FLORENCE'AND IRVIN-5HUPPJR Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po. p. THE POEMS AND PLAYS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH WITH THE ADDITION OF /v 3W THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, MEMOIR, ETC $0rtraft anlj rfgfnal IHuatrat^n* NEW YORK WORTHINGTON CO., 747 BROADWAY CONTENTS. MEMOIR , ^ ... _ ^ ^. . f *J POEMS. THE TRAVELLER : or, a Prospect of Society ... ... _ i THE DESERTED VILLAGE. First printed in 1769. . w 16 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Clown's Reply. 1753 .....__ ... 30 Stanzas on the Taking of Quebec. 1759 30 A Prologue written and spoken by the Poet Laberius, a Roman knight, whom Csesar forced upon the stage. Preserved by Macrobius. 1759 31 The Double Transformation. A Tale. 1765 32 A New Simile in the manner of Swift. 1765 M 35 Description' of an Author's Bedchamber 37 The Gift To Iris, in Bow Street, Covent Garden. Imitated from the French ..... M _ ~. ... 38 Epitaph on Dr. Parnell ..._._ 38 Epitaph on Edward Purdon ...... ,~ ......... .~ 39 THE HERMIT; a Ballad. 1765... ... ... _ 39 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON ; a Poetical Epistle to Lord Clare. I76S 45 An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog. From the " Vicar of Wake- field " . 49 EPILOGUES AND PROLOGUES. Epilogue to the Comedy of "The Sisters" 50 Epilogue to " She Stoops to Conquer,* Spoken by Mrs. Bulkley and MissCatley ~. ... 5? An Epilogue. Intended for Mrs. Bulkley 55 Prologue to "Zobeide." A Tragedy. Written by Joseph Cradock ; acted at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, 1772 _ _ _ 56 CONTENTS. PAGB Epilogue spoken by Mr. Lee Lewes, in the character of Harlequin, at his Benefit . 57 The Logicians Refuted. In imitation of Dean Swift 59 An Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize 61 On a Beautiful Youth Struck Blind by Lightning. Imitated from the Spanish 62 On a Beautiful Youth Struck Blind by Lightning ... . ^. ... 62 A Sonnet ... 62 Song from "The Vicar of Wakefield." On Woman 63 Song. Intended to have been sung in the Comedy of " She Stoops to Conquer," but omitted because the actress who played Miss Hard- castle did not sing 63 RETALIATION. Printed in 1774, after the author's death 63 Postscript ... 69 Burlesque Elegy on a Right Honourable Person. From the " Citizen of the World" 70 On the Death of the Right Honourable 70 Answer to an Invitation to Dinner. This is a Poem ! this is a copy of Verses 71 Ansv er to an Invitation to Pass the Christmas at Barton 73 On Seeing a Lady Perform in a certain character ... 75 Lines attributed to Goldsmith. These Lines appeared in the Morning Advertiser of April 3rd, 1800 75 Birds. From the Latin Lines of Addison (Spectator, 412) ... ... ... 76 Translation of a South American Ode ~. ... ... ~. ...76 From Scarron , m M ... ^ ... 77 From the Latin of Vida ... _ ... 77 THRENODIA AUGUST ALIS. Sacred to the Memory of her late Royal Highness the Princess Dowager of Wales. Spoken and Sung in the Great Room in Soho Square, Thursday, the 2Oth of February, 1772 ~. ... .~ 77 AN ORATORIO. 1720 MM . MM . M . M . M .86 PLAYS. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. A Comedy _ 98 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ; or, The Mistake! of a Night A Comedy ... ^ _ . . ... ... 164 MEMOIR OE OLIVER GOLDSMITH, | LIVER GOLDSMITH, born November 29, 1728, at Pallas, in the parish of Ferney, county Longford, Ireland, was the second son of the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, and Annie, daughter oi the Rev. Oliver Jones, master of the diocesan school at Elphin. Oliver's parents resided for some time after their marriage with Mrs. Goldsmith's uncle, the Rev. Mr. Green, at that time Rector of Kilkenny-West At his death, Charles* Goldsmith succeeded him in his benefice. The poor clergyman hap* five children, and having taxed his slender means very heavily, in order to bestow a classical education on his eldest son, Henry (whom he intended for the church), he was unable to bestow the same amount of cultivation on the genius of his gifted second son ; and Oliver destined to earn his future livelihood in a merchant's office was accordingly sent to a kind of hedge school in the parish, where he was taught reading, writing, and arithmetic, by the village schoolmaster ; an old soldier who had been quarter-master in the army in Queen Anne's days, and had fought in MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Spain during the wars of the Spanish Succession, under the chivalrous and romantic Earl of Peterborough. Often, when lessons were over, this singular pedagogue enter- tained his young pupils with stories of those days of wild adventure and heroic daring. Oliver's vivid imagination kindled at these recitals; and the love of adventure and excitement thus instilled into his childish mind tinged all his after life. Doubtless, pleasant memories of his first teacher inspired the charmingly playful description of the schoolmaster in the " Deserted Village." At the age of seven or eight years, Oliver attempted to write poetry, and would scribble verses which he after- wards burnt ; but his mother detected in them the germ of his future powers, and pleaded hard that he might receive better instruction. He was therefore placed under the care of the Reverend Mr. Griffin, of Elphin, as a daily pupil, residing at the same time at the house of his ancle, John Goldsmith, of Ballyoughton, near that town. An incident occurred at this time which changed the future career of the young genius. Mr. Goldsmith was entertaining a juvenile party at his house, and Oliver vas desired to dance a hornpipe; a youth playing the violin for his performance. The poor child had only just recovered from the small-pox, with which he was nuch marked, and his figure was comically short and thick. The musician compared him to ^Esop dancing, and pleased with the comparison, harped on it, till Oliver suddenly stopped short in the dance and retorted : " Our herald hath proclaimed this saying; 'See iEsop dancing and his monkey playing." MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. ii His uncles Messrs. Contarine and Green who were present, were so much struck with the precocious wit of the boy that they induced his father to alter his intentions regarding him, offering to bear the greater portion of his expenses, if Mr. Goldsmith would let him study for one of the learned professions, instead of putting him into an office. Oliver was in consequence removed to the school of Athlone, where he remained for two years under the care of the Rev. Mr. Campbell. On this gentleman resigning the master- ship from ill health, the boy was removed to the Rev. Patrick Hughes's school at Edgeworthstown, county Longford ; and of this tutor's learning and goodness he often spoke in after years with respect and grati- tude. In June, 1744, Oliver was sent to Dublin, and entered Trinity College as a Sizar. His tutor, the Rev. Mr. Wilder, one of the Fellows, was a man of savage temper and a great disciplinarian. The thoughtless, gay, and social lad of eighteen inspired this man with a dislike which he mani- fested on every occasion. One evening, Goldsmith had invited some of his young acquaintances of both sexes to a supper and dance in his room. The tutor entered in the midst of this out-of-place revelry, and not only addressed the harshest invectives to the thoughtless Sizar, but actually inflicted corporal punishment on him in his friends' presence. The sensitive poet was wounded to the soul. After so terrible a disgrace, he felt that he could not meet his acquaintances again, and he d**" Dublin and seek his fortune in MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. He disposed of his books and left the College, but lingered in Dublin till he had only a shilling left in his pocket. On this shilling he subsisted (he affirmed himself), for three days, and then had to sell great part of the clothes he wore. So terrible was the want to which he was at length reduced that for four and twenty hours he had no food, and thought a handful of grey peas which a giri gave him at a wake, a delicious repast His spirit lowered by suffering, the thoughts of the young man prodigal like reverted to his home from which he was not far distant. He managed to send for his brother Henry, who at once obeyed the summons ; comforted, fed and clothed him, and finally took hit? back to College, where he effected a hollow reconciliation between Oliver and his tutor. The dissensions between Mr. Wilder and young Goldsmith had an unfortunate effect on the studies of the pupil. He was not, in conse- quence, admitted to the degree of Bachelor of Arts till February, 1/49, two years after the regular time. Never- theless, Goldsmith showed no lack of ability, according to the testimony of his celebrated fellow student, Edmund Burke. Archdeacon Kearing Senior Fellow of Trinity College asserted that Goldsmith obtained a premium at a Christmas examination for being first in literary merit He was also elected an exhibitioner on the foundation of Erasmus Smyth, June 15, 1747. In 1750, soon after he had taken his degree, his excel- lent father died. Goldsmith preserved a tender recollection of this good man, and has immortalised his virtues in the ^ * MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. exquisite portrait of the " Village Preacher" in the " Deserted Village." The Rev. Charles Goldsmith was also the origi- nal of the " Man in Black," in the " Citizen of the World." Mr. Contarine endeavoured to supply the loss of Oliver's father, and urged him to take holy orders. But the poet had no vocation for the church, and probably felt but little regret when Dr. Synge, Bishop of Elphin, refused to ordain him, ostensibly on account of his youth probably because he found him ignorant of theology, or had heard of his freaks at College. His uncle then procured him a situation as tutor in a private family, where he continued a year, but having by that time saved thirty pounds and become weary of the monotonous thraldom of his position, he purchased a good horse and suddenly left the country. At the end of six weeks, however, he reappeared at his mother's house, mounted on a miserable little horse, which he called Fiddleback. Mrs. Goldsmith was greatly displeased with her erratic son, but his brothers and sisters interfered in his behalf, and reconciled her to him. He then told his story. He had gone to Cork, sold his horse, and taken his passage to America ; but the winds proving contrary for three weeks, he had started on an excursion into the country. That very same day the wind veered round to fair, and the ship sailed without him. He remained at Cork till he had only 2 $s. 6d. left, then he bought Fiddleback for forty shillings and started for his home a journey of 150 miles with only 55. 6d. in his pocket. On the road not far from Cork, resided a College friend of his, who had often urged Oliver to visit him and MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. spend a summer at his house. Thither, therefore, Gold- smith, confiding in the young man's former professions, resolved to proceed, hoping that he should be able to borrow enough money to supply the wants of himself and his steed on their homeward journey. Feeling certain of this aid, he gave away half his stock of money to a poor woman whom he met on his road ; touched by her story of "eight starving children and a husband in jail for rent." At last the house of his acquaintance appeared in sight and cheered the traveller's spirits. He found the master of it at home, just recovering from a severe illness. He received Oliver with much warmth, and inquired what fortunate cir- cumstance had brought him to that place. The simple, warm- hearted youth at once told his tale ; but as he proceeded his host's countenance and manner changed. He sighed deeply and walked about the room, rubbing his hands in solemn silence, till Oliver paused ; when he said that he re- gretted he had no means of entertaining visitors, as having been recently very ill, he lived on slops and a milk diet, but that if Mr. Goldsmith pleased to partake of invalid fare he should be welcome. The traveller, who had fasted the whole day, had little choice. By and by an old woman appeared and spread the table, on which she placed a bowl of sago for her master, and a porringer of sour milk and a piece of brown bread for his guest. The next day the half-starved Oliver proffered his request for the loan of a guinea. He was answered by grave counsel to avoid debt " Sell your horse," was the advice given, "that will supply you with funds, and 1 will furnish you with a steed for the MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. journey." As he spoke he drew from under the bed a stout oaken staff. Goldsmith asserted that he was about to use it over the miser's shoulders, when a guest was suddenly admitted, who came, like a good angel, to his aid. This gentleman, who lived in the neighbourhood, had come to invite Oliver's host to dine with him on the morrow, and, prepossessed by the young stranger's conversation, extended the invitation to Goldsmith. Oliver at first refused, but he actually needed food, and was therefore easily persuaded to accompany his churlish host to his friend's home. The gentleman perceived that there was something wrong between the fellow collegians, and insisted on Goldsmith's remaining as his guest for a few days. When his friend took leave Oliver advised him to take care of the steed he had kindly offered him, and not surfeit his friends on milk diet. The story of his miserly entertainment, which Goldsmith told on the morrow to his new friend, made him laugh heartily. He kept the poet with him a few days, and finally lent him three half guineas to pay his travelling expenses. Such was the tale which Oliver told to his mother at his return, concluding by saying, " and now, dear mother, after having struggled so hard to come home to you, I wonder you are not more glad to see me !" His uncle Contarine again came to the aid of the pro- digal, and offered to send him to study law at the Temple But once more the kind intentions of that good man were baffled by the incorrigible simplicity and thoughtlessness of his young kinsman. Oliver, when on his way to England, cli MEMOIR Of OLIVER GOLDSMITH. met a sharper in Dublin, who tempted him to play, and speedily relieved him of the fifty pounds which good Mr. Contarine had given him for the expenses of his voyage. Again he returned to his poor mother destitute, and again her natural anger was appeased by his regrets. Mr. Contarine also forgave him, and it was finally decided by the much tried family that the beloved, but troublesome genius, should enter the medical profession, and, by the untiring generosity of his uncle, he was sent to Edinburgh about the latter end of 1752. On the evening of his arrival in the Scottish metropolis he very nearly became again a homeless wanderer without clothes, through his singular inattention and carelessness. He had his luggage carried by a porter to a lodging which he engaged, and, telling the landlady that he would be home to supper, he went out to view the picturesque city of the north, and wandering about till dark, suddenly re- membered that he had not asked the name of the lodging- house keeper, or noticed that of the street in which she lived. To find her house appeared impossible ; but while he was standing in anxious perplexity, he chanced to see the porter whom he had employed, and who at once guided him to his new dwelling-place. Goldsmith does not appear to have studied very earn- estly at Edinburgh ; for though he attended the lectures of Munro and Cullen, and the usual classes for two years, he left the university without a diploma. His generous uncle suggested that he should go to Leyden, and conclude his medical studies there ; and as MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLbSAUTtt. aii this advice was enforced by the unpleasant circumstance of an arrest for the payment of a debt for which he had gener- ously become surety, Goldsmith after being released by his college friends, Mr. Maclane and Dr. Sleigh embarked for Bordeaux. A very singular adventure once more occurred, which delayed his journey, but also saved his life. He gives the following account of it in a letter to his benefactor : " Some time after the receipt of your last, I embarked for Bordeaux, on board a Scotch ship, called the ' St. Andrew's,' Captain John Wall, master. The ship made a tolerable appearance, and as another inducement, I was let to know that six agreeable passengers were to be my company. Well, we were but two days at sea, when a storm drove us into a city of England called Newcastle-on- Tyne. We all went on shore to refresh us after our royage. Seven men and I were one day on shore, and on \he following evening, as we were all very merry, the room doors burst open ; enters a sergeant and twelve grenadiers with their bayonets fixed, and puts us all under the king's arrest. It seems my company were Scotchmen in the French service, and had been in Scotland to enlist soldiers for the French army. I endeavoured all I could to prove my innocence ; however, I remained in prison with the rest a fortnight, and with difficulty got off even then. Dear sir, keep this all a secret, or at least say it was for debt ; for if it were once known at the university I should hardly get a degree But hear how Providence interposed *** MEMOIR Of OLIVER GOLDSMlTff. in my favour. The ship was gone on to Bordeaux before I got from prison, and was wrecked at the mouth of the Garonne, and every one of the crew was drowned. It happened the last great storm. There was a ship at that time ready for Holland ; and, in nine days, thank my God, I arrived safely at Rotterdam, whence I travelled by land to Leyden, and whence I now write." He resided for about a year at Leyden, studying chem- istry under Gaubius, the favourite pupil of the celebrated Boerhaave, and anatomy under Albinus ; his expenses being paid by his uncle Contarine. But here his fatal passion for gambling reduced him to the greatest pecuniary difficulties, from which he was released by the liberality of his friend, Dr. Ellis, Clerk of the Irish House of Commons, who, also, lent him a sum of money to enable him to quit Leyden, and travel. But, unfortunately, Oliver happened to visit im- mediately afterwards a garden where the finest flowers in tulip-loving Holland were produced. He remembered how his uncle Contarine loved flowers, and in a sudden glow of grateful recollection, spent all his money on the purchase of some costly roots to send to his benefactor. He was now without money or resources, and determined therefore to make a pedestrian tour through Europe. He started with only a new shirt in his pocket, and a German lute. He spoke French tolerably, and knew a little Italian ; these languages enabled him (with the help of Latin) to make himself understood in most of the lands IK visited. He walked by day, visiting and exploring MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. the beautiful South of France, the valleys of the Alps, or the classic plains of Italy ; when evening gathered over the earth, he took out his German flute, and played from memory the delicious Irish airs which haunted his ear, the charm of which won for him ready hospitality from the French peasant or the Flemish boor, at whose doors he lingered. Sometimes he came to one of those monastic seats of learning, where it was still the custom on certain days, to maintain thesis against any wandering disputant ; for which, if the scholar-errant acquitted himself ably, he might claim a gratuity in money, a dinner, and a bed foi the night. This was a great resource for Oliver, who had no objection to an argument for its own sake, and who was quite ready to win money and needful refreshment by it " Thus," he says, " I fought my way from convent to con- vent ; walked from city to city ; examined mankind more nearly ; and, if I may so express it, saw both sides of the picture." In this manner he travelled through Flanders, and parts of France, Germany, and Switzerland. He went to Padua, where he remained six months. He visited also Venice, Verona, and Florence. Whilst he was in Italy his kind uncle contrived to get a little money to him, and