your company of all things. (To him.) Zounds, George, sure you won't go ? how can you leave us ? Hastings. Our presence will but spoil conversation, so we '11 retire to the next room. (To him.) You do n't consider, man, that we are to manage a little tete-a-tete of our own. [Exeunt* Miss Hardcastle. (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 ad- dresses. Marlow. (Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon me, madam, I — I — I — as yet have studied — only — to — deserve them. Miss Hardcastle. And that, some say, is the very worst way to obtain them. Marlow. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to con- verse only with the more grave and sensible part of the sex — -But I 'm afraid I grow tiresome. Miss Hardcastle. Not at all, sir ; there is nothing I like so much as grave conversation myself ; I could hear it for ever. Indeed I have often been surprised how a man of sentiment could ever admire those light, airy pleasures, where nothing reaches the heart. Marlow. It 's —a disease of the mind, madam, in the variety of tastes there must be some who, want- ing a relish for urn — u — urn — Miss Hardcastle. I understand you, sir. There must be some who, wanting a relish for refined pleasures, pretend to despise what they are incapable of tast- ing. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 305 Marloiv. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better expressed. And I can 't help observing — — a Miss Hardcastle. {Aside.) Who could ever suppose this fellow impudent upon some occasions! {To him.') You were going to observe, sir, Marloiv. I was observing, madam, — I protest, mad- am, I forget what I was going to observe. Miss Hardcastle. {Aside.) I vow and so do I. {To him.) You were observing, sir, that in this age of hy- pocrisy, — something about hypocrisy, sir. Marlow. Yes, madam. In this age of hypocrisy there are few who, upon strict inquiry, do not — a — a Miss Hardcastle. I understand you perfectly, sir. Marlow. {Aside.) Egad! and that 's more than I do myself. Miss Hardcastle. You mean that, in this hypocritical age, there are a few who do not condemn in public what they practice in private, and think they pay every debt to virtue when they praise it. Marloiv. True, madam ; those who have most virtue in their mouths have least of it in their bosoms. But I 'm sure I tire you, madam. Miss Hardcastle. Not in the least, sir; there's some- thing so agreeable and spirited in your manner, such life and force, — pray, sir, go on. Marloiv. Yes, madam, I was saying that there are some occasions — when a total want of courage, mad- am, destroys all the and puts us upon a — a — a Miss Hardcastle. I agree with you entirely; a wan- 26* 306 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. of courage upon some occasions, assumes the appear- ance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most want to excel. I beg you '11 proceed. Marlow. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, madam — but I see Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. I would not intrude for the world. Miss Hardcadle. I protest, sir, I never was more agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray go on. Marloiv. Yes, madam, I was But she beckons us to join her. Madam, shall I do myself the honor to attend you ? Hiss Hardcastle. Well, then, I '11 follow. Marlow. (Aside.) This pretty smooth dialogue has done for me. \_Exit. Miss Hardcaatle. (Alone.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! Was there ever such a sober, sentimental interview ? I 'm certain he scarce looked in my face the whole time. Yet the fellow, but for his unaccountable bashfulness, is pretty well too. He has good sense, but then so buried in his fears, that it fatigues one more than ignorance. If I could teach him a little confidence, it would be doing somebody that I know of a piece of service. But who is that somebody. That, faith, is a question I can scarce answer. \_Exit. Enter Tony and Miss Neville, followed by Mrs. Hard- castle and Hastings. Tony. What do you follow me for, cousin Con ? I wonder you 're not ashamed to be so very engaging. Miss Neville. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one's own relations, and not be to blame. SHE STOOPS TO COXQUER, 307 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 '11 keep your dis- tance — I want no nearer relationship. \_Slie follows, coquetting him to the hack scene. Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I vow, Mr. Hastings, you are very entertaining. There 's nothing in the world I love to talk of so much as London, and the fashions ; though I was never there myself. Hastings. Never there ! You amaze me ! From your air and manner, I concluded you had been bred all your life either at Ranelagh, St. James's or Tower Wharf. Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, sir, you 're only pleased to say so. We country persons can have no manner at all. I 'in in love with the town, and that serves to raise me above some of our neighboring rustics ; but who can have a manner, that has never seen the Pantheon, the Grotto Gardens, the Borough, and such places, where the nobility chiefly resort? All I can do is to enjoy London at second-hand. I take care to know every tete-a-tete from the Scandalous Magazine, and have all the fashions, as they come out, in a letter from the two Miss Rickets of Crooked Lane. Pray, how do you like this head, Mr. Hastings ? Hastings. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon my word, madam. Your friseur is a Frenchman, I sup- pose ? Mrs. Hardcastle. I protest, I dressed it myself from a print in the Ladies' Memorandum-book for the last year. Hastings. Indeed ! Such a head in a side-box at the 308 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. play-house, would draw as many gazers as my Lady Mayoress at a city ball. Mrs. Hardcastle. I vow, since inoculation began, there is no such thing to be seen as a jjlain woman ; so one must dress a little particular, or one may escape in the crowd. Hastings. But that can never be your case, madam, in any dress. (Sowing.) Mrs. Hardcastle. Yet what signifies my dressing, when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side as Mr. Hardcastle ? all I can say will never argue down a single button from his clothes. I have often wanted him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and where he was bald, to plaster it over, like my Lord Pately, with powder. Hastings. You are right, madam ; for, as among the ladies there are none ugly, so among the men there are none old. Mrs. Hardcastle. But what do you think his answer was ? Why, with his usual Gothic vivacity, he said I only wanted him to throw off his wig to convert it into a tete for my own wearing. Hastings. Intolerable ! At your age you may wear what you please, and it must become you. Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you take to be the most fashionable age about town ? Hasting*. Some time ago, forty was all the mode ; but I'm told the ladies intend to bring up fifty for the ensuing winter. Mrs. Hardcastle. Seriously ? Then I shall be too young for the fashion. Hastings. No lady begins now to put on jewels till SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 309 she's past forty. For instance, miss there, in a polite circle, would be considered as a child — a mere maker of samplers. Mrs. Hardcastle. And yet, my niece thinks herself as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels, as the old- est of us all. Hastings. Your niece, is she ? And that young gentleman — a brother of yours, I should presume ? Mrs. Hardcastle. My son, sir. They are contracted to each other. Observe their little sports. They fall in and out ten times a-day, as if they were man and wife already. {To them.) Well, Tony, child, what soft things are you saying to your cousin Constance this even in ^ ? Tony. I have been saying no soft things ; but that it's very hard to be followed about so. Ecod ! I've not a place in the house now that's left to myself, but the stable. Mrs. Hardcastle. Never mind him, Con, my dear : he's in another story behind your back. Miss Neville. There's something generous in my cousin's manner. He falls out before faces, to be for- given in private. Tony. That's a damned confounded — crack. Mrs. Hardcastle. Ah ! he's a sly one. Do n't you think they're like each other about the mouth, Mr. Hastings ? The Blenkinsop mouth to a T. They're of a size, too. Back to back, my pretties, that Mr. Hastings may see you. Come, Tony. Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell you. {Measuring.) Miss Neville. lud ! he has almost cracked my head. 310 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, the monster ! for shame, Tony. You a man, and behave so ! Tony. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin. Ecocl, I'll not be made a fool of no longer. Mrs. Hardcastle. Is this, ungrateful boy. all that I'm to get for the pains I have taken in your educa- tion ? I that have rocked you in your cradle, and fed that pretty mouth with a spoon ? Did not I work that waistcoat to make you genteel ? Did not I prescribe for you every day, arid weep while the receipt was operating ? Tony. Ecod ! you had reason to weep, for you have been dosing me eyer since I was born. I have gone through every receipt in the Complete Housewife ten times over ; and you have thoughts of coursing me through Quincey next spring. But, Ecod ! I tell you, I'll not be made a fool of no longer. Mrs. Hardcastle. Was n't it all for your good, viper ? "Was n't it all for your good ? Tony. I wish you'd let me and my wood alone, then. Snubbing this way when I'm in spirits ! If I'm to have any good, let it come of itself ; not to keep dinging it, dinging it into one so. Mrs. Hardcastle. That's false ; I never see you when you're in spirits. No, Tony, you then go to the ale- house or kennel. I'm never to be delighted with your agreeable wild notes, unfeeling monster ! Tony. Ecod ! mamma, your own notes are the wildest of the two. Mrs. Hardcastle. Was ever the like ? But I see he wants to break my heart; I see he does. Hastings. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 31 1 young gentleman a little. I'm certain I can persuade him to his duty. Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I must retire. Come, Con- stance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the wretched- ness of my situation : was ever poor woman so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, undutiful boy ! [Exeunt Mrs. Hardcastle and Miss Neville. Tony. ( Singing. ) There was a young man riding by, And fain would have his will. Rang do didlo dee. m Do n't mind her. Let her cry. It's the comfort of her heart. I have seen her and sister cry over a book for an hour together ; and they said they liked the book the better the more it made them cry. Hastings. Then you're no friend to the ladies, I find, my pretty young gentleman ? Tony. That's as I find 'urn. Hastings. Not to hear of your mother's choosing I dare answer ? And yet she appears to me a pretty, well-tempered girl. Tony. That's because you don't know her as well as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her ; and there's not a more bitter cantanckerous toad in all Christendom. Hastings. {Aside.) Pretty encouragement for a ]over. 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. Hastings. To me she appears sensible and silent. 312 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Tony. Ay, before company. But when she's with her playmates, she's as loud as a hog in a gate. Hastings. But there is a meek modesty about her that charms me. Tony. Yes, but curb her never so little, she kicks up, and you're flung in a ditch. Hastings. Well, but you must allow her a little beauty. Yes, you must allow her some beauty. Tony. Bandbox ! She's all a made-up thing, mun. Ah ! could you but see Bet Bouncer of these parts, you might then talk of beauty. Ecod ! she has two eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and red as a pulpit cushion. She'd make two of she. Hastings. Well, what say you to a friend that would take this bitter bargain off your hands ? Tony. Anan ! Hastings. Would you thank him that would take Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and your dear Betsey ? Tony. Ay ; but where is there such a friend — for who would take her ? Hastings. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll en- gage to whip her off to France, and you shall never hear more of her. Tony. Assist you ! Ecod I will to the last drop of my blood. I'll clap a pair of horses to your chaise that shall trundle you off in a twinkling, and may be get you a part of her fortin besides, in jewels, that you little dream of. Hastings. My dear Squire, this looks like a lad of spirit. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 313 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 THIRD. Enter Hardcastle. Hardcastle. What could my old friend Sir Charles mean by recommending his son as the modestest young man in town ? To me he appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. He has taken possession of the easy chair by the fire-side al- ready. He took off his boots in the parlor, and de- sired me to see them taken care of. I'm desirous to know how his impudence affects my daughter. She will certainly be shocked at it. Enter Miss Hardcastle, plainly dressed. Hardcastle. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed your dress, as I bid you ; and yet, I believe, there was no great occasion. Miss Hardcastle. I find such a pleasure, sir, in obeying your commands, that I take care to observe them without ever debating their propriety. Hardcastle. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you 27 314 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. some cause, particularly when I recommended my modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day. Miss Hardcastle. You taught me to expect some- thing extraordinary, and I find the original exceeds the description. Hardcastle. I was never so surprised in my life ! He has quite confounded all my faculties. Miss Hardcastle. I never saw anything like it ; and a man of the world, too ! Hardcastle. 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 mas- querade. Miss Hardcastle. It seems all natural to him. Hardcastle. A good deal assisted by bad company and a French dancing-master. Miss Hardcastle. Sure you mistake, papa. A French dancing-master could never have taught him that timid look — that awkward address — that bashful manner. Hardcastle. Whose look ? whose manner, child ? Miss Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow's : his mauvaise honte, his timidity, struck me at the first sight. Hardcastle. Then your first sight deceived you : for I think him one of the most brazen first sights that ever astonished my senses. Miss Hardcastle. Sure, sir, you rally ! I never saw any one so modost. Hardcastle. And can you be serious ? I never saw such a bouncing, swaggering puppy since I was born. Bully Dawson was but a fool to him. Mi---s Hardcastle. Surprising ! He met me with a re- SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 315 spectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look fixed on the ground. * Hardcastle. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly- air, and a familiarity that made my blood freeze again. Miss Hardcastle. He treated me with diffidence and respect ; censured the manners of the age ; admired the prudence of girls that never laughed, tired me with apologies for being tiresome, then left the room with a bow and ' Madam, I would not for the world detain you.' Hardcastle. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his life before, asked twenty questions, and never waited for an answer, interrupted my best remarks with some silly pun, and when I was in my best story of the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, he asked if I had not a good hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your father if he was a maker of punch. Miss Hardcastle. One of us must certainly be mis- taken. Hardcastle. If he be what he has shown himself, I'm determined he shall never have my consent. Miss Hardcastle. And if he be the sullen thing I take him, he shall never have mine. Hardcastle. In one thing, then, we are agreed — to reject him. Miss Hardcastle. Yes — but upon conditions. For if you should find him less impudent, and I more presuming ; if you find him more respectful, and I more importunate — I do n't know — the fellow is well enough for a man — certainly we don't meet many such at a horse-race in the country. Hardcastle. If we should find him so But that's 316 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. impossible. The first appearance has done my busi- ness. I'm seldom deceived in that. Miss Hardcastle. And yet there may be many good qualities under that first appearance. Hardcastle. 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 Hardcastle. I hope, sir, a conversation begun with a compliment to my good sense, won't end with a sneer at my understanding ! Hardcastle. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. Brazen can find the art of reconciling contradictions, he may jDlease us both, perhaps. Miss Hardcastle. And as one of us must be mis- taken, what if we go to make farther discoveries ? Hardcastle. Agreed. But depend on't, I'm in the right. Miss Hardcastle. And, depend on't, I'm not much in the wrong. [Exeunt. Enter Tony, running in with a casket. Tony. Ecod! I have got them. Here they are. My cousin Con's necklaces, bobs and all. My mother shan't cheat the poor souls out of their fortin neither. my genus, is that you ? Enter Hastings. Hastings. My dear friend, how have you managed with your mother ? I hoj^e you have amused her with pretending love for your cousin, and that you are will- SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 317 ing to be reconciled at last ? Our horses will be re- freshed in a short time, and we shall soon be ready to set off. Tony. And here's something to bear your charges by the way — {giving the casket) — yOur sweetheart's jewels. Keep them ; and hang those, I say, that would rob you of one of them. Hastings. But how have you procured them from your mother ? Tony. Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no fibs. I procured them by the rule of thumb. If I had not a key to every draw in my mother's bureau, how could I go to the alehouse so often as I do ? An hon- est man may rob himself of his own at any time. Hastings. Thousands do it every day. But, to be plain with you, Miss Neville is endeavoring to procure them from her aunt this very instant. If she succeeds, it will be the most delicate way, at least, of obtaining them. Tony. Well, keep them, until you know how it will be. But I know how it will be well enough, — she'd as soon part with the only sound tooth in her head. Hastings. But I dread the effects of her resentment when she finds she has lost them. Tony. Never you mind her resentment ; leave me to manage that. I don't value her resentment the bounce of a cracker,, Zounds ! here they are. Mor- rice ! Prance ! '[Exit Hastings. Tony,- Mrs. Hardcastle, and Miss Neville. Mrs. Hardcastle. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. Such a girl as you want jewels ! It will be time enough 27* 318 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence, when your beauty begins to want repairs. Miss Neville. But what will repair beauty at forty, will certainly improve it at twenty, madam. Mrs. Hardcastle. Yours, my dear, can admit of 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 Killdaylight, and Mrs. Crump, and the rest of them, carry their jewels to town, and bring nothing but paste and marcasites back ? Miss Neville. But who knows, madam, but some- body that shall be nameless would like me best with all my little finery about me ? Mrs. Hardcastle. Consult your glass, my dear, and then see if, with such a pair of eyes, you want any better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, my dear ? Does your cousin Con want any jewels in your eyes to set off her beauty ? Tony. That's as hereafter may be. Miss Neville. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would oblige me. Mrs. Hardcastle. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and table-cut things. They would make you look like the court of King Solomon at a puppet-show. Besides, I believe I can't readily come at them. They may be missing for aught I know to the contrary. Tony. {Apart to Mrs. Hardcastle.} Then why don't you tell her so at once, as she's so longing for them ? Tell her they're lost. It's the only way to quiet her. Say they're lost, and call me to bear witness. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 319 Mrs. Hardcastle. {Apart to Tony.) You know, my dear, I'm only keeping them for you. So if I say they are gone, you'll bear me witness, will you ? He ! he ! he ! Tony. Never fear me. Ecod ! I'll say I saw them taken out with my own eyes. Miss Neville. I desire them but for a day, madam — just to be permitted to show them as relics, and then they may be locked up again. Mrs. Hardcastle. To be plain with you, my dear Constance, if I could find them you should have them. They are missing, I assure you. Lost, for aught I know ; but we must have patience, wherever they are. Miss Neville. I'll not believe it ; this is but a shallow pretence to deny me. I know they are too valuable to be so slightly kept, and as you are to answer for the loss — Mrs. Hardcastle. Do n't be alarmed, Constance. If they be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But my son knows they are missing, and not to be found. Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are miss- ing, and not to be found ; I'll take my oath on't. Mrs. Hardcastle. You must learn resignation, my dear ; for though we lose our fortune, yet we should not lose our patience. See me, how calm I am. Miss Neville. Ay, people are generally calm at the misfortunes of others. Mrs. Hardcastle. Now, I wonder a girl of your good sense should waste a thought upon such trunuDery. We shall soon find them ; and in the mean time you shall make use of my garnets till your jewels be found. Miss Neville. I detest garnets. 320 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Mrs. Hardcastle. The most becoming things in the world to set off a clear complexion. You have often seen how well they look upon me. You shall have them. \_Exit. Miss Neville. I dislike them of all things. You shan't stir. Was ever any thing so provoking, to mis- lay my own jewels and force me to wear her trumpery ? Tony. Do n't be a fool. If she gives you the gar- nets take what you can get. The jewels are your own already. I have stolen them out of her bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your spark ; he '11 tell you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her. Miss Neville. My dear cousin ? Tony. Vanish. She 's here, and has missed them already. \_Exit Miss Neville.'] Zounds ! how she fidgets and spits about like a Catharine wheel. Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. Mrs. Hardcastle. Confusion ! thieves ! robbers ! we are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone. Tony. What 's the matter, what 's the matter, mam- ma ? I hope nothing has happened to any of the good family ? Mrs. Hardcastle. We are robbed. My bureau has been broken open, the jewels taken out, and I 'm un- done. Tony. Oh! is that all? Ha! ha! ha! By the laws I never saw it better acted in my life. Ecod, I thought yo\x was ruined in earnest, ha ! ha ! ha ! Mrs. Hardcastle. Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest. My bureau has been broken open, and all taken away. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 321 Tony. Stick to that, ha! ha! ha ! stick to that. I '11 bear witness, you know ! call me to bear witness. Mrs. Hardcastle. I tell you, Tony, by all that 's pre- cious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined forever. Tony. Sure I know they are gone, and I am to say so. Mrs. Hardcastle. My dearest Tony, but hear me. They 're gone, I say. Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to laugh, ha ! ha ! I know who took them well enough, ha ! ha ! ha ! Mrs. Hardcastle. Was there ever such a blockhead, that can 't tell the difference between jest and earnest ! I can tell you I 'm not in jest, booby. Tony. That 's right, that 's right ; you must be in a bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect either of us. I '11 bear witness that they are gone. Mrs. Hardcastle. Was there ever such a cross-grain- ed 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. Hardcastle. Bear witness again, you block- head, you, and I '11 turn you out of the room directly. My poor niece, what will become of her ? Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my distress ? Tony. I can bear witness to that. Mrs. Hardcastle. Do you insult me, monster. I '11 teach you to vex your mother, I will. Tony. I can bear witness to that. {He rims off. she follows Mm.) 322 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Enter Miss Hardcastle and Maid. Miss Hardcastle. What an unaccountable creature is that brother of mine, to send them to the house as an inn ; ha ! ha ! I do n't wonder at his impudence. Maid. But what is more, madam, the young gentle- man, as you passed by in your present dress, asked me if you were the bar-maid. He mistook you for the bar-maid, madam ! Miss Hardcastle. Did he ? Then, as I live, I 'm resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, how do you like my present dress ? Do n't you think I look something like Cherry in the Beaux' Stratagem. Maid. It 's the dre ss,madam, that every lady wears in the country, but when she visits or receives com- pany. Miss Hardcastle. And are you' sure he does not re- member my face or person ? Maid. Certain of it. Miss Hardcastle. I vow I thought so ; for though we spoke for some time together, yet his fears were such that he never once looked up during the interview. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would have kept him from seeing me. Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him in his mistake ? Miss Hardcastle. In the first place, I shall be seen, and that is no small advantage to a girl who brings her face to market. Then I shall perhaps make an acquaint- ance, and that 's no small victory gained over one who never addresses any but the wildest of her sex. But my chief aim is to take my gentleman off his guard, SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 323 and like an invisible champion of romance, examine the giant's force before I offer to combat. Maid. But are jou sure you can act your part, and disguise your voice so that he may mistake that, as he has already mistaken your person ? Miss Hardcastle. Never fear me. I think I have got the true bar cant — Did your honor call ? — Attend the Lion there. — Pipes and tobacco for the Angel. — The Lamb has been outrageous this half hour. Maid. It will do, madam. But he's here. [Exit Maid. Enter Marlow. Marlow. What a bawling in every part of the house. I have scarce a moment's repose. If I go to the best room, there I find my host and his story ; if I fly to the gallery, there we have my hostess with her courtesy down to the ground. I have at last a moment to my- self, and now for recollection. [ Walks and muses. Miss Hardcastle. Did you call, sir? Did your honor call ? Marlow. (Musing.) As for Miss Hardcastle, she's too grave and sentimental for me. Miss Hardcastle. Did your honor call ? \_She still places herself before him he turning away. Marlow. No, child. (Musing.) Besides, from the glimpse I had of her, I think she squints. Miss Hardcastle. I 'm sure, sir, I heard the bell ring. Marlow. No, No. (Musing.) I have pleased my father, however, by coming down, and I'll to-morrow 324 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. please myself by returning. ( Taking out his tablet* and perusing.) Miss Hardcastle. Perhaps the other gentleman called, sir. Marlow. I tell you no. Miss Hardcastle. I should be glad to know, sir ; we have such a parcel of servants. Marlow. 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 Hardcastle. la, sir, you'll make one ashamed. Marlow. 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 Hardcastle. No, sir, we have been out of that these ten days. Marlow. One may call in this house, I find, to very little purpose. Suppose I should call for a taste, just by way of trial, of the nectar of your lips, perhaps I might be disappointed in that too. Miss Hardcastle. Nectar ! nectar ! That's a liquor there's no call for in these parts. French, I suppose. We keep no French wines here, sir. Marloio. Of true English growth, I assure you. Miss Hardcastle. Then it's odd I should not know it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I have lived here these eighteen years. Marlow. Eighteen years ! Why,one would think,child, you kept the bar before you were born. How old are you? Miss Hardcastle. Oh, sir, I must not tell my age. They say women and music should never be dated. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 325 Marlow. To guess at this distance, you can't be much above forty. {Approaching). Yet nearer, I do n't think so much. (Approaching.) By coming close to some women, they look j^ounger still ; but when we come very close indeed — {Attempting to kiss her.) Miss Hardcastle. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One would think you wanted to know one's age as they do horses, by mark of mouth. Marlow. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill. If you keep me at this distance, how is it possible you and I can ever be acquainted ? Miss Hardcastle. And who wants to be acquainted with you ? I want no such acquaintance, not I. I'm sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle, that was here a while ago, in this obstopalous manner. I'll warrant me, before her you looked dashed, and kept bowing to the ground, and talked, for all the world, as if you were before a justice of the peace. Marlow. (Aside.) Egad, she has hit it, sure enough ! ( To her.) In awe of her, child ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! A mere awkward, squinting thing ! No, no. I find you do n't know me. I laughed and rallied her a little ; but I was unwilling to be too severe. No, I could not be too severe, curse me ! Miss Hardcastle. Oh, then, sir, you are a favorite, I find, among the ladies? Marlow. Yes, my dear, a great favorite. And yet, hang me, I do n'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.) 28 326 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Miss Hardcastle. Hold, sir, you are introducing me to your club, not to yourself. And you 're so great a favorite there, you say? Marlow. Yes, my dear. There 's Mrs. Mantrap, Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo,' Mrs. Langhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your humble servant, keep up the spirit of the place. Miss Hardcastle. Then it 's a very merry place, I suppose ? Marlow. Yes, as merry as cards, suppers, wine, and old women can make us. Miss Hardcastle. And their agreeable Rattle, ha ! ha! ha! Marlow. (Aside.) Egad ! I don't quite like this chit. She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, child ? Miss Hardcastle. I can't but laugh to think what time they all have for minding their work, or their family. Marlow. (Aside.) All 's well ; she don't laugh at me. (To her.) Do you ever work, child? Miss Hardcastle. Aye, sure. There 's not a screen or a quilt in the whole house but what can bear witness to that. Marlow. Odso ! then you must show me your em- broidery. 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 Hardcastle. Ay, but the colors do n't look well by candle-light. You shall see all in the morn- ing. (Struggling.) Marlow. And why not now, my angel ? Such beauty SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 327 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. 1 * [Exit Marlow. Enter Hardcastle, who stands in surprise. Hardcastle. So, madam. So I find this is your modest lover. This is your humble admirer, that kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only adored at hum- ble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not ashamed to deceive your father so ? Miss Hardcastle. Never trust me, dear papa, but he 's still the modest man I first took him for ; you '11 be convinced of it as well as I. Hardcastle. By the hand of my body, I believe his impudence is infectious ! Did n't I see him seize your hand ? Did n't I see him hawl you about like a milk- maid? And now you talk of his respect and his modesty, forsooth ! Miss Hardcastle. But if I shortly convince you of his modesty, that he has only the faults that will pass off with time, and the virtues that will improve with age, I hope you'll forgive him. Hardcastle. The girl would actually make one run mad ! I tell you I'll not be convinced. I am convinced. He has scarcely been three hours in the house, and he has already encroached on all my prerogatives. You * Ames ace, or ambs ace, is two aces thrown at the same time on two dice. As seven is the main, to throw ames ace thrice running, when the player nicks, that is, hazards his money on seven, is singu- larly bad luck. 328 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. may like his impudence, and call it modesty ; but my son- in-law, madam, must have very different qualifications. Miss Hardcastle. Sir, I ask but this night to con- vince you. Hardcastle. You shall not have half the time, for I have thoughts of turning him out this very hour. Miss Hardcastle. Give me that hour, then, and I hope to satisfy you. Ilardcastle. Well, an hour let it be then. But I'll have no trifling with your father. All fair and open ; do you mind me ? Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, you have ever found that I considered your commands as my pride ; for your kindness is such, that my duty as yet has been inclina- tion. \_Exeunt. ACT FOURTH. Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. Hastings. You surprise me; Sir Charles Marlow expected here this night ! Where have you had your information ? Miss Neville. You may depend upon it. I just saw his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells him he intends setting out in a few hours after his son. Hastings. Then, my Constance, all must be com- pleted before he arrives. He knows me ; and should he find me here, would discover my name, and, per- haps, my designs, to the rest of the family. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 329 Miss Neville. The jewels, I hope, are safe ? Hastings. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Marlow, who keeps the keys of our baggage. In the mean time, I'll go to prepare matters for our elopement. I have had the Squire's promise of a fresh pair of horses ; and if I should not see him again, will write him further directions. [Exit. Miss Neville. Well, success attend you ! In the mean time, I'll go amuse my aunt with the old pre- tence of a violent passion for my cousin. \_Exit. Enter Marlow, followed by a Servant. Marloic. 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 ? Servant. Yes, your honor. Marloiv. She said she'd keep it safe, did she ? Servant. Yes ; she said she'd keep it safe enough. She asked me how I came by it ; and she said she had a great mind to make me give an account of myself. \_Exit Servant. Marlow. Ha! ha! ha! They're safe, however. What an unaccountable set of beings have we got amongst! This little btar-maid, though, runs in my mind most strangely, and drives out the absurdities of all the rest of the family. She's mine, she must be mine, or I'm greatly mistaken. 28* 330 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Enter Hastings. Hastings. Bless Hie ! I quite forgot to tell her that I intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. Marlow here, and in spirits too ! Marlow. Give nie joy, George ! Crown me, shadow me with laurels : Well, George, after all, we modest fellows don't want for success among the women. Hastings. Some women, you mean. But what suc- cess has your honor's modesty been crowned with now, that it grews so insolent upon us ? Marlow. Did n't you see the tempting, brisk, love- ly, little thing, that runs about the house with a bunch of keys to its girdle ? Hastings. Well, and what then ? Marlow. She's mine, you rogue, you. Such fire, such motion, such eyes, such lips — but, egad! she would not let me kiss them though. Hastings. But are you so sure, so very sure of her? Marlow. Why, man, she talked of showing me her work above stairs, and I am to approve the pattern. Hastings. But how can you, Charles, go about to rob a woman of her honor ? Marlow. Pshaw ! pshaw ! We all know the honor of the bar-maid of an inn. I do n't intend to rob her, take my word for it ; there's nothing in this house I shan't honestly pay for. Hastings. I believe the girl has virtue. Marlow. And if she has, I should be the last man in the world that would attempt to corrupt it. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 331 Hastings. You have taken care, I hope, of the casket I sent you to lock up ? It's in safety ? Marlow. Yes, yes ; it's safe enough. I have taken care of it. But how could you. think the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door a place of safety ? Ah ! numscull ! I have taken better precautions for you than you did for yourself — I have — Hastings. What ? Marlow* I have sent it to the landlady to keep for you. Hastings. To the landlady ! Marlow. The landlady. Marlow. You did ? Marlow. I did. She's to be answerable for its forth- coming, you kuow. Hastings. Yes, she'll bring it forth with a witness. Marlow. Was n't I right ? I believe you'll allow that I acted prudently upon this occasion. Hastings. (Aside.) He must not see my uneasiness. Marlow. You seem a little disconcerted though, methinks. Sure nothing has happened ? Hastings. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits in all my life. And so you left it with the landlady, who, no doubt, very readily undertook the charge. Marlow. Rather too readily ; for she not only kept the casket, but, through her great precaution, was going to keep the messenger too. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Hastings. He ! he ! he ! They're safe, however. Marlow. As a guinea in a miser's purse. Hastings. (Aside.) So now all hopes of fortune are at an end, and we must set off without it. (To him.) 332 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Well, Charles, I'll leave you to your meditations on the jjretty bar-maid, and, he ! he ! he ! may you be as successful for yourself as you have been for me ! [Exit Marlow. Thank ye, George ; I ask no more. — Ha ! ha ! ha ) Enter Hardcastle. Hardcastle. I no longer know my own house. It's turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got drunk already. I'll bear it no longer ; and yet, from my respect for his father, I'll be calm. (To him.) Mr. Marlow, your servant. I'm your very humble servant. (Bowing low.) Marlow. Sir, your humble servant. (Aside.) What is to be the wonder now ? Hardcastle. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, sir, that no man alive ought to be more welcome than your father's son, sir. I hope you think so? Marlow. I do from my soul, sir. I don't want much entreaty. I generally make my father's son welcome wherever he goes. Hardcastle. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. But though I say nothing to your own conduct, that of your servants is insufferable. Their manner of drink- ing is setting a very bad example in this house, I assure you. Marlow. I protest, my very good sir, that is no fault of mine. If they do n't drink as they ought, they are to blame. I ordered them not to spare the cellar. I did, I assure you. (To the side-scene.) Here, let one of my servants come up. (To him.) My positive SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 338 directions were, that as I did not drink myself, they should make up for my deficiencies below. Hardcastle. Then they had your orders for what they do ? I'm satisfied ! Marlow. They had, I assure you. You shall hear it from one of themselves. Enter Servant, drunk. Marlow. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, sirrah ! What were my orders ? Were you not told to drink freelv, and call for what you thought fit, for the good of the house ? Hardcastle. (Aside.) I begin to lose my patience. Jeremy. Please your honor, liberty and Fleet-street forever ! Though I'm but a servant, I'm as good as another man. I'll drink for no man before supper, sir, damme ! Good liquor will sit upon a good supper, but a good supper will not sit upon hiccup my conscience, sir. \_Exit. Marlow. You see my old friend, the fellow is as drunk as he can possibly be. I do n't know what you'd have more, unless you'd have the poor devil soused in a beer barrel. Hardcastle. Zounds, he'll drive me distracted, if I contain myself any longer ! Mr. Marlow ; sir, I have submitted to your insolence for more than four hours, and I see no likelihood of its coming to an end. I'm now resolved to be master here, sir, and I desire that you and your drunken pack may leave my house directly. Marlow. Leave your house ! — Sure, you jest, my good friend ? What ! when I am doing what I can to please you. 334 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, you do n't please ; so I desire you will leave my house. Marlow. Sure you cannot be serious ? at this time of night, and such a night ? You only mean to banter me. Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, I'm serious ! and now that my passions are roused, I say this house is mine, and I command you to leave it directly. Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A puddle in a storm. I shan't stir a step, I assure you. (In a serious tone.) This your house, fellow ! It's my house. This 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. Hardcastle. Nor I, confound me if ever I did ! To come to my house, to call for what he likes, to turn me out of my own chair, to insult the family, to order his servants to get drunk, and then to tell me, " This house is mine, sir ! " By all that's impudent, it makes me laugh. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Pray, sir, {bantering) as you take the house, what think you of taking the rest of the furniture ? There's a pair of silver candle-sticks, and there's a fire-screen, and here's a pair of brazen-nosed bellows ; perhaps you may take a fancy to them ? Marlow. Bring me your bill, sir ; bring me your bill, and let's make no more words about it. Hardcastle. There are a set of prints, too. What think you of the Rake's Progress for your own apart- ment ? Meirlow. Bring me your bill, I say, and I'll leave you and your infernal house directly. SHi S TO CONQUER. 335 H . there's a mahogany table that you iace in. bill, I say. I had forgot the great chair for your ar slumbers, after a hearty meal. rluow. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, and let's 10 more on't. rdcastle. Young man, young man, from your er's letter to me, I was taught to expect a well- modest man as a visitor here, but now I find him tter than a coxcomb and a bully ! but he will be here presently, and shall hear more of it. [Exit. rlow. How's this ! Sure I have not mistaken )use. Everything looks like an inn ; the servants >ming ; the attendance is awkward ; the bar-maid, ) attend us. But she's here, and will further in- me. Whither so fast, child ? A word with you. Enter Miss Hardcastle. ss Hardcastle. Let it be short, then. I'm in a (Aside.) I believe he begins to find out his ke. But it's too soon quite to undeceive him. rlow. Pray, child, answer me one question. are you, and what may your business in this be ? is Hardcastle. A relation of the family, sir. rlow. What, a poor relation ? is Hardcastle. Yes, sir, a poor relation, appointed p the keys, and to see that the guests want nothing power to give them. rlow. That is, you act as the bar-maid of this inn. 336 SHE STOOPS 1 Miss Hardcastle. Inn ! la hat brought that into your head ? One of the best In the county keep an inn! — Ha! ha! ha! o;d Mr. Hardeastle's house, an inn ! Marlow. Mr. Hardcastle's house ! ard- castle's house, child! Miss Hardcastle. Ay, sure. Whose els Marlow. So, then, all's out, and I hav nably imposed upon. Oh, confound my stu d. T shall be laughed at over the whole town ! i sh stuck up in caricature in all the print-shops. Dullissimo-Maccaroni. To mistake this house >f others for an inn, and my father's old friend for a keeper ! What a swaggering puppy must he ta. for ! What a silly puppy do I find myself ! 1 again, may I be hanged, my dear, but I mistool for the bar-maid. Miss Hardcastle. Dear me ! dear me ! I'm there's nothing in my behavior to put me upon a with one of that stamp. Marlow. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I ^ for a list of blunders, and could not help making j subscriber. My stupidity saw everything the \\ way. I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and simplicity for allurement. But it's over — this 1 I no more show my face in. Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, I have done not to disoblige you. I'm sure I should be sorry to afl >i any gentleman who has been so polite, and said so n civil things to me. I'm sure I should, be sorry ( tending to cry) if he left the family on my accc SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 337 I'm sure I should be sorry people said anything amiss, since I have no fortune but my character. Marlow. (Aside.) By Heaven ! she weeps. This is the first mark of tenderness I ever had from a modest woman, and it touches me. (To her.) Excuse me, my lovely girl ; you are the only part of the family I leave with reluctance. But, to be plain with you, the difference of our birth, fortune, and education, make an honorable connection impossible ; and I can never harbor a thought of seducing simplicity that trusted in my honor, of bringing ruin upon one whose only fault was being too lovely. Miss Hardcastle. (Aside.) Generous man ! I now begin to admire him. (To him.) But I am sure my family is as good as Miss Hardcastle's ; and though I'm poor, that's no great misfortune to a contented mind; and until this moment, I never thought that it was bad to want fortune. Marlow. And why now, my pretty simplicity ? Miss Hardcastle. Because it puts me at a distance from one, that if I had a thousand pounds, I would give it all to. Marlow. (Aside.) This simplicity bewitches me so, that if I stay, I'm undone. I must make one bold effort and leave her. (To her.) Your partiality in my favor, my dear, touches me most sensibly ; and were I to live for myself alone, I could easily fix my choice. But I owe too much to the opinion of the world, too much to the authority of a father ; so that — I can speak it — it affects me. — Farewell. \_Exit. Miss Hardcastle. I never knew half his merit till 29 338 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. now. He shall not go if I have power or art to detain him. I'll still preserve the character in which I stooped to conquer, but will undeceive my papa, who, perhaps, may laugh him out of his resolution. \_Exit. Enter Tony and Miss Neville. Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next time. I have done my duty. She has got the jewels again, that's a sure thing ; but she believes it was all a mistake of the servants. Miss Neville. 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 damned bad things. But what can I do ? I have got you a pair of horses that will fly like Whistle Jacket ; and I'm sure you can't say but I have courted you nicely before 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. Hardcastle. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to be sure, but my son tells me it was all a mistake of the servants. I shan't be easy, however, till they are fairly married, and then let her keep her own fortune. But what do I see ? fondling together, as I'm alive. I never saw Tony so sprightly before. Ah ! have I caught you, my pretty doves ? Wh,at, billing, exchang- ing glances, and broken murmurs ? Ah ! Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 339 now and then, to be sure ; but there's no love lost be- tween us. Mrs. Hardcastle. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the flame, only to make it burn brighter. Miss Neville. Cousin Tony promises us to give us more of his company at home. Indeed, he shan't leave us any more. It won't leave us, cousin Tony, will it ? Tony. Oh, it's a pretty creature. No, I'd sooner leave my horse in a pound, than leave you when you smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you so becom- ing. Miss Neville. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help ad- miring that natural humor, that pleasant, broad, red, thoughtless {patting his cheek). — ah! it's a bold face! 3Irs. Hardcastle. Pretty innocence. Tony. I'm sure I always loved cousin Con's hazel eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she twists this way and that over haspicholls, like a parcel of bobbins. Mrs. Hardcastle. Ah ! he would charm the bird from the tree. I was never so happy before. My boy takes after his father, poor Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. The jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours incontinently. You shall have them. Isn't he a sweet boy, my dear. You shall be married to-morrow, and we'll put off the rest of his education, like Dr. Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter opportunity. Enter Diggory. Diggory. Where's the Squire ? I have got a letter for your worship. Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my letters first. 340 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Diggory. I had orders to deliver it into your own hands. Tony. Who does it come from ? Diggory. Your worship mun ask that o' the letter itself. Tony. I could wish to know though. ( Turning the letter, and gazing on it.) Miss Neville. (Aside.) Undone ! undone ! A letter to him from Hastings : I know the hand. If my aunt sees it, we are ruined forever. I '11 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 know, madam — This way a little, for he must not hear us. (They confer.) Tony. (Still gazing.) A damned cramp piece of pen- manship as ever I saw in my life. I can read your print-hand very well; but here there are such handles, and shanks, and dashes that one can scarce tell the head from the tail. "To Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire." It's very odd, I can read the outside of my letters, where my own name is, well enough. But when I come to open it, it 's all — buzz. That 's hard — very hard ; for the inside of the letter is always the cream of the cor- respondence. Mrs. Hardcastle. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Very well, very well. And so my son was too hard for the philosopher ? Miss Neville. Yes, madam ; but you must hear the rest, madam. A little more this way, or he may hear us. You '11 hear how he puzzled him again. Mrs. Hardcastle. He seems strangely puzzled now himself, methinks. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 341 Tony. {Still gazing) A damned up-and-down hand, as if it was disguised in liquor. (Reading) " Dear Sir," — Ay, that 's that. Then there 's an M, and a T, and an S, but whether the next be an izzard or an R, confound me I cannot tell. Mrs. Hardcastle. What 's that, my dear ; can I give you any assistance ? Miss Neville. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody reads a cramp hand better than T. ( Twitching the letter from him.) Do you know who it is from ? Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the feeder. Miss Neville. Ay, so it is ; ('pretending to read ) Dear Squire, hoping that you 're in health, as I am at this present. The gentlemen of the Shake Bag Club has cut the gentlemen of the Goose Green quite out of feather. The odds — um — odd battle — um — long — fighting — um — here, here, it 's all about cocks and fighting ; it 's of no consequence — here, put it up, put it up. ( Thrust- ing the crumpled letter upon him.) Tony. But I tell you, miss, it be conse- quence in the world. I would not lose t: rest of it for a guinea. Here, mother, do y u ma] > it < at. Of no consequence! [Giving Mrs. Hardcastle \e letter. Mrs. Hardcastle. How's this? (Reads) "Be« c Squire, 1 7 m now waiting for Miss Neville laise and pair, at the bottom of the garden ay horses yet unable to perform the journey. I expect you '11 assist us with a pair of fresh horses, as you promised. Despatch is necessary, as the hag" — ay, the hag — "your mother, will otherwise suspect us. Yours, 29* 342 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Hastings." Grant me patience. I shall run distracted! My rage chokes me ! Miss Neville. I hope, madam, you '11 suspend your resentment for a few moments, and not impute to me any impertinence, or sinister design, that belongs to another. Mrs. Hardcastle. ( Courtesying very lotv) Fine spoken madam, you are most miraculously polite and engaging, and quite the very pink of courtesy and circumspection, madam. ( Changing her tone) And you, you great ill- fashioned oaf, with scarce sense enough to keep your mouth shut, — were you too joined against me ? But I'll 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 '11 warrant me. You too, sir, may mount your horse, and guard us upon the way. — Here, Thomas, Roger, Diggory ! — I '11 show you that I wish you better than you do yourselves. [Exit. Miss Neville. So, now I 'm completely ruined. Tony. Ay, that 's a sure thing. Miss Neville. What better could be expected from being connected with such a stupid fool, and after all the nods and signs I made him. Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own clever- ness, and not my stupidity, that did your business ! You were so nice and so busy with your Shake Bags and Goose Greens that I thought you could never be making believe. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 343 Enter Hastings. Hastings. So, sir, I find by my servant that you have shown my letter, and betrayed us. Was this well done, young gentleman ? Tony. Here 's another. Ask miss, there, who be- trayed you. Ecod ! it was her doing, not mine. Enter Mario to. Marlow. So, I have been finely used here among you. Rendered contemptible, driven into ill-manners, despised, insulted, laughed at. Tony. Here 's another. We shall have all Bedlam broke loose presently. Miss Neville. And there, sir, is the gentleman to whom we all owe every obligation. Marlow. What can I say to him? — a mere boy, — an idiot, — whose ignorance and age are a protec- tion. Hastings. A poor, contemptible booby, that would but disgrace correction. Miss Neville. Yet with cunning and malice enough to make himself merry with all our embarrassments. Hastings. An insensible cub. Marlow. Replete with tricks and mischief. Tony. Baw ! damme, but I '11 fight you both, one after the other — with baskets. Marlow. As for him, he 's below resentment. But your conduct, Mr. Hastings, requires an explanation. You knew of my mistakes, yet would not undeceive me. 344 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Hastings. Tortured as 1 am with my own disappoint- ments, is this a time for explanations ? It is not friendly, Mr. Marlow. Marlow. But, sir Miss Neville. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your mistake, till it was too late to undeceive you. Be pacified. Enter Servant. Servant. My mistress desires you '11 get ready imme- diately, madam. The horses are putting-to. Your hat and things are in the next room. We are to go thirty miles before morning. [Exit Servant. Miss Neville. Well, well, I '11 come presently. Marlow. {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. Hastings. Was it well done, sir, if you 're upon that subject, to deliver what I entrusted to yourself, to the care of another, sir ! Miss Neville. Mr. Hastings ! Mr. Marlow ! Why will you increase my distress by this groundless dispute ? I implore — I entreat you Enter Servant. Servant. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is impa- tient. [Exit Servant. Miss Neville. I come. Pray, be pacified. If I leave you thus, I shall die with apprehension. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 345 Enter Servant. Servant. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. The horses are waiting. .[Exit Servant. Miss Neville. Oh, Mr. Marlow, if you knew what a scene of constraint and ill-nature lies before me, I am sure it would convert your resentment into pity. Marlow. I 'm so distracted with a variety of passions that I do n't know what I do. Forgive me, madam. George, forgive me. You know my hasty temper, and should not exasperate it. Hastings. The torture of my situation is my only excuse. Miss Neville. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have that esteem for me that I think, — that I am sure you have, your constancy for three years will but increase the happiness of our future connection. If Mrs. Hardcastle. {Within.) Miss Neville! Con- stance, why, Constance, I say. Miss Neville. I 'm coming ! Well, constancy, remem- ber, constancy is the word. [Exit. Hastings. My heart ! how can I support this ? To be so near happiness, and such happiness ! Marlow. {To- Tony.) You see now, young gentle- man, the effects of your folly. What might be amuse- ment to you, is here disappointment, and even distress. Tony. {From a reverie.) Ecod, I have hit it : it 's here ! Your ha:\ds. Yours, and yours, my poor Sulky. My boots there, no ! — Meet me, two hours hence, at the bottom of the garden; and if you do n't find Tony Lump- kin a more good-natured fellow than you thought for, I '11 346 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. give you leave to take my best horse, and Bet Bouncer into the bargain. Come along. My boots, ho ! \_Exeunt. ACT FIFTH. Enter Hastings and Servant. Hastings. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville drive off, you say ? Servant. Yes, your honor. They went off in a post-coach, and the young Squire went on horseback. They 're thirty miles off by this time. Hastings. Then all my hopes are over ! Servant. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He and the old gentleman of the house have been laughing at Mr. Marlow's mistake this half hour. They are coming this way. \_Exit. Hastings. Then I must not be seen. So now to my fruitless appointment at the bottom of the garden. This is about the time. \_Exit. Enter Sir Charles Marlow and Hardcastle. Hardcastle. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The peremptory tone in which he sent forth his sublime commands ! Sir Charles. And the reserve with which I suppose he treated all your advances. Hardcastle. And yet he might have seen something in me above a common innkeeper, too. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 347 Sir Charles. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an un- common innkeeper ; ha ! ha ! ha ! Hardcastle. "Well, I 'm in too good spirits to think of anything but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union of our families will make our personal friendships hereditary, and though my daughter's fortune is but small Sir Charles. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune to me ? My son is possessed of more than a competence al- ready, and can want nothing but a good and virtuous girl to share his happiness and increase it. If they like each other, as you say they do Hardcastle. If, man ! I tell you they do like each oth- er My daughter as good as told me so. Sir Charles. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, you know. Hardcastle. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest manner, myself ; and here he comes to put you out of your ifs, I warrant him. Enter Marlow. Marlow. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon for my strange conduct, I can scarce reflect on my insolence without confusion. Hardcastle. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too grave- ly An hour or two's laughing with my daughter, will set all to rights again. She '11 never like you the worse for it. Marlow. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation. Hardcastle. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. Mar- low; if I am not deceived, you have something more than approbation thereabouts. You take me ! 348 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Marlow. Really, sir, I have not that happiness. Hardcastle. Come, hoy, 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. Marlow. Sure, sir, nothing has past between us but the most profound respect on my side, and the most distant reserve on hers. You don't think, sir, that my impudence has been past upon all the rest of the family. Hardcastle. Impudence ! No, I don't say that — not quite impudence — though girls like to be plaved with, and rumpled a little, too, sometimes. But she has told no tales, I assure you. Marlow. I never gave her the slightest cause. Hardcastle. Well, well, I like modesty in its place well enough ; but this is over-acting, young gentleman. You may be open. Your father and I will like you the better for it. Marlow. May I die, sir, if I ever Hardcastle. I tell you she don't dislike you ; and as I am sure you like her Marlow. Dear sir, I protest, sir Hardcastle. I see no reason why you should not be joined as fast as the parson can tie you. Marlow. But hear me, sir Hardcastle. Your father approves the match, I ad- mire it ; every moment's delay will be doing mischief, so Marlow. But why don't you hear me ? By all that's just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle the slight- est mark of my attachment, or even the most distant hint to suspect me of affection. "We had but one inter- view, and that was formal, modest, and uninteresting. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 349 Hardcastle. (Aside.) This fellow's formal, modest impudence is beyond bearing. Sir Charles. And you never grasped her hand, or made any protestations ? Marlow. As Heaven is my witness, I came down in obedience to your commands ; I saw the lady with- out emotion, and parted without reluctance. I hope you '11 exact no further proofs of my duty, nor prevent me from leaving a house in which I suffer so many mortifications. \_Exit. Sir Charles. I 'm astonished at the air of sincerity with which he parted. Hardcastle. And I 'm astonished at the deliberate intrepidity of his assurance. Sir Charles. I dare pledge my life and honor upon his truth. Hardcastle. Here comes my daughter, and I would stake my happiness upon her veracity. Enter Miss Hardcastle. Hardcastle. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us sincerely, and without reserve : has Mr. Marlow made you any professions of love and affection ? Miss Hardcastle. The question is very abrupt, sir. But since you require udreserved sincerity — I think he has. Hardcastle. {To Sir Charles) You see. Sir Charles. And, pray, madam, have you and my son had more than one interview ? Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, several. Hardcastle. (To Sir Charles) You see. 30 350 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Sir Charles. But did he profess any attachment ? Miss Hardcastle. A lasting one. Sir Charles. Did he talk of love ? Miss Hardcastle. Much, sir. Sir Charles. Amazing ! And all this formally ? Miss Hardcastle. Formally. Hardcastle. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied. Sir Charles. And how did he behave, madam ? Miss Hardcastle. As most professed admirers do ; said some civil things of my face ; talked much of his want of merit, and the greatness of mine ; mentioned his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with pretended rapture. Sir Charles. Now I'm perfectly convinced, indeed. I know his conversation among women to be modest and submissive. This forward, canting, ranting man- ner by no means describes him, and, I am confident, he never sat for the picture. Miss Hardcastle. Then what, sir, if I should con- vince you to your face of my sincerity ? If you and my jDapa, in about half an hour, will place yourselves behind that screen, you shall hear him declare his pas- sion to me in person. Sir Charles. Agreed. And if I find him what you describe, all my happiness in him must have an end. [Exit. Miss Hardcastle. And if you don't find him what I describe, I fear my happiness must never have a be- ginning. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 351 SCENE CHANGES TO THE BACK OF THE GARDEN. Enter Hastings. Hastings. What an idiot am I to wait here for a fellow who probably takes a delight in mortifying me. He never intended to be punctual, and I'll wait no longer. What do I see ? It is he ! and perhaps with news of my Constance. Enter Tony, booted and spattered. Hastings. My honest Squire ! I now find you a man of your word. This looks like friendship. Tony. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend you have in the world, if you knew but all. This riding by night, by the by, is cursedly tiresome. It has shook me worse than the basket of a stage-coach. Hastings. But how ? where did you leave your fel- low-travellers ? Are they in safety ? Are they housed ? Tony. Five-and-twenty miles in two hours and a half is no such bad driving. The poor beasts have smoked for it : rabbit me ! but I'd rather ride forty miles after a fox, than ten with such varmint. Hastings. Well, but where have you left the ladies ? I die with impatience. Tony. Left them ! Why, where should I leave them bat where I found them ? Hastings. This is a riddle. Tony. Kiddle me this, then. What's that goes round the house, and round the house, and never touches the house ? Hastings. I'm still astray. 352 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Tony. Why, that's it, mun. I have led them astray. By jingo, there's not a pond nor a slough within five miles of the place but they can tell the taste of. Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I understand : you took them in a round while they supposed themselves going forward, and so you have at last brought them home again. Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down Feather-bed Lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. I then rattled them crack over the stones of Up-and- down Hill. I then introduced them to the gibbet on Heavy-tree Heath ; and from that, with a circumbendi- bus, I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at the bot- tom of the garden. Hastings. But no accident, I hope ? Tony. No, no ; only mother is confoundedly fright- ened. She thinks herself forty miles off. She's sick of the journey ; and the cattle can scarce crawl. So, if your own horses be ready, you may whip off with cousin, and I'll be bound that no soul here can budge a foot to follow you. Hastings. My dear friend, how can I be gratef id ? 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 j^ou might go kiss the hangman. Hastings. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten to relieve Miss Neville : if you keep the old lady employed, I promise to take care of the young one. \_Exit Hastings. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 353 Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes ; vanish. She 's got from the pond, and draggled up to the waist like a mermaid. Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, Tony, I'm killed. Shook! Battered to death I I shall never survive it. That last jolt, that laid us against the quickset-hed^e, has done my business. Tony. Alack, mamma ! it was all your own fault. You would be for running away by night, without knowing one inch of the way. Mrs. Hardcastle. I wish we were at home again. I never met so many accidents in so short a journey. Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our way ! Whereabouts do you think we are, Tony ? Tony. By my guess, we should be upon Crack- skull Common, about forty miles from home. Mrs. Hardcastle. O lud ! lucl ! The most noto- rious spot in all the country. We only want a rob- bery to make a complete night on't. Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma ; don't be afraid. Two of the five that kept here are hanged, and the other three may not find us. Don't be afraid. — Is that a man that's galloping behind us. No, it's only a tree. — Don't be afraid. Mrs. Hardcastle. The fright will certainly kill me. Tony. Do you see anything like a black hat mov- ing behind the thicket ? Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, death ! 30* 354 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Tony. No ; it 's only a cow. Don't be afraid, mam- ma, don't be afraid. Mrs. Hardcastle. As I 'm alive, Tony, I see a man coming towards us. Ah, I am sure on 't. If he per- ceives us, we are undone. Tony. (A?ide.) Father-in-law, by all that's unlucky come to take one of his night walks. ( To her) Ah, it's a highwayman, with pistols as long as my arm. A damned ill-looking fellow ! Mrs. Hardcastle. Good Heaven, defend us ! He approaches. Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave me to manage him. If there be any danger, I'll cough, and cry hem. When I cough, be sure to keep close. \_Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind a tree in the back scene. Enter Hardcastle. Hardcastle. I 'm mistaken, or I heard voices of peo- ple in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you ? I did not expect you so soon back. Are your mother and her charge in safety ? Tony. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's. Hem. Mrs. Hardcastle. {From behind) Ah, death ! I find there 's danger. Hardcastle. Forty miles in three hours ; sure that's too much, my youngster. Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make short journeys, as they say. Hem. Mrs. Hardcastle. (From behind) Sure, he '11 do the dear boy no harm. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 355 Hardcastle. But I heard a voice here ; I should be glad to know from whence it came. Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I was saying that forty miles in four hours was very good going. Hem. As to be sure it was. Hem. I have got a sort of cold by being out in the air. We'll go in, if you please. Hem. Hardcastle. But if you talked to yourself, you did not answer yourself. I 'm certain I heard two voices, and am resolved (raising his voice) to find the other out. Mrs. Hardcastle. {From behind.) Oh ! he 's coming to find me out. Oh ! Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you ? Hem. I '11 lay down my life for the truth — hem — I '11 tell you all, sir. ^Detaining him. Hardcastle. I tell you I will not he detained. I in- sist on seeing. It 's in vain to expect I '11 believe you. Mrs. Hardcastle. {Running forward from behind.) lud ! he'll murder my poor boy, my darling ! Here, good gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my money, my life, but spare that young gentleman ; spare my child if you have any mercy. Hardcastle. My wife, as I 'm a Christian. From whence can she have come ? or what does she mean ? Mrs. Hardcastle. {Kneeling.) Take compassion on us, good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, our watches, all we have, but spare our lives. We will never bring you to justice ; indeed we won't, good Mr. Highwayman. Hardcastle. I believe the woman 's out of her senses. What, Dorothy, don't you know me ? 356 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEE. Mrs. Hardcastle. Mr. Hardcastle, as I 'm alive ! My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could have expected to meet you here, in this frightful place, so far from home ? What has brought vou to follow us ? Hardcastle. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your wits ? So far from home, when you are within forty yards of your own door! (7b 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. Hardcastle. Yes, I shall remember the horse- pond as long as I live ; I have caught my death in it. ( To Tony.) And is it to you, you graceless varlet, I owe all this ? I'll teach you to abuse }^our mother — I will. Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits on't. Mrs. Hardcastle. I '11 spoil you, I will. \_Follows him off the stage. Hardcastle. There 's morality, however, in his reply. \EaxL Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. Hastings. My dear Constance, why will you delibe- rate thus ? If we delay a moment, all is lost forever. Pluck up a little resolution, and we shall soon be out of the reach of her malignity. Miss Neville. I* find it impossible. My spirits are so sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that I am unable to face any new danger. Two or three years' patience will at last crown us with happiness. Hastings. Such a tedious delay is worse than incon- stancy. Let us fly, my charmer ! Let us date our SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 357 happiness from this very moment. Perish fortune, Love and content will increase what we possess beyond a monarch's revenue. Let me prevail ! Miss Neville. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence once more comes to my relief, and I will obey its dictates. In the moment of passion, fortune may be despised, but it ever produces a lasting repentance. I'm resolved to apply to Mr. Hardcastle's compassion and justice for redress. Hastings. But though he had the will, he has not the power, to relieve you. Miss Neville. But he has influence, and upon that I am resolved to rely. Hastings. I have no hopes. But, since you persist, I must reluctantly obey you. [Exeunt. i SCENE CHANGES. Enter Sir Charles Marlow and Miss Hardcastle. Sir Charles. What a situation am I in ! If what you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If what he says be true, I shall then lose one that, of all others, I most wished for a daughter. Miss Hardcastle. I am proud of your approbation ; and to show I merit it, if you place }^ourselves 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. Marlow. Though prepared for setting out, I come once 358 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. more to take leave : nor did I, till this moment, know the pain I feel in the separation. Miss Hardcastle. {In her own natural manner) I believe these sufferings cannot be very great, sir, which you can so easily remove. A day or two longer, per- haps, might lessen your uneasiness, by showing the little value of what you now think proper to regret. Marlow. {Aside) This girl every moment improves upon me. ( To her) It must not be, madam ; I have already trifled too long with my heart. My very pride begins to submit to my passion. The disparity of education and fortune, the anger of a parent, and the contempt of my equals, begin to lose their weight ; and nothing can restore me to myself but this painful effort of resolution. Miss Hardcastle. Then go, sir ; I '11 urge nothing more to detain you. Though my family be as good as hers you came down to visit, and my education, I hope, not inferior, what are these advantages without equal affluence? I must remain contented with the slight approbation of imputed merit ; I must have only the mockery of your addresses, while all your serious aims are fixed on fortune. Enter Hardcastle and Sir Charles Marlow, from behind. Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. Hardcastle. Ay, ay ; make no noise. I '11 engage my Kate covers him with confusion at last. Marlow. By Heaven ! madam, fortune was ever my smallest consideration. Your beauty at first caught my eye ; for w T ho could see that without emotion ? But every moment that I converse with you, steals in some new grace, heightens the picture, and gives it " Your beauty at first caught my eye ; for who could see that without emotion?" Page 358. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 359 stronger expression. What at first seemed rustic plain- ness, now appears refined simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, now strikes me as the result of courageous innocence and conscious virtue. Sir Charles. What can it mean ? He amazes me ! Hardcastle. I told you how it would be. Hush ! Marlow. I am now determined to stay, madam, and I have too good an opinion of my father's discernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approbation. Miss Hardcastle. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, can- not detain you. Do you think I could suffer a connec- tion in which there is the smallest room for repent- ance ? Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a transient passion to load you with confusion ? Do you think I could ever relish that happiness which was acquired by lessening yours ? Marloiv. By all that's good, I can have no happi- ness but what's in your power to grant me ! Nor shall I ever feel repentance but in not having seen your merits before. I will stay even contrary to your wishes ; and though you should persist to shun me, I will make my respectful assiduties atone for the levity of my past conduct. Miss Hardcastle. Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. As our acquaintance began, so let it end, in indiffer- ence. I might have given an hour or two to levity ; but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think I could ever submit to a connection where I must appear mercenary, and you imprudent ? Do you think I could ever catch at the confident addresses of a secure admirer. Marloiv. (Kneeling) Does this look like security ! 860 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Does this look like confidence ? No, madam, every moment that shows me your merit, only serves to in- crease my diffidence and confusion. Here let me con- tinue Sir Charles. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how hast thou deceived me ! Is this your in- difference, your uninteresting conversation ? Hardcastle. Your cold contempt : your formal inter- view ! What have } t ou to say now ? Marlow. That I'm all amazement ! What can it mean? Hardcastle. It means that you can sav and unsay things at pleasure ; that you can address a lady in private, and deny it in public ; that you have one story for us, and another for my daughter. Marlow. Daughter ! — This lady your daughter ? Hardcastle. Yes, sir, my only daughter — my Kate ; whose else should she be ? Marlow. Oh, the devil ! Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, that very identical tall, squinting lady you were pleased to take me for (courtesy- ing); she that you addressed as the mild, modest, senti- mental man of gravity, and the bold, forward, agree- able Rattle of the ladies' club. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Marlow. Zounds, there 's no bearing this ; it's worse than death ! Miss Hardcastle. In which of your characters, sir, will you give us leave to address you? As the falter- ing gentleman, which looks on the ground, that speaks, just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy ; or the loud, confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 361 and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morn- ing ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! Marlow. Oh, curse on my noisy head ! I never attempted to be impudent yet that I was not taken down. I must be gone. Hardcastle. By the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not stir, I tell you. I know she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate ? We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. [ They retire, she tormenting him to the back scene. Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Tony. Mrs. Hardcastle. So, so, they 're gone off. Let them go, I care not. Hardcastle. Who gone ? Mrs. Hardcastle. My dutiful niece and her gentle- man, Mr. Hastings, from town. He who came down with our modest visitor here. Sir Charles. Who, my honest George Hastings ? As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice. Hardcastle. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm proud of the connection. Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not taken her fortune ; that remains in this family to console us for her loss. Hardcastle. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary ? Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. Hardcastle. But you know if your son, when of 31 362 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. age, refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune is then at her own disposal. Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, but he's not of age, and she has not thought proper to wait for his refusal. Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. Mrs. Hardcastle. {Aside) What, returned so soon. I begin not to like it. Hastings. {To Hardcastle) For my late attempt to fly off with your niece, let my present confusion be my punishment. We are now come back, to appeal from your justice to your humanity. By her father's consent I first paid her my addresses, and our passions were first founded in duty. Miss Neville. Since his death, I have been obliged to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an hour of levity, I was ready even to give up my fortune to secure my choice : But I am now recovered from the delusion, and hope, from your tenderness, what is denied me from a nearer connection. Mrs. Hardcastle. Pshaw ! pshaw ; this is all but the whining end of a modern novel. Hardcastle. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand, whom I now offer you ? Tony. What signifies my refusing ? You know I can't refuse her till I'm of age, father. Hardcastle. While I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely to conduce to your improvement, I concurred with your mother's desire to keep it secret. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 363 But since I find she turns it to a wronaf use, I must now declare you have been of age these three months. Tony. Of age ! Am I of age, father ? Hardcastle. Above three months. Tony. Then you '11 see the first use I '11 make of my liberty. ( Taking Miss Neville's hand ) Witness all men, by these presents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, esquire, of blank place, refuse you, Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So Constance Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again. Sir Charles. brave Squire ! Hastings. My worthy friend ! Mrs. Hardcastle. My undutiful offspring! Marloio. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sin- cerely ! And, could I prevail upon my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest man alive, if you would return me the favor. Hastings. {To Miss Hardcastle) Come, madam, you are now driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm sure he loves you, and you must and shall have him. Hardcastle. {Joining their hands) And I say so, too. And, Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I do n't believe } r ou '11 ever re- pent your bargain. So now to supper. To-morrow we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us, and the mistakes of the night shall be crowned with a merry morning. So, boy, take her ; and as you have been mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that you may never be mistaken in the wife. [Exeunt Omnes. 364 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. EPILOGUE. BY DE. GOLDSMITH. SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY IN THE CHARACTER OF MISS HARDCASTLE. Well, haviDg stoop'd to conquer with success, And gain'd a husband without aid from dress, Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too, As I have conquer'd him to conquer you : And let me say, for all your resolution, That pretty bar-maids have done execution. Our life is all a play, composed to please ; 'We have our exits and our entrances.' The first act shows the simple country maid. Harmless and young, of everything afraid ; Blushes when hired, and, with unmeaning action, 'I hopes as how to give you satisfaction.' Her second act displays a livelier scene, — Th' unblushing bar-maid of a country inn, Who whisks about the house, at market caters, Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs ; On squires and cits she there displays her arts, And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts ; And, as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, E'en common-councilmen forget to eat. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 365 The fourth act shews her wedded to the squire, And madam now begins to hold it higher; Pretends to taste, at opera cries caro, And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che Faro : Doats upon dancing, and, in all her pride, Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside, Ogles and leers, with artificial skill, Till, having lost in age the power to kill, She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille. Such, through our lives, th' eventful history ! The fifth and last act still remains for me : The bar-maid now for your protection prays, Turns female Barrister, and pleads for Bays. 366 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. EPILOGUE* TO BE SPOKEN IN THE CHARACTER OF TONY LUMPKIN, BY J. CRADOCK, ESQ. Well, now all's ended, and my comrades gone, Pray what becomes of mother's nonly son ? A hopeful blade ! — in town I'll fix my station, And try to make a bluster in the nation : As for my cousin Neville, I renounce her — Off, in a crack, I'll carry big Bet Bouncer. Why should not I in the great world appear ? I soon shall have a thousand pounds a year ! No matter what a man may here inherit, In London — -gad, they've some regard to spirit. I see the horses prancing up the streets, And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets ; Then hoiks to jigs and pastimes every night — Not to the plays — they say it ain't polite : To Sadler's Wells, perhaps, or operas go, And once, by chance, to the roratorio. Thus, here and there, forever up and down; We'll set the fashions, too, to half the town ; And then at auctions — money ne'er regard — Buy pictures, like the great, ten pounds a-yard: Zounds ! we shall make these London gentry say, We know what's damn'd genteel as well , they! * This came too late to be spoken. 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 beats with anxiety studies ease and affects good-humor. 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 humor 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 be merry or sad on this solemn oc- casion. 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 laborers 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 embar- rassment, 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 book ; and a third is a dab at an index. Thus a magazine is not the result of any single 368 ESSAYS. man's industry, but goes through as many hands as a new pin, before it is fit for the public. I fancy, sir," con- tinues he, "I can provide 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- jDence in hand, and three shillings more in promises." 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 impossi- ble to form any regular plan ; determined never to be tedious in order to be logical ; wherever pleasure pre- sented, 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 inno- cence and ease, where every breeze breathes health, and every sound is but the echo of tranquility ! But whatever may be the merit of his intentions, every writer is now convinced that he must be chiefly indebted to good fortune for finding readers willing to allow him any degree of reputation. It has been re- marked, 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 circumstances in its favor. Had Caesar or Cromwell exchanged coun- tries, the one might have been a serjeant, and the other ESSAYS. 3m his friend and his mistress, but a prose I ■ ' ■' nmenced against him by the relations f H ' ing basely given up his bride, as was suo-o-ested, foi ey. His innocence of the crime laid to his charge, ai^: even his eloquence in his own de- fence, 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, Al- cander, with some other companions of distress, was car- ried into that region of desolation and sterility. His stated employment was to follow the herds of an imperi- ous 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 un- sheltered distress. After some years of bondage, how- ever, an opportunity of escaping offered ; he embraced it with ardor ; 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 for- um, whither our wanderer came, expecting to be instant- ly known, and publicly acknowledged by his former 32 374 ESSAYS. friend. Here he stood the wh igst the crowd, watching the eyes of the :pecting to be taken notice of, but he w; altered by a long succession of hardships, tr tinned unno- ticed amongst the rest ; and in vening, vhen he was going up to the praetor's ch itally re- pulsed by the attending lictors. n of the poor is driven from one ungrate ject tc 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 harbor so much wretched- ness ; and sleeping in the streets might be attended with interruption or danger ; in short, he was obliged to take up his lodgings in one of the tombs without the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty, and des- pair. In this mansion of horror, laying his head upon an inverted urn, he forgot his miseries for a while 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 dis- agree 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 inducing 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 were strong, and the wretchedness of his appearance confirmed suspicion. Misfortune and he were now so ESSAYS. 375 long acquainted, that he at last became regardless of life. He detested a world where he had found only ingrati- tude, 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 Sep- timius. 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 ignomini- ous death, when the attention of the multitude was soon diverted by another object. The robber, who had been really guilty, was apprehended selling his plun- der, and struck with a panic, had confessed his crime. He was brought bound to the same tribunal, and ac- quitted every other person of any partnership in his guilt. Alcancler's innocence therefore appeared ; but the sullen rashness of his 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 crim- inal. Septimius recollected his friend and former bene- factor, and hung upon his neck with tears of pity and joy. Need the sequel be related? — Alcander was ac- quitted, shared the friendship and honors of the prin- cipal citizens of Rome, lived afterwards in happiness and ease, and left it to be engraved 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, 376 ESSAYS. 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 awkard 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 contribue to sour our dispositions. My present enjoy- ments 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 Arm- strong's Last Good Night, or the Cruelty of Barbara Allen. Writers of every age have endeavored 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 procession : 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 ESSAYS. 377 have danced but that he wanted a leg, and appeared the merriest, happiest man of all the garrison. What a prac- tical philosopher was here ! a happy constitution sup- plied philosophy ; and though seemingly destitute of wisdom, he was really wise. No reading or study had contributed to disenchant the fairy-land about 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 everything appears in a pleasing light, will find something in every occurrence to excite their good-humor. The most calamitous events, either to themselves or others, can bring no new afflic- tion ; 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 ab- surdity of the scene, and make the humor more poign- ant. They feel, m 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 Ketz 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, where- ever 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 32* 378 ESSAYS. more favorable reception. If she too rejected his ad- dresses 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 as;ain. When fortune wore her angriest look, and he at last fell into the pow- er 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 in- finitely 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-humor, 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-humor 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 d6 not envy that felicity which is still going forward among those peo- ple, 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 but themselves. Whenever he fell ESSAYS. 379 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 Hiber- nian 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 de- gree, that all the intercession of friends in his favor was fruitless. The old gentleman was on his death-bed. The whole family, and Dick among the number, gath- ered around 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 Si- mon, my third son, to the care of his elder brother, and leave him beside four thousand pounds." — "Ah ! father," cried Simon, in great affliction 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 hal- ter." — "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 for- tune gave this thoughtless, imprudent creature. How- ever, the tenderness of an uncle recompensed the ne- glect of a father ; and my friend is now not only ex- cessively good-humored, but competently rich. Yes, let the world cry out at a bankrupt who ap{)ears 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 380 ESSAYS. good humor in spite of scandal ; but such is the wisest behavior that any of us can possibly assume. It is certainly a better way to oppose calamity by dissipa- tion, than to take up the arms of reason or resolution to oppose it ; by the first method, we forget our miser- ies ; by the last, we only conceal them from others : by struggling with misfortunes, 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 be- lieve in Tom Brown's works), that, let a man's char- acter, sentiments, or complexion, be what they will, he can find company in London to match them. If he be 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 be 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 Hum- drum club in Ivy-lane ; and, if actually mad, he may find very good company in Moorfields, either at Bed- lam or the Foundry, ready to cultivate a nearer ac- quaintance. 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 dfficult. With regard to myself, ESSAYS. 381 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 en- rolled in societies, lodges, convocations, and meetings, without number. To some I was introduced by a friend, to others invited by an advertisement ; to these I introduced myself, and to those I changed my name to gain admittance. In short, no coquette was ever more solicitous to match her ribands to her complex- ion, 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- humor, 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 with- out farther ceremony to the members, who were already assembled, and had, for some time, begun upon busi- ness. 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 tlj.e rest of man- kind. I expected to see the lines of every face mark- ed with stroug thinking ; but, though I had some skill in this science, I could for my life discover 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 382 ESSAYS. off to a nicety, for Mr. Spriggins was going to give us Mad Tom in all its glory. Mr. Spriggins endeavored to excuse himself ; for, as he was to act a madman and a king, it was impossible to go through the part prop- erly without a crown and chains. His excuses were overruled by a great majority, and with much vocif- eration. The president ordered up the jack-chain ; and, instead of a crown, our performer 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 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 ; how- ever, not to seem an odd fish, I 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 ardor of my approba- tion ; and whispering told me I had suffered an im- mense loss ; for, had I come a few minutes sooner, I might have heard Geeho Dobbin sung in a tiptop man- ner, by the pimpled-nose spirit at the president's right elbow ; but he was evaporated before I came. As I was expressing my uneasiness at this disappoint- ment, 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 humors of Teague and Taffy ; after that came an Old Jackson, with a story between every stanza : ESSAYS. 383 next was sung the Dust-Cart, and then Solomon's Soug. 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 jolate 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 company that the reckoning was drunk out. Rabelais calls the moments in which a reckoning is mentioned, the most melancholy of our lives : never was so much noise so quickly quelled, as by this short but j)athetic 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 ! imjjossible ! " The landlord, however, seeming re- solved not to retreat from his first assurances, the com- pany was dissolved, and a president chosen for the night ensuing. 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 : be- sides, 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 384 ESSAYS. 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 ; not indeed to the company, for, though I made my best bow, they seemed insensible of my ap- proach ; 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 j>rofound silence, each with a pipe in his mouth and a pewter pot in his hand, and with faces that might easily be construed into ab- solute wisdom. Happy society ! thought I to myself, where the members think before they speak, deliver nothing rashly, but convey their thoughts to each other pregnant with meaning, and matured by reflection. In this pleasing speculation I continued a full half hour, expecting each moment that somebody would be- gin 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 extremely ESSAYS. 385 good ; my neighbor 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 friend- ship w r hich every person commends in institutions of this nature. The landlord w r as himself founder. The money spent is fourpence each ; and they sometimes whip for a double reckoning. To this club few re- commendations 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 healths, snuffed the can- dles 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. Curry-comb-maker had not caught cold going home the last club-night ; and he returned the complement 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 with whom he 33 386 ESSAYS. could do anything. A gentleman in a black wig and leather breeches, at the other end of the table, was en- gaged 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 endeavoring to fasten on some luckless neighbor's ear, who was him- self bent 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 company. It may be neces- sary 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 dam- nable 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 walking upon the highway, I met a young damsel " — ''Then what brings you here? says the par- son to the ghost " — " Sanconiathon, Manetho, and ESSAYS. 