by this aid probably Goldsmith was enabled to resume his medical studies at Padua, But the death of that generous man made it necessary for Oliver to seek some permanent means of subsist- ence, and with a sad heart the poet, (he had already begur kit MEMOIR Of OLIVER GOLDSMlTff. to write his fine poem the " Traveller,") took his homeward way, striving with all sorts of difficulties till he had crossed the Channel, and at last reached London, 1756. There he stood, a ragged, way-worn man, with but a few half-pence in his pocket. He attempted to obtain a situation as usher in a school, and through the recommendation of Dr. Rad- cliffe, a mild, benevolent man, who had been joint tutor with the savage Wilder at Trinity College, he succeeded in ob- taining the post he desired. But disgusted at the drudgery and mortifications to which he found himself exposed, he soon left his situation, and applied to several apothecaries for the place of assistant His threadbare coat, ungainly figure, and broad Irish accent, however, stood in his way, and he was finally compelled to take the place of journey- man-assistant in the laboratory of a chemist, near Fish- street Hill. From the drudgery of this place he was released by the generous aid of his old fellow-student, at Edinburgh, Dr. Sleigh, whom he accidentally met in London, and who at once supplied him with money. By his advice Goldsmith set up in practice as a physician in Southwark (at Bankside), from whence he removed to the Temple. But Oliver did not find his profession a remuner- ative one ; he had, as he said, " an extensive circle of patients, but no fees." Necessity therefore drove him to literature as a pursuit At this time he renewed his acquaintance with several young medical men whom he had known when in Edinburgh; imongst them was the son of a Dr. Milner, a dissenting minister who had a classical school at Peckham, Surrey. Di; MEMOIR OP OLIVER (,OLD*MITH. Milner was seriously indisposed shortly after the renewal of Goldsmith's acquaintance with his son, and the latter asked his friend to superintend his academy till the master should be able to resume his duties. That time never came ; for Dr. Milner's illness was of long duration and ended in death ; but before he died he had secured for Goldsmith a situation as physician to one of the English factories on the Coromandel Coast. This appointment was considered likely to produce an income of one thou- sand per annum ; but Goldsmith ultimately refused it. Probably his lively imagination realized too vividly the distant exile from all whom he loved, and he preferred a struggle with poverty in his own land to wealth in the far East. Moreover, he had, as he used to phrase it, " a happy knack at hoping," and he was beginning to find that he could earn money quickly by his pen. In 1758 he was engaged by Mr. Griffiths, the publisher agd proprietor of the Monthly Review, as a writer on the stafi of that periodical ; for this work he received board, lodging and a handsome salary. At the end of seven or eight months the engagement was broken off, however ; Gold smith then took lodgings in Green Arbour Court, in the Old Bailey, where he completed his " Present State of Literature in Europe," printed for Dodsley, 1759. A friend paying him a visit at this time, found him in a miserably dirty room, which contained only one chair. Goldsmith, yielding it to his guest, was compelled to find a seat in the window. He afterwards removed to tolerably good lodgings in Wine Office Court, Fleet Street; there he ivifi MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. wrote his famous novel the u Vicar of Wakefield," and also became acquainted with Samuel Johnson, to whose just appreciation of its rare merit we probably owe the publi- cation of that enchanting story. We give Johnson's own account of how he became the literary sponsor of M Dr. Primrose. 1 * "I received one morning a message from poor Gold- smith that he was in great distress, and as it was not in his power to come to me, begging that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a guinea, and promised him to come directly. I accordingly went as soon as I was drest, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. I perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had got a bottle of Madeira and a glass before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated. He then told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced. I looked into it and saw its merit , told the landlady I should soon return, and having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Gold- smith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his landlady for having used him so ilL"* But Mr. Newberry had not much faith in the wonderful novel which was so great a contrast to the popular fictions of the day ; and he kept the MS. by him till the publi- This is the account givei by Boswell in his "Life of Johnsom.' MEMOIR OF OLW&R GOLDSMITH. cation of the "Traveller" had established Goldsmith's literary fame, and ensured the success of his tale. In the spring of 1763 Goldsmith removed to lodgings at Canonbury House, Islington, and undertook a great deal of literary employment for Mr. Newbeny, for whom he corrected and revised the " Art of Poetry," wrote the " Life of Beau Nash," and probably did much useful bui now unknown work. Here also he wrote his " Letters on English History, from a Nobleman to hi& Son," which were attributed at the time to Lord Lyttclton, the Earl of Orrery, and other noblemen, and obtained good success. His "Survey of Experimental Philosophy," which was not printed till some years afterwards, was written at this time. In 1765 Goldsmith published his fine poem "The Traveller." He had written jvirt of it whilst he wandered amongst the Swiss mountaini ; he completed it at intervals, .while doing literary drudgery for his daily bread. He conducted for Wilkie a Lady's Magazine, and wrote some delightful essays for a publication called the " Bee." For the " Public Ledger," he wrote a series of letters in the character of a Chinese philosopher ; they were afterwards collected and published by Newberry, 1762, under the title of the " Citizen of the World." This work proved suffi- ciently profitable to permit him, in 1764, to ta!:e up his abode in the Temple ; first in the Library Stan case, next in the King's Bench Walk, and latterly at 2, P-ick Court, where he had handsome apartments on the first floor, elegantly furnished. He began at this time V v*J MEMOIR OP OLIVER GOLDSMITH. attention to his dress, wearing the physician's peculiar costume of scarlet cloak, wig, sword, and cane ; he also engaged an amanuensis to lighten his literary toil, but this last luxury was speedily dispensed with, for Goldsmith found that head and hand must in his case work together. He was unable to dictate a sentence ; so he gave his clerk a guinea and dismissed him. In 1764 the celebrated Literary Club was instituted, and Goldsmith, as one of its earliest members, became asso- ciated with the most distinguished men of the day ; Dr. Johnson already his tried and affectionate friend Sir Joshua Reynolds, Edmund Burke, Topham Beauclerk, Mr. Langton, Mr. Chamier, Under Secretary of State, &c., &c., were members of it. The club met for some years every Monday evening, at the " Turk's Head," in Gerard Street, Soho ; had supper, and sat till a late hour. This society weaned Goldsmith in a great degree from the low associates towards whom the privations of his former life had drawn him. He was at this time possessed by a desire to explore Asia and the interior of Africa, with a view of introducing the arts of the east into England. He applied to Lord Bute for a salary sufficient to enable him to carry out this idea ; and drew up an essay on the subject, which ap- peared in his " Citizen of the World," but his memorial received no attention, and he was unable to achieve his purpose. The success of the "Traveller," which obtained the praise of Johnson, who declared it to be 'the finest poem MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Pope's time," and of Fox, who called it " one of the finest poems in the English language," introduced Goldsmith to many noble and influential people. Lord Nugent (afterwards Lord Clare) became his intimate friend, and introduced him to Earl Percy, afterwards Duke of North- umberland, who was then lord lieutenant of Ireland. The carl invited Goldsmith, through his friend Dr. Percy, to call on him. The simple-minded poet obeyed with natural pride at the distinction ; and being shown into an anti- chamber where he had to wait some time, he amused himself by thinking over a complimentary address with which he meant to greet the earl. But alas ! a groom of the chambers of pompous presence chanced to enter first, and Goldsmith bestowed on him the compliments destined for his master ! At that moment Lord Percy entered the room, and the absent poet perceiving his blunder, was so shocked and embarrassed that he could scarcely stammer out a reply to the earl's courteous greet- ing. Earl Percy (Goldsmith afterwards told Sir John Hawkins) told the poet that he had read the "Traveller," " and was much delighted with it ; that he was going as lord lieutenant to Ireland, and as he understood Mr. Gold- smith was a native of that country, he should be glad to do him any kindness he could." No thought of self crossed the mind of Oliver Goldsmith. He replied that he had a brother there, a clergyman, who needed help, and that he should be grateful if Earl Percy would show to him the kindness destined for himself. It is to be regretted that this generous request met with cdi MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. no attention, though Earl Percy on his return from his vice- royalty renewed his acquaintance with the poet Goldsmith had the weakness of priding himself on pos- sessing grand acquaintances, and was fond of boasting of his intimacy with Earl Percy. An ingenious bailiff, who wished to serve a writ on him, took advantage of it to arrest him. He wrote to Goldsmith in the character of steward to a nobleman who had read his poem, admired it, and requested the pleasure of an interview at a certain coffee-house. The poet, deceived and flattered, obeyed the summons, and found himself confronted by his enemy, the bailiff. The debt (which was trifling) was, however, discharged on the spot by Mr. Hamilton, printer of the "Critical Review,* an old friend of Goldsmith's and he was set free. In 1765 Goldsmith published his beautiful ballad of the " Hermit," and in 1768 his firsx play, " The Good-natured Man," was performed at Covent Garden, then under the management of Coleman. The play was not as successful as from its extraordinary merits it deserved to be, but it obtained, nevertheless, much admiration, and brought some profit for the author. Whilst Goldsmith was engaged on it he wrote numerous prefaces, introductions, and histories ; he was, indeed, always full of business as a writer. He wrote and abridged at this time the histories of England md Rome, which have almost up to the present day been standard school books. His exquisite poem, "The Deserted Village," appeared i 1769. It offers charming pictures of the village in vhich bis youth had been passed. The schoolmaster, the MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xxui preacher (a portrait of his excellent father) the aged beggar, the ale-house, the lads and lasses of the hamlet, still live in the melodious lines of the poet. The truth and tenderness of his affectionate recollections stamp the " Deserted Viilage " with a vitality which will probably pre- serve it in its present high place as long as the language in which it is written exists. Goldsmith's poems were composed with so much pains and care, that it is said that scarcely a word of his first copy ever went to press. He wrote his lines very far apart, and filled up the intermediate space with his numerous correc- tions. He was two years writing the " Deserted Village." Happily for his pecuniary circumstances, he wrote prose both rapidly and well, and is said in the course of fourteen years to have received upwards of 8000 as the price of his literary labours. In 1771 he wrote a " Life of Parnell," and in the same year, a " Life of Lord Bolingbroke," and his " History of Greece." His next large work was a comedy, " She Stoops to Conquer," which appeared at Covent Garden, March 15, 1773. He is said to have cleared 800 by it One of his last works was "A History of the Earth and of Animated Nature," published 1774. He received for it 850. But no money could enrich the thoughtless, generous, benevolent poet. He supported two or three poor authors ; he had several widows and poor housekeepers constant pensioners on his bounty. When his money was exhausted he gave them his clothes, and sometimes the whole of his breakfast, saying, after they were gone, with a smile of nd7 MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. satisfaction, * Now let me suppose that I have eaten a good breakfast, and am nothing out of pocket" Of economy he had no idea, and as a fatal habit of gambling possessed him, and his charity was simply boundless, the purse of Fortunatus alone could have kept him free from pecuniary embarrassments. When his money was exhausted he was in the habit of hiring a lodging some miles out of London, and writing incessantly, without taking any exercise, till his work was done. He would then carry the MS. to London, sell it to the booksellers, and with the price of it, enter at once into all the gaieties of London life. As he attained popularity, however, and the value of his name became apparent, the booksellers were only too ready to advance him money foi works to be hereafter written, and with these engagements he became greatly burdened towards the beginning of 1774, although for the past year's work he had received 1800. This life of long intervals of heavy work without exercise, and of reckless dissipation, after it, joined to his pecuniary anxieties, and a painful complaint from which he suffered, brought on, in March, 1774, a nervous fever. He sent for Mr. Hobbs, and expressed a wish to take some of Dr. James's Powders, from which he had once before, in a similar illness, derived great benefit. Mr. Hobbs tried to persuade him not to do so, and finding his entreaties fruitless, requested him to call in Dr. Fordyce, in whose skill both had great confidence. This second adviser also objected to the powders, but Goldsmith per- sisted in taking them, and was so ill on the following day that his friends summoned Dr. Turton to a consultation. Dr. Turton, after feeling his patient's pulse, observed, " Your pulse is in greater disorder than it should be from the degree of fever which you have ; is your mind at ease ?" Goldsmith answered, " It is not" Nothing could stop the progress of the fever, and on the 4th of April, 1774, the poet, historian, novelist, essayist, passed away to his rest ; regretted, not only by his literary associates, but by numbers of poor and lowly creatures who had never found his bounty fail them. Our readers will probably remember the beautiful picture exhibited in the Royal Academy a few years ago of the scene in Bolt Court the morning after Goldsmith's death ; the weeping poor who mourned the man who had been every one's friend but his own the gentle, generous Gold- smith. He died in the prime of his life, and full force of his intellect being only forty-five years of age when he expired. One of the probable causes of his mental disquietude became apparent after his death. He was ^2000 in debt. In consequence of this untoward circumstance his friends did not think it advisable to give him a public funeral. They determined to bury him privately in the Temple, and to erect a marble monument to his memory afterwards, in Westminster Abbey. His remains were therefore interred quietly in the Temple burying-ground, April pth, 1774, and soon after a subscription was commenced for the purchase of the monument. It was executed by Nollekens, and bears a large medallion with a good resemblance of MEMOIR OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. the poet in profile ; underneath, on a tablet of white marble is the inscription written by Dr. Johnson : OLIVARII GOLDSMITH, POET^E, PHYSICI, HISTORICI, QUI NULLUM FERE SCRIBENDI GENUS NON TETIGIT, NULLUM QUOD TETIGIT NON ORNAVIT I SIVE RISUS ESSENT MOVENDI SIVE LACRYM^E, AFFECTUUM POTENS AD LENIS DOMINATOR I INGENIO SUBLIMIS, VIVIDUS, VERSATILIS, ORATIONE GRANDIS, NITIDUS VENUSTUS J HOC MONUMENTO MEMORIAM COLUIT SODALIUM AMOR, AMICORUM FIDES, ECTORUM VENERATIO. NATUS IN HIBERNIA, FORNI^ LONGFORDIENSIS IN LOCO GUI NOMEN PALLAS, NOV. 29, MDCCXXXL,* EBLAN< LITERIS INSTITUTUS J OBIIT LONDINI, APRIL 4, MDCCLXXIV. (TRANSLATION.) To the Memory of Oliver Goldsmith, Poet, Naturalist, and Historian, who left no species of writing untouched or unadorned by A mistake not discovered till the monunxnt haft **lf as man. THE TRAVELLER, fj 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 I The self-dependent lordlings stand alone All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown. Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, Minds combat minds, repelling and repelled. Ferments arise, imprisoned factions roar, Repressed ambition struggles round her shore- Till over-wrought, the general system feels Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. Hence all obedience bows to these alone, And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown j Till time may ccme when, stript of all her charms. The land of scholars and the nurse of arms Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, Where kings have toiled, and poets wrote for fame One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonoured die. Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I state, I mean to flatter kings or court the great. Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, Far from my bosom drive the low desire I And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel The rabble's rage and tyrant's angry steel- Thou transitory flower, alike undone By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun-* I 4 GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure I I only would repress them to secure : For just experience tells, in every soil, That those who think must govern those that tofl } And all that freedom's highest aims can reach, Is but to lay proportioned loads on each. Hence, should one order disproportioned grow, Its double weight must ruin all below. O, then, how blind to all that truth requires^ Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, Except when fast approaching danger warms : But when contending chiefs blockade the throne^ Contracting regal power to stretch their own When I behold a factious band agree To call it freedom when themselves are free Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home- Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart ; Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. Yes, brother ! curse with me that baleful hour When first ambition struck at regal power ; And thus polluting honour in its source, Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, Like -flaring tapers bright'ning as they waste? Seen opulence her grandeur to maintain, Lead stern depopulation in her train, THE TRAVELLER. And over fields where scattered hamlets rose, In barren solitary pomp repose ? Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, The smiling long-frequented village fall ? Beheld the duteous son, the sire decayed, The modest matron, and the blushing maid, Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, To traverse climes beyond the western main Where wild Oswego* spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with thundering sound ? E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways, Where beasts with man divided empire claim, And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim- There, while above the giddy tempest flies, And all around distressful yells arise The pensive exile bending with his woe, To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, Casts a long look where England's glories shinefc And bids his bosom sympathise with mine. Vain, very vain, my weary search to find, That bliss which only centres in the mind. Why have I strayed from pleasure and repose^ To seek a good each government bestows ? In every government though terrors reign, Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, How small of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure I Still to ourselves in every place consigned, Our own felicity we make or find : With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. A lake of th State* New York. ,6 GOLDSMITH* S POEMS. The lifted axe, the agonising wheel, Luke's iron crown,* and Damiens' bed of steel,t To men remote from power but rarely known, Leave reason, faith, and conscience all our own.J THE DESERTED VILLAGE: A POEM. FIRST PRINTED IN 1769. TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. [JEAR SIR, I can have no expectations, in an address of this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to estab- lish my own. You can gain nothing from my admiration, as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel ; and I may lose much by the .severity of your judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest therefore aside, to which I never paid umch attention, I must be indulged at pre- sent in following my affections. The only dedication I ever made was to my brother, because I loved him better than most other Mien. He is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this Poem to you. How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere :necha:iical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to inquire ; but 1 know you will object (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion), that the depopulation it deplores is nowhere to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can scarcely make * Luke Zeck and his brother George headed an insurrection in Hungary, A.D. 1514. George, not Luke (as the poet says by mistake), had his head encircled by a red-hot iron crown in mocking punishment. t Robert Francois Damiens, a mad fanatic, attempted the life of Louis XV., in 1757. He was put to "death with horrible tortures, being broken asunder on the wheel and then torn by horses. * The last nine lines of the " Traveller" were written by Dr. Johnson. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. t) :-.iy othe.r answer, than that I sincerely believe what I have ritten ; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country ex- tirsion s, for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I illege ; and that all my views and inquiries have led me to believe ihosve miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an inquiry, whether the country be de populating or not ; the discussion would take up much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indifferent politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his unfeigned attention to a long poem. In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against the increase of our luxuries ; and here also I expect the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages ; and all the wisdom of antiquity in that par- ticular as erroneous. Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and continue to think those luxuries preju- dicial to states by which so many vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed so much has been poured out of late on the other side of the question, that merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in the right I am, Dear Sir, Your sincere Mend and ardent admirer, OLIVER GOLDSMITH [WEET AUBURN ! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed- Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when ever/ sport could please- How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where bumble happiness endeared each GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. How often have I paused on every charm- - The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made : How often have I blessed the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree- While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old surveyed ; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. And still as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired, The dancing pair that simply sought renown, By holding out to tire each other down ; The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter tittered round the place : The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, The matron's glance that .would those looks reprove. These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms but all these charms are fled I Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn : Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green : One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But choked with sedges, works its weedy way j Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Sunk are thy 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, and men decay : Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade A breath can make them, as a breath has made? But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintain'd its man ; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more : His best companions, innocence and health j . And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain : Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; And every want to luxury allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that asked but little room, Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, Lived in each look, and brightened all the green ; These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet AUBURN, parent of the blissful hour 1 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks, and -uined grounds, 80 GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain, In all my wand'rings round this world of care, In all my griefs and God has given my share I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose. I still had hopes for pride attends us still Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw. And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return and die at home at last O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine ! How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease ; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deepj No surly porter stands in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate } But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way ; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came softened from below j The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that lowed to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, But all the blooming flush of life is fled. All but yon widowed, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; She, wretched matron forced in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn- She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain ! Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place I Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power By doctrines fashioned to the varying nour 5 Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. His house was known to all the vagrant train. He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain, The long remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talked the night away ; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned 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 leaned to virtue's side ; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed j 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 whispered praise. At church with meek and unaffected His looks adorned the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; E'en children followed with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, tc share the good man's smile. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 43 His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed} 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 leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, The village master taught his little school A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew: Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face ; Full well they laughed with counterfeited gle At all his jokes, for many a joke had he , Full well the busy whisper circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frownei Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault The village all declared how much he knew, Twas certain he could write, and 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 owned his skill ; For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still ; While words of learned length, and thund'ring scurd 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 triumphed is forgot GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where grey-beard mirth, and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round, Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place : The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnished clock that clicked behind the door} The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay- While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. Vain transitory splendours ! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. Thither no more the peasant shall repair, To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hearj 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 ait THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 25 Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway \ Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined ; But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy ? Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore> And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around ; Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ; The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth ; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies : While thus the land adorned for pleasure all In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. As some fair female, unadorned and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights ever)- borrowed charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail- She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed ; In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed, But verging to decline, its splendours rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; While, scourged by famine, from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band And while he sinks, without one arm to save The country blooms a garden and a grave. Where, then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? If to some common's fenceless limits strayed, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And even the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped What waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share ; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; To see each joy the sons of pleasure know Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; Here, while the proud their long drawn pomps display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy, Sure these denote one universal joy 1 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah 1 turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shivering female lies* She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distressed; He> modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn J Now lost to all her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head And pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet AUBURN, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread t Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through toirid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama* murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charmed before, The various terrors of that horrid shore ; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day ; Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned^ Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men, more murderous stDl than they j While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies, A riYcr af Georgia, United State*. 28 GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. Far different these from every former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven 1 what sorrows gloomed that parting dav That called them from their native walks away ; When the poor exile, every pleasure past, Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, And took a long farewell, and wished in vain For seats like these beyond the western main; And shuddering still to face the distant deep, . Retum'd and wept, and still return'd to weep I The good old sire, the first prepared to go To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wished for worlds beyond the grave, His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose ; And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear Whilst her fond husband strove to lend reliefj In all the silent manliness of grief. O luxury ! thou cursed by Heaven's decree, How ill exchanged are things like these for thee I How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Diffuse thy pleasures only to destroy ! Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigour not their own ; At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down the) si..iv, and spread a ruin round. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. E'en now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail* That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand; Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And piety, with wishes placed above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; Unlit in these degenerate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame- Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me SC-* Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue fare thee well ! Farewell ! and oh, where'er thy voice be tried. On Tornea's cliffs, or Pambamarca's * side, Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime. Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain \ Teach him, that states, of native strength possessed, Though very poor, may still be very blest ; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away ; * A mountain of Mexico. \o GOT r SMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS t While self-dependent power c*n time defy, As rocks resist the billows a*4 the sky.* MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. CLOWN'S REPLY. 1753- OHN TROTT was desired by two witty peen, To tell them the reason why asses had ears j " An't please you," quoth John, " I'm not given to letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters ; Flowe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces As I hope to be saved ! without thinking on asses. STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBECt '759- 1 MIDST the clamour of exulting joys, Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasure start O Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear ; Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung teat. Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled, And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes ; Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead I Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. The four last lines are by Dr. Johnson t General James Wolfe was born 1726, vA WJ at^h-> mon>*nt of victory at Quebec, Sept. !3th, 1759. Goldsmith cUufc&A )ltiunship with this gallaa* and distinguished soldier. PROLOGUE BY LABERIUS. S A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY TH1 POET LABERIUS,* A, ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CiESA*. FORCED UPON THE STAGS. PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS. 1759- |HAT ! no way left to shun th' inglorious stagey And save from infamy my sinking age ? Scarce half alive, oppressed with many a year, What in the name of dotage drives me here ? A time there was, when glory was my guide Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside \ Unawed by power, and unappalled by fear, With honest thrift I held my honour dear \ But this vile hour disperses all my store, And all my hoard of honour is no more- For ah ! too partial to my life's decline, Caesar persuades, submission must be mine I Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys, Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please. Here, then, at once I welcome every shame, And cancel, at threescore, a life of fame. No more my titles shall my children tell, The old buffoon will fit my name as well; This day beyond its term my fate extends, For life is ended when our honour ends. * Decimus Laberins wrote mimes or satirical productions for the stage. Csesar compelled him to perform in one against his will; and Laberius spoke a latirical prologue against Caesar on the occasion. This prologue was preserved bj Aulus Gellius. Laberius died B.C. 44. GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. A TALE. I765- JECLUDED from domestic strife, Jack Book-worm led a college life} A fellowship at twenty-five Made him the happiest man alive J He drank his glass, and cracked his joke, And freshmen wondered as he spoke. Such pleasures unalloyed with care, Could any accident impair ? Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix Our swain, arrived at thirty-six? Oh ! had the archer ne'er come down To ravage in a country town ; Or Flavia been content to stop At triumphs in a Fleet Street shop I Oh ! had her eyes forgot to blaze I Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze! Oh I but let exclamations cease, Her presence banished all his peace. So with decorum all things carried ; Miss frowned, and blushed, and then wa? married. Need we expose to vulgar sight The raptures of the bridal night? Need we intrude on hallowed ground, Or draw the curtains closed around? Let it suffice that each had charms ; He clasped a goddess in his arms ; And though she felt his usage rough, Vet in a man 'twas well enough. The honey-moon like lightning flew, The second brought its transports too ; THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 33 A third, a fourth, were not amiss, The fifth was friendship mixed with bliss, But, when a twelvemonth passed away, Jack found his goddess made of clay ; Found half the charms that decked her face Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ; But still the worst remained behind That very face had robbed her mind, Skilled in no other arts was she, But dressing, patching, repartee ; And, just as humour rose or fell, By turns a slattern or a belle. 'Tis true she dressed with modern grace, Half naked at a ball or race ; But when at home, at board or bed, Five greasy night-caps wrapped her head* . Could so much beauty condescend To be a dull domestic friend ? Could any curtain lectures bring To decency so fine a thing? In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting ; By day 'twas gadding or coquetting. Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy Of powdered coxcombs at her levee ; The 'squire and captain took their stations, And twenty other near relations : Jack sucked his pipe, and often broke A sigh in suffocating smoke ; While all their hours were passed between Insulting repartee or spleen. Thus as her faults each day were known, He thinks her features coarser grown ; He fancies every vice she shows, Or thins her lip, or points her nose : Whenever rage or envy rise, How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes f J4 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS He knows not how, but so it is, Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; And, though her fops are wondrous civil. He thinks her ugly as the devil. Now to perplex the ravelled noose, As each a different way pursues While sullen or loquacious strife Promised to hold them on for life That dire disease, whose ruthless power Withers the beauty's transient flower : Lo ! the small-pox whose horrid glare Bevelled its terrors at the fair ; And, rifling every youthful grace, Left but the remnant of a face. The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a perfect fright Each former art she vainly tries To bring back lustre to her eyes ; In vain she tries her paste and creams To smooth her skin, or hide its seams j Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens ; The 'squire himself was seen to yield, And ev'n the captain quit the field. Poor madam now condemned to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown, Attempted pleasing him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old : With modesty her cheeks are dyed. Humility displaces pride ; For tawdry finery is seen A person ever neatly clean t THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 33 No more presuming on her sway, She learns good-nature every day: Serenely gay, and strict in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. A NEW SIMILE IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. 1765. ONG had I sought in vain to find A likeness for the scribbling kind The modern scribbling kind who write^ In wit, and sense, and nature's spite Till reading, I forget what day on, A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,* I think I met with something there To suit my purpose to a hair. But let us not proceed too furious First please to turn to God Mercurius: You'll find him pictured at full length, In book the second, page the tenth : The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, And now proceed we to our simile. Imprimis, Pray observe his hat, Wings upon either side mark that. Well ! what is it from thence we gather? Why these denote a brain of feather. A brain of feather ! very right With wit that's flighty, learning light ; Such as to modern bards decreed : A just comparison, proceed. A School Mythology, written by Andrew Tooke, head-master of the Charterhouse. 36 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes ; Designed, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air x And here my simile unites For in the modern poefs flights, I'm sure it may be justly said, His feet are useful as his head. Lastly, vouchsafe t* observe his hand, Filled with a snake-encircled wand, By classic authors termed Caduceus, And highly famed for several uses. To wit most wondrously endued, No poppy water half so good ; For let folks only get a touch, Its soporific virtue's such, Though ne'er so much awake before, That quickly they begin to snore. Add too, what certain writers tell, With this he drives men's souls to hell. Now to apply, begin we then ; His wand's a modern author's pen ; The serpents round about it twined, Denote him of the reptile kind Denote the rage with which he writes, His frothy slaver, venomed bites, An equal semblance still to keep, Alike too both conduce to sleep This difference only, as the god Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod, With his goose-quill the scribbling elfj Instead of others, damns himself. And here my simile almost tript, Yet grant a word by way of postscript A NEW SIMILE. Moreover Mercury had a failing : . Well ! what of that ? out with it stealing: In which all modern bards agree, Being each as great a thief as he ; But ev'n this deity's existence Shall lend my simile assistance : Our modern bards ! why what a pox Are they but senseless stones and blocks? DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER * | HERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black cham- pagne, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane : There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The Muse found Scroggen stretched beneath a rug t A window patched with paper, lent a ray, That dimly showed the state in which he lay : The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread : The humid wall with paltry pictures spread : The Royal game of goose was there in view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew. The seasons, framed with listing, found a place, And brave Prince Williamt showed his lamp-black fac& The morn was cold, he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire ; With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, And five cracked tea-cups dressed the chimney board \ A night-cap decked his brows instead of bay, A cap by night a stocking all the day I Goldsmith intended this for the beginning of a serio-comic poem on the shifts and struggles of a poor author, but never finished it. f The Duke of Cumberland. GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS PL EMS. THE GIFT. TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN IMITATK) FROM THE FRENCH.* | AY, cruel Iris, pretty rake, Dear mercenary beauty, What annual offering shall I make Expressive of my duty ? My heart, a victim to thine eyes, Should I at once deliver, Say, would the angry fair one prize The gift, who slights the giver? A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, ' My rivals give and let 'em I If gems, or gold, impart a joy, I'll give them when I get 'em. I'll give but not the full-blown rose, Or rose-bud more in fashion : Such short-lived offerings but disclose A transitory passion, I'll give thee something yet unpaid, Not less sincere than civil 111 give thee ah ! too charming maid I I'll give thee to the devil ! EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.t HIS tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name, May speak our gratitude, but not his fame, What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way! ' OfGercourt t Dr. Thomas Parnell was an Irish poet and divine, born 1679, died 1717. His cbief poem is the " Hermit" off DR. PARNELL. Celestial themes confessed his tuneful aid ; And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. Needless to him the tribute we bestow, The transitory breath of fame below : More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, While converts thank their poet in the skies. EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON. ERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, Who long was a bookseller's hack : He led such a damnable life in this world, I don't think he'll wish to come back. THE -HERMIT. THE FOLLOWING LETTER, ADDRESSED TO THE PRINTER OF THE " ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE," APPEARED IN THAT PAPER IN JUNE, 1767^ ]IR, as there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper con troversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one, and I think so still. I said 1 was told by the bookseller that it was then first published ; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right. * This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin, but, having wasted his patrimony, enlisted as a foot soldier Growing tired of that mode of life he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's "Henriade." t He had been accused in the St. JatruJt Chronicle of imitating Percy's ballad "The Friar of Orders Grey. Both, probably, were indebted to the old ballad, "Gentle Herdsman." See "Legendary Ballads," Warae'* "Qiaados PoeU." 40 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published some time ago from one* by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago ; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little cento, if I may so call it, and 1 highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing ; and, were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more im- portant nature. I am, Sir, yours, &c., OLIVER GOLDSMITH. A BALLAD. 1765. URN, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way To where yon taper cheers the vali With hospitable ray ; "For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go." " Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. "Tht Friar of Orders Grey."" Reliq. of Anc. Poetry," roL i. boox A, No. IS. THE HERMIT. 41 " Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still ; And though my portion is but scant, 1 give it with goodwill. " Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows ; My rushy couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. " No flocks that range the valley free To slaughter I condemn ; Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them : " But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. " Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego All earth-born cares are wrong : Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long." Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell : The modest stranger lowly bends^ And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay ; A refuge to the neighb'ring poor And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatcll Required a master's care ; The wicket, opening with a latch, Received the harmless pair. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And now, when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The Hermit trimmed his little fire, And cheered his pensive guest. And spread his vegetable store, And gaily pressed, and smiled) And, skilled in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguiled. Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries The cricket chirrups in the hearth, The crackling faggot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To soothe the stranger's woe For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the Hermit spied With answering care opprest ; * And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, " The sorrows of thy breast ? * From better habitations spurned, Reluctant dost thou rove ? Or grieve for friendship unreturned, Or unregarded love ? "Alas ! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay ; And those who prize the paltry things More trifling still than they. * And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep A shade that follows wealth or But leaves the wretch to weep ? THE HERMIT. 43 * And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair-one's jest ; On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest * For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex," he said ; But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betrayed. Surprised he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view Like colours o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms : The lovely stranger stands confest A maid in all her charms. u And ah ! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn," she cried . * Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude Where Heaven and you reside. a But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. * My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he : And all his wealth was marked as mine He had but only me. "To win me from his tender arms, Unnumbered suitors came ; Who praised me for imputed charms, And felt, or feigned a flame. GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. u Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove ; Amongst the rest young Edwin bowed, But never talked of love. " In humble simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he : Wisdom and worth were all he had But these were all to me. * And when, beside me in the dale, He caroled lays of love, His breath lent fragrance to the gale And music to the grove. "The blossom op'ning to the day, The dews of Heaven refined, Could nought of purity display To emulate his mind. *The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine ; Their charms were his ; but, woe to me, Their constancy was mine. * For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain ; And while his passion touched my hearty I triumphed in his pain ; quite dejected ^with my scorn, He left me to my pride ; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he died. a But mine the sorrow, mine the faulty And well my life shall pay; Fll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay } THE HERMIT. 4$ * And there, forlorn, despairing bid- Ill lay me down and die ; Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I." "Forbid it, Heav*n !" the Hermit cried, And clasped her to his breast : The wond'ring fair one turned to chide 'Twas Edwin's self that pressed. * Turn, Angelina, ever dear My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin herefc Restored to love and thee. " Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And every care resign ; And shall we never, never part, My life my all that's mine ! " No, never from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true ; The sigh that rends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's too." THE HAUNCH OF VENISON;* A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE, 1765. HANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fattet Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter ; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy. Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting To spoil such a delicate picture by eating : Imitated from Boileau, 46 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view, To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu ; As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show ; But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in, But hold let me pause. Don't I hear you pronounce^ This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce ? Well, suppose it a bounce sure a poet may try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest in my turn, It's a truth and your lordship may ask Mr. Bum.* To go on with my tale as I gazed on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch- So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undressed, To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose : Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's :t But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There's Howard, and Colley,J and Hogarth, and Hiff, I think they love venison I know they love beef. There's my countryman, Higgins Oh let him alone For making a blunder, or picking a bone. But hang it to poets who seldom can eat, Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; Such dainties to them their health it might hurt, It's like sending them ruffles, when wfnting a shirt While thus I debated, in reverie centred, An acquaintance a friend, as he called himself entered ; * Lord Clare's nephew. t Dorothy Monroe, a beautiful woman, celebrated by Lord Townsend'j tines. J Colman. AD Irish author now forgotten. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 4} Vn under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, \nd he smiled as he looked at the venison and me. " What have we got here ? Why this is good eating i Your own, I suppose or is it in waiting ?" " Why, whose should it be?" cried I with a flounce, " I get these things often" but that was a bounce; " Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleased to be kind but I hate ostentation." " If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, 11 I'm glad I have taken this house in my way: To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; NJo words I insist on't precisely at three ; Ve'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be there} My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare. \.nd, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner, ^Ve wanted this venison to make out a dinner. Vhat say you a pasty ? it shall, and it must, Vnd my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. I ere, porter this venison with me to Mile-end: so stirring, I beg my dear friend my dear friend !" ;'iuis, snatching his hat, he brushed off like the wind, t nd the porter and eatables tollowed behind. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, \nd "nobody with me at sea but myself;"* Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hastf, /et Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty, V'ere things that I never disjjtked in my life, Though clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. >o next day in due splendour to make my approach, ! drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. When come to the place where we all were to dine; A chair-lumbered closet, just twelve feet by nine :) * See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry, Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor. 1769. , 48 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb, With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; " For I knew it," he cried, "both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale ;* But no matter, I'll -warrant we'll make up the party With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, They're both of them merry, and authors, like you \ The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; Some think he writes Cinna he owns to Panurge ? While thus he described them by trade and by name^ They entered, and dinner was served as they came. At the top, a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen ; At the sides there was spinach, and pudding made hotj In the middle a place where the pasty was not Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round : But what vexed me most was that d - d Scottish rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue^ And " Madam," quoth he, " may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on : Pray, a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst" " The tripe," quoth the Jew, "if the truth I may speak, I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week : I like these here dinners, so pretty and small ; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at alL* " O ho !" quoth my friend, " he'll come on in a He's keeping a corner for something that's nice ; There's a pasty" " A pasty !" repeated the Jew, " I don't care if I keep a corner for't too.* The great brewer and friend of Dr. Johmo* TffS HAUXCtt OF VENISOM. 49 "What the de'il, mon, a pasty !" re-echoed the Scot, u Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that" " We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out ; " We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed, With looks that quite petrified, entered the maid : A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night But we quickly found out for who could mistake her ? That she came with some terrible news from the baker : And so it fell out ; for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting nis oven. Sad Philomel thus but let similes drop And now that I think on't, the story may stop To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced To send such good verses to one of your taste ; You've got an odd something a kind of discerning, A relish a taste sickened over by learning ; At least, it's your temper, as very well known, That you think very slightly of all that's your own : So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. FROM THE " VICAR OF WAKEFIELD." OOD people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song, And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran, Whene'er he went to oray. GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes ; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends ; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighbouring streeti The wond'ring neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. The wound it seemed both sore and sad, To every Christian eye ; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied, The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died. EPILOGUES AND PROLOGUES, EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF "THE SISTERS."* |HAT? five long acts and all to make us wiser? Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. Had she consulted me^ she should have made Her moral play a speaking masquerade ; * By Charlotte Lennox, a lady who was the intimate friend of Dr. Johnson and of Richardson, the author of " Pamela. " She wrote the "Female Quixote," and several plays, &c. She was born at New York, and died 1804. Johnsoa laid she was the cleverest woman of her age. S* " BoswelL" EPILOGUES AND PROLOGUES. _ - - - Warmed up each bustling scene, and in her rage Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking ; Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking. Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, What if I give a masquerade? I will. But how ? ay, there's the rub ! [pausing] I've got my cue , The world's a masquerade ! the masquers, you, you, you. [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. Lud ! what a group the motley scene discloses ! False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses I Statesmen with bridles on ; and close beside 'em, Patriots in party-coloured suits that ride 'em. ' There Hebes, turned of fifty, try once more To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore. These in their turn, with appetites as keen, Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen. Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman ; The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure. Thus 'tis with all ; their chief and constant care Is to seem everything but what they are. Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my e** on, Who seems t' have robbed his vizor from the lion j Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade, Looking as who should say, dam'me ! who's afraid ? \Mimicking. Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am You'll find his lionship a very lamb. Yon politician, famous in debate, Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state j Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume, He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom. Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight, And seems to every gazer, all in white, $2 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. If with a bribe his candour you attack, He bows, turns round, and whip the man's a black I Yon critic, too but whither do I run ? If I proceed, our bard will be undone 1 Well then a truce, since she requests it too : Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you. EPILOGUE TO " SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER." SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY. Enter MRS. BUUCLEY who curtseys very low as beginning to speak Then enter Miss CATLEY, who stands full before her and curtseys to the Audience. Mrs. Bui. Hold, Ma'am, your pardon. What's your business Miss Cat. The Epilogue. Mrs. Bui. The Epilogue ? Miss Cat. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear. Mrs. Bui. Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue, /bring it Miss Cat. Excuse me, Ma'am. The Author bid me sing it RECITATIVE. Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, Suspend your conversation while I sing. Mrs. Bui. Why, sure the girl's beside herself 1 an Epilogur of singing, \ hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning. i Besides, a singer in a comic set xcuse me, Ma'am, I know the etiquette. Miss Cat. What if we leave it to the House ? Mrs. Bui. The House ! Agreed. Miss Cat. Agreed. Wrs. Bui. And she whose party's largest shall proceed. v \ first I hope you'll readily agree, . o all the critics and the wits for me. EPILOGUE TO "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER* 5$ They, I am sure, will answer my commands : Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands. What, no return ? I find too late, I fear, That modern judges seldom enter here. Miss Cat. I'm for a different set. Old men, whose trade is Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies. RECITATIVE. Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling, Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling. AIR COTILLON. Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever Strephon caught thy ravished eye. Pity take on your swain so clever, Who without your aid must die. Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu, Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho. [Da, Capo. Mrs. Bui Let all the old pay homage to your merit ; Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit Ye travelled tribe, ye macaroni train, Of French friseurs, and nosegays, justly vain, Who take a trip to Paris once a year To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here- Lend me your hands. O fatal news to tell, Their hands are only lent to the Heinel.* Miss Cat. Ay, take your travellers travellers indeed t Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed. Where are the chiels ? Ah, ah ! I well discern, The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn. AIR. A BONNY YOUNG LAD IS MY JOCKEY. 1*11 sing to amuse you by night and by day, And be unco merry when you are but gay ; A popular dancer at the Opera House, 1773 54 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. When you with your bagpipes are ready to play, My voice shall be ready to carol away With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey. Mrs. Bui. Ye Gamesters, who so eager in pursuit, Make but of all your fortune one va toute : Ye Jockey tribe whose stock of words are few, " I hold the odds Done, done, with you, with you." Ye barristers so fluent with grimace, " My Lord your Lordship misconceives the case. 18 Doctors, who answer every misfortuner, " I wish I'd been called in a little sooner." Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, Come end the contest here, and aid my party. AIR. BALLINAMONY. Miss Cat Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack : For sure I don't wrong you you seldom are slack, When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back. For you're always polite and attentive, Still to amuse us inventive. And death is your only preventive. Your hands and your voices for me. Mrs. Bui. Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring, We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring ? Miss Cat. And that our friendship may remain unbroken, What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken ? Mrs. Bui. Agreed. Miss Cat. Agreed. Mrs. Bui. And now with late repentance, Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence. Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit AN EPILOGUE. $5 AN EPILOGUE, INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY. I HERE is a place so Ariosto sings,* A treasury for lost and missing things : Lost human wits have places there assigned them, And they, who lose their senses, there may find them. But where's this place, this storehouse of the age? The Moon, says he : but I affirm the Stage : At least in many things, I think, I see His lunar, and our mimic world agree, Both shine at night, for but at Foote's alone, We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down : Both prone to change, no settled limits fix, And sure the folks of both are lunatics. But in this parallel my best pretence is. That mortals visit both to find their senses, To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies,t cits, Come thronging to collect their scattered wits. The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. Hither the affected city dame advancing, Who sighs for operas, and dotes on dancing, Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on, Quits the Ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson, The Gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low, Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw. Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts, The Mohawk \ too with angry phrases stored As " Dam'me, sir," and " Sir, I wear a sword ?-**, * See Ariosto, canto 34. f A macaroni was a travelled fop of those days. j The Mohawks were the riotous bullies who traversed the streets of London at night, and thought injuring and insulting the passers-by good sport. Scf account of them in the Totltr, t GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Here lessoned for a while, and hence retreating, Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. Hwe come the sons of scandal and of news, But find no sense for they had none to lose. Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser, Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser : Has he not seen how you your favour place, On sentimental Queens and Lords in lace ? Without a star, a coronet or garter, How can the piece expect or hope for quarter? No high-life scenes, no sentiment ; the creature Still stoops among the low to copy nature. Yes, he's far gone : and yet some pity fix, The English laws forbid to punish lunatics. PROLOGUE TO " ZOBEIDE," A TRAGEDY. Written by Joseph Cradock; acted at the Theatre Royal, Cffvent Garden, |N these bold times, when Learning's sons explore The distant climates and the savage shore When wise astronomers to India steer,* And quit for Venus many a brighter hers While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,t Forsake the fair, and patiently go simpling ; Our bard into the general spirit enters, And fits his little frigate for adventures. With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden, He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading , Yet ere he lands he's ordered me before To make an observation on the shore. Where are we driven ? our reckoning sure is lost I This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast Cook and Green. t Burke and Solandar. PROLOGUE TO " ZOBEIDE* $7 Lord, what a sultry climate am I under ! Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder; [Upper Gallery. There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em [Pit. Here trees of stately size and turtles in 'em [Balconies. Here ill-conditioned oranges abound [Stage. A !M I apples, bitter apples, strew the ground : [Tasting them. The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear : I hear a hissing there are serpents here I O, there the natives are a dreadful race, The men have tails, the women paint the face ; Xo doubt they're all barbarians yes, 'tis so; I'll try to make palaver with them though ; Tis best, however, keeping at a distance. Good savages, our Captain craves assistance ! Our ship's well stored in yonder creek we've laid her, His honour is no mercenary trader. This is his first adventure ; lend him aid, And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, Kqually fit for gallantry and war. What ? no reply to promises so ample ? I'd best step back and order up a sample. EPILOGUE SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT. OLD ! Prompter, hold ! a word before your nonsense : I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. My pride forbids it ever should be said, My heels eclipsed the honours of my head ; That I found humour in a piebald vest, Or ever thought that jumping was a jest, [Takes off his mask 5& GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth ? Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth ; In thy black aspect every passion sleeps, The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps. How hast thou filled the scene with all thy brood Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued ! Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses, Whose only plot it is to break our noses : Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise* And from above the dangling deities ; And shall I mix in this unhallowed crew? May rosined lightning blast me if I do 1 No I will act, 111 vindicate the stage : Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. Off ! off ! vile trappings ! a new passion reigns, The maddening monarch revels in my veins. Oh ! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme ; [dream." " Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds ! soft 'twas but a Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating ; If I cease Harlequin I cease from eating. 'Twas thus that ^sop's stag, a creature blameless, Vet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, Once on the margin of a fountain stood, And cavilled at his image in the flood. " The deuce confound," he cries, " these drumstick shanks, They never have my gratitude nor thanks ; They're perfectly disgraceful ! strike me dead I [Jut for a head, yes, yes, I have a head. How piercing is that eye ; how sleek that brow I My horns ! I'm told horns are the fashion now." vVhilst thus he spoke, astonished, to his view, Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drewj Hoicks ! hark forward ! came thund'ring from behind, He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind: He quits the %voods, and tries the beaten ways- ile starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze, PROLOGUE TO " ZOBEIDE * 59 At length, his silly head, so prized before, Is taught his former folly to deplore ; Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, And at one bound he saves himself, like me. [Taking a jump through the stage door. THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT. LOGICIANS have but ill defined As rational the human mind ; Reason, they say, belongs to man, But let ^hem prove it if they can. Wise Aristotle and Smiglecius,* By ratiocinations specious, Have strove to prove with great precision, With definition and division, Homo est ratione preditum But for my soul I cannot credit 'em j And must in spite of them maintain, That man and all his ways are vain; And that this boasted lord of nature Is both a weak and erring creature. That instinct is a surer guide, Than reason, boasting mortals' pride ; And that brute beasts are far before 'em* Deus est anima brutorum. Who ever knew an honest brute At law his neighbour prosecute. Bring action for assault and battery? Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? O'er plains they ramble unconfined, No politics disturb their mind ; A Polish Jesuit bora 1562, died i6i8, who wrote a Treatise on Logic use Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks I Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, Come and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines. When satire and censure encircled his throne, I feared for your safety, I feared for my own ; But now he is gone, and we want a detector, Our Dodds* shall be pious, our Kenrickst shall lecture The Rev. Dr. Dodd, a popular preacher, who was hung for forgery. t Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern under the title ol " The School of Shakespeare," He was a man of uo principle; he had severely libelled Goldsmith. RETALIATION. 67 Macpherson* write bombast, and call it a style, Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile : New Lauderst and Bowers J the Tweed shall cross over, No countryman living their tricks to discover ; Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark. Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; As an actor confessed without rival to shine ; As a wit, if not first, in the very first line ; Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent hearty The man had his failings a dupe to his art Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, And beplastered with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting. With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turned and he varied full ten times a-day : Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick If they were not his own by finessing and trick : He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. Of praise a mere gluttcn, he swallowed what came, And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame ; Till his relish grown callous almost to disease, Who peppered the highest, was surest to please. * James Macpherson, Esq., about whom disputes were then raging as to the authenticity of his edition of Ossian's Poems. f Will Lauder, a Scotch schoolmaster, attempted fraudulently, by translat- ing portions of Milton's "Paradise Lost "into Latin and interpolating them with the " Adamus Exul" of Grotius, &c., &c., to make it appear full ol plagiarisms. Dr. Douglas detected and exposed this imposition, and Dr. Johnson, who had been deceived by it, made Lauder confess and apologise. % Bower was a Scotch Jesuit, who wrote and published a pamphlet called "Motives of Conversion from Popery to Protestantism." Dr. Douglas ex amined this pamphlet and convicted Bower of gross falsehood and imposture ir his statement. Dr. Douglas being supposed dead. 5 t* GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,* ye Woodfallst so grave, What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave I How did Grub -street re-echo the shouts that you raised, While he was be-Rosciused, and you were bepraised 1 But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel and mix with the s*kies : Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will, Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature, And slander itself must allow him good -nature ; He cherished his friend, and he relished a bumper, Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? I answer no, no for he always was wiser. Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? His very worst foe can't accuse him of that Perhaps he confided in men as they go, And so was too foolishly honest ? ah, no ! Then what was his failing ? come tell it. and burn ye, He was could he help it ? a special attorney. Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind ; His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland : Still born to improve us in every part His pencil our faces, his manners our heart ; To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing; Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of "Fake Delicacy," 'Word to the Wise/ Clementina," "School for Wives," &c., &c. * Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chroniclf POSTSCRIPT. 69 When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff POSTSCRIPT. AFTER the fourth edition of this Poem was printed, the puhlishei received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoordt from a friend of the late Dr. Goldsmith. HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man s Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun 1 Who relished a joke, and rejoiced in a pun ; Whose temper was generous, open, sincere j A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear ; Who scattered around wit and humour at will ; Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill ; A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free $ A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. What pity, alas ! that so lib'ral a mind Should so long be to newspaper essays confined I Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, Yet content " if the table he set in a roar;* Whose talents to fill any station were fit, Yet happy if Woodfall \ confess'd him a wit Ye newspaper witlings ! ye pert scribbling folks 1 Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes ; Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, Still follow your master, and visit his tomb j To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; * Sir Joshua . Reynolds was so deaf, that he was obliged to use an ear- trumpet in company. t Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. He was so no- torious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to be with him without being infected with the itch of punning. J Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of t.he Public Advertiser. 70 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Then strew all around it (you can do no less) Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press * Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I'd almost said wit. This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, "Thou best-humoured man with the worst-humoured Muse." BURLESQUE ELEGY ON A RIGHT HONOURABLE PERSON. FROM THE "CITIZEN OF THE WORLD." AM amazed that none have yet found out the secret of flattering the worthless, and yjt of preserving a safe conscience. I have often wished for some method by which a man might do himself and his deceased patron justice, without being under the hateful reproach of self- conviction. After long lucubration I have hit upon such an expedient, and send you a specimen of a poem upon the decease of a great man, in which the flattery is perfectly fine, and yet the poet perfectly innocent" ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE , | E muses, pour the pitying tear For Pollio snatched away : Oh, had he lived another year- He had not died to-day. Oh, were he born to bless mankind In virtuous times of yore, Heroes themselves had fall'n behind Whene'er he went before. Mr. Whitefoord sent humorous pieces wider those titles to the Publtt Advertiser. BURLESQUE ELEGY. 71 How sad the groves and plains appear, And sympathetic sheep : Ev'n pitying hills would drop a tear > If hills could learn to weep. His bounty in exalted strain Each bard may well display: Since none implored relief in vain That went relieved away. And hark ! I hear the tuneful throng His obsequies forbid : He still shall live, shall live as long- As ever dead man did. ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO DINNFR. THIS IS A POEM! THIS IS A COPY OF VERSES, JIOUR mandate I got You may all go to pot ! Had your senses been right, You'd have sent before night. As I hope to be saved, I put off being shaved, For I could not make bold, While the matter was cold, To meddle in suds, Or to put on my duds ; So tell Horneck and Nesbiti, And Baker and his bit, And KaufTman* beside, And the Jessamy bride,t With the rest of the crew The Reynoldses two, Angelica Kauffman. t Miss Mary Hornedfc J* GOLDSMITHS. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Little Comedy's* face, And the Captaint in lace. (By-the-by, you may tell him I have something to sell him j Of use, I insist, When he comes to enlist Your worships must know That a few days ago, An order went out^ For the foot-guards so stout To wear tails in high taste- Twelve inches at least : Now I've got him a scale To measure each tail ; To lengthen a short tail, And a long one to curtail.) Yet how can I, when vext, Thus stray from my text Tell each other to rue Your Devonshire crew, For sending so late To one of my state. But 'tis Reynolds's way From wisdom to stray, And Angelica's^ whim To be frolic like him But, alas ! your good worships, how could they be wiser, When both have been spoiled in to-day's Advertiser ? * Miss Catherine Horneck, afterwards Mrs. Bunbury. t Ensign Horneck. t Angelica Kauffman was born at Chur, in Switzerland, 1742. She was a cele- brated female artist, and was one of the original thirty-six members of the Royal Academy. A large allegorical painting of hers, called " Religion attended by the Graces," is exhibited now in the South Kensington Museum Galleries. Angelica married Antonio Zucchi, and died at Rome, 1807. The allusion is to a high compliment paid to the two artists in ANSWER TO AN INVITATION 73 ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO PASS THE CHRISTMAS AT BARTON.* IRST let me suppose, what may shortly be true, The company set, and the word to be loo ; All smirking, and pleasant, and big with adventure, And ogling the stake which is fixed in the centre. Round and round go the cards, while I inwardly damn At never once finding a visit from Para. I lay down my stake, apparently cool, While the harpies about me all pocket the pool j I fret in my gizzard yet cautious and sly, I wish all my friends may be bolder than I : Yet still they sit snug ; not a creature will aim, By losing their money, to venture at fame. 'Tis in vain that at niggardly caution I scold, Tis in vain that I flatter the brave and the bold ; All play their own way, and they think me an ass t " What does Mrs. Bunbury ?" " I, sir ? I pass." " Pray what does Miss Horneck ? Take courage, come, do P " Who I ? Let me see, sir ; why, I must pass, too." Mr. Bunbury frets, and I fret like the Devil, To see them so cowardly, lucky, and civil ; Yet still I sit snug, and continue to sigh on, Till, made by my losses as bold as a lion, I venture at all, while my avarice regards The whole pool as my own. " Come, give me five cards.* " Well done !" cry the ladies ; " ah 1 Doctor, that's good The pool's very rich. Ah 1 the Doctor is loo'd." Thus foil'd in my courage, on all sides perplext, I ask for advice from the lady that's next " Pray, ma'am, be so good as to give your advice ; Don't you think the best way is to venture fort twice?" To Mrs. Bunbury. 74 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. "I advise," cries the lady, "to try it, I own Ah ! the Doctor is loo'd : come, Doctor, put down." Thus playing and playing, I still grow more eager, And so bold, and so bold, I'm at last a bold beggar. Now, ladies, I ask if law matters you're skill'd in, Whether crimes such as yours should not come before Fielding? For, giving advice that is not worth a straw, May well be called picking of pockets in law ; And picking of pockets, with which I now charge ye, Is, by Quinto Elizabeth death without clergy. What justice ! when both to the Old Bailey brought ; By the gods ! I'll enjoy it, though 'tis but in thought. Both are placed at the bar with all proper decorum, With bunches of fennel and nosegays before 'em ; Both cover their faces with mobs and all that, But the Judge bids them, angrily, take off their hat When uncovered, a buzz of inquiry runs round : " Pray, what are their crimes ?" " They've been pilfering found." ' But, pray, whom have they pilfered ?" " A Doctor, I hear." " What, that solemn-faced, odd looking man that stands near?" " The same." " What a pity ! How does it surprise one : Two handsomer culprits I never set eyes on !" Then their friends all come round me, with dinging and leering, To melt me to pity, and soften my swearing. First, Sir Charles advances, with phrases well strung : ' Consider, dear Doctor, the girls are but young." " The younger the worse," I return him again ; ' It shows that their habits are all dyed in grain." But, then, they're so handsome ; one's bosom it grieves." What signifies handsome when people are thieves ?" " But where is your justice? their cases are hard." What signifies justice ? I want the reward. i here's the parish of Edmonton offers forty pounds ; There's the parish of SL Leonard, Shoreditch, offers forty pounds 1' here's the parish of Tjburn offers forty pounds : shall have all that, if I convict them." ANSWER TO AN INVITATION. 73 " But consider their case, it may yet be your own ; And see how they kneel : is your heart made of stone?" This moves ; so, at last, I agree to relent, For ten pounds in hand, and ten pounds to be spent 1 challenge you all to answer this. I tell you, you cannot $ it cuts deep. But now for the rest of the letter ; and next but J want room so I believe I shall battle the rest out at Barton some day next week. I don't value you all 1 o. a ON SEEING A LADY PERFORM IN A CERTAIN CHARACTER. you, bright fair, the Nine address their lays, And tune my feeble vcice to sing thy praise ; The heartfelt power of every charm divine, Who can withstand their all -commanding shine ? See how she moves along with every grace, While soul-bought tears steal down each shining face. She speaks ! 'tis rapture all and nameless bliss ; Ye Gods ! what transport else compared to this ? As when, in Paphian groves, the Queen of Love With fond complffint addressed the listening Jove 'Twas joy and endless blisses all around. And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound. Then first, at last, even Jove was taken in And felt her charms, without disguise, within. LINES ATTRIBUTED TO GOLDSMITH. These lines appeared in the Morning Advertiser of April yd, 1800. jj'EN have you seen, bathed in the morning dew, The budding rose its infant bloom display j When first its virgin tints unfold to view, It shrinks, and scarcely meets the blaze of day ; GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. So soft, so delicate, so sweet, she came, Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek : I gazed, I sighed, I caught the tender flame, Felt the fond pang, and drooped with passion weak. BIRDS. Prom the Latin Lines ofAddison (" Spectator? 412), who remarks : " ftt Inrdt we often see the male determined in his courtship by the single grain or tincturt >f a feather, and never discovering any charms but in the colour of its species." [HASTE are their instincts, faithful is their fire, No foreign beauty tempts to false desire ; The snow-white vesture, and the glittering crown, The simple plumage, or the glossy down, Prompt not their love : the patriot bird pursues His well-acquainted tints, and kindred hues. Hence, through their tribes no mixed polluted flame, No monster breed to mark the groves with shame j But the chaste blackbird to its partner true Thinks black alone is beauty's favourite hue. The nightingale, with mutual passion blest, Sings to its mate, and nightly charms the nest ) While the dark owl to court his partner flies, And owns his offspring in their yellow eyea, TRANSLATION OF A SOUTH AMERICAN ODE. N all my Enna's beauties blest, Amidst profusion still I pine ; For though she gives me up her breast Its panting tenant is not mine, THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 77 FROM SCARRON. HITS when soft love subdues the heart With smiling hopes and chilling fears, The soul repels the aid of art, And speaks in moments more than yean. FROM THE LATIN OF VIDA. AY, heavenly Muse, their youthful frays rehearse, Begin, ye daughters of immortal verse ; Exulting rocks have owned the power of song, And rivers listened as they flowed along. THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS.* SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES. SPOKEN AND SUNG IN THE GREAT ROOM IN SOHO SQUARE, Thursday, the zoth of February, 1772. ADVERTISEMENT. PHE following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days : and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude tha i oi genius. * This poem was first printed in Chalmers' edition of the "English Poets, B (rum a copy given by Goldsmith to his friend, Joseph Cradock, Esq., author "?.ol>eide," a tragedy. 78 GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. In justice to the composer, it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music was adapted in a period of time equally SPEAKERS Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy. SINGERS Mr. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson. THE MUSIC PREPARED AND ADAPTED BY SIGNOR VENTOi PART I. OVERTURE A SOLEMN DIRGE. AIR TP.IO. RISE, ye sons x>f worth, arise, And waken every note of woe ! When truth and virtue reach the skie% Tis ours to weep the want below. CHORUS. When truth and virtue, &c. MAN SPEAKER. The praise attending pomp and power, The incense given to kings, Are but the trappings of an hour, Mere transitory things. The base bestow them ; but the good agree To spurn the venal gifts as flattery. But when to pomp and power are joined An equal dignity of mind ; When titles are the smallest claim ; When wealth, and rank, and noble blood, But aid the power of doing good : Then all their trophies last and flattery turns to fame Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom, Shall spread and flourish from the tomb, How hast thou left mankind for Heaven ! THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. Even now reproach and faction mourn, And, wondering how their rage was born, Request to be forgiven ! Alas ! they never had thy hate ; Unmoved, in conscious rectitude, Thy towering mind self-centred stood* Nor wanted man's opinion to be great In vain, to charm the ravished sight, A thousand gifts would fortune send ; In vain, to drive thee from the right, A thousand sorrows urged thy end ; Like some well-fashioned arch thy patience stood, And purchased strength from its increasing lod Pain met thee like a friend to set th**^ free^ Affliction still is virtue's opportunity ] Virtue, on herself relying, Every passion hushed to rest, Loses every pain of dying In the hopes of bemg blo?t Every added pang ibe puffers Some increasing good bestows, And every shock that malice offers Only rocks her to repose, SONG. BY A MAN AFFETUQSOk Virtue, on herself relying, &c. to Only rocks her to repose. WOMAN SPEAKER. Yet ah ! what terrors frowned upon her fate, Death, with its formidable band, Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care, Determined took their atand. Nor did the cruel ravagers design To finish all their efforts at a blow I But, mischievously slow, They robbed the relic and defaced the shrine. So GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. With unavailing grief, Despairing of relief, Her weeping children round Beheld each hour Death's growing power, And trembled as he frowned. As helpless friends who view from snore The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roai^ While winds and waves their wishes cross, They stood, while hope and comfort fail, Not to assist, but to bewail The inevitable loss. Relentless tyrant, at thy call How do the good, the virtuous fall 1 Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage. SONG. BY A MAN. BASSO, STOCCATO, SPIRITUOSOk When vice my dart and scythe supply, How great a King of Terrors I ! If folly, fraud, your hearts engage, Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage I Fall, round me fall, ye little things, Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings, If virtue fail her counsel sage, Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage I MAN SPEAKER. Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example, Teach us to estimate what all must suffer : Let us prize death as the best gift of nature, As a safe inn where weary travellers, When they have journeyed through a world of cares, May put off life, and be at rest for ever. Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables, Mav oft distract us with their sad solemnity : TftRENOblA AVGUSTAL1S. g, The preparation is the executioner. Death, when unmasked, shows me a friendly face, And is a terror only at a distance : For as the line of life conducts me on To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open To take us in when we have drained the cup Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness. In that secure, serene retreat, Where all the humble, all the great, Promiscuously recline : Where, wildly huddled to the eye, The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie t May every bliss be thine ! And, ah ! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight, Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light, May cherubs welcome their expected guest ! May saints with songs receive thee to their rest ! May peace, that claimed, while here, thy warmest May blissful, endless peace be thine above 1 SONG. BY A WOMAN AMOROSO. Lovely, lasting Peace, below, Comforter of every woe, Heavenly born, and bred on high, To crown the favourites of the sky I Lovely, lasting Peace, appear ! This world itself, if thou art here, Is once again with Eden blest, And man contains it in his breast. WOMAN SPEAKER. Our vows are heard ! Long, long to mortal eyes, Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies : Celestial-like her bounty fell, Where modest Want and patient Sorrow dwell, GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Want pass'd for Merit at her door, Unseen the mod,est were supplied, Her constant pity fed the poor, Then only poor, indeed, the day she died. And, oh ! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine And art exhat^ts profusion round, The tribute of a tear be mine, A simple song, a sigh profound. There Faith shall come a pilgrim gray, To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay t And calm Religion shall repair To dwell a weeping hermit there. Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree To blend their virtues while they think of thea AIR CHORUS POMPOSO. Let us let all the world agree, To profit by resembling thee. PART II. OVERTURE PASTORALE. MAN SPEAKER. FAST by that shore where Thames' translucent stream Reflects new glories on his breast, Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream, He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest j Where sculptured elegance and native grace Unite to stamp the beauties of the place ; While, sweetly blending, still are seen The wavy lawn, the sloping green ; While novelty, with cautious cunning, Through every maze of fancy running, From China borrows aid to deck the scene I THRENOD1A AVGUSTALIS. There, sorrowing by the river's glassy bed, Forlorn, a rural band complained, All whom Augusta's bounty fed, All whom her clemency sustained ; The good old sire, unconscious of decay, The modest matron, clad in home-spun grey, The military boy, the orphaned maid, The shattered veteran now first dismayed- These sadly join beside the murmuring deep, And, as they view the towers of Kew, Call on their mistress now no more and weep* CHORUS AFFETUOSO LARGO. Ye shady walks, ye waving greens, Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes, Let all your echoes now deplore That she who formed your beauties is no more If AN SPEAKER. First of the train the patient rustic came, Whose callous hand had formed the scene, Bending at once with sorrow and with age, With many a tear, and many a sigh between : * And where," he cried, " shall now my babes have bread, Or how shall age support its feeble fire ? No lord will take me now, my vigour fled, Nor can my strength perform what they require I Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare, A sleek and idle race is all their care. My noble mistress thought not so : Her bounty, like the morning dew, Unseen, though constant, used to flow, And as my strength decayed, her bounty grew.* WOMAN SPEAKER. In decent dress, and coarsely clean, The pious matron next was seen, 6-t GOLDSMITHS M1SCELLANEOVS POEMS. Clasped in her hand a godly book was borne, By use and daily meditation worn ; The decent dress, this holy guide, Augusta's care had well supplied. " And, ah !" she cries, all wobegone, " What now remains for me ? Oh ! where shall weeping want repair To ask for charity ? Too late in life for me to ask, And shame prevents the deed, And tardy, tardy are the times To succour, should I need. But all my wants, before I spoke, Were to my mistress known ; She still relieved, nor sought my praise Contented with her own. But every day her name I'll bless, My morning prayer, my evening song I'll praise her while my life shall last, A life that cannot last me long." SONG. BY A WOMAN. Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless, My morning and my evening song, And when in death my vows shall cease, My children shall the note prolong. MAN SPEAKER. The hardy veteran after struck the sight, Scarred, mangled, maimed in every part, Lopped of his limbs in many a gallant fight, In nought entire except his heart : Mute for a while, and sullenly distressed, At last the impetuous sorrow fired his breast. " Wild is the whirlwind rolling O'er Afric's sandy plain, And wild the tempest howling Along the billowed main : THRENOD1A AUGUST AL1S. But every danger felt before, The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar, Less dreadful struck me with dismay Than what I feel this fatal day. Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave ; I'll seek that less inhospitable coast, And lay my body where my limbs were lost," SONG. BY A MAN BASSO SPIRITUOSO. Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, Shall crowd from Cressy's laurelled field To do thy memory right : For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel, igain they snatch the gleamy steel, And wish the avenging fight WOMAN SPEAKER. (n innocence and youth complaining^ Next appeared a lovely maid ; Affliction, o'er each feature reigning, Kindly came in beauty's aid : Every grace that grief dispenses, Every glance that warms the soul, In sweet succession charms the senses, While pity harmonised the whole. " The garland of beauty," 'tis thus .she would say, " No more shall my crook or my temples adorn j I'll not wear a garland Augusta's away I'll not wear a garland until she return. But, alas ! that return I never shall see : The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim, There promised a lover to come but, ah me ! Twas death 'twas the death of my mistress that came. But ever, for ever, her image shall last, I'll strip all the Spring of its earliest bioom ; On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the new- blossomed thorn shall whiten her tomb." GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. SONG. BY A WOMAN PASTORALE. With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May No more will her crook or her temples adorn ; For who'd wear a garland when she is away, When she is removed, and shall never return ? On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed, We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom, And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the new blossomed thorn shall whiten her tomb. CHORUS ALTRO MODO. On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed, We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom, And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the tears of her country shall water her tomb. AN ORATORIO. 1720, THE PERSONS. First Jewish Prophet. Second Jewish Prophet. Israelitish Woman. First Chaldean Priest. Second Chaldean Priest* Chaldean Woman. Chorus of Youths and Virgins. SCENE The Banks of the River Euphrates, near Babylon* ACT L FIRST PROPHET. RECITATIVE. E captive tribes, that hourly work and weep Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep-* Suspend your woes awhile, the task suspend, And turn to God, your father and your friend. Insulted, chained and all the world our foe, Our God alone is all we boast below. AN ORATORIO. 