387 Berosus " — " The whole way from Islington turnpike to Dog-house bar" — "Dam" — "As for Abel Drug- ger, sir, he's clamn'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" — " Damn if I do n't; for my friend, whom you know, gentlemen, and who is a par- liament man, a man of consequence, a dear honest creat- ure, 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 highway, 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 don't" — "Mr. Bellows-mender; I have the honor of drinking your very good health" — "Blast me if I do » _ « Dam " — " Blood " — " Bugs " — " Fire " — u Whiz "__u Blid »_« Tit »_« j> at »__« Trip "—The rest all riot, nonsense, and rapid confusion. Were I to be angry at men for being fools, I could here find ample room for declamation ; but alas ! I have been a fool myself ; and why should I be angry with them for being something so natural to every child of humanity ? Fatigued with this society, I was introduced, the fol- lowing night, to a club of fashion. On taking my 388 ESSAYS. 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, determined 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 delu- sion soon vanished, when the waiter came to apprize 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 confi- dence ; every creature strove who should most recom- mend himself to our members of distinction. Each seemed quite regardless of pleasing any but our new guests ; and what before wore the appearance of friend- ship, was now turned into rivalry. Yet I could not observe that, amidst all this flattery and obsequious attention, our great men took any no- tice of the rest of the company. Their whole dis- course 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 sta- ges 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." ESSAYS. 389 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 show the absurdity of the present mode of religion, and establish a new one in 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 observ- ing the laws, and 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 learn- ing and principles. " I. We, being a laudable society of moral philoso- phers, 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 so- ciety, 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. 33 # 390 ESSAYS. " III. That as members are sometimes apt to go away "without paying, every person shall pay sixpence upon his entering the room ; and all disputes shall be settled by a majority ; and all fines shall he paid in punch. " IV. That sixpence shall be every night given to the president, in order to buy books of learning for the good of the society ; the president has already put him- self to a good deal of expense in buying books for the club ; particularly the works of Tully, Socrates, 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 newspapers. " 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 ESSAYS. 391 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 mankind generally confer their favors, there appears something so attractive in riches, that the large heap generally collects from the smaller ; and the poor find 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 anything in this repugnant to the laws of humanity. Seneca himself allows, that, in confer- ring benefits, the present should alway? 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 experienced the truth of this doctrine ; and mast 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 is it 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 vounjj fellow, whom I knew, whenever he had occasion to ask his friend for a guinea, used to prelude his request as if he want- ed two hundred ; and talked so familiarly of large 392 ESSAYS. 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 be- fore 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 incompatible with each other ; and it is impossible that both can reside in any breast, for the smallest space, without impair- ing each other. Friendship is made up of esteem and pleasure ; 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 extraordinary 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 farth- ings, from others we give pounds : whatever be our feel- ings from the first impulse of distress, when the same ESSAYS. 393 distress solicits a second time we then feel with dimin- ished sensibility ; and, like the repetition of an echo, every stroke becomes weaker ; till, at last, our sensa- tions lose all mixture of sorrow, and degenerate 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 counting-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 prud- ence ; 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 af- fairs, 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 ad- dress 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 394 ESSAYS. 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 adven- turer was resolved to try another, who he knew was the very best firiend he had in the world. The gen- tleman whom he now addressed, received his proposal with all the affability that could be expected from gen- erous friendship. " Let me see, you want a hundred guineas : and pray, dear Jack, would not fifty an- swer?" — "If you have but fifty to spare, sir, I must be contented." — " Fifty to spare ! I did not say that, for I believe I have but twenty about me." — " Then I must borrow the other thirty from some other frieDd." — "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 no 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 ESSAYS. 395 a fortune in her own hands : and, as she had already made all the advances that her sex's modesty would IDermit, 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 neighborhood 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 jDawnbroker'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 lcsses, 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 with- out being attended to. He assured the company, that nothing procured so good an appetite as a walk in the Park, where he had been that morning. He went on, and praised the figure of the damask table-cloth ; talk- ed 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 fe.tches, he thought projDer, at last to retire, and mend his appetite by a second walk in the Park. You then, ye beggars of my aoquaintaince, wheth- 396 ESSAYS. er in rags or lace, whether in Kent street or the Mall, whether at the Smyrna or St. Giles's, might I be per- mitted to advise as a friend, never seem to want the favor which you solicit. Apply to every passion but human pity for redress ; you may find permanent re- lief 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 open- ed even by wisdom, is seldom expected to close with- out 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 ob- serve that Dr. Cheyne has prescribed peas-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 flimsv stuff in the midst of win- ter, 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, coax- ing, 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 circumstan- ESSAYS. 397 ces. To be poor, and to seem poor, is a certain meth- od 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 confu- sion of a request. His liberality also does not oblige more by its greatness, than by his inimitable 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 a conduct so seemingly incompatible with itself. There is greatness in being generous, and there is only simple justice in satisfying creditors. Generosity is the part of a soul raised above the vulvar. 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 vir- tue, 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 his creditors, who would be at the 34 398 ESSAYS. pains of telling it to the world ? Generosity is a vir- tue 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 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 im- petuosity 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 hesi- tating to the latter, for he demands as a favor 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 du- ties 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 shown to embrace all the virtues united. Justice may be denned, that virtue which impels us to give to every person what is his due. In this ex- tended 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 candor, fortitude, charity, and gene- ESSAYS. 399 rosity, 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, candor might become indiscretion, forti- tude obstinacy, charity imprudence, and generosity mistaken profusion. A disinterested action, if it be not conducted by jus- tice, is, at best, indifferent in its nature, and not unfre- quently even turns to vice. The expenses of society, of presents, of entertainments, and the other helps to cheerfulness, are actions merely indifferent, when not repugnant to a better method of disposing of our sup- erfluities ; but they become vicious when they obstruct or exhaust our abilities from a more virtuous disposi- tion of our circumstances. True generosity is a duty as indispensably necessary as those imposed upon us by law. It is a rule impos- ed on us by reason, which should be the sovereign law of a rational being. But this generosity does not con- sist m obeying every impulse of humanity in following blind passion for our guide, and impairing our circum- stances by present benefactions, so as to render us in- capable of future ones. Misers are grenerallv characterized as men without honor, or without humanity, who live only to accumu- late, and to this passion sacrifice every other happiness. They have been described as madmen, who, in the midst of abundance, banish every pleasure, and make, from imaginary wants, real necessities. But few, -very few, correspond to tins exaggerated picture ; and, per haps, there is not one in whom all these circumstances are found united. Instead of this, we find the sober 400 ESSAYS. and the industrious branded by the vain and the idle with this odious appellation ; men who, by frugality and labor, raise themselves above their equals, and con- tribute 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 general, these close men are found at last the true benefactors of society. With an avaric- ious man we seldom lose in our dealings, but too fre- quently in our commerce with prodigality. A French priest, whose name was Codinot, went for a long time by the name of the Griper. He refused to relieve the most apparent wretchedness, and by a skil- ful management of his vineyard, had the good fortune to acquire immense sums of money. The inhabitants of Rheims, 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, particular- ly in having no water but what they were obliged to buy at an advanced price ; wherefore, that whole for- tune 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 in- come in charity every day at his door. Amono; men long conversant with books, we too fre- quently find those misplaced virtues, of which I have been now complaining. We find the studious animated with a strong passion for the great virtues, as they are mistakingly called, and utterly forgetful of the ordinary ESSAYS. 401 ones. The declamations of philosophy are generally rather exhausted on those supererogatory duties, than on such as are indispensably necessary. A man, there- fore, who has taken his ideas of mankind from study alone, generally comes into the world with a heart melting of every fictitious distress. Thus he is in- duced, 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 jou, 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 pos- sibly be a rogue ; and, while you are unjust in reward- ing uncertain merit, you are doubly guilty by stripping yourself." ON THE EDUCATION OE YOUTH. As few subjects are more interesting to society, so few have been more 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 man- ner. 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 subject, instead of indulging each his particular and 34* * 402 ESSAYS. whimsical systems, it had been much better if the writers on this subject had treated it in a more scientific man- ner, repressed all the sallies of imagination, and given us the result of their observations with didactic sim- plicity. 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 his 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 the errors which have been introduced by the admirers of novel- ty. 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 at- tended 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 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 vigor of, perhaps, the mind as well as the body. It may be thought whimsical, but it is truth ; I have found by ESSAYS. 403 experience, that they, who have spent all their lives in cities, contract not only an effiminancy of habit, but even of thinking. But when I have 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 imjiiossible to conceive the ignorance of those who take upon them the important trust of edu- cation. Is any man unfit for any of the professions, he finds his last resource in setting up a school. Do any 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 bar- bers, who have turned school-masters ; and, more sur- prising 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, genius, and health, of those dear little pledges who may one day be the guardians o£ the liberties of Europe ; and who may serve as the honor and bulwark of their aged parents ? The care of our children, is it below the state ? Is it fit to indulge the caprice of the ignorant with the disposal of their chil- dren in this particular? For the state to take the charge of all its children, as in Persia or Sparta, might at present be inconvenient ; but surely, with great ease, it might cast an eye to their instructors. Of all pro- fessions in society, I do not know a more useful, or a more honorable one, than a school-master ; at the same time that I do not see any more generally despised, or whose talents are so ill rewarded. 404 ESSAYS. Were the salaries of schoolmasters to be augmented from a diminution of useless sinecures, how might it turn to the advantage 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 resjDectable 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 in- struct 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 ignor- ant 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 advertisement, 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 ESSAYS. 405 a slave,' says a philosopher to a rich man ; ' instead of one slave you will then have two.' 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 what- ever they are told to the contrary, the usher is gene- rally the person most employed in their education. 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 endeavors to please, they are generally the laughing-stock of the school. Every trick is played upon the usher : the od- dity of his manners, his dress, or his language, are a fund of external 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 prop- er person, is it not, to give children a relish for learn- ing ? 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 that his child will never be properly instructed. But let me suppose that there are some schools with- out these inconveniences, where the masters and ushers are men of learning, 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 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 406 ESSAYS. attends the commission, is a jnst picture of the great world ; and all the ways of men are practised in a pub- lic 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 irresistible 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 hard- ship, from their youth ; but Mr. Locke was but an in- different physician. Habit, I grant, has great influ- ence 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 con- stitutions, 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 are cured without the help of medicine, by nature alone. Such examples are adduced to persuade us to imitate their manner of education, and accustom ourselves be- times to 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 ESSAYS. 407 as they who have led a more indolent life ; that the more laborious the life is, the less populous is the coun- try ; and they considered, that what physicians call the 'stamina vitas,' by fatigue and labor become rigid, and thus anticipate old age ; that the number who survive those rude trials, bears no proportion 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, willing to inure 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 labors, yet still I would recommend temperance in the highest degree. No luxurious dishes with high seasoning, noth- ing given children to force an appetite ; as little sugar- ed or salted provisions as possible, though ever so 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 cor- rects any consumptive habits, not unfrequently found amongst the children of city parents. As boys should be educated with temperance, so the first greatest 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 repeated 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 408 ESSAYS. having a larger or smaller share of money lying use- less by him, in 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 chos- en. If they deny themselves the necessaries of life, society is no way injured by their folly. Instead, therefore, of romances, which praise young men of spirit, who go through a variety of adventures, and at last conclude a life of dissipation, folly and ex- travagance, in riches and matrimony, there should be some men of wit employed to compose 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 Whittington, were his cat left out, might be 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 in the arts from which they may afterwards draw the greatest advan- tages. When the wonders of nature are never exposed ESSAYS. 409 to our view, we have no great desire to become ac- quainted with those parts of learning which pretend to account for the phenomena. One of the ancients com- plains, that as soon as young men have left school, and are obliged to converse with the world, they fancy themselves transported into a new region. u Ut, cum in forum venerint, existiment se in alium terrarum or- bem delatos." We should early, therefore, instruct them in the experiments, if I may so express it, of knowledge, and leave to maturer age the accounting 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 pro- posed for their instruction ; they have never before seen the phenomena, and consequently have no curios- ity 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 elas- tic 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 shown ; the causes would be deferred to a maturer age, or to those times when nat- ural curiosity prompts us to discover the wonders of nature. Man is placed in this world as a spectator ; . 35 410 ESSAYS. 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 phil- osophy, I would extend to every other science whatso- ever. 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 the simple experiences of science, would be the fittest in the world for the col- lege-course ; and, though such a youth might not ap- pear so bright or so talkative, as those who had learn- ed the real principles and causes of some of the scien- ces, yet he would make a wiser man, and would retain a more lasting passion for letters, than he who was early burdened with the disagreeable institution of ef- fect and cause. In history, such stories alone should be laid before them as might catch the imagination ; instead of this, they are too frequently 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 avoid- ed ; a boy who happens to say a sprightly thing is generally applauded so much, that he sometimes con- tinues 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 ESSAYS. 411 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 busi- ness with more ease to themselves, and more satisfac- tion 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 pleas- ing,, convinces, is generally destroyed by such institu- tions. Convincing eloquence is infinitely more service- able 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 de- cline of the Roman empire, when they had been long instructed by rhetoricians, 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 archi- tecture, and showed them in what manner the temple should be built ; the other, who got up after 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 412 ESSAYS. 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 childron learn all things; the languages, the sciences, music, the exercises, and painting. Thus the child soon becomes a talker in all but a master in none. He thus acquires a superficial fondness for every- thing, and only shows his ignorance when he attempts to exhibit his skill. As I deliver my thoughts without method or connec- tion, so the reader must not be surprised to find me once more addressing 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 be the most strongly remembered ? Boys who, if I may continue the allusion, gallop through one of the ancients with the as- sistance of a translation, can have but a very slight ac- quaintance either with the author or his language. It is by the exercise of the mind alone that a language is learned ; but a literal translation on the opposite page leaves no exercise for the memory at all. The boy will not be at the fatigue of remembering, when his doubts are at once satisfied by a glance of the eye : whereas, were every word to be sought from a dictionary, 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 va- rious grammars now taught in the schools about town, I would recommend only the old common one. I have forgot ESSAYS. 413 whether Lily's, or an emendation of him. The others may be improvements ; but such improvements seem to me only mere grammatical niceties, no way influ- encing the learner ; but perhaps loading him with sub- tilties, 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 un- pleasant. The rudiments of every language, therefore, must be given as a task, not as an amusement. At- tempting to deceive children into instruction of this kind, is only deceiving ourselves ; and I know no pas- sion capable of conquering a child's natural laziness but fear. Solomon 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 re- peat 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 tenderness 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 cor- rect. 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 ad- minister justice with impartiality. Whenever any of 35* 414 ESSAYS. his pupils committed a fault, he 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 liber- ty 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 FAYOR. An alehouse-keeper, near Islington, who had long lived at the sign of the French King, upon the com- mencement 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 scep- tre, he continued to sell ale, till she was no longer the favorite of his customers ; he changed her, therefore, 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 ESSAYS. 415 room, which seldom holds its station long ; for the mob are ever pleased with variety. I must own, I have such an indifferent 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 million, has the very next been fixed upon a pole. As Alexander VI. was entering a little town in the neighborhood 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 represent himself. There were also some knocking down a neighboring statue of one of the Orsini family, with whom he was at war, in order to put Alexander's effigy in its place. It is possi- ble a man who knew less of the world would have con- demned the adulation of those barefaced flatterers ; but Alexander seemed pleased at their zeal, and turning to Borgia, his son, said with a smile, " Vides, mi fili, quam leve discrimen patibulum inter et statuam : — You see, my son, the small difference between a gibbet and a statue." If the great could be taught any lesson, this might serve to teach them upon how weak a foundation their glory stands, which is built upon popular ap- plause : for as such praise what seems like merit, they as quickly condemn what has only the appearance of guilt. Popular glory is a perfect coquette ; her lovers must toil, feel every inquietude, indulge every caprice ; and, 416 ESSAYS. perhaps, at last, be jilted into the bargain. True glory, on the other hand, resembles a woman of sense : her admirers must play no tricks ; they feel no great anx- iety, for they are sure, in the end, of being rewarded in proportion to their merit. When Swift used to ap- pear in jDublic, he generally had the mob shouting in his train, " Pox take these fools," he would say ; " how much joy might all this bawling give my lord mayor ! " We have seen those virtues which have, while liv- ing, retired from the public eye, generally transmitted to posterity as the truest objects of admiration and praise. Perhaps the character of the late Duke of Marlborough may one day be set up, even above that of his more talked-of predecessor ; since an assemblage of all the mild and amiable virtues are far superior to those vulgarly called the great ones. I must be par- doned for this short tribute to the memory of a man, who, while living, would as much detest to receive any thing that wore the appearance of flattery, as I should to offer it. I know not how to turn so trite a subject out of the beaten road of common-place, except by illustrating it rather by the assistance of my memory than judgment ; and, instead of making reflections, by telling a story. A Chinese who had long studied the works of Con- fucious, who knew the characters of fourteen thousand words, and could read a great part of every book that came in his way, once took it into his head to travel into Europe, and observe the customs of a people whom he thought not very much inferior, even to his own coun- trymen, in the arts of refining upon every pleasure. Upon his arrival at Amsterdam, his passion for letters ESSAYS. 417 naturally led him into a bookseller's shop ; and, as he could speak a little Dutch, he civilly asked the booksel- ler for the works of the immortal Xixofou. The book- seller assured him he had never heard the book men- tioned before. " What ! have you never heard of that immortal poet?" returned the other, much surprised, "that light of the eyes, that favorite of kings, that rose of perfection ! I suppose you know nothing of the immortal Fipsihihi, second cousin to the moon ? " "No- thing at all, indeed, sir," returned the other. "Alas! " cries our traveller, " to what purpose, then, has one of these fasted to death, and the other offered himself up as a sacrifice to the Tartar enemy, to gain a renown which has never travelled beyond the precincts of China ? " There is scarce a village in Europe, and not one university, that is not thus furnished with its little great men. The head of a petty corporation, who op- poses the designs of a prince, who would tyrannically force his subjects to save their best clothes for Sun- days ; the puny pedant who finds one undiscovered property in the polype, or describes an unheeded pro- cess 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 immor- tality, and desire the crowd behind them to look on. The crowd takes them at their word. Patriot, philosopher, 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 418 ESSAYS. moves forward, bustling and swelling, and aptly com- pared to a puddle in a storm. I Lave lived to see generals who once had crowds hal- looing after them wherever they went, who were be- praised by newspapers 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 coftee-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 all 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 but a few years longer, and we shall find all our expec- tations 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 mag- azines, 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 pre- pare us foi- poetry, and poetry for the meteorological history of the weather. It is the life and soul of a mag- azine, never to be long dull upon one subject; and the ESSAYS. 419 reader, like the sailor's horse, has at least the comforta- ble 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, T intend in time to adorn 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 un- performing 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 honor and regard, and therefore to instruct and entertain them is our highest ambition, with labors calcu- lated as well to the head as the heart. If four extraordi- nary pages of letter-press be any recommendation of our wit, we may at least boast the honor of vindicating our own abilities. To say more in favor of the Infernal Mag- azine, would be unworthy the public; to say less, would bo injurious to ourselves. As we have no interested mo- tives 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 mag- azine merely for our own amusement. Be careful to ask for the Infernal Magazine. ESSAYS. DEDICATION. TO THAT MOST INGENIOUS OF ALL PATRONS, THE TRIPOL1NE AMBASSADOR. May it please your Excellency, As your taste in the fine arts is universally allowed and admired, permit the authors of the Infernal Maga- zine to lay the following sheets humbly at your excel- lency's toe ; and should our labors ever have the hap- piness of one day adorning the courts of Fez, we doubt not that the influence wherewith we are honored, shall be ever retained with the most warm ardor 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 CATEATON 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. Yesterday, as we were told, the stocks rose, and you were glad ; to-day they fall, and you are again miserable. But, my dear friends, what is the rising or falling of the stocks to us, who have no money ? Let Nathan Ben Funk, the Dutch Jew, be glad or sorry for this ; but my good Mr. Bellows- mender, what is all this to you or me ? You must mend broken bellows, and I write bad prose, as long ESSAYS. 421 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 work- ing. 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 ourselves, 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 ".ZEs 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 BEHAVIOR, DRAWN UF 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 my- self for liking gravy. 36 422 ESSAYS. Do not laugh much in public : the spectators that are not as merry as you, will hate you, either because they envy your happiness, or fancy themselves the subject of your mirth. RULES FOR RAISING THE DEVIL. Translated from the Latin of Danaeus de Sortiariis, a writer contemporary with Calvin, and one of the Reformers of our Church. The person who desires , to raise the devil, is to sac- rifice 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 eye-lid, or in the roof of the mouth, inflicted by the devil himself. Upon this he 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, aud what he wishes to do. At this assembly he ap- pears 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 honor 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 shows 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 pro- ESSAYS. 423 pagate 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 the true one ; where- fore they continue silent, and are thus detected. BEAU TIBBS: A CHARACTER. Though naturally pensive, yet I am fond of gay company, and take every opportunity of thus dismiss- ing the mind from duty. From this motive I am of- ten found in the centre of a crowd ; and wherever pleasure is to be sold, am always a purchaser. In those places, without being remarked by any, I join in what- ever goes forward, work my passions into a similitude of frivolous earnestness, shout as they shout, and con- demn as they happen to disapprove. A mind thus sunk for a while below its natural standard, is quali- fied for stronger flights, as those first retire who would spring forward with greater vigor. 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 attending to avoid some- body who followed : we now turned to the right, then to the left : as we went forward, he still went faster, 424 ESSAYS. 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, re- solving to face what we could not avoid. Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with all the familiarity 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 matri- mony and your estate in the country." During the reply, I had an opportunity of surveying the appear- ance 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 his bosom a buckle studded with glass ; his coat was trimmed with tarnished twist ; he wore by his side a sword with a black hilt ; and his stockings of silk, though newly washed, were grown yellow by long ser- vice. I was so much engaged with the peculiarity of his dress, that I attended only to the latter part of my friend's reply ; in which he complimented Mr. Tibbs on the taste of his clothes and the bloom in his coun- tenance. "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 because the other wants breed- ing. If they were all such as my Lord Mudler, one ESSAYS. ' 425 of the most good-natured creatures that ever squeezed a lemon, I should myself be among the number of their admirers. I was yesterday to dine at the Duchess of Piccadilly's. My Lord was there. Ned, says he to me, Ned, says he, I 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 staid at home and let the girls poach for me. That is my way : I take a fine woman as some animals do their prey; stand still, and swoop, they fall into my mouth." "Ah, Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow," cried my com- panion, with looks of infinite pity. " I hope your fortune is as much improved as your understanding in such com- pany." " Improved ! " replied the other, " you shall know — but let it go no farther, — a great secret — five hun- dred a year to begin with. — My lord's word of honor 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 y our dining yesterday in town ? " " Did I say so? " replied he cooly. " 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 coun try, too ; for you must know, my boys, I eat two dinners By the by, I am grown 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 Grogram's, an affected piece, but let it go no farther ; a secret : Well, says I, I will hold a thousand guineas, and say Done first, that — but, dear Charles, you are an honest creature ; lend me half-a-crown for a minute or two, or so, just till — but 36* 426 ESSAYS. hark'ee, ask me for it the next time we meet, or it may be 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 con- duct. If you meet him this day, you find him in rags; if the next, in embroidery. With those persons of dis- tinction, of whom he talks so familiarly, he has scarce a coffee-house acquaintance. However, both for the inter- est 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 eye. An agreeable companion, because he understands flattery; and all must be pleased with the first part of his conver- sation, 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 subsist- ence; 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 em- ployed only as a spy upon the servants, or a bugbear to fright children into duty." BEAU 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 slapping me on ESSAYS. 427 the shoulder, saluted me with an air of the most per- fect 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 sever- ity ; so we Walked forward on terms of the utmost in- timacy, and m a few minutes discussed all the usual topics preliminary to particular conversation. The oddities that marked his character, however, soon began to appear ; he bowed to several well-dressed per- sons, 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 importance and assiduity. In this manner he led me through the length of the whole Mall, fretting at his absurdities, and fancying myself laughed at as well as him by every spectator. 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. What are the thousands that have been laughing at us but com- pany ? " " Lord, my dear," returned he with the ut- most good-humor, " you seem immensely chagrined, but, blast me, when the world laughs at nie, I laugh at the world, and so we are even. My Lord Trip, Bill Squash, the Creolian, and I sometimes make a party at 428 ESSAYS. 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 companion, you shall dine with my wife to-day ; I must insist on 't ; I '11 introduce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of as elegant qualifications as any in nature ; she was bred, but that 's between 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 Wilhelmina 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, immense- ly, already. I intend she shall be as perfect as possi- ble in every acomplishment. In the first place I '11 make her a scholar ; I '11 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 jessed through many dark alleys, and winding ways ; for, from some motives to me unknown, he seemed to have a particular aversion to every frequented street; at last, however, we got to the door of a dismal-looking house in the outlets of the town, where he informed me he chose to reside for the benefit of the air. We entered the lower door, which seemed ever to lie most hospitably open ; and I began to ascend an old and creaking staircase ; when, as he mounted to show me the way, he demanded, whether I delighted in prospects ; to which answering in the affirmative, ESSAYS. 429 " Then," said he, " I shall show you one of the most charming out of my windows ; we shall see the ships sailing, and the whole country for twenty miles round, tip top, quite high. My Lord Swamp would give ten thousand guineas for such a one ; but as I sometimes pleasantly tell him, I always love to keep my pros- pects at home, that my friends may come to see me the oftener." By this time we were arrived as high as the stairs would permit us to ascend, till we came to what he was facetiously pleased to call the first floor down the chimney ; and, knocking at the door, a voice with a Scotch accent from within demanded, " Wha 's there ? " My conductor answered that it was he. But this not satisfying the querist, the voice again repeated the de- mand ; 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 wash- ing your twa shirts at the next door, because " " Fire and fury, no more of thy stupid explanations," he cried. " Go and inform her we have got company. Were that Scotch hag," continued he, turning to me. 430 ESSAYS. "to be forever in my family, she would never learn politeness, nor forget that absurd, poisonous accent of hers, 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. Tibb's 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 embroidery ; a square table that had been once japanned ; a cradle in one corner, a lumber-cabinet in the other ; a broken shepherdess, 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 draw- ing. " What do you think, sir, of that head in the corner, done in the manner of Grisoni ? There 's the true keeping in it ; it 's 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 carry- ing the remains of beauty- She made twenty apolo- gies for being seen in such an odious dishabille, but hoped to be excused, as she had stayed out all night at Vauxhall Gardens with the countess, who was exces- sively fond of the horns, "And, indeed, my dear, ad- ded she, turning to her husband, "his lordship drank your health in a bumper." " Poor Jack ! " cries he, " a dear, good-natured creature, I know he loves me ; ESSAYS. 431 but I hope, my dear, you have given orders for din- ner ; you need make no great preparations neither, there are but three of us ; something elegant, and lit- tle 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 ? " " The very thing," replies he; "it will eat best with some smart bottled beer; but be sure to let 's have the sauce his Grace was so fond of. I hate your immense loads of meat ; that is country all over ; extreme 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 recollet a prior engagement, and after having shown my respects to the house, by giving the old servant a piece of money at the door, I took my leave ; Mr. Tibbs assuring me, that dinner, if I stayed, would be ready at least in less than two hours. ON THE IRRESOLUTION OF YOUTH. As it has been observed that few are better qualified to give others advice, than those who have taken the least of it themselves ; so in this respect I find myself perfectly authorized to offer mine ; and must take leave to throw together a few observations 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 resolution of their own, is first to ask one friend's ad- 432 ESSAYS. vice, and follow it for some time ; than to ask advice of another, and turn to that ; so of a third, still un- steady, always changing. However, 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 fol- low with perseverance and assiduity, will be found fit for you ; it will be your support in youth, and com- fort in age. In learning the useful part of every pro- fession, very moderate abilities will suffice : great abili- ties 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 profession only, is enough for one man to know ; and this, whatever the professors may tell you to the contrary, is soon learned. Be contented, there- fore, with one good employment ; for if you understand two at a time, jjeople will give you business in neither. A conjurer 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 conjurer ; u 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. However, if at any time you are reduced to beggary, ap- ply to me, and I will relieve you." A famine overspread the land ; the tailor made a shift to live, because his cus- tomers could not be without clothes ; but the poor con- jurer, with all his hundred tricks, could find none that ESSAYS. 433 had money to throw away : it was in vain that he prom- ised 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 yon 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 hers, and she would maintain her right in it, and support her honor, while she had a bill to hiss, 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 lit- tle of the water, as he was thirsty. The guardian goose flew at him like a fury, pecked at him with her beak, and slapped him with her feathers. The dog grew ang- ry, 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. 37 434 ESSAYS. 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 endeavor to please all, comply with every request, and attempt to suit themselves to every com- pany ; have no will of their own, but, like wax, catch every contiguous impression. By thus attempting to give universal satisfaction, they at last find themselves miser- ably disajDpointed : 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 mar- ket-place, with directions at the bottom for every spec- tator 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 show his talent at criticism, stigmatized whatever he thought proj3er. 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 disappro- bation. 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 spec- tator would mark those beauties he approved or ad- mired. 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 approbation. " Well," cries the painter, " I now find that the best way to please all the world, is to attempt pleasing one half of it." ESSAYS. 435 ON MAD DOGS. Indulgent nature seems to have exempted this is- land 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 ; but in this fortunate island of Bri- tain, 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 appellation 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 six-penny 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 despondence, ask after the calamities of the day, and receive no com- fort but in heightening each other's distress. It is in- 436 ESSAYS. significant 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 conster- nation and dismay ; each proportions his fears, not to the object, but to the dread he discovers in the coun- tenance of others ; for, when once the fermentation is begun, it 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 actual- ly 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 brav- ery arm themselves with boots and buff gloves, in or- der 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, somewhat resembles the ancient gothic custom 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 sunk, 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 teasing the devoted ani- mal on every side. If he attempts to stand on the de- fensive, and bite, then he is unanimously found guilty, ESSAYS. 437 for " a mad dog always snaps at everything." If, on the contrary, he strives to escape by running away, then he can expect no compassion, for " mad dogs al- ways 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 disregarded story of a little dog that had gone through a neighboring 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 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 shud- dered 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 ir? stories of ghosts each loves to hear the account, though it only serves to make him uneasy ; so here, each lis- tens with eagerness, and adds to the tidings with new circumstances of peculiar horror. A lady for instance, 37* 438 ESSAYS. in the country, of very weak nerves, has been 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 cir- cumstances begin to grow terrible before they have reached the neighboring 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 doc- tors ; while the mad mastiff is, in the mean time, rang- ing 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 be- came as mad as the man, began to foam at the mouth, and raising herself up, walked about on her hind legs, sometimes barking 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 neighbor, who had it from another neighbor, who heard it from very good authority. ESSAYS. 439 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. But even allowing three or four to die in a season of this terrible death (and four is probably too large a con- cession), yet still it is not considered how many are pre- served in their health and in their property by this de- voted animal's services. The midnight robber is kept at a distance ; the insidious thief is often detected ; the health- ful chase repairs many a worn constitution ; and the poor man finds in his dog a willing assistant, eager to lessen his toil, and content with the smallest retribution. "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 the necessities, with speaking eye for assistance ; exerts for him all the little service in his power with cheerfulness and pleas- ure ; for him bears famine and fatigue with patience and resignation ; no injuries can abate his fidelity, no distress induce him to forsake his benefactor ; studious to please, and fearing to offend, he is still an humble, steadfast de- pendant ; 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 un- grateful a return to the trusty animal for all its services. 440 ESSAYS. 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 vigor of youth, we had learned to despise, assume new ter- rors as we grow old. Our caution increasing as our years increase, fear becomes at last the prevailing pas- sion of the mind, and the small remainder of life is taken up in useless efforts to keep off our end, or pro- vide 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 felici- ty ; and sensation assures me, that those I have felt are stronger than those which are yet to come. Yet expe- rience and sensation in vain persuade ; hope, more pow- erful 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 ardor to con- tinue 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 our existence, at a period when it becomes scarce worth the keeping ! Is it that nature, attentive to the preservation of man- kind, increases our 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 in- ESSAYS. 441 firroities, feared death no more than when in the vigor* of manhood : the numberless calamities of decaying nature, and the consciousness of surviving every pleas- ure, would at once induce him, with his own hand, to terminate the scene of misery ; but happily the con- tempt of death forsakes him at a time when it could only be 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 our acquaintance with it. ki I would not choose," says a French philosopher, " 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 re- luctance : 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 advan- tages ; not because it gives them pleasure, but because they have known it long. Chinvang the Chaste, ascending the throne of China, commanded that all who were unjustly detained in pri- son, 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 dun- geon at the age of twenty -two. I was imprisoned, though a stranger to crime, or without being even con- fronted by my accusers. I have now lived in solitude and darkness for more than sixty years, and am grown 442 ESSAYS. familiar with distress. As yet dazzled with the splen- dor of that sun to which you have restored me, I haye 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, 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 on- ly increases our fondness for the cell. The trees we have planted, the houses we have built, or the posteri- ty we have begotten, all serve to bind us closer to the earth, and embitter our parting. Life sues the young like a new acquaintance ; the companion, as yet unex- hausted, is at once instructive and amusing ; its com- pany 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 con- versation ; it has no new story to make us smile, no new improvement with which to surprise ; yet still we love it ; destitute of every enjoyment, 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, ESSAYS. 443 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 be- fore him, and promised a long succession of future hap- piness. He came, tasted of the entertainment, but was disgusted even at the beginning. He professed an aver- sion to living ; was tired of walking round the same cir- cle ; had tried every enjoyment, and found them all grow weaker at every repetition. " If life be, in youth, so displeasing," cried he to himself, " what will it ap- pear when age comes on ? If it be at present indiffer- ent, sure it will then be execrable." This thought im- bittered every reflection ; till, at last, with all the se- renity of perverted reason, he ended the debate with a pistol ! Had this self-deluded man been apprised, that existence grows more desirable to us the longer we ex- ist, he would then have faced old age without shrink- ing ; he would have boldly dared to live ; and serve 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 world more beautiful, or more ill-dressed, than those of England. Our country-women have been compared to those pictures, where the face is the work of a Raphael, but the draperies thrown out by some empty jDretender, destitute of taste, and entirely unacquainted with design. If I were a poet, I might observe, on this occasion that so much beauty, set off with all the advantages of 444 ESSAYS. dress, would be too powerful an antagonist for the op- posite sex ; and therefore it was wisely ordered that our ladies should want taste, lest their admirers should entirely want reason. But to confess a truth, I do not find they have great- er aversion to fine clothes than the women of any other country whatsoever. I cannot fancy that a shopkeeper's wife in Cheapside has a greater tenderness for the for- tune 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 be accounted the soil in which almost every fashion takes its rise, its influence is never so general there as with us. They study there the hap- py method of uniting grace and fashion, and never ex- cuse a woman for being awkwardly dressed, by saying her clothes are in the mode. A French woman is a per- fect architect in dress ; she never, with Gothic ignor- ance, 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 be repugnant to private beauty. The English ladies, on the contrary, seem to have no other standard of grace but the run of the town. If fashion gives the word, every distinction of beauty, complexion, or stature, ceases. Sweeping trains, Prus- sian 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 shows as little variety of taste as if their clothes were bespoke by the ESSAYS. 445 colonel of a marching regiment, or fancied by the art- ist who dresses the three battalions of guards. But not only the ladies of every shape and complex- ion, but of every age, too, are possessed of this unaccount- able 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 friend 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 him- self. But to give it in his own words : "After the trans- ports 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 head. 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 handker- chief of Paris net to shade her beauties ; for, as Tasso says of the rose-bud, ' Quan to si nostra men, tanto e piu bella.' A female breast is generally thought the most beautiful as it is more sparingly discovered. 446 ESSAYS. As my cousin had not put on all this finery for noth- ing, she was at that time sallying out to the Park, where I had overtaken her. Perceiving, however, that I had on my best wig, she offered, if I would squire her there, to send home the footman. Though I trembled for our reception in public, yet I could not, with any civility, refuse ; so, to be as gallant as possible, I took her hand in my arm, and thus we marched on together. When we made our entry at the Park, two antiquat- ed figures, so polite and so tender, soon attracted the eyes of the company. As we made our way among crowds who were out to show their finery as well as we, wherever we came, I perceived we brought good- humor with us. The polite could not forbear smiling, and the vulgar burst out into a horse-laugh, at our gro- tesque figures. Cousin Hannah, who was perfectly conscious of the rectitude of her own appearance, at- tributed 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, be- fore we got half way up the Mall, we both began to grow peevish, and, like two mice on a string, endeav- ored to revenge the impertinence of others upon our- selves. ' I am amazed, cousin Jeffrey,' 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 muffs.' I 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 ; ESSAYS. 447 and, throwing iny eyes with a sjiuteful air on her bos- om, " 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 ash- amed of her gentleman-usher, and as I was never very fond of any kind of exhibition myself, it was mutually agreed to retire for a while to one of the seats, and, from that retreat, remark on others as freely as they had remarked on us. When seated, we continued silent for some time, em- ployed in very different speculations. I regarded the whole company, now passing in review before me, as drawn out merely for my amusement. For my enter- tainment the beauty had all that morning been improv- ing 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- humor, or wore the appearance of greater happiness than her own. I perceived her uneasiness, .and at- tempted . to lessen it, by observing that there was no company in the Park today. To this she readily as- sented ; "And yet," says she, "it is full enough of scrubs of one kind 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 silk, and dressed out beyond the fashion. That is Miss Biddy Evergreen. Miss Biddy, it seems, has money ; and as she considers that money was never so scarce as 448 ESSAYS. 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, with- in this twelvemonth. Let me see, three gentlemen 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 show her airs, to get 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 but 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 six-penny-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 alon^ in a ^o-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 grindstone. 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 Mazzard! I knew we should not miss ESSAYS. 449 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 fond 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 interrupted 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' protestations, that they had been long intimate, esteemed friends and acquaint- ance. Both were so pleased at this hapjDy rencounter, 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 propect of nodding rocks, falling torrents, and all the variety of tremendous nature ; on the bleak bosom of this frightful mountain, secluded from society, and de- testing the ways of men, lived Asem, the man-hater. 38* ESSAYS. Asem had spent his youth with men ; had shared in their amusements ; and had been taught to love his fel- low-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 expect- ed a grateful return from those he had formerly re- lieved ; and made his application with confidence of re- dress ; the ungrateful world soon grew weary of his importunity ; for pity is but a short-lived passion. He soon, therefore, began to view mankind in a very dif- ferent light from that in which he had before beheld them ; he perceived a thousand vices he had never be- fore suspected to exist ; wherever he turned ingrati- tude, dissimulation, and treachery contributed to in- crease his detestation of them. Resolved, 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 fetch- ed 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 dis- ESSAYS. 451 played its glassy bosom, reflecting on its broad surface the impending horrors of the mountain. To this capa- cious 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 of- ten 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 tre- mendous head in clouds ! But the beauty of these scenes is no way comparable 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 beauti- ful, just, and wise, but man : vile man is a solecism in nature, the only monster in the creation. Tempests and whirlwinds 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 be uniformity, harmony, and order. A world of moral rectitude should be the result of a perfectly moral agent. Why, why, then, O Alia ! must I be thus con- fined in darkness, doubt, and despair ? " 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 per- ceived a most majestic being walking on the surface of the water, and approaching the bank on which he stood. So unexpected an object at once checked his purpose ; he stopped, contemplated, and fancied he saw some- thing awful and divine in his aspect. 452 ESSAYS. "Son of Adam," cried the genius, "stop thy rash purpose ; the Father of the Faithful has seen thy jus- tice, thy integrity, thy 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 pro- phet, 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 be- gan 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 geni- us ; " but suspend it for a while. This world was form- ed by Alia, 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 were so lately res- cued. The rational inhabitants of this world are form- ed 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 ESSAYS. 453 agreeable than that you so lately left, you have free permission to spend the remainder of your days in it ; bat permit me for some time, to attend you, that I may silence your doubts, and make you better acquainted with your company and your new habitation." "A world without vice ! Rational beings without im- morality ! " cried Asem, in a rapture ; " I thank thee, O Alia, who hast at length heard my petitions : this, this indeed, will produce happiness, ecstasy, and ease. O 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 communicate to me the result of thine observations. Lead wherever you think proper, I shall be your attendant and instructor." Asem and his com- panion travelled on in silence for some time ; the form- er being entirely lost in astonishment ; but, at last, re- covering his former serenity, he could not help observ- ing that the face of the country bore a near resem- blance to that he had left, except that this subterrane- an world still seemed to retain its primeval wildness. " Here," cried Asem, " I perceive animals of prey, and others that seem only designed for their subsist- ence ; 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 defect, and formed no vora- cious or destructive animals, which only prey on the other parts of the creation." — "Your tenderness for inferior animals, is, I find, remarkable," said the geni- us, smiling. "But, with regard to meaner creatures, 454 ESSAYS. this world exactly resembles the other ; and, indeed, for obvious reasons : for the earth can support a more con- siderable number of animals, by their thus becoming food for each other, than if they had lived entirely on her vegetable productions. So that animals of differ- ent natures thus formed, instead of lessening their mul- titudes, subsist in the greatest number possible. But let us hasten on to the inhabited country before us, and see what that offers for instruction." They soon gained the utmost verge of the forest, and entered the country inhabited by men without vice ; and Asem anticipated 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 ani- mals so contemptible ? " 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," re- plied 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 ten- derness you so lately expressed for subordinate ani- ESSAYS. 455 mals ? " 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 to these irrational creatures, but survey their connections with one another." As they walked farther up the country, the more he was surprised to see no vestiges of handsome houses, no cities, nor any mark of elegant design. His conductor, perceiving his surprise, observed that the inhabitants of this new world were perfectly content with their an- cient 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 in- crease 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 archi- tects, painters, nor statuaries, in their society ; but these are the idle arts, and may be spared. However, before I spend much more time here, you shall 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 conversation ; there is nothing of which I am so much enamoured as wisdom." " Wis- dom ! " 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 wis- dom here ? Each intuitively performs what is right in himself, and expects the same from others. If by wis- 456 ESSAYS. dom you should mean vain curiosity, and empty specu- lation, as such pleasures have their origin in vanity, luxury, or avarice, we are too good to pursue them." "AH this may be right," says Asem ; "hut, methinks I observe a solitary disposition prevail among the people ; each family keeps separately within their own precincts, without society, or without intercourse." " That, in- deed is true," replied the other; "here is no establish- ed 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 nei- ther the polite arts, nor wisdom, nor friendship, in such a world, I should be glad, at least, of an easy compan- ion, 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 curiosi- ty 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 endeavors to heap up more than is necessary for his own subsistence ; each has therefore leisure for pitying those that stand in need of his com- passion." He had scarce spoken when his ears were assaulted 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 ESSAYS. 457 Adam, " that men who are free from vice should thus suffer so much misery without relief ! " "Be not sur- 23rised," said the wretch, who was dying; "would it not be the utmost injustice for beings who have only just sufficient 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 possess- ed 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 confu- sion. Even the want of ingratitude is no virtue here, since they never receive a favor. They have, however, another excellence yet behind ; the love of their coun- try is still, I hope, one of their darling virtues." " Peace, Asem," replied the guardian, with a counten- ance not less severe than beautiful, " nor forfeit all thy pretensions to wisdom ; the same selfish motives by which we prefer our own interest to that of others, in- duce us to regard our country preferable to that of an- other. Nothing less than universal benevolence is free from vice, and that you see is practised here." kt Strange," cries the disappointed pilgrim, in an agony of distress ; " what sort of a world am I now introduc- ed to ? There is scarce a single virtue, but that of tem- perance, 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. 39 458 ESSAYS. Take me, O my genius, back to that very world which I have despised ; a world which has Alia for its con- triver, is much more wisely formed than that which has been projected by Mohammed. Ingratitude, contempt, and hatred, I can now suffer, for perhaps I have de- served them. When I arraigned the wisdom of Provi- dence, I only showed 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, as- tonished at the terror of the scene, looked for his im- aginary world ; when, casting his eyes around, he per- ceived himself in the very situation, and the very place, where he 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 Prov- idence strike the series of truths just imprinted on his soul. He now departed from the water-side in tran- quility, and, leaving his horrid mansion, 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 produced opulence ; the number of his do- mestics 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 concluded with an old age of elegance, affluence, and ease. ON THE ENGLISH CLERGY AND POPULAR PREACHERS. It is allowed on all hands, that our English divines ESSAYS. 