8? FIRST PROPHET. AIR. Our God is all we boast below, To Him we turn our eyes ; And every added weight of woe Shall make our homage rise. SECOND PROPHET. And though no temple richly drest, Nor sacrifice are here We'll make His temple in our breast, And offer up a tear. \Thcfirst Stanza repeated by the CHORUS ISRAELITISH WOMAN. RECITATIVE. That strain once more ! it bids remembrance rise^ And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes. Ye fields of Sharon, drest in flowery pride, Ye plains where Jordan rolls its glassy tide. Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crowned, Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around, Those hills how sweet, that plain how wondrous fair, How doubly sweet when Heaven was with us there I AIR. O Memory, thou fond deceiver, Still importunate and vain ; To former joys recurring ever, And turning all the past to pain. Thou, like the world, the oppressed oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe; And he who wants each other blessing In thee must ever find a foe. SECOND PROPHET. RECITATIVE. Yet why repine ? What though by bonds confined ? Should bonds enslave the vigour of the mind ? 88 GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Have we not cause for triumph, when we see Ourselves alone from idol worship free ? Are not this very morn those feasts begun Where prostrate error hails the rising sun ? Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain For superstitious rites and mirth profane ? And should we mourn ? Should coward Virtue fly, When vaunting Folly lifts her head on high ? No ! rather let us triumph still the more And as our fortune sinks, our spirits soar. AIR. The triumphs that op. vice attend Shall ever in confusion end ; The good man suffers but to gain, And every virtue springs from pain i As aromatic plants bestow No spicy fragrance while they grow ; But crushed or trodden to the ground, Diffuse their balmy sweets around. FIRST PROPHET. RECITATIVE. But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine ear ; Triumphant music floats along the vale Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale ; The growing sound their swift approach declares Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs. Enter CHALDEAN PRIESTS, attended. FIRST PRIEST. AIR. Come on, my companions, the triumph display, Let rapture the minutes employ, The sun calls us out on this festival day, And our monarch partakes in the joy. AN ORATORIO. 89 SECOND PRIEST. like the sun, our great monarch all rapture supplies, Both similar blessings bestow ; The sun with his splendour illumines the skies, And our monarch enlivens below. AIR. CHALDEAN WOMAN. Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure ; Love presents the fairest treasure ; Leave all other joys for me. A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT. Or rather, Love's delights despising, Haste to raptures ever rising ; Wine shall bless the brave and free, FIRST PRIEST. Wine and beauty thus inviting, Each to different joys exciting, Whither shall my choice incline? SECOND PRIEST. Ill waste no longer thought in choosing, But, neither Love nor Wine refusing, I'll make them both together mine. FIRST PRIEST. RECITATIVE. But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the land, This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band ? Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung ? Or why those harps on yonder willows hung? Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along. The day demands it ; sing us Sion's song. Dismiss your griefs, and join our tuneful choir, For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre ? GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. SECOND PROPHET. RECITATIVE. Chained as we are, the scorn of all mankind, To want, to toil, and ev'ry ill consigned, Is this a time to bid us raise the strain, Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain? No, never ! May this hand forget each art That wakes to finest joys the human heart, Ere I forget the land that gave me birth, Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth I SECOND PRIEST. Rebellious slaves ! if soft persuasion fail, More formidable terrors Chall prevail. FIRST PROPHET. Why, let them come ; one good remains to cheer We fear the Lord, and know no other fear. \Exeunt CHAIDEANS. CHORUS OF ISRAELITES. Can chains or tortures bend the mind On God's supporting breast reclined ? Stand fast and let our tyrants see That fortitude is victory. [Exeunt, ACT IL ISRAELITES and CHALDEANS, as befoxe. FIRST PROPHET. O peace of mind, angelic guest, Thou soft companion of the breast, Dispense thy balmy store ! Wing all our thoughts to reach the skie^ Till earth receeding.from our eyes, Shall vanish as we soar. FIRST PRIEST. RECITATIVE. No more ! Too long has justice been delayed, The king's command must fully be obeyed ; AN ORATORIO. 91 Compliance with his will your peace secures, Praise but our gods, and every good is yours. But if, rebellious to his high command, You spurn the favours offered at his hand- Think, timely think, what ills remain behind; Reflect, nor tempt to rage the royal mind, AIR. Fierce is the tempest howling Along the furrowed main, And fierce the whirwind rolling O'er Afric's sandy plain. But storms that fly To rend the sky, Every ill presaging Less dreadful show To worlds below Than angry monarch's raging. ISRAELITISH WOMAN. RECITATIVE. Ah me ! What angry tenors round us grow t How shrinks my soul to meet the threatened blow I Ye prophets, skilled in Heaven's eternal truth, Forgive my sex's fears, forgive my youth. If shrinking thus, when frowning pow'r appears, I wish for life and yield me to my fears ; Ah ! let us one, one little hour obey : To-morrow's tears may wash the stain away. AIR. The wretch condemned with life to part, Still, still on hope relies ; And every pang that rends the heart Bids expectation rise. Hope, like the glimmering taper's light^ Adorns and cheers the way ; And still, as darker grows the nighty Emits a brighter ray. GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS SECOND PRIEST. RECITATIVE. Why this delay ? At length for joy prepare, I read your looks, and see compliance there. Come on, and bid the warbling rapture rise, Our monarch's fame the noblest theme supplies j Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre, The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire. CHALDEAN WOMAN. AIR. See the ruddy morning smiling, Hear the grove to bliss beguiling ; Zephyrs through the woodland playing, Streams along the valley straying. FIRST PRIEST. While these a constant revel keep, Shall reason only teach to weep? Hence, intruder ! we'll pursue Nature a better guide than yoifc AIR. Every moment as it flows Some peculiar pleasure owes. Come then, providently wise, Seize the debtor ere it flies. SECOND PRIEST Think not to-morrow can repay The debt of pleasure lost to-day } Alas ! to-morrow's richest store Can but pay its proper score. SECOND PRIEST. RECITATIVE. Bat hush ! see foremost of the captive choir, The master prophet grasps his full-tone*.' lyre. Mark where he sits with executing a-. Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart ; AN ORATOR1Q. See how prophetic rapture fills his form, Awful as clouds that nurse the growing storm. And now his voice, accordant to the string, Prepares our monarch's victories to sing. FIRST PROPHET. AIR. From north, from south, from east, from west, Conspiring nations come ; Tremble, thou vice-polluted breast ; Blasphemers, all be dumb. The tempest gathers all around, On Babylon it lies : Down with her ! down down to the ground i She sinks, she groans, she dies. SECOND PROPHET. Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust^ Before yon setting sun ; Serve her as she has served the just I 'Tis fixed It shall be doae. FIRST PRIEST. RECITATIVE. No more ! when slaves thus insolent presume, The king himself shall judge, and fix their doom. Unthinking wretches ! have not you and all Beheld our power in Zedekiah's fall? To yonder gloomy |aisite in matrimonial happiness. Croak Well, and you have both of you a mutual choice. She hdo her choice to marry you or lose half her fortune : and you lave your choice to marry her, or pack out of doors without an) fortune at all. Leont. An only son, sir, might expect more indulgence. Croak. An only father, air, might expect more obedience : be- sides, has not your sifter here, that never disobliged me in her life, as good a right aj you ? He's a sad dog, Livy, my dear, and would take all irom you. But he shan't, I tell you he shan't, 101 jrou shall have your share. T&8 GOOD-NATURED MAN. Oliv. Dear sir, I wish you'd be convinced that I can never be happy in any addition to my fortune, which is taken from his. Croak. Well, well, it's a good child, so say no more ; but come with me, and we shall see something that will give us a great deal of pleasure, I promise you old Ruggins, the curry-comb maker, lying in state : I am told he makes a very handsome corpse, ano becomes his coffin prodigiously. He was an intimate friend o mine, and these are friendly things we ought to do for each other \Exeunt. ACT II. SCENE Croakers House. Miss RICHLAND, GARNET. Miss Rich. Olivia not his sister ? Olivia not Leontine's sister ? You amaze me ! Gar. No more his sister than I am ; I had it all from his own servant : I can get anything from that quarter. Miss Rich. But how ? Tell me again, Garnet Gar. Why, madam, as I told you before, instead of going to Lyons to bring home his sister, who has been there with her aunt these ten years, he never went farther than Paris : there he saw and fell in love with this young lady by-the-by, of a prodigious family. Miss Rich. And brought her home to my guardian as his daughter. Gar. Yes, and his daughter she will be. If he don't con sen i to their marriage, they talk of trying what a Scotch parson can do. Miss Rich. Well, I own they have deceived me And so de murely as Olivia carried it too ! Would you believe it, Garnet, J told her all my secrets ; and yet the sly cheat concealed all thu from me ! Gar. And upon my word, madam, I don't much blame h she was loth to trust one with her secret:, that was so very bad keeping her own. Miss Rich. But, to add to their deceit, the young gentleman, it a 1 14 GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. seems, pretends to make me serious 'proposals. My guardian and he are to be here presently, to open the affair in form. Yoii know I am to lose half my fortune if I refuse him. Gar. Yet, what can you do ? For being, as you are, in love with Mr. Honeywood, madam Miss Rich. How ! Idiot, what do you mean ? In love with Mr. Honeywood ! Is this to provoke me ? Gar. That is, madam, in friendship with him ; I meant nothing more than friendship, as I hope to be married ; nothing more. Miss Rich. Well, no more of this : as to my guardian and his son, they shall find me prepared to receive them : I'm resolved to accept their proposal with seeming pleasure, to mortify them by compliance, and so throw the refusal at last upon them. Gar. Delicious ! and that will secure your whole fortune to yourself. Well, who could have thought so innocent a face could cover so much 'cuteness. Miss Rich. Why, girl, I only oppose my prudence to their cunning, and practise a lesson they have taught me against them- selves. Gar. Then you're likely not long to want employment, for here they come, and in close conference. Enter CROAKER, LEONTINE. Leon. Excuse me, sir, if I seem to hesitate upon the point of putting to the lady so important a question. Croak. Lord ! good sir, moderate your fears ; you're so plaguy shy, that one would think you had changed sexes. I tell you we must have the half or the whole. Come, let me see with what spirit you begin. Well, why don't you ? Eh ! What ? Weil then I must, it seems Miss Richland, my dear, I believe you guess at our business ; an affair which my son here comes to open, that nearly concerns your happiness. Miss Rich. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to be pleased with anything that comes recommended by you. Croak. How, boy, could you desire a finer opening? Why don't you begin, I say? [To Leontine. Leon. 'Tis true, madam my father, madam has some intentions THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 115 hem of explaining an affair which himself can best explain, madam. Croak. Yes, my dear ; it comes entirely from my son ; it's all a request of his own, madam. And I will permit him to make the best of it. Leon. The whole affair is only this, madam : my father has a proposal to make, which he insists none but himself shall delivt-i Croak. My mind misgives me, the fellow will never be brougli on. (Aside). In short, madam, you see before you one that love-, you ; one whose whole happiness is all in you. Miss Rich. I never had any doubts of your regard, sir ; and 1 hope you can have none of my duty. Croak. That's not the thing, my little sweeting ; my love ! No no, another guess lover than I : there he stands, madam, his ver\ 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, am: sometimes absent Miss Rich. I fear, sir, he's absent now ; or such a declaration would have come most properly from himself. Croak. Himself! Madam, he would die before he could make such a confession ; and if he had not a channel for his passior through me, it would ere now have drowned his understand- ing. Miss Rich. I must grant, sir, there are attractions in modest diffidence above the force of words. A silent address is the genuine eloquence of sincerity. Croak. Madam, he has forgot to speak any other language ; silence is become his mother tongue. Miss Rich. And it must be confessed, sir, it speaks very power- fully in his favour. And yet I shall be thought too forward in making such a confession ; shan't I, Mr. Leontine ? Leont. Confusion! my reserve will undo me. But, if modesty attracts her, impudence may disgust her. I'll try. (Aside.} Don'i imagine from my silence, iradam, that I want a due sense ui the honour and happiness intended me. My father, madam, telis 82 j 16 GOLDSMITHS PLA *& 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 belisve we shall be the happiest couple in all St James's. Miss Rich, If I could flatter myself you thought as you speak, sir Leant. Doubt my sincerity, madam ? By your dear self I swear. Ask the brave if they desire glory? ask cowards if they covet safety Croak. Well, well, no more questions about it Leant. Ask the sick if they long for health ? ask misers if they love money ? ask Croak. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense ? What's come over the boy ? What signifies asking, when there's not a soul to give you an answer ? If you would ask to the purpose, ask this lady's consent to make you happy. Miss Rich. Why indeed, sir, his uncommon ardour almost compels me forces me to comply. And yet I'm afraid he'll despise a conquest gained with too much ease ; won't you, Mr. Leontine ? Leant. Confusion ! (Aside.} Oh, by no means, madam, by no means. And yet, madam, you talked of force. There is nothing I would avoid so much as compulsion in a thing of this kind. No, madam, I will still be generous, and leave you at liberty to refuse. Croak. But I tell you, sir, the lady is not at liberty. It's a match. You see she says nothing. Silence gives consent Leant. But, sir, she talked of force. Consider, sir, the cruelty of constraining her inclinations. Croak. But I say there's no cruelty. Don't you know, block head, that girls have always a round-about way of saying yes before company ? So get you both gone together into the next room, and hang him that interrupts the tender explanation. Get you gone, I say ; I'll not hear a word. Leant. But, sir, I must beg leave to insist Croak. Get off, you puppy, or I'll beg leave to insist upon THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 117 knocking you down. Stupid whelp ! But I don't wonder : the boy takes entirely after his mother. \Exeunt Miss HIGHLAND and LEONTINE. Enter MRS. CROAKER. Mrs. Croak. Mr. Croaker, I bring you something, my dear, that I believe will make you smile. Croak. I'll hold you a guinea of that, my dear. Mrs. Croak. A letter; and as I knew the hand, I ventured to open it Croak. And how can you expect your breaking open my letters should give me pleasure ? Mrs. Croak. Pooh ! it's from your sister at Lyons, and contains good news ; read it. Croak. What a Frenchified cover is here 1 That sister of mine has some good qualities, but I could never teach her to fold a letter. Mrs. Croak. Fold a fiddlestick ! Read what it contains. CROAKER (reading). " DEAR NICK, An English gentleman, of large fortune, has for some time made private, though honourable, proposals to your daughter Olivia. They love each other tenderly, and I find she has consented, without letting any of the family know, to crown his addresses. As such good offers don't come every day, your own good sense, his large fortune, and family considerations, wiH induce you to forgive her. "Yours ever, " RACHAEL CROAKER." My daughter Olivia privately contracted to a man of large for- tune ! This is good news, indeed. My heart never foretold me of this. And yet how slily the little baggage has carried it since she came home ; not a word on't to the old ones for the world. Yet I thought I saw something she wanted to conceal. Mrs. Croak. Well, if they have concealed their amour, they han't conceal their wedding ; that shall be public, I am resolved. Croak. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the most foolish part 1 18 GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. of the ceremony. I can never get this woman to think of the most serious part of the nuptial engagement Mrs. Croak. What ! would you have me think of their funeral ? But come, tell me, my dear, don't you owe more to me than you care to confess ? Would you have ever been known to Mr. Lofty, who has undertaken Miss Richland's claim at the Treasury, but for me ? Who was it first made him an acquaintance at Lady Shabbaroon's rout? Who got him to promise us his interest? Is not a back-stairs favourite, one that can do what he pleases with those that do what they please ! Is he not an acquaintance that all your groaning and lamentation could never have got us ? Croak. He is a man of importance, I grant you. And yet what amazes me is, that while he is giving away places to all the >\ orld, he can't get one for himself. Mrs. Croak. That perhaps may be owing to his nicety. Great men are not easily satisfied. Enter FRENCH SERVANT. Sent. An express from Monsieur Lofty. He vil be vait upon your honours instramment He be only giving four five in- struction, read two tree memorial, call upon von ambassadeur. He vil be vid you in one tree minutes. Mrs. Croak. You see now, my dear. What an extensive de- partment ! Well, friend, let your master know that we are ex- tremely honoured by this honour. Was there anything ever in a higher style of breeding? All messages among the great are now done by express. Croak. To be sure, no man does little things with more solem r.ity, or claims more respect, than he. But he's in the right on't In our bad world, respect is given where respect is claimed. Mrs. Croak. Never mind the world, my dear ; you were never in a pleasanter place in your life. Let us now think of receiving him with proper respect (a loud rapping at the door), and there her is, by the thundering rap. Croak. Ay, verily, there he is ! as close upon the heels of his own express, as an indorsement upon the back of a bill. Well, I'll leave you to receive him, whilst I go to chide my little Olivia THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. ng for intending to steal a marriage without mine or her aunt's con- sent. I must seem to be angry, or she too may begin to despise my authority. [xi/. Enter LOFTY, speaking to his Servant. Loft. " And if the Venetian ambassador, or that teasing creature the Marquis, should call, I'm not at home. Damme, I'll be pack- hoi se to none of them." My dear madam, I have just snatched a moment ' And if the expresses to his Grace be ready, let them be sent off; they're of importance,' madam, I ask a thousand pardons. Mrs. Croak. Sir, this honour Loft. " And, Dubardieu ! if the person calls about the commission, let him know that it is made out As for Lord Cumbercourt's stale request, it can keep cold : you understand me," Madam, I is>, ten thousand pardons. Mrs. Croak. Sir, this honour 'jft. " And Dubardieu ! if the man comes from the Cornish borough, you must do him, I say." Madam,"! 