459 receive a more liberal education, and improve that edu- cation by frequent study, more than any others of this reverend profession in Europe. In general, also, it may be observed, that a greater degree of gentility is affixed to the character of a student in England than else- where ; by which means our clergy have an opportuni- ty of seeing better company while young, and of soon- er 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 all these advantages, it is very obvious, that the clergy are no where so little thought of, by the populace, as here ; and, though our divines are foremost with respect to abilities, yet they are found last in the effects of their ministry ; the vulgar, in general, appear- ing no way impressed with a sense of religious duty. I am not for whining at the depravity of the times, or for endeavoring to paint a prospect more gloomy than in nature ; but certain it is, no person who has travel- led will contradict me, when I aver, that the lower or- ders of mankind, in other countries, testify, on every occasion, the profoundest awe of religion ; while in Eng- land they are scarcely awakened into a sense of its du- ties, even in circumstances of the greatest distress. This dissolute and fearless conduct foreigners are apt to attribute to climate and constitution ; may not the vulgar being pretty much neglected in our exhortations from the pulpit, be a conspiring cause ? Our divines sel- dom 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 man- kind, who are generally possessed of collateral motives 460 ESSAYS. to virtue, the vulgar should be particularly regarded, whose behavior in civil life is totally hinged upon their hopes and fears. Those who constitute the basis of the great fabric of society, should be particularly re- garded ; for, in policy, as architecture, ruin is most fatal when it begins from the bottom. Men of real sense and understanding prefer a prud- ent mediocrity to a precarious popularity, and, fearing to out-do their duty, leave it half done. Their dis- courses from the pulpit are generally dry, methodical, and unaffecting : delivered with the most insipid calm- ness ; insomuch, that should the peaceful preacher lift his head over the cushion, which alone he seems to ad- dress, he might discover his audience, instead of being awakened to remorse, actually sleeping over his me- thodical and labored composition. This method of preaching is, however, by some called an 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 de- baucheries till they are committed. Reason is but a weak antagonist when headlong passion dictates ; in all such cases we should arm one passion against another: it is with the human mind as in nature ; from the mix- ture of two opposites, the result is most frequently neu- tral tranquility. Those who attempt to reason us out of follies, begin at the wrong end, since the attempt na- turally 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 popu- lar preacher ; for the people are easily pleased, if they ESSAYS. 461 perceive any endeavors in the orator to please them , the meanest qualifications will work this effect, if the preacher sincerely sets about it. Perhaps little, indeed very little more is required, than sincerity and assur- ance ; and a becoming sincerity is always certain of producing a becoming assurance. " Si vis me flere, do- lendum 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, how few do we find put it in practice ! 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 profes- sions, seem the most bashful, who have the greatest right to glory in their commission. The French preachers generally assume all that dig- nity which becomes men who are ambassadors from Christ; the Euglish 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 favor- able to his intentions ; their nods, whispers, or drowsy behavior, showed 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 audi- ence 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 39* 462 ESSAYS. the whole kingdom were fixed upon the event ; if the most eminent counsel were employed on both sides ; and if we had heard from our infancy of this yet-unde- termined trial, — would you not all sit with due atten- tion, and warm expectation, to the pleadings on each side ? Would not all your hopes and fears be hinged on the final decision ? and yet, let me tell you, have this moment a cause of much greater importance be- fore you ; a cause where not one nation, but all the world are spectators ; tried not before a fallible tribu- nal, but the awful throne of Heaven ; where not your temporal and transitory interests are the subject of de- bate, but your eternal happiness or misery ; where the cause is still undetermined, but, perhaps, the very mo- ment I am speaking may fix the irrevocable decree that shall last forever : aud yet, notwithstanding all this, you can hardly sit with patience to hear the tid- ings of your own salvation ; I plead the cause of Heav- en, and yet I am scarcely attended to," etc. 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 which, 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 ac- quired ; they are accomplishments which may be taken up by every candidate who will be at the pains of ESSAYS. 463 stooping. Impressed with a sense of the truths he is about to deliver, a preacher disregards the applause or the contempt of his audience, and he insensibly as- sumes a just and manly sincerity. With this talent alone we see what crowds are drawn around enthu- siasts, even destitute of common sense ; what numbers converted to Christianity. Folly may sometimes set an example for wisdom to practise ; and our regular di- vines may borrow instruction from even Methodists, who go their circuits, and preach prizes among the populace. Even Whitefield 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 j^erhaps objected, that by confining the ex- cellences of a preacher to proper assurance, earnest- ness, and openness of style, I make the qualifications too trifling for estimation ; there will be something called oratory brought up on this occasion ; action, atti- tude, 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 behavior, 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 philo- sophers, 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 en- 464 ESSAYS. treat 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 impracticability of theirs, rather than to spend time in solving the objec- tions of every opponent. " It is ten to one," says a late writer on the 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 them- selves more to the benefit of society, by declining all controversy, than by exhibiting even the profoundest skill in 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 confes- sion of the necessity of revelation, or an open avowal of atheism. To continue the dispute longer would only en- danger it ; the sceptic is very expert at puzzling a de- bate which he finds himself unable to continue," and, like an Olympic boxer, generally fights best when under- most." ADVANTAGES TO BE DERIVED FROM SENDING 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 pre- judiced education — the dictates of superstition, or the result of ignorance. Is it not surprising, that, of such ESSAYS. 465 a variety of adventures, not one single philosopher should be found among the number? For, as to the travels of Gremelli, 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 success ; thus, for instance, in Siberian Tartar y, 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 sub- stances scarlet, and likewise that of refining lead into a metal, which, for hardness and color, is little inferior to silver ; not one of which secrets but would, in Eu- rope, make a man's fortune. The power of the Asiatics in producing winds, or bringing down rain, the Euro- peans are apt to treat as fabulous, because they have no instances of the like nature among themselves : but they would have treated the seorets of gunpowder, and the mariner's compass in the same manner, had they been told the Chinese used such arts before the invention was common with themselves at home. Of all the English philosophers, I most reverence Bacon, that great and hardy genius ; he it is, who, un- daunted by the seeming difficulties that oppose, prompts human curiosity to examine every part of nature ; and even exorts 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 supersti- 466 ESSAYS. tious and mercenary, what might not mankind expect ! How would he enlighten the regions to which he travel- led ! and what a variety of knowledge and useful im- provement 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 endeavor to improve the barbarian in the secrets of living comfortably ; and the inhabitants of a more refined country, in the speculative jDleasures 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 cata- logue, 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 ESSAYS. 467 others. The merchants tell us, perhaps, the price of different commodities, the methods of bailing 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 num- bers he converted ; what methods he took to keep Lent in a region where there were no fish, or the shifts he made to celebrate the rites of his religion, in places where there was neither bread nor wine ; such accounts, with the usual appendage of marriages and funerals, inscriptions, rivers, and mountains, make up the whole of a Euro- pean traveller's diary ; but as to all the secrets of which the inhabitants are possessed, those are univer- sally 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. 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 im- provements. It may be observed with still greater justice, that, if the useful knowledge of every country, howsoever barbarous, was gleaned by a judicious ob- server, the advantages would be inestimable. Are there not, even in Europe, many useful inventions known or practised but in one place ? Their instru- ment, as an example, for cutting down corn in Germany, is much more handy and expeditious, in my opinion, than the sickle used in England. The cheap and ex- peditious manner of making vinegar, without previous 468 ESSAYS. 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 with 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 national concern ; it would, in some measure, repair the breaches made by ambition ; and might show 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 pro- per person for so arduous an enterprise. He should be a man of philosophical turn ; one apt to deduce conse- quences of general utility from particular occurrences ; neither swollen with pride, nor hardened by prejudice ; neither wedded to one particular system, nor instructed only in one particular science ; neither wholly a bo- tanist, nor quite an antiquarian, his mind should be tinctured with miscellaneous knowledge ; and his man- ners humanized by an intercourse with men. He should be, in some measure, an enthusiast to the design : fond of travelling, from a rapid imagination, and an innate love of change : furnished with a body capable of sus- taining every fatigue, and a heart not easily terrified at danger. ESSAYS. 469 A REVERIE AT THE BOAR'S-HEAD TAVERN, IN EASTCHEAP. 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 ; endeavor to forget age and wisdom, and, as far as innocence goes, be as much a boy as the best of them. Let idle declaimers mourn over the degeneracy of the age, but, 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 calam- ities of the times, but by endeavoring to forget them ; for, if he attempts to resist, he is certainly undone. If I feel poverty and pain, I am not so hardy as to quarrel with the executioner, even while under correction ; I find 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, for- getting age, and showing 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 vivacity? 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. 40 470 ESSAYS. 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 Falstaff cracked his jokes, in the very chair which was sometimes honored 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 ; but 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 re- flection back into antiquity ; the oak floor, the Gothic windows, and the ponderous chimney-piece, had long withstood the tooth of time ; the watchmen 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 con- tinued 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, his wine and his conversation operate by degrees : he insensibly began to alter his appearance. His cravat ESSAYS. 471 seemed quilled into a ruff, and his breeches swelled into a fardingale. I now fancied him changing sexes ; and, as my eyes began to close in slumber, I imagined my fat landlord actually converted into as fat a landlady. However, 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 drinking, 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 forever ; but he maketh foul work on 't where he hath flitted. Queen Proserpine and he have quar- relled, for his attempting a rape upon her divinity ; and were it not that she still had bowels of compassion, it more than seems probable 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 affection ; 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 472 ESSAYS. 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 degenerating ; and I have lived to see the day when drinking is no longer fashionable. When men wear clean shirts, and women show their necks and arms, all are degenerated, Mrs. Quickly ; and we shall probably, in another century, be frittered away into beaux or mon- keys. 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 in- tolerable arrogance, in spite of what is every day remon- strated 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 favor 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 narra- tive may have something singular." " Observe this apartment," interrupted my com- panion, " 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 hund- red tomes, which eftsoons may be submitted to thy re- gards." " None of your whiloms nor eftsoons, Mrs. Quickly, if you please," I replied ; " I know you can talk every whit as well as I can, for, as you have lived ESSAYS. 473 here so long, it is but 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. Rigmarole, 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 neighboring con- vent (for our priors then had as much power as a Mid- dlesex justice now), he, I say, it was who gave me license 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 turn- ed. 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 ? 40* 474 ESSAYS. 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 aldermen with plum-porridge, aud 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 persuades 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 car- mine. Your ancient Briton formerly powdered his hair with red earth, like 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 dif- ferent, as viewed through the glass of fashion. In a word, all mankind are a " ESSAYS. 475 "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 his- tory at once. I love stories, but 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 pollutions 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 habi- tation was soon converted into a monastery ; instead of customers now applying for sack and sugar, my rooms were crowded with images, relics, saints, whores, and friars. Instead of being a scene of occasional debau- chery, it was now filled with continued 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 con- vent peculiarly 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 favorite companion, and a power of discard- ing 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 476 ESSAYS. the present ; those that labor, 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 them- selves to each other, and were forgiven. One evening, however, our prior keeping a lady of distinction some- what 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, how- ever, was not to be put off by such evasions, but sum- moned both before the tribunal of justice. His proofs were flagrant, and he expected large damages. Such, indeed, he had a right to expect, were the tribunals of those days constituted in the same manner as they are now. The cause of the priest was to be tried before an assembly of priests ; and a layman was to expect re- dress only from their impartiality and candor. 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 com- bat. 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, ac- ESSAYS. 477 cording to custom, were put in prison ; both ordered to fast and pray, every method being previously used to in- duce 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. Thev 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 hus- band was discomfited ; he was taken from the field of battle, stripped to his shirt, and, after one of his less 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 pretty much like our own ; where a multi- plicity 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 Wickliffites 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 repu- 478 ESSAYS. tation. There was not one in London that had the character of hating heretics so much as ours. 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 determining, whether she was j:>ossessed by an angel or a demon. She was not long in suspense ; for, upon vomiting a large quantity of crooked pins, and finding the palms of her hands turned outwards, she quckly 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 determining who it could be that be- witched 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 possession, 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 a servant of the prior ; that by his command he resided in his present habita- ESSAYS. 479 tion ; and that, without his command, he was resolved to keep in possession. The bishop was an able exor- cist ; he drove the devil out by force of mystical arms ; the prior was arranged for witchcraft ; the witnesses were strong and numerous against him, not less than fourteen persons being by who heard the devil speak Latin. There was no resisting such a cloud of wit- nesses ; 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 believ- ers J " — « 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 con- verted 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 neighbor- hood of the court, and the mistress a very polite woman, it beiran 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 tolerable 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 480 ESSAYS. 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 this scene of festivity she gener- ally improved good-humor, by telling her dreams, relat- ing stories of spirits, several of which she herself had seen, and one of which she was reported to have killed with a black-haftecl knife. From hence she usually went to make pastry in the larder, and here she was followed by her sweet-hearts, who were much helped on in con- versation by struggling with her for kisses. About ten, miss generally went to play at hot-cockles and blind- man's buff in the parlor ; and when the young folks (for they seldom played at hot-cockles when grown old) were tired of such amusements, the gentleman entertained 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 con- queror. Her mental qualifications were exactly fitted to her external accomplishments. Before she was fifteen she could tell the story of Jack the Griant Killer ; could name every mountain that was inhabited by fairies ; knew a witch at first sight ; and could rej3eat 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 charger. In short, when completely equip- ESSAYS. 481 ped, her appearance was so very modest, that she dis- covered 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 discover too much ; I am equal- ly an enemy to a female dunce, or a female pedant." " You may be sure that miss chose a husband with qualifications 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 ap-. peared with superior qualifications. The king was struck with her beauty. All property was at the king's com- mand ; the husband was obliged to resign all preten- sions 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 confessor, from a principle of conscience, removed her from his levee to the bar of this tavern, and took a new mistress in he** stead. Let it not surprise you to behold the mistress of a. king degraded to so humble an office. As the ladies hact 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 pall- ed upon enjoyment, be doomed to infamy and want. "Under the care of this lady, the tavern grew into 41 482 ESSAYS. great reputation ; the courtiers had not yet learned to game, but they paid it off by drinking ; drunkenness is ever the vice of a barbarous, and gaining of a luxurious age. They had not such frequent entertainments as the moderns have, but were more expensive and more luxu- rious in those they had. All their fooleries were more elaborate, and more admired by the great and the vul- gar, than now. A courtier has been known to spend his whole fortune at a single combat ; a king to mort- gage his dominions to furnish out the frippery of a tour- nament. There were certain days appointed for riot and debauchery, and to be sober at such times was re- puted a crime. Kings themselves set the example ; and I have seen monarchs in this room drunk before the en- tertainment was half concluded. These were the times, sir, when the kings kept mistresses, and got drunk in public ; they were too plain and simple in those happy times to hide their vices, and act the hypocrite as now." " Lord, Mrs. Quickly ! " interrupting her, " I expected to hear a story, and here you are going to tell me I know not what of times and vices ; pr'ythee let me en- treat thee once more to waive reflections, and give thy history without deviation." "No lady upon earth," continued my visionary cor- respondent, " knew how to put off her damaged wine or women with more art than she. When these grew flat, or those paltry, it was but changing their names ; the wine became excellent, and the girls agreeable. She was also possessed of the engaging leer, the chuck under the chin, winked at a double entendre, could nick the opportunity of calling for something comfortable, and ESSAYS. 483 perfectly understood the distinct moments when to with- draw. The gallants of those times pretty much re- sembled the bloods of ours ; they were fond of pleasure, but quite ignorant of the art of refining upon it ; thus a court-bawd of those times resembled the common, low- lived harridan of a modern bagnio. Witness, ye powers of debauchery ! how often have I been present at the various appearances of drunkenness, riot, guilt, and brutality. A tavern is a true picture of human infirm- ity ; in history we find only one side of the age exhi- bited to our view ; but in the accounts of a tavern we see every age equally absurd and equally vicious. " Upon this lady's decease, the tavern was success- ively occupied by adventurers, bullies, pimps, and game- sters. Towards the conclusion of the reign of Henry VII. gaming was more universally practised in England than even now. Kino-s themselves have been known to play off, at primero, not only all the money and jewels they could part with, but the very images in churches. The last Henry played away, in this very room, not only the four great bells of St. Paul's cathedral, but the fine image of St. Paul, which stood upon the top of the spire, to Sir Miles Partridge, who took them down the next day, and sold them by auction. Have you then any cause to regret being born in the times you now live in, or do you still believe that human nature con- tinues to run on declining every age ? If we observe the actions of the busy part of mankind, your ancestors will be found infinitely more gross, servile, and even dishonest, than you. If, forsaking history, we only trace them in their hours of amusement and dissipation, we shall find them more sensual, more entirely devoted to pleasure, and infinitely more selfish. 484 ESSAYS. " The last hostess of note I find upon record was Jane Rouse. She was born among 1 the lower ranks of the people ; and by frugality and extreme complaisance, contrived to acquire a moderate fortune ; this she might have enjoyed for many years, had she not unfortu- nately quarrelled with one of her neighbors, a woman who was in high repute for sanctity through the whole parish. In the times of which I speak, two women seldom quarrelled that one did not accuse the other of witchcraft, and she who first contrived to vomit crooked pins was sure to come off victorious. The scandal of a modern tea-table differs widely from the scandal of former times ; the fascination of a lady's eyes, at pre- sent, is regarded as a compliment ; but if a lady former- ly should be accused of having witchcraft in her eyes, it were much better, both for her soul and body, that she had no eyes at all. " In short, Jane Rouse was accused of witchcraft, and though she made the best defence she could, it was all to no purpose ; she was taken from her own bar to the bar of the Old Bailey, condemned, and executed accordingly. These were times, indeed ! when even women could not scold in safety. " Since her time the tavern underwent several revo- lutions, according to the spirit of the times, or to the disposition of the reigning monarch. It was this day a brothel, and the next a conventicle for enthusiasts. It was one year noted for harboring whigs, and the next infamous for a retreat to tories. Some years ago it was in high vogue, but at present it seems declining. This only may be remarked in general, that whenever taverns flourish most, the times are then most extra va- ESSAYS. 485 gant and luxurious." " Lord, Mrs. Quickly ! " inter- rupted I, " you have really deceived me ; I expected a romance, and here you have been this half-hour giving me only a description of the spirit of the times ; if you have nothing but tedious remarks to communicate, seek some other hearer ; I am determined to hearken only to stories." I had scarce concluded, when my eyes and ears seem- ed opened to my landlord, who had been all this while giving me an account of the repairs he had made in the house, and was now got into the story of the crack- ed glass in the dining-room. ON QUACK DOCTORS. Whatever may be the merits of the English in other sciences, they seem peculiarly excellent in the art of healing. There is scarcely a disorder incident to humanity, against which our advertising doctors are not possessed with a most infallible antidote. The pro- fessors of other arts confess the inevitable intricacy of things ; talk with doubt, and decide with hesitation ; but doubting is entirely unknown in medicine : the adver- tising professors here delight in cases of difficulty ; be the disorder ever so desperate or radical, you will find numbers in every street, who, by levelling a pill at the part affected, promise a certain cure without loss of time, knowledge of a bedfellow, or hinderance of business. When I consider the assiduity of this profession, their benevolence amazes me. They not only, in gene-^ ral, give their medicines for half value, but use the most persuasive remonstrances to induce the sick to come and be cured. Sure there must be something 41* 486 ESSAYS. strangely obstinate in an English patient who refuses so much health upon such easy terms ! Does he take a pride in being bloated with a dropsy ? does he find pleasure in the alternations of an intermittent fever ? or feel as much satisfaction in nursing up his gout, as he found pleasure in acquiring it ? He must ; other- wise he would never reject such repeated assurances of instant relief. What can be more convincing than the manner in which the sick are invited to be well ? The doctor first begs the most earnest attention of the public to what he is going to propose ; he solemnly affirms the j>ill was never found to want success ; he produces a list of those who have been rescued from the grave by taking it. Yet, notwithstanding all this, there are many here who now and then think proper to be sick : — only sick, did I say ? there are some who even think proper to die ! Yes, by the head of Confucius, they die ! though they might have purchased the health-restoring specific for half-a-crown at every corner. I can never enough admire the sagacity of this coun- try for the encouragement given to the professors of this art ; with what indulgence does she foster up those of her own growth, and kindly cherish those that come from abroad ! Like a skillful gardener, she invites them from every foreign climate to herself. Here every great exotic strikes root as soon as imported, and feels the genial beam of favor ; while the mighty metro- polis, like one vast munificent dunghill, receives them indiscriminately to her breast, and supplies each with more than native nourishment. In other countries the physician pretends to cure dis- ESSAYS. 487 orders in the lump ; the same doctor who combats the gout in the toe, shall pretend to prescribe for a pain in the head ; and he who at one time cures a consumption, shall at another give drugs for a dropsy. How absurd and ridiculous ! this is being a mere jack of all trades. Is the animal machine less complicated than a brass pin ? Not less than ten different hands are required to make a brass pin ; and shall the body be set right by one single operator ? The English are sensible of the force of this reason- ing, they have therefore one doctor for the eyes, another for the toes ; they have their sciatica doctors, and in- oculating doctors ; they have one doctor, who is modest- ly content with securing them from bug bites, and five hundred who prescribe for the bite of mad dogs. But as nothing pleases curiosity more than anecdotes of the great, however minute or trifling, I must present you, inadequate as my abilities are to the subject, with an account of one or two of those personages who lead in this honorable profession. The first upon the list of glory is Doctor Richard Rock, F. U. N. This great man is short of stature, is fat, and waddles as he walks. He always wears a white three-tailed wig, nicely combed, and frizzled upon each cheek. Sometimes he carries a cane, but a hat never ; it is indeed very remarkable that this extraordinary personage should never wear a hat ; but so it is, a hat he never wears. He is usually drawn, at the top of his own bills, sitting in his arm-chair, holding a little bottle between his finger and thumb, and surrounded with rotten teeth, nippers, pills, packets, and gallipots. ESSAYS. No man can promise fairer or better than he ; for, as he observes, " Be your disorder never so far gone, be under no uneasiness, make yourself quite easy, I can cure you." The next in fame, though by some reckoned of equal Intensions, is Dr. Timothy Franks, F. O. G. H. living in the Old Bailey. As Rock is remarkably squab, his great rival Franks is as remarkably tall. He was born in the year of the Christian era 1692, and is, while I now write, exactly sixty-eight years three months and four days old. Age, however, has no ways impaired his usual health and vivacity ; I am told he generally walks with his breast open. This gentleman, who is of a mixed reputation, is particularly remarkable for a becoming assurance, which carries him gently through life ; for, except Dr. Rock, none are more blessed with the advantages of face than Dr. Franks. And yet the great have their foibles as well as the little. I am almost ashamed to mention it. Let the foibles of the great rest in peace. Yet I must impart the whole. These two great men are actually at vari- ance ; like mere men, mere common mortals. Rock advises the world to beware of bog-trotting quacks : Franks retorts the wit and sarcasm, by fixing on his rival the odious appellation of Dumpling Dick. He calls the serious Doctor Rock, DumDlins: Dick ! Head of Con- fucius, what profanation ! Dumpling Dick ! What a pity, ye powers, that the learned, who were born mut- ually to assist in enlightening the world, should thus differ among themselves, and make even the profession ridiculous ! Sure the world is wide enough, at least, ESSAYS. 489 for two great personages to figure in : men of science should leave controversy to the little world below them ; and then we might see Rock and Franks walking together hand in hand, smiling onward to immortality. ADVENTURES OF A STROLLING PLAYER. I am fond of amusement, in whatever company it is to be found ; and wit, though dressed in rags, is ever jileasing to me. I went some days ago to take a walk in St. James's Park, about the hour in which company leave it to go to dinner. There were but few in the walks, and those who stayed seemed by their looks rather more willing to forget that they had an appetite, than gain one. I sat down on one of the benches, at the other end of which was seated a man in very shabby clothes. We continued to groan, to hem, and to cough, as usual upon such occasions ; and, at last, ventured upon conversation. " I beg pardon, sir," cried I, " but I think I have seen you before ; your face is familiar to me." u Yes, sir," replied he, " I have a good familiar face, as my friends tell me. I am as well known in every town in England as the dromedary, or live crocodile. You must understand, sir, that I have been these six- teen years mer^-andrew to a puppet-show ; last Bartho- lomew fair my master and I quarrelled, beat each other, and parted ; he to sell his puppets to the pincushion-mak- ers in Rosemary-lane,and I to starve in St. James's Park. " I am sorry, sir, that a person of your appearance should labor under any difficulties." " O, sir," returned he, " my appearance is very much at your service ; but, though I cannot boast of eating much, yet there are few 490 ESSAYS. that are merrier ; if I had twenty thousand a year I should be very merry ; and, thank the Fates, though not worth a groat, I am very merry still. If I have three- pence in my pocket, I never refuse to be my three half- pence ; and, if I have no money, I never scorn to be treated by any that are kind enough to pay the reckon- ing. What think you, sir, of a steak and a tankard ! You shall treat me now, and I will treat you again when I find you in the Park in love with eating, and without money te pay for a dinner." As I never refuse a small expense for the sake of a merry companion, we instantly adjourned to a neigh- boring ale-house, and, in a few moments, had a froth- ing tankard, and a smoking steak, spread on the table before us. It is impossible to express how much the sight of such good cheer improved my companion's vivacity. "I like this dinner, sir," says he, "for three reasons ; first, because I am naturally fond of beef ; secondly, because I am hungry ; and, thirdly and lastly, because I get it for nothing ; no meat eats so sweet as that for which we do not pay." He therefore now fell to, and his appetite seemed to correspond with his inclination. After dinner was over, he observed that the steak was tough ; " and yet, sir," returns he, " bad as it was, it seemed a rump-steak to me. O the delights of poverty and a good appetite ! We beggars are the very fondlings of Nature ; the rich she treats like an arrant step-mother ; they are pleased with nothing ; cut a steak from what part you will, and it is insupportably tough ; dress it up with pickles, and even pickles cannot procure them an appetite. But the ESSAYS. 491 whole creation is filled with good things for the beggar ; Calvert's butt out-tastes champagne, and Sedgeley's home-brewed excels tokay. Joy, joy, my blood ; though our estates lie no where, we have fortunes wherever we go. If an inundation sweeps away half the grounds in Cornwall, I am content ; I have no lands there ; if the stocks sink, that gives me no uneasiness ; I am no Jew." The fellow's vivacity, joined to his poverty, I own, raised my curiosity to know something of his life and circum- stances ; and I entreated that he would indulge my de- sire. " That I will," said he, " and welcome ; only let us drink, to prevent our sleeping ; let us have another tankard, while we are awake ; let us have another tank- ard ; for, ah, how charming a tankard looks when full ! " You must know, then, that I am very well descend- ed ; my ancestors have made some noise in the world, for my mother cried oysters, and my father beat a drum; I am told we have even had some trumpeters in our family. Many a nobleman cannot show so respectful a genealogy ; but that is neither here nor there. As I was their only child, my father designed to breed me up to his own employment, which was that of a drum- mer to a puppet-show. Thus the whole employment of my younger years was that of interpreter to Punch and King Solomon in all his glory. But, though my father was very fond of instructing me in beating all the marches and points of war, I made no very great pro- gress, because I naturally had no ear for music ; so at the age of fifteen, I went and listed for a soldier. As I had ever hated beating a drum, so I soon found that I disliked carrying a musket also ; neither the one trade nor the other was to my taste, for I was by nature fond 492 ESSAYS. of being a gentleman ; besides, I was obliged to obey my captain ; he has his will, I have mine, and you have yours ; now I very reasonably concluded, that it was much more comfortable for a man to obey his own will than another's. The life of a soldier soon therefore gave me the spleen ; I asked leave to quit the service ; but, as I was tall and strong, my captain thanked me for my kind in- tention, and said, because he had a regard for me we should not part. I wrote to my father a very dismal, penitent letter, and desired that he would raise money to pay for my discharge ; but the good man was as fond of drinking as I was (sir, my service to you), and those who are fond of drinking never pay for other people's discharges ; in short, he never answered my letter. What could be done ? If I have not money, said I to myself, to pay for my discharge, I must find an equiva- lent some other way ; and that must be by running away. I deserted, and that answered my purpose every bit as well as if I had bought my discharge. " Well, I was now fairly rid of my military employ- ment, I sold my soldier's clothes, bought worse, and in order not to be overtaken, took the most unfrequented roads possible. One evening, as I was entering a vil- lage, I perceived a man, whom I afterward found to be the curate of the parish, thrown from his horse in a miry road, and almost smothered in the mud. He desir- ed my assistance ; I gave it, and drew him out with some difficulty. He thanked me for my trouble and was going off ; but I followed him home, for I loved always to have a man thank me at his own door. The curate asked a hundred questions ; as, whose son I was ; from ESSAYS. 493 whence I came, and whether I would be faithful. I answered him greatly to his satisfaction, and gave my- self one of the best characters in the world for sobriety (sir, I have the honor of drinking your health) , discre- tion, and fidelity. To make a long story short, he wanted a servant, and hired me. With him I lived but two months ; we did not much like each other ; I was fond of eating, and he gave me but little to eat ; I loved a pretty girl, and the old woman, my fellow-ser- vant, was ill-natured and ugly. As they endeavored to starve me between them, I made a pious resolution to prevent their committing murder ; I stole the eggs as soon as they were laid ; I emptied every unfinished bottle that I could lay my hands on ; whatever eatable came in my way was sure to disappear ; in short, they found I would not do ; so I was discharged one morn- ing, and paid three shillings and sixpence for two months' wages. " While my money was getting ready, I employed myself in making preparations for my departure ; two hens were hatching in an out-house ; I went and took the eggs from habit, and, not to separate the parents from the children, I lodged hens and all in my knap- sack. After this piece of frugality, I returned to re- ceive my money, and, with my knapsack on my back and a staff in my hand, I bid adieu, with tears in my eyes, to my old benefactor. I had not gone far from the house, when I heard behind me the cry of " Stop thief ! " but this only increased my despatch ; it would have been foolish for me to stop, as I knew the voice could not be levelled at me. But hold, I think I passed 42 494 ESSAYS. those two months at the curate's without drinking ; come, the times are dry, and may this be my poison if ever I spent two more pious, stupid months in all my life. " Well,' after travelling some days, whom should I light upon but a company of strolling players ? The moment I saw them at a distance, my heart warmed to them ; I had a sort of natural love for every thing of the vagabond order ; they were employed in settling their baggage which had been overturned in a narrow way ; I offered my assistance, which they accepted ; and we soon became so well acquainted, that they took me as a servant. This was a paradise to me ; they sung, danced, drank, ate, and travelled, all at the same time. By the blood of the Mirables, I thought I had never lived till then ; I grew as merry as a grig, and laughed at every word that was spoken. They liked me as much as I liked them ; I was a very good figure, as you see ; and, though I was poor, I was not modest. "I love a straggling life above all things in the world ; sometimes good, sometimes bad ; to be warm to- day and cold to-morrow ; to eat when one can get it, and drink when (the tankard is out) it stands before me. We arrived that evening at Tenterden, and took a large room at the Greyhound, where we resolved to exhibit Romeo and Juliet, with the funeral procession, the grave, and the garden scene. Romeo was to be per- formed by a gentleman from the theatre royal in Drury- lane ; Juliet, by a lady who had never appeared on any stage before ; and I was to snuff the candles ; all ex- cellent in our way. We had figures enough, but the difficulty was to dress them. The same coat that serv- ESSAYS. 495 ed Romeo, turned with the blue lining outwards, served for his friend Mercutio ; a large piece of crape sufficed at once for Juliet's petticoat and pall ; a pestle and mortar, from a neighboring apothecary's, answered all the purposes of a bell ; and our landlord's own family, wrapped in white sheets, served to fill up the proces- sion. In short, there were but three figures among us that might be said to be dressed with any propriety ; I mean the nurse, the starved apothecary, and myself. Our performance gave universal satisfaction ; the whole audience were enchanted with our powers. " There is one rule by which a strolling player may be ever secure of success ; that is, in our theatrical way of expressing it, to make a great deal of the character. To speak and act as in common life, is not playing, nor is it what people come to see ; natural speaking, like sweet wine, runs glibly over the palate, and scarce leaves any taste behind it ; but being high in a part re- sembles vinegar, which grates upon the taste, and one feels it while he is drinking. To please in town or country, the way is, cry, wiring, cringe in attitudes, mark the emphasis, slap the pockets, and labor like one in the falling sickness ; that is the way to work for ap- plause ; that is the way to gain it. "As we received much reputation for our skill on this first exhibition, it was but natural for me to ascribe part of the success to myself ; I snuffed the candles ; and, let me tell you that, without a candle-snuffer, the piece would lose half its embellishments. In this manner we continued a fortnight, and drew tolerable houses ; but the evening before our intended departure, we gave 496 ESSAYS. out our very best piece, in which all our strength was to be exerted. We had great expectations from this, and even doubled our prices, when, behold ! one of the prin- cipal actors fell ill of a violent fever. This was a stroke like thunder to our little company ; they resolved to go, in a body, to scold the man for falling sick at so incon- venient a time, and that too of a disorder that threat- ened to be expensive. I seized the moment, and offered to act the part myself in his stead. The case was des- perate ; they accepted my offer ; and I accordingly sat down with the part in my hand, and a tankard before me (sir, your health), and studied the character, which was to be rehearsed the next day, and played soon after. " I found my memory excessively helped by drink- ing ; I learned my part with astonishing rapidity, and bid adieu to snuffing candles ever after. I found that Nature had designed me for more noble employments, and I was resolved to take her when in humor. We got together in order to rehearse, and I informed my companions, masters now no longer, of the surprising change I felt within me. Let the sick man, said I, be under no uneasiness to get well again ; I '11 fill his place to universal satisfaction ; he may even die, if he thinks proper ; I '11 engage that he shall never be missed. I rehearsed before them, strutted, ranted, and received ap- plause. They soon gave out that a new actor of emin- ence was to appear, and immediately all the genteel places were bespoke. Before I ascended the stage, however, I concluded within myself, that, as I brought money to the house, I ought to have my share in the profits. Gentlemen (said I, addressing our company), ESSAYS. 497 I do n't pretend to direct you ; far be it from me to treat you with so much ingratitude ; you have published my name in the bills with the utmost good-nature ; and, as affairs stand, cannot act without me ; so, gentlemen, to show you my gratitude, I expect to be paid for my acting as much as any of }^ou, otherwise I declare off ; I '11 brandish my snuffers and clip candles as usual. This was a very disagreeable proposal, but they found that it was impossible to refuse it ; it was irresistible, it was adamant ; they consented, and I went on in king Bajazet ; my frowning brows bound with a stocking stuffed into a turban, while on my captived arms I brandished a jack-chain. Nature seemed to have fitted me for the part ; I was tall, and had a loud voice ; my very entrance excited universal applause ; I looked round on the audience with a smile, and made a most low and graceful bow, for that is the rule among us. As it w r as a very passionate part, I invigorated my spirits with three full glasses (the tankard is almost out) of brandy. By Alia ! it is almost inconceivable how I went through it. Tamerlane was but a fool to me ; though he was sometimes loud enough too, yet I was still louder than he ; but then, besides, I had attitudes in abundance ; in general, I kept my arms folded up thus upon the pit of my stomach ; it is the way at Drury-lane, and has always a fine effect. The tankard would sink to the bottom before I could get through the whole of my merits ; in short, I came off like a prodigy ; and, such was my success, that I could ravish the laurels even from a surloin of beef. The principal gentlemen and ladies of the town came to me, after the 42* 498 ESSAYS. play was over, to compliment me on my success ; one praised my voice, another my person ; ' Upon my word,' says the squire's lady, ' he will make one of the finest actors in Europe ; I say it, and I think I am something of a judge.' Praise in the beginning is agreeable enough, and we receive it as a favor ; but when it comes in great quantities we regard it only as a debt, which nothing but our merit could extort ; instead of thank- ing them, I internally applauded myself. We were desired to give our piece a second time ; we obeyed, and I was applauded even more than before. " At last we left the town, in order to be at a horse- race some distance from thence. I shall never think of Tenterden without tears of gratitude and respect. The ladies and gentlemen there, take my word for it, are very good judges of plays and actors. Come, let us drink their healths, if you please, sir. We quitted the town, I say, and there was a wide difference between my coming in and going out ; I entered the town a can- dle-snuffer, and I quitted it a hero ! Such is the world — little to-day, and great to-morrow. I could say a great deal more upon that subject, something truly sub- lime, upon the ups and downs of fortune ; but it would give us both the spleen, and so I shall pass it over. " The races were ended before we arrived at the next town, which was no small disappointment to our com- pany ; however, we were resolved to take all we could get ; I played capital characters there too, and came off with my usual brilliancy. I sincerely believe I should have been the first actor in Europe, had my growing merit been properly cultivated ; but there came an un- ESSAYS. 499 kindly frost which nipped me in the bud, and levelled me once more down to the common standard of human- ity. I played Sir Harry Wildair ; all the country ladies were charmed ; if I but drew out my snuff-box, the whole house was in a roar of rapture ; when I exercised my cudgel, I thought they would have fallen into con- vulsions. " There was here a lady, who had received an educa- tion of nine months in London, and this gave her pre- tensions to taste, which rendered her the indisputable mistress of the ceremonies wherever she came. She was informed of my merits ; everybody praised me ; yet she refused at first going to see me perform ; she could not conceive, she said, anything but stuff from a stroller ; talked something in praise of G-arrick, and amazed the ladies with her skill in enunciations, tones, and cadences. She was at last, however, prevailed upon to go ; and it was privately intimated to me what a judge was to be present at my next exhibition ; however, no way intimidated, I came on in Sir Harry, one hand stuck in my breeches, and the other in my bosom, as usual at Drury-lane ; but, instead of looking at me, I perceived the whole audience had their eyes turned upon the lady who had been nine months in London ; from her they expected the dicision which was to secure the general's truncheon in my hands, or sink me down into a theatrical letter-carrier. I opened my snuff-box, took snuff ; the lady was solemn, and so were the rest. I broke my cudgel on Alderman Smuggler's back ; still gloomy, melancholy all ; the lady groaned and shrugged her shoulders. I attempted, by laughing myself, to excite at least a smile ; but the devil a cheek could I 500 ESSAYS. perceive wrinkle into sympathy. I found it would not do ; all my good-humor now became forced ; my laughter was converted into hysteric grinning ; and while I jyretended spirits, my eyes showed the agony of my heart ! In short, the lady came with an inten- tion to be displeased, and displeased she was ; my fame expired : — I am here, and the tankard is no more ! " RULES ENJOINED TO BE OBSERVED AT A RUS- SIAN ASSEMBLY. When Catharina Alexowna was made Empress of Russia the women were in an actual state of bondage ; but she undertook to introduce mixed assemblies, as in other parts of Europe ; she altered the women's dress by substituting the fashions of England ; instead of furs she brought in the use of taffeta and damask ; and cor- nets and commodes instead of caps of sable. The women now found themselves no longer shut up in separate apartments, but saw company, visited each other, and were present at every entertainment. But as the laws to this effect were directed to a savage people, it is amusing enough to see the manner in which the ordinances ran. Assemblies were quite unknown anions: them ; the czarina was satisfied with introducing them, for she found it impossible to render them polite. An ordinance was therefore published according to their notions of breeding, which, as it is a curiosity, and has never been before printed that we know of, we shall give our readers. I. The person at whose house the assembly is to be kept shall signify the same by hanging out a bill, or by ESSAYS. 501 giving some other public notice, by way of advertise- ment, to persons of both sexes. II. The assembly shall not be open sooner than four or five o'clock in the afternoon, nor continue longer than ten at nijjht. III. The master of the house shall not be obliged to meet his guests, or conduct them out, or keep them company ; but though he is exempt from all this, he is to find them chairs, candles, liquors, and all other necessaries that company may ask for ; he is likewise to provide them with cards, dice, and every necessary for gaming. IV. There shall be no fixed hour for coming or going away ; it is enough for a person to appear in the assembly. V. Every one shall be free to sit, walk, or game, as he pleases ; nor shall any one go about to hinder him, or take exception at what he does, upon pain of empty- ing the great eagle (a pint bowl full of brandy) ; it shall likewise be sufficient, at entering or retiring, to salute the company. VI. Persons of distinction, noblemen, superior offi- cers, merchants, and tradesmen of note, head-workmen, especially carpenters, and persons employed in chan- cery, are to have liberty to enter the assemblies ; as likewise their wives and children. VII. A particular place shall be assigned the foot- men, except those of the house, that there may be room enough in the apartments designed for the assembly. VIII. No ladies are to get drunk upon any pretence whatsoever, nor shall gentlemen be drunk before nine. IX. Ladies who play at forfeitures, questions, and commands, etc., shall not be riotous ; no gentleman shall attempt to force a kiss, and no person shall offer to strike a woman in the assembly, under pain of future exclusion. Such are the statutes upon this occasion, which, in 502 ESSAYS. their very appearance carry an air of ridicule and sa- tire. But politeness must enter every country by de- grees ; and these rules resemble the breeding of a clown, awkward but sincere. THE GENIUS OF LOVE. AN EASTERN APOLOGUE. The formalities, delays, and disappointments, that precede a treaty of marriage here, are usually as numer- ous as those previous to a treaty of peace. The laws of this country are finely calculated to promote all commerce, but the commerce between the sexes. Their encouragements for propagating hemp, madder, and tobacco, are indeed admirable ! Marriages are the only commodity that meets with none. Yet, from the vernal softness of the air, the verdure of the fields, the transparency of the streams, and the beauty of the women, I know few countries more pro- per to invite to courtship. Here Love might sjDort among painted lawns and warbling groves, and revel amidst gales, wafting at once both fragrance and har- mony. Yet it seems he has forsaken the island ; and when a couple are now to be married, mutual love, or a union of minds, is the last and most trifling consider- ation. If their goods and chattels can be brought to unite, their sympathetic souls are ever ready to guar- antee the treaty. The gentleman's mortgaged lawn becomes enamored of the lady's marriageable grove ; the match is struck up, and both parties are piously in love — according to act of parliament. Thus they who have a fortune, are possessed at least ESSAYS. 503 of something that is lovely ; but I actually pity those that have none. I am told there was a time when ladies, with no other merit but youth, virtue, and beauty, had a chance for husbands, at least among the ministers of the church, or the officers of the army. The blush and innocence of sixteen was said to have a powerful influence over these two professions; but of late, all the little traffic of blushing, ogling, dimpling, and smiling, has been forbidden by an act in that case wisely made and provided. A lady's whole cargo of smiles, sighs, and whispers, is declared utterly contra- band, till she arrives in the warm latitude of twenty- two, where commodities of this nature are found too often to decay. She is then permitted to dimple and smile, when the dimples and smiles begin to forsake her ; and when perhaps, grown ugly, is charitably in- trusted with an unlimited use of her charms. Her lovers, however, by this time, have forsaken her ; the captain has changed for another mistress ; the priest himself leaves her in solitude to bewail her virginity, and she dies even without benefit of clergy. Thus you find the Europeans discouraging love with as much earnestness as the rudest savage of Sofala. The Genius is surely now no more. In every region I find enemies in arms to oppress him. Avarice in Europe, jealousy in Persia, ceremony in China, poverty among the Tartars, and lust in Circassia, are all pre- pared to oppose his power. The Genius is certainly banished from earth, though once adored under such a variety of forms. He is no where to be found ; and all that the ladies of each country can produce, are but 504 ESSAYS. a few trifling relics, as instances of his former resid- ence and favor. " The Genius of Love," says the Eastern apologue, "had long resided in the happy plains of Abra, where every breeze was health, and every sound produced tranquility. His temple at first was crowded, but every age lessened the number of his votaries, or cooled their devotion. Perceiving, therefore, his altars at length quite deserted, he was resolved to remove to some more propitious region ; and he apprized the fair sex of every country, where he could hope for a proper reception, to assert their right to his presence among them. In return to this proclamation, embassies were sent from the ladies of every part of the world to invite him, and to display the superiority of their claims. "And, first, the beauties of China appeared. No country could compare with them for modesty, either of look, dress or behavior ; their eyes were never lifted from the ground ; their robes, of the most beautiful silk, hid their hands, bosom, and neck, while their faces only were left uncovered. They indulged no airs that might express loose desire, and they seemed to study only the graces of inanimate beauty. Their black teeth and plucked eye-brows were, however, alleged by the genius against them, but he set them entirely aside when he came to examine their little feet. " The beauties of Circassia next made their appear- ance. They advanced, hand in hand, singing the most immodest airs, and leading up a dance in the most luxu- rious attitudes. Their dress was but half a covering ; the neck, the left breast, and all the limbs, were ex- ESSAYS. 505 posed to view, which, after some time, seemed rather to satiate, than inflame desire. The lily and the rose contended in forming their complexions ; and a soft sleepiness of ej^e added irresistible poignance to their charms ; but their beauties were obtruded, not offered to their admirers ; they seemed to give, rather than receive courtship ; and the genius of love dismissed them, as unworthy his regard, since they exchanged the duties of love, and made themselves not the pur- sued, but the pursuing sex. " The kingdom of Kashmire next produced its charm- ing deputies. This happy region seemed peculiarly sequestered by nature for his abode. Shady mountains fenced it on one side from the scorching sun ; and sea- borne breezes, on the other, gave peculiar luxuriance to the air. Their complexions were of a bright yellow, that appeared almost transparent, while the crimson tulip seemed to blossom on their cheeks. Their fea- tures and limbs were delicate, beyond the statuary's power to express ; and their teeth whiter than their own ivory. He was almost persuaded to reside among them, when unfortunately one of the ladies talked of appointing his seraglio. " In this procession the naked inhabitants of Southern America would not be left behind ; their charms were found to surpass whatever the warmest imagination could conceive ; and served to show, that beauty could be perfect, even with the seeming disadvantage of a brown complexion. But their savage education rend- ered them utterly unqualified to make the proper use of their power, and they were rejected as being incapa- 43 506 ESSAYS. ble of uniting mental with sensual satisfaction. In this manner the deputies of other kingdoms had their suits rejected ; the black beauties of Benin, and the tawny daughters of Borneo ; the women of \Yida with scarred faces, and the hideous virgins of Cahxaria ; the squab ladies of Lapland, three feet high, and the giant fair ones of Patagonia. " The beauties of Europe at last appeared ; grace was in their steps, and sensibility sat smiling in every eye. It was the universal ojunion, while they were ap- proaching, that they would prevail ; and the genius seemed to lend them his most favorable attention. They opened their pretensions with the utmost modesty ; but unfortunately, as their orator proceeded, she hap- pened to let fall the words, house in town, settlement, and pin-money. These seemingly harmless terms had instantly a surprising effect ; the genius, with ungovern- able rage, burst from amidst the circle ; and, waving his youthful pinions, left this earth, and flew back to those ethereal mansions from whence he descended. " The whole assembly was struck with amazement, they now justly apprehended that female power would be no more, since Love had now forsaken them. They continued some time thus in a state of torpid despair, when it was proposed by one of the num- ber, that, since the real Genius of Love had left them, in order to continue their power, they should set up an idol in his stead ; and that the Jadies of every country should furnish him with what each liked best. This proposal was instantly relished and agreed to. An idol of gold was formed by ESSAYS. 507 uniting the capricious gifts of all the assembly, though no way resembling the departed genius. The ladies of China furnished the monster with wings; those of Kash- mir© supplied him with horns; the dames of Europe clapped a purse in his hand ; and the virgins of Congo furnished him with a tail. Since that time all the vows addressed to Love are in reality paid to the idol; and, as in other false religions, the adoration seems more fervent where the heart is least sincere." HISTORY OF THE DISTRESSES OF AN ENGLISH DISABLED SOLDIER. No observation is more common, and at the same time more true, than that " one half of the world is ignorant how the other half lives." The misfortunes of the great are held up to engage our attention; are enlarged upon in tones of declamation ; and the world is called upon to gaze at the noble sufferers ; the great, under the pressure of calamity, are conscious of several others sympathizing with their distress; and have, at once, the comfort of admiration and pity. There is nothing magnanimous in bearing misfortunes with fortitude when the whole world is looking on : men in such circumstances will act bravely even from motives of vanity ; but he who, in the vale of obscurity, can brave adversity, who, without friends to encourage, acquaintan- ces to pity, or even without hope to alleviate his misfor- tunes, can behave with tranquility and indifference, is truly great ; whether peasant or courtier, he deserves ad- 508 ESSAYS. miration, and should be held up for our imitation and respect. While the slightest inconveniences of the great are magnified into calamities ; while tragedy mouths out their sufferings in all the strains of eloquence — the miseries of the poor are entirely disregarded ; and yet some of the lower ranks of people undergo more real hardships in one day, than those of a more exalted station suffer in their whole lives. It is inconceivable what difficulties the meanest of our common sailors and soldiers endure with- out murmuring or regret; without passionately declaim- ing against Providence, or calling on their fellows to be gazers on their intrepidity. Every day is to them a day of misery, and yet they entertain their hard fate without repining. With what indignation do I hear an Ovid, a Cicero, or a Rabutin, complain of their misfortunes and hardships whose greatest calamity was that of being unable to visit a certain spot of earth, to which they had foolishly attached an idea of happiness ! Their distresses were pleasures compared to what many of the adventuring poor every day endure without murmuring. They ate, drank, and slept: they had slaves to attend them, and were sure of subsistence for life ; while many of their fellow-creatures are obliged to wander without a friend to comfort or assist them, and even without a shelter from the severity of the season. I have been led into these reflections from accidentally meeting, some days ago, a poor fellow, whom I knew when a boy, dressed in a sailor's jacket, and begging at one of the outlets of the town, with a wooden leg. I ESSAYS. 509 knew him to be honest and industrious when in the country, and was curious to learn what had reduced him to his present situation. Wherefore, after giving him what I thought proper, I desired to know the history of his life and misfortunes, and the manner in which he was reduced to his present distress. The disabled soldier, for such he was, though dressed in a sailor's habit, scratch- ing his head, and leaning on his crutch, put himself into an attitude to comply with my request, and gave me his history as follows: — "As for my misfortunes, master, I can't pretend to have gone through any more than other folks : for except the loss of my limb, and my being obliged to beg, I do n't know any reason, thank Heaven, that I have to complain : there is Bill Tibbs, of our regiment, he has lost both his legs, and an eye to boot ; but, thank Heaven, it is not so bad with me yet. "I was born in Shropshire; my father was a laborer, and died when I was five years old, so I was put upon the parish. As he had been a wandering sort of a man, the parishioners were not able to tell to what parish I be- longed, or where I was born, so they sent me to another parish, and that parish sent me to a third. I thought in my heart they kept sending me about so long that they would not let me be born in any parish at all ; but at last, however, they fixed me. I had some disposition to be a scholar, and was resolved at least to know my letters ; but the master of the workhouse put me to business as soon as I was able to handle a mallet; and here I lived an easy kind of a life for five years; I only wrought ten hours in the day, and had my meat and drink provided 43* 510 ESSAYS. for my labor. It is true, I was not suffered to stir out of the bouse, for fear, as they said, I should run away, but what of that ? I had the liberty of the whole house, and the yard before the door, and that was enough for me. I was then bound out to a farmer, where I was up both early and late ; but I ate and drank well, and liked my business well enough till he died, when I was obliged to provide for myself; so I was resolved to go and seek my fortune. " In this manner I went from town to town, worked when I could get employment, and starved when I could get none ; when happening one day to go through a field belonging to a justice of the peace, I spied a hare cross- ing the path just before me ; and I believe the devil put it into my head to fling my stick at it : — well, what will you have on 't ? I killed the hare, and was bringing it away in triumph, when the justice himself met me : he called me a poacher and a villain ; and, collaring me, de- sired I would give an account of myself. I fell upon my knees, begged his worship's pardon, and began to give a full account of all that I knew of my breed, seed, and generation ; but though I gave a very good account, the justice would not believe a syllable I had to say ; so I was indicted at sessions, found guilty of being poor, and sent up to London to Newgate, in order to be trans- ported as a vagabond. " People may say this and that of being in jail ; but, for my part, I found Newgate as agreeable a place as ever I was in in all my life. I had my bellyfull to eat and drink, and did no work at all. This kind of life was too good to last forever ; so I was taken out of prison, ESSAYS. 511 after five months, put on board a snip, and sent off with two hundred more, to the plantations. We had but an indifferent passage ; for, being all confined in the hold, more than a hundred cf our people died for want of sweet air; and those that remained were sickly enough, God knows. When we came ashore we were sold to the planters, and I was bound for seven years more. As I was no scholar, for I did not know my letters, I was obliged to work among the negroes ; and I served out my time, as in duty bound to do. "When my time was expired, I worked my passage home, and glad I was to see old England again, because I loved my country. I was afraid, however, that I should be indicted for a vagabond once more, so did not much care to go down into the country, but kept about the town, and did little jobs when I could get them. "I was very happy in this manner for some time, till one evening, coming home from work, two men knocked me down, and then desired me to stand. They belonged to a press-gang ; I was carried before the justice, and as. 1 could give no account of myself, I had my choice left, whether to go on board a man of war, or list for a soldier. I chose the latter ; and, in this post of a gentleman, I served two campaigns in Flanders, was at the battles of Val and Fontenoy, and received but one wound through the breast here; but the doctor of our regiment soon made me well a»;ain. " When the peace came on I was discharged, and as I could not work, because my wound was sometimes trouble- some, I listed for a landman in the East-India company's 512 ESSAYS. service. I here fought the French in six pitched battles, and I verily believe that, if I could read or write, our captain would have made me a corporal. But it was not my good fortune to have any promotion, for I soon fell sick, and so got leave to return home again, with forty pounds in my pocket. This was at the beginning of the present war, and I hoped to be set on shore, and to have the pleasure of spending my money ; but the government wanted men, and so I was pressed for a sailor before ever I could set foot on shore. " The boatswain found me, as he said, an obstinate fel- low : he swore he knew that I understood my business well ; but that I shammed Abraham, merely to be idle ; but God knows I knew nothing of sea-business, and he beat me without considering what he was about. I had still, however, my forty pounds, and that was some com- fort to me under every beating ; and the money I might have had to this day, but that our ship was taken by the French, and so I lost all. " Our crew was carried into Brest, and many of them died because they were not used to live in a jail; but for my part, it was nothing to me, for I was seasoned. One night as I was sleeping on the bed of boards, with a warm blanket about me, for I always loved to lie well, I was awakened by the boatswain, who had a dark lantern in his hand. Jack, says he to me, will you knock out the French sentries' brains? I don 't care, says I, striving to keep myself awake, if I lend a hand. Then follow me, says he, and I hope we shall do business. So up I got, and tied my blanket, which was all the clothes I had, ESSAYS. 513 about my middle, and went with him to fight the French- man. I hate the French because they are all slaves, and wear wooden shoes. "Though we had no arms, one Englishman is able to beat five Frenchmen at any time ; so we went down to the door, where both the sentries were posted, and, rushing upon them, seized their arms in a moment, and knocked them down. From thence, nine of us ran together to the quay, and seizing the first boat we met, got out of the har- bor and put to sea. We had not been here three days before we were taken up by the Dorset privateer, who* were glad of so many good hands; and we consented to run our chance. However, we had not so much good luck as we expected. In three days we fell in with the Pompadour privateer, of forty guns, while we had but twenty-three ; so to it we went, yard-arm and yard-arm. The fight lasted for three hours, and I verily believe we should have taken the Frenchman, had we but had some more men left behind; but unfortunately we lost all our men just as we were going to get the victory. "I was once more in the power of the French, and I believe it would have gone hard with ma had I been brought back to Brest : but, by good fortune we were re- taken by the Yiper. I had almost forgot to tell you that in that engagement I was wounded in two places; I lost four fingers of the left hand, and my leg was shot off. If I had had the good fortune to have lost my leg and use of my hand on board a king's ship, and not aboard a pri- vateer, I should have been entitled to clothing and main- tenance during the rest of my life ; but that was not my chance : one man is born with a silver spoon in his mouth 514 ESSAYS. and another with a wooden ladle. However, blessed be God ! I enjoy good health, and will forever love liberty and Old England. Liberty, property, and Old England forever, — huzza ! " Thus saying, he limped off, leaving me in admira- tion at his intrepidity and content ; nor could I avoid ac- knowledging, that an habitual acquaintance with misery, serves better than philosophy to teach us to despise it. ON THE FKAILTY OF MAN. SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN' BY THE ORDINARY OF NEWGATE. Man is a most frail being, incapable of directing his stejDS, unacquainted with what is to happen in his life ; and perhaps no man is a more manifest instance of the truth of this maxim, than Mr. The. Cibber, just now gone out of the world. Such a variety of turns of for- tune, yet such a persevering uniformity of conduct, ap- pears in all that happened in his short span, that the whole may be looked upon as one regular confusion ; every action of his life was matter of wonder and sur- prise, and his death was an astonishment. This gentleman was born of creditable parents, who gave him a very good education, and a great deal of good learning, so that he could read and write before he was sixteen. However, he early discovered an in- clination to follow lewd courses ; he refused to take the advice of his parents, and pursued the bent of his incli- nation ; he played at cards on the Sundays, called him- self a gentleman, fell out with his mother and laund- ress ; and, even in these early days, his father was fre- ESSAYS. 515 quently heard to observe, that young The. — would be hano-ed. As he advanced in years, he grew more fond of pleasure ; would eat an ortolan for dinner, though he begged the guinea that bought it ; and was once known to give three pounds for a plate of green peas, which he had collected over-night as charity for a friend in distress ; he ran into debt with every body that would trust him, and none could build a sconce better than he ; so that, at last, his creditors swore with one accord that The. — would be hanged. But, as getting into debt by a man who had no visi- ble means but impudence for subsistence, is a thing that every reader is not acquainted with, I must ex- plain that point a little, and that to his satisfaction. There are three ways of getting into debt ; first, by pushing a face ; as thus, " You, Mr. Lustring, send me home six yards of that paduasoy, damme ; — but hark- 'ye, don't think I ever intend to pay you for it — damme." At this, the mercer laughs heartily, cuts off the paduasoy and sends it home; nor is he, till too late, surprised to find the gentleman had said nothing but truth, and kept his word. The second method of running into debt is called fineering ; which is getting goods made up in such a fashion as to be unfit for every other purchaser ; and, if the tradesman refuses to give them upon credit, then threaten to leave them upon his hands. But the third and best method is called, " Being the good customer." The gentleman first buys some trifle, and pays for it in ready money ; he comes a few days 516 ESSAYS. after with nothing about him but bank bills, and buys, we will suppose, a sixpenny tweezer-case ; the bills are too great to be changed, so he promises to return punc- tually the day after, and pay for what he has bought. In this promise he is punctual ; and this is repeated for eight or ten times, till his face is well known, and he has got, at last, the character of a good customer. By this means he gets credit for something considerable, and then never pays it. In all this the young man, who is the unhappy sub- ject of our present reflections, was very expert, and could face, fineer, and bring custom to a shop, with any man in England ; none of his companions could exceed him in this ; and his companions at last said that The. — would be hanged. As he grew old, he grew never the better ; he loved ortolans and green peas, as before ; he drank gravy- soup, when he could get it, and always thought his oysters tasted best when he got them for nothing, or, which was just the same, when he bought them upon tick ; thus the old man kept up the vices of the youth, and what he wanted in power he made up in inclina- tion ; so that all the world thought that old The. — would be hanged. And now, reader, I have brought him to his last scene ; a scene where, perhaps, my duty should have obliged me to assist. You expect, perhaps his dying words, and the tender farewell of his wife and children ; you expect an account of his coffin and white gloves, his pious ejaculations and the papers he left behind him. In this I cannot indulge your curiosity ; for, oh, the mysteries of fate ; The. was drowned. ESSAYS. 517 " Reader," as Hervey saith, " pause and ponder, and ponder and pause ; " who knows what thy own end may be ? ON FRIENDSHIP. There are few subjects that have been more written upon and less understood than that of friendship. To follow the dictates of some, this virtue, instead of be- ing the assauger of pain, becomes the source of every inconvenience. Such speculatists, by expecting too much from friendship, dissolve the connection, and by drawing the bands too closely, at length break them. Almost all our romance and novel writers are of this kind ; they persuade us to friendship, which we find it impossible to sustain to the last ; so that this sweetener of life, under proper regulations, is, by their means, rendered inaccessible or uneasy. It is certain, the best method to cultivate this virtue is by letting it, in some measure, make itself ; a similitude of minds of studies, and even sometime a diversity of pursuits, will produce all the pleasures that arise from it. The current of tenderness widens as it jDroceeds ; and two men imper- ceptibly find their hearts filled with good nature for each other, when they were at first only in pursuit of mirth or relaxation. Friendship is like a debt of honor ; the moment it is talked of, it loses its real name, and assumes the more un orateful form of obligation. From hence we find that those who regularly undertake to cultivate friendship, find ingratitude generally repays their endeavors. That 41 518 ESSAYS. circle of beings, which depenclance gathers round us, is almost ever unfriendly ; they secretly wish the terms of their connections more nearly equal ; and, where they even have the most virtue, are prepared to reserve all their affections for their patron only in the hour of his decline. Increasing the obligations which are laid upon such minds, only increases their burden ; they feel themselves unable to repay the immensity of their debt, and their bankrupt hearts are taught a latent resent- ment at the hand that is stretched out with offers of service and relief. Plautinus was a man who thought that every good was to be brought from riches ; and, as he was possessed of great wealth, and had a mind naturally formed for virtue, he resolved to gather a circle of the best men round him. Among the number of his dependants was Musidorus, with a mind just as fond of virtue, yet not less proud than his jmtron. His circumstances, how- ever, were such as forced him to stoop to the good offices of his superior, and he saw himself daily among a num- ber of others loaded with benefits and protestations of friendship. These, in the usual course of the world, he thought it prudent to accept ; but, while he gave his esteem, he could not give his heart. A want of affec- tion breaks out in the most trifling instances, and Plau- tinus had skill enough to observe the minutest actions of the man he wished to make his friend. In these he even found his aim disappointed ; Musidorus claimed an exchange of hearts, which Plautinus solicited by a variety of claims, could never think of bestowing. It may be easily supposed that the reserve of our ESSAYS. 519 poor, proud man was soon construed into ingratitude ; and such indeed, in the common acceptation of the world, it was. Wherever Musidorus appeared, he was remarked as the ungrateful man ; he had accepted favors, it was said ; and still had the insolence to pretend to independence. The event, however, justified his con- duct. Plautinus, by misplaced liberality, at length be- came poor, and it was then that Musidorus first thought of making a friend of him. Pie flew to the man of fallen fortune, with an offer of all he had ; wrought under his direction with assiduity ; and, by uniting their talents, both were at length placed in that state of life from which one of them had formerly fallen. To this story, taken from modern life, I shall add one more, taken from a Greek writer of antiquity : — Two Jewish soldiers, in the time of Vespasian, had fought many campaigns together, and a participation of danger at length bred a union of hearts. They were remarked through the whole army, as the two friendly brothers ; they felt and fought for each other. Their friendship might have continued, without interruption, till death, had not the good fortune of the one alarmed the pride of the other, which was in his promotion to be a centurion under the famous John, who headed a particular part of the Jewish malcontents. From this moment, their former love was converted into the most inveterate enmity. They attached them- selves to opposite factions, and sought each other's lives in the conflict of adverse party. In this manner they continued for more than two years, vowing mutual re- venge, and animated with an unconquerable spirit of 520 ESSAYS. aversion. At length, however, that party of the Jews, to which the mean soldier belonged, joining with the Romans, it became victorious, and drove John with all his adherents into the temple. History has given us more than one picture of the dreadful conflagration of that superb edifice. The Roman soldiers were gathered round it ; the whole temple was in flames ; and thou- sands were seen amidst them within its sacred circuit. It was in this situation of things, that the now success- ful soldier saw his former friend, upon the battlements of the highest tower, looking round with horror, and just ready to be consumed with flames. Ail his former tenderness now returned ; he saw the man of his bosom just going to perish ; and unable to withstand the im- pulse, he ran, spreading his arms, and cried out to his friend to leap down from the top, and find safety with him. The centurion from above heard and obeyed; and, casting himself from the top of the tower into his fellow-soldier's arms, both fell a sacrifice on the spot; one being crushed to death by the weight of his com- panion, and the other dashed to pieces by the greatness of his fall. FOLLY OF ATTEMPTING TO LEARN WISDOM IN RETIREMENT. Books, while they teach us to respect the interests of others, often make us unmindful of our own ; while they instruct the youthful reader to grasp at social happiness, he grows miserable in detail ; and, attentive to universal harmony, often forgets that he himself has a part to sus- ESSAYS. 521 tain in the concert. I dislike, therefore, the philosopher who describes the inconveniences of life in snch pleasing colors, that the pupil grows enamored of distress, longs to try the charms of poverty, meets it without dread, nor fears its inconveniences till he severely feels them. A youth who has thus spent his life among books, new to the world, and unacquainted with man but by philo- sophic information, may be considered as a being whose mind is filled with the vulgar errors of the wise ; utterly unqualified for a journey through life, yet confident of his own skill in the direction, he sets out with confidence, blunders on with vanity, and finds himself at last un- done. He first has learned from books, and then lays it down as a maxim, that all mankind are virtuous or vicious in excess : and he has been long taught to detest vice and love virtue. Warm, therefore, in attachments, and stead- fast in enmity, he treats every creature as a friend or foe ; expects from those he loves unerring integrity; and con- signs his enemies to the reproach of wanting every virtue. On this principle he proceeds; and here begin his disap- pointments : upon a closer inspection of human nature, he perceives that he should have moderated his friend- ship and softened his severity ; for he often finds the ex- cellences of one part of mankind clouded with vice, and the faults of the other brightened with virtue; he finds no character so sanctified that has not its failings, none so infamous but has somewhat to attract our esteem ; he beholds impiety in lawn, and fidelity in fetters. He now, therefere, but too late, perceives that his re- gards should have been more cool, and his hatred less vio- 44* 522 ESSAYS. lent ; that the truly wise .seldom court romantic friend- ship with the good, and avoid, if possible, the resent- ment even of the wicked ; every moment gives him fresh instances that the bonds of f rendship are broken if drawn too closely ; and that those whom he has treated with disrespect, more than retaliate the injury ; at length, therefore, he is obliged to confess, that he has declared war upon the vicious half of mankind, without being able to form an alliance among the virtuous to espouse his quarrel. Our book-taught philosopher, however, is now too far advanced to recede ; and though poverty be the just consequence of the many enemies his conduct has created, yet he is resolved to meet it without shrinking ; philosophers have described poverty in most charming colors ; and even his vanity is touched in thinking he shall show the world in himself one more example of patience, fortitude, and resignation ; " Come then, O Poverty ! for what is there in thee dreadful to the wise ? Temperance, health, and frugality walk in thy train ; cheerfulness and liberty are ever thy companions. Shall any be ashamed of thee of whom Cincinnatus was not ashamed ? The running brook, the herbs of the field, can amply satisfy nature ; man wants but little, nor that little long. Come, then, O Poverty ! while kings stand by, and gaze with admiration at the true philosopher's resignation." The goddess appears ; for Poverty ever comes at the call ; but, alas ! he finds her by no means the charming figure books and his own imagination had painted. As when an eastern bride, whom her friends and relations had long described as a model of perfection, pays her first ESSAYS. 523 visit, the longing bridegroom lifts the veil to see a face he had never seen bofore; but instead of a countenance blazing with beauty like the sun, he beholds a deformity shooting icicles to his heart; such appears Poverty to her new entertainer; all the fabric of enthusiasm is at once demolished, and a thousand miseries rise upon its ruins; while Contempt, with pointing finger, is foremost in the hideous procession. The poor man now finds that he can get no kings to look at him while he is eating : he finds that in proportion as he grows poor, the world turns its back upon him, and gives him leave to act the philosopher in all the majesty of solitude. It might be agreeable enough to play the philosopher, while we are conscious that mankind are spectators ; but what signifies wearing the mask of sturdy contentment, and mounting the stage of restraint, when not one creature will assist at the exhibition? Thus is he forsaken of men, while his fortitude waDts the satis- faction even of self-applause; for either he does not feel his present calamities, and that is natural insensibility; or he disguises his feelings, and that is dissimulation. Spleen now begins to take up the man; not dis- tinguishing in his resentment, he regards all mankind with detestation :. and commencing man-hater, seeks soli- tude to be at liberty to rail. It has been said, that he who retires to solitude is either a beast or an angel ; the censure is too severe, and the praise unmerited ; the discontented being who retires from society is generally some good-natured man who has begun life without experience, and knew not how to gain it in his intercourse with mankind. 524 ESSAYS. LETTER, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A COMMON-COUNCIL-MAN AT THE TIME OF THE CORONATION. Sir — I have the honor of being a eommon-courcih man, and arn greatly pleased with a paragraph from Southampton in yours of yesterday. There we learn that the mayor and aldermen of that loyal borough had the particular satisfaction of celebrating the royal nup- tials by a magnificent turtle-feast. By this means the gentlemen had the pleasure of filling their bellies, and showing their loyalty together. I must confess it would give me pleasure to see some such method of testifying our loyalty practised in this metropolis of which I am an unworthy member. Instead of presenting his majesty (God bless him) on every occasion with our formal ad- dresses, we might thus sit comfortably down to dinner, and wish him prosperity in a sirloin of beef; upon our army levelling the walls of a town, or besieging a fortifi- cation, we might at our city-least imitate our brave troops and demolish the walls of a venison-pasty, or besiege the shell of a turtle, with as great a certainty of success. At present, however, we have got into a sort of dry, unsocial manner of drawing up addresses upon every oc- casion ; and though I have attended upon six cavalcades and two foot-processions in a single year, yet I came away as lean and hungry as if I had been a juryman at the Old Bailey. For my part, Mr. Printer, I do n't see what is got by these processions and addresses except an appetite ; and that, thank Heaven, we all have in a pretty good degree, without ever .leaving our own houses for it. It is true, our gowns of mazarine blue, edged with fur, cut ESSAYS. 525 a prett} 7- figure enough, parading it through the streets, and so my wife tells me. In fact, I generally bow to all my acquaintances, when thus in full dress ; but, alas ! as the proverb has it, fine clothes, never fill the belly. But even though all this bustling, parading, and powdering, through the streets, be agreeable enough to many of us ; yet, I would have my brethren consider whether the frequent repitition of it be so agreeable to our betters above. To be introduced to court, to see the queen, to kiss hands, to smile upon lords, to ogle the ladies, and all the other fine things there, may, I grant, be a perfect show to us that view it but seldom ; but it may be a troublesome business enough to those who are to settle such ceremonies as these every day. To use an instance adapted to all our apprehensions ; suppose my family and I should go to Bartholomew fair. Very well, going to Bartholomew fair, the whole sight is perfect rapture to us, who are only spectators once and away ; but I am of opinion, that the wire- walker and fire-eater find no such great sport in all this ; I am of opinion they had as lief remain behind the cur- tain, at their own pastimes, drinking beer, eating shrimps, and smoking tobacco. Besides, what can we tell his majesty in all we say on these occasions, but what he knows perfectly well already ? I believe, if I were to reckon up, I could not find above five hundred disaffected in the whole kingdom ; and here we are every day telling his majesty how loyal we are. Suppose the addresses of a people, for in- stance, should run thus : — " May it please your m y, we are many of us worth a hundred thousand pounds, and are possessed of 526 ESSAYS. several other inestimable advantages. For the preser- vation of this money and those advantages we are chiefly indebted to your m y. "We are, therefore, once more assembled, to assure your m y of our fidelity. This, it is true, we have lately assured your m y five or six times ; but we are willing once more to re- peat what can't be doubted, and to kiss your royal hand, and the queen's hand, and thus sincerely to convince you, that we never shall do any thing to deprive you of one loyal subject, or any one of ourselves of one hund- red thousand pounds." Should we not, upon reading such an address, think that people a little silly, who thus made such unmeaning professions ? Excuse me, Mr. Printer ; no man upon earth hath a more profound respect for the abilities of the aldermen and common- council than I ; but I could wish they would not take up a monarch's time in these good-natured trifles, who, I am told, seldom spends a moment in vain. The example set by the city of London will probably be followed by every other community in the British empire. Thus we shall have a new set of addresses from every little borough with but four freemen and a burgess ; day after day shall we see them, come up with hearts filled with gratitude, " laying the vows of a loyal people at the foot of the throne." Death ! Mr. Printer, they will hardly leave our courtiers time to scheme a single project for beating the French ; and our enemies may gain upon us, while we are thus employed in telling our governor how much we intend to keep them under. But a people by too frequent use of addresses may by this means come at last to defeat the very purpose ESSAYS. 527 for which they are designed. If we are thus exclaim- ing in raptures upon every occasion, we deprive our- selves of the powers of flattery, when there may be a real necessity. A boy three weeks ago swimming across the Thames, was every minute crying out, for his amuse- ment, " I 've got the cramp, I 've got the cramp ; " the boatmen pushed off once or twice, and they found it was fun ; he soon after cried out in earnest, but nobody believed him, and he sunk to the bottom. In short, sir, I am quite displeased with any unneces- sary cavalcade whatever. I hope we shall soon have occasion to triumph, and then I shall be ready myself, either to eat at a turtle-feast or to shout at a bonfire ; and will either lend my faggot at the fire, or flourish my hat at every loyal health that may be proposed. I am, sir, etc. A SECOND LETTER. SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A COMMON-COUNCIL-MAN, DESCRIB- ING THE CORONATION. Sir, — I am the same common-council-man who troubled you some days ago. To whom can I complain but to you ? for you have many a dismal correspondent ; in this time of joy my wife does not choose to hear me, because, she says, I 'm always melancholy when she 's in spirits. I have been to see the coronation, and a fine sight it was, as I am told, to those who had the pleasure of being near spectators. The diamonds, I am told, were as thick as Bristol stones in a show glass ; the ladies and gentlemen walked along, one foot before another, and threw their eyes about them, on this side 528 ESSAYS. and that, perfectly like clock-work. ! Mr. Printer, it had been a fine sight indeed, if there was but a little more eating. Instead of that, there we sat, penned up in our scaffolding, like sheep upon a market-day in Smithfield ; but the devil a thing I could get to eat (God pardon me for swearing) except the fragments of a 23lum-cake, that was all squeezed into crumbs in my wife's pocket, as she came through the crowd. You must know, sir, that in order to do the thing genteelly, and that all my family might be amused at the same time, my wife, my daughter, and I, took two-guinea places for the corona- tion, and I gave my two eldest boys (who, by the by, are twins, fine children) eighteen-pence a-piece to go to Sudrick fair, to see the court of the black King of Morocco, which will serve to please children well enough. That we might have good places on the scaffolding, my wife insisted upon going at seven o'clock in the even- ing before the coronation, for she said she would not lose a full prospect for the world. This resolution, I own, shocked me. " Grizzle," said I to her, " Grizzle, my dear, consider that you are but weakly, always ailing, and will never bear sitting all night upon the scaffolding. You remember what a cold you got the last fast-day by rising but half an hour before your time to go to church, and how I was scolded as the cause of it. Besides, my dear, our daughter Anna Amelia Whilhelmina Carolina will look like a perfect fright if she sits up ; and you know the girl's face is something at her time of life, considering her fortune is but small." " Mr. Grogan," replied my wife, " Mr. Grogan, this is always the case, when you find me ESSAYS. 529 in spirits ; I do n't want to go, not I, nor I do n't care whether I go at all ; it is seldom that I am in spirits, but this is always the case." In short, Mr. Printer, what will you have on 't ? to the coronation we went. What difficulties we had in getting a coach ; how we were shoved about in the mob; how I had my pocket picked of the last new almanac, and my steel tobacco- box; how my daughter lost half an eye-brow, and her laced shoe in a gutter ; my wife's lamentation upon this, with the adventures of a crumbled plum-cake; relate all these ; we suffered this and ten times more before we got to our places. At last, however, we were seated. My wife is certain- ly a heart of oak ; I thought sitting up in the damp night- air would have killed her ; I have known her for two months take possession of our easy chair, mobbed up in flannel night-caps, and trembling at a breath of air ; but she now bore the night as merrily as if she had sat up at a christening. My daughter and she did not seem to value it a farthing. She told me two or three stories that she knows will always make me laugh, and my daughter sung me " the noon-tide air," towards one o'clock in the morning. However, with all their endeavors, I was as cold and as dismal as ever I remember. If this be the pleasures of a coronation, cried I to myself, I had rather see the court of King Solomon in all his glory, at my ease in Bartholomew fair. Towards morning, sleep began to come fast upon me ; and the sun rising and warming the air, still inclined me to rest a little. You must know, sir, that T am naturally of a sleepy constitution; I have often sat up at a table 45 530 ESSAYS. with my eyes open, and have been asleep all the while, What will you have on 't? just about eight o'clock in the morning I fell asleep. I fell into the most pleas- ing dream in the world. I shall never forget it ; I dreamed that I was at my lord-mayor's feast, and had scaled the crust of a venison-pasty ; I kept eating and eating, in my sleep, and thought I could never have enough. After some time, the pasty, methought, was taken away, and the dessert was brought in its room. Thought I to myself, if I have not got enough of veni- son, I am resolved to make it up by the largest snap at the sweet-meats. Accordingly I grasped a whole pyra- mid ; the rest of the guests seeing me with so much, one gave me a snap, the other gave me a snap ; I was pulled this way by my neighbor on my right hand, and that way by my neighbor on the left, but still kept my ground without flinching, and continued eating and pocketing as fast as I could. I never was so pulled and handled in my whole life. At length, however, going to smell to a lobster that lay before me, me- thought it caught me with its claws fast by the nose. The pain I felt upon this occasion is inexpressible ; in fact, it broke my dream ; when awaking I found my wife and daughter applying a smelling-bottle to my nose, and telling me it was time to go home ; they assured me every means had been tried to awake me, while the 'procession was going forward, but that I still continued to sleep till the whole ceremony was over. Mr. Printer, this is a hard case, and as I read your most ingenious work, it will be some comfort, when I see this inserted, to find that 1 write for it too. I am, sir, Your distressed humble servant, L. Grogan. 3 \ LBF e uj