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 go time to express my happiness in having the honour of being p'.r mitted to profess myself your most obedient humble servant Mrs. Croak. Sir, the happiness and honour are all mine ; and yet, I'm only robbing the public while I detain you. Loft. Sink the public, madam, when the fair are to be attenr^d. Ah, could all my hours be so charmingly devoted ! Sincerely, don't you pity us poor creatures in affairs ? Thus it is eternally \ solicited for places here, teased for pensions there, and courted everywhere. I know you pity me. Yes, I see you do. Mrs. Croak. Excuse me, sir. " Toils of empires pleasures are," is Waller says. Loft. Waller, Waller, is he of the house ? Mrs. Croak. The modern poet of that name, sir Loft. Oh, a modern! we men of business despise the moderns; and as for the ancients, we have no time to read them. Poetry ;.- a pretty thing enough for our wives and daughters ; but not for 1 20 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. is. Why now, here I stand that know nothing of books. I say, madam, I know nothing of books : and yet, I believe upon land- carriage fishery, a stamp act, or a jag-hire, I can talk my two hours without feeling the want of them. Mrs. Croak. The world is no stranger to Mr. Lofty's eminence in every capacity. Loft. I vow to gad, madam, you make me blush ; I'm nothing nothing, nothing in the world ; a mere obscure gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two of the present ministers are pleased to represent me as a formidable man. I know they are pleased to bespatter me at all their little dirty levees. Yet, upon my soul, I wonder what they see in me to treat me so ! Measures, not men, have always been my mark ! and I vow, by all that's honourable, nny resentment has never done the men, as mere men, any manner :>f harm that is as mere men. Mrs. Croak. What importance, and yet what modesty I Loft. Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam, there I own, I'm ac- cessible to praise : modesty is my foible : it was so, the Duke of llrentford used to say of me. " I love Jack Lofty," he used to say : 11 no man has a finer knowledge of things ; quite a man of informa- tion ; and when he speaks upon his legs, by the Lord, he's pro- digious, he scouts them ; and yet all men have their faults ; too nuch modesty is his," says his Grace. Mrs. Croak. And yet I dare say, you don't want assurance when r /ou come to solicit for your friends. Loft. Oh, there, indeed, I'm in bronze. Apropos ! I have just been mentioning Miss Richland's case to a certain personage ; we must name no names. When I ask, I'm not to be put off, madam ^Io, no, I take my friend by the button. A fine girl, sir ; great io slice in her case. A friend of mine. Borough interest. Business aiust be done, Mr. Secretary. I say, Mr. Secretary, her business must be done, sir. That's my way, madam. Mrs. Croak. Bless me ! you said all this to the Secretary of 'Itate, did you ? Loft. I did not say the Secretary, did I ? Well, curse it, since you have found me out, I will not deny it. It was to the Secretary. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. I2l Mrs. Croak. This was going to the fountain-head at once, no; applying to the understrappers, as Mr. Honeywood would have had us. Loft. Honeywood ! he ! he ! He was, indeed, a fine solicitor. I suppose you have heard what has just happened to him? Mrs. Croak. Poor dear man ! no accident, I hope? Loft. Undone, madam, that's all. His creditors have taken him custody. . A prisoner in his own house. .Mrs. Croak. A prisoner in his own house ! How ? At this ven nine? I'm quite unhappy for him. Loft. Why, so am I. The man, to be sure, was immense!) -uo.l-natured. But then I could never find that he had anything n him. Mrs. Croak. His manner, to be sure, was excessively harmless ;-> :ie, indeed, thought it a little dull. For my part, I always cor,. cc.iled my opinion. Loft. It can't be concealed, madam ; the man was dull, dull a- :h.- last new comedy ; a poor impracticable creature. I tried on< >r twice to know if he was fit for business ; but he had scan . uients to be groom-porter to an orange-barrow. Mrs. Croak. How differently does Miss Richland think of hin, For, I believe, with all his faults she loves him. Loft. Loves him ! does she ? You should cure her of that by ill means. Let me see ; what if she were sent to him this instant n his present doleful situation ? My life for it, that works her ure. Distress is a perfect antidote to love. Suppose we join her the next room ? Miss Richland is a fine girl, has a fine fortune. must not be thrown away. Upon my honour, madam, I -have for Miss Richland ; and rather than she should be thrown I should think it no indignity to marry her myself. \Exxunt Enter OLIVIA and LEONTINE. Leant. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every reason toexpeci Miss Richland's refusal, as I did everything in my power to de serve it. Her indelicacy surprises me. Oliv. Sure, Leontine, there's nothing so indelicate in being sen GOLDSMITH'S PL A YS. sible of your merit If so, I fear I shall be the most guilty thing alive. Leant. But you mistake, my dear. The same attention I used to advance my merit with you, I practised to lessen it with her. What more could I do ? Oliv. Let us now rather consider what is to be done. We have both dissembled too long. I have always been ashamed I am now quite weary of it Sure I could never have undergone so much for any other but you. Leont. And you shall find my gratitude equal to your kindest compliance. Though our friends should totally forsake us, Olivia, .ve can draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune. Oliv. Then why should we defer our scheme of humble happi aess, when it is now in our power? I may be the favourite of your father, it is true ; but can it ever be thought, that his present kindness to a supposed child will continue to a known deceiver? Leont. I have many reasons to believe it will. As his attach- ments are but few, they are lasting. His own marriage was a private one, as ours may be. Besides, I have sounded him alreadj at a distance, and find all his answers exactly to cur wish. Nay, by an expression or two that dropped from him, I am induced to think he knows of this affair. Oliv. Indeed 1 Bat that would be a happiness too great to be expected. Leont. However it be, I'm certain you have power over him ; and I'm persuaded, if you informed him of our situation, that he would be disposed to pardon it Oliv. You had equal expectations, Leontine, from your last scheme with Miss Richland, which you find has succeeded most wretchedly. Leont. And that's the best reason for trying another. Oliv. If it must be so, I submit Leont. As we could wish, he comes this way. Now, my dearest Olivia, be resolute. I'll just retire within hearing, to come in at a proper time, either to share your danger, or confirm your victory [Exit. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 1*3 Enter CROAKER. Croak. Yes, I must forgive her ; and yet not too easily neither. It will be proper to keep up the decorums of resentment a little, if it be only to impress her with an idea of my authority. Oliv. How I tremble to approach him 1 Might I presume, sir, if I interrupt you Croak. No, child, where I have an affection, it is not a little thing that can interrupt me. Affection gets over little things. Oliv. Sir, you're too kind. I'm sensible how ill 1 deserve this partiality j yet, Heaven knows, there is nothing I would not do to gain it Croak. And you have but too well succeeded, you little hussy, you. With those endearing ways of yours, on my conscience, I could be brought to forgive anything, unless it were a very great offence indeed. Oliv. But mine is such an offence When you know my guilt Ves, you shall know it, though I feel the greatest pain in the confession. Croak. Why, then, if it be so very great a pain, you may spare yourself the trouble j for I know every syllable of the matter before you begin. Oliv. Indeed ! then I'm undone. Croak. Ay, miss, you wanted to steal a match without letting me know it, did you ? But I'm not worth being consulted, I suppose, when there's to be a marriage in my own family. No, I'm to have no hand in the disposal of my children. No, I'm nobody. I'm to be a mere article of family lumber ; a piece of cracked china, to be stuck up in a corner. Oliv. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your authority could have induced us to conceal it from you. Croak. No, no, my consequence is no more; Fm as little minded as a dead Russian in winter, just stuck up with a pipe in its mouth till there comes a thaw It goes to my heart to vex her. \Aside. Oliv. I was prepared, sir, for your anger, and despaired of par- don, even while I presumed to ask it But your severity shall never abate my affection, as my punishment is but justice; S24 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. Croak. And yet you should not despair neither, Livy. We ought to hope all for the best Oliv. And do you permit me to hope, sir ? Can I ever expect to be forgiven ? But hope has too long deceived me. Croak. Why, then, child, it shan't deceive you now, for I forgive you this very moment; I forgive you all ! and now you are indeed my daughter. Oliv. O transport! this kindness overpowers me. Croak. I was always against severity to our children. We have been young and giddy ourselves, and we can't expect boys and girls to be old before their time. Oliv. What generosity! but can you forget the many falsehoods, the dissimulation Croak. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin you ; but where's the girl that won't dissemble for a husband ? My wife and I had never been married, if we had not dissembled a little beforehand. Oliv. It shall be my future care never to put such generosity to a second trial. And as for the partner of my offence and folly, from his native honour, and the just sense he has of his duty, I can answer for him that Enter LEONTINE. Leant. Permit him thus to answer for himself. (Kneeling.) Thus, sir, let me speak my gratitude for this unmerited forgiveness. Yes, sir, this even exceeds all your former tenderness. I now can boast the most indulgent of fathers. The life he gave, compared to this, was but a trifling blessing. Croak. And, good sir, who sent for you, with that fine tragedy face, and flourishing manner ? I don't know what we have to do with your gratitude upon this occasion. Leont. How, sir ! Is it possible to be silent, when so much obliged ? Would you refuse me the pleasure of being grateful ? of adding my thanks to my Olivia's ? of sharing in the transports that you have thus occasioned ? Croak. Lord, sir, we can be happy enough witnout 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 aU Ihis morning ! THK GOOD-NATURED HAN. Leont. But, sir, I that have so large a part in the benefit, is it not my duty to show my joy ? is the being admitted to your favour so Alight an obligation ? is the happiness of marrying my Olivia so ;mall a blessing ? Croak. Marrying Olivia ! marrying Olivia ! marrying his own -ister ! Sure the boy is out of his senses. His own sister ! Leont. My sister ! Oliv. Sister ! How have I been mistaken 1 [Aside. Leont. Some cursed mistake in all this, I find. \Aside. Croak. What does the booby mean ? or has he any meaning ? Ch, what do you mean, you blockhead you ? Leont. Mean, sir why, sir only, when my sister is to be married, hat I have the pleasure of marrying her, sir, that is, of giving her : way, sir I have made a point of it Croak. Oh, is that all ? Give her away. You have made a point ;ng, and yet for my life I can't tell vhat. Oliv. It can't be the connection between us, I'm pretty certain. Leont. Whatever it be. my dearest, I'm resolved to put it out of fortune's po-ver to repeat our mortification. I'll haste and prepare lor on*- jmirney to Scotland this very evening. My friend Honey- wcK'd V purse). The thing is only this : I believe I shall be able to dis charge this trifle in two or three days at farthest ; but as I would not have the affair known for the world, I have thoughts of keep- ing you, and your good friend here, about me, till the debt is dis charged ; for which I shall be properly grateful. Bail. Oh! that's another maxim, and altogether within my oath For certain, if an honest man is to get anything by a thing, there'i no reason why all things should not be done in civility. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 123 Honeyw. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr. Twitch; and yours is a necessary one. (Gives him money.) Bail. Oh! your honour; I hope your honour takes nothing amiss as I does, as I does nothing but my duty in so doing. I'm sure no man can say I ever give a gentleman, that was a gentle- man, ill usage. If I saw that a gentleman was a gentleman, I have taken money not to see him for ten weeks together. Honeyw. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. Bail. Ay, sir, it's a perfect treasure. I love to see a gentleman with a tender heart. I don't know, but I think I have a tender heart myself. If all that I have lost by my heart was put together, it would make a but no matter for that Honeyw. Don't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. The ingratitude of the world can never deprive us of the conscious happiness of having acted with humanity ourselves. Bail. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It's better than gold. I love humanity. People may say that we in our way have no humanity; but I'll show you my humanity this moment. There's my follower here, little Flanigan, with a wife and four children ; a guinea or two would be more to him than twice as much to another. Now, as I can't show him any humanity myself, I must beg leave you'll do it for me. Honeyw. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours is a most powerful recommendation. (Giving money to the follower?) Bail. Sir, you're a gentleman. I see you know what to do with your money. But, to business : we are to be with you here as your friends, I suppose. But set in case company comes. Little Flani- gan here, to be sure, has a good face ; a very good face ; but then, he is a little seedy, as we say among us that practise the law. Not well in clothes. Smoke the pocket-holes. Honeyw. Well, that shall be remedied without delay. Enter SERVANT. Servant. Sir, Miss Richland is below. Honeyw. How unlucky 1 Detain her a moment. We must im- prove my good friend little Mr. Flanigan's appearance first. Here, let Mr. Flanigan have a suit of my clothes quick the brown and filver Do vou hear ? 1 28 GOL DSMITH'S PLA VS. Ser. That your honour gave away to the begging gentleman that makes verses, because it was as good as new. Honeyw. The white and gold, then. Ser. That, your honour, I made bold to sell, because it was _:ood for nothing. Honeyw. Well, the first that comes to hand, then. The blue ind gold, then. I believe Mr. Flanigan will look best in blue. [Exit FLANIGAN. Bail. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look well in anything. Ah, if your honour knew that bit of flesh as well as I do, you'd be perfectly in love with him. There's not a prettier scout in the four counties after a shy-cock than he : scents like a hound ; sticks like i weasel. He was master of the ceremonies to the black Queen >f Morocco, when I took him to follow me. ( Re-enter FLANIGAN.) Keh ! ecod, I think he looks so well, that I don't care if I have a ;uit from the same place for myself. Honeyw. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. Dear Mr. Twitch, I beg you'll give your friend directions not to speak. As for your- self, I know you will say nothing without being directed. Bail. Never you fear me ; I'll show the lady that I have some- thing to say for myself as well as another. One man has one way )t' talking, and another man has another, that's all the difference between them. Enter Miss RICHLAND and her MAID. Miss Rich. You'll be surprised, sir, with this visit But, you -. low, I'm yet to thank you for choosing my little library. Honeyw. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary; as it was I that vvas obliged by your commands. Chairs here. Two of my very ,;ood friends, Mr. Twitch and Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, sit without ceremony. Miss Rich. Who can these odd-looking men be ? I fear it is as i .vas informed. It must be so. [Aside. Bail. (After a pause.} Pretty weather; very pretty weather for he time of the year, madam. Fol. Very good circuit weather in the country. Honeyw. You officers are generally favourites among the ladies. THE GOOD-NATURED MAM I 9 My friends, madam, have been upon very disagreeable duty, 1 assure you. The fair should in some measure recompense tru toils of the brave. Miss Rich. Our officers do indeed deserve every favour. The gentlemen are in the marine service, I presume, sir ? ffoneyw. Why, madam, they do occasionally serve in the fleet iiadam. A dangerous service ! Miss Rich. I'm told so. And I own it has often surprised ;ir soldiers have fought ; but they have done all they could, and . lawke or Amherst could do no more. Miss Rich. I'm quite displeased when I see a fine subject spoiled )y a dull writer. Honeyw. We should not 'be so severe against dull writers, nadam. It is ten to one but the dullest writer exceeds the most .-igid French critic who presumes to despise him. Fol. Damn the French, the parlez vous, and all that belongs to hem. Miss Rich. Sir ! Honeyw. Ha, ha, ha ! honest Mr. Flanigan. A true English >fficer, madam ! he's not contented with beating the French, but }e will scold them too. Miss Rich. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not convince me mt that severity in criticism is necessary. It was our first adopt- ng the severity of French taste that has brought them in turn to ;aste us. Bail. Taste us ! By the Lord, madam, they devour us. Give monseers but a taste, and I'll be d d but they come in for a bellyful. Miss Rich. Very extraordinary, this ! Fol. But very true. What makes the bread rising? the parlez vous that devour us. What makes the mutton fivepencea pound? the parlez vous that eat it up. What makes the beer threepence- a pot ? f iy> GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. Hmeyw. Ah ! the vulgar rogues ; all will be out. (Aside) Right, gentlemen, very right, upon my word, and quite to the pur- .pose. They draw a parallel, madam, between the mental tastt and that of our senses. We are injured as much by the French severity in the one, as by the French rapacity in the other. That's their meaning. Miss Rich. Though I don't see the force of the parallel, yet I'll own, that we should sometimes pardon books, as we do our friends, that have now and then agreeable absurdities to recom- mend them. Bail. That's all my eye. The king only can pardon, as the law says ; for, set in case Honeyw. I'm quite of your opinion, sir, I see the whole drift of your argument. Yes, certainly, our presuming to pardon any work, is arrogating a power that belongs to another. If all have powei to condemn, what writer can be free ? Bail. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus can set him free at any time : for set in case Honeyw. I'm obliged to you, sir, for the hint. If, madam, as my friend observes, our laws are so careful of a gentleman's person, sure we ought to be equally careful of his dearer part, his fame. Fol. Ay, but if so be a man's nabbed, you know Honeyw. Mr. Flanigan, if you spoke for ever, you could not improve the last observation. For my own part, I think it con- clusive. Bail. As for the matter of that, mayhap Honeyw. Nay, sir, give me leave in this instance to be positiv For where is the necessity of censuring works without genius, which must shortly sink of themselves ? what is it, but aiming an unnecessary blow against a victim already under the hands of justice ? Bail. Justice ! Oh, by the elevens ! if you talk about justice, I think 1 am at home there : for, in a course of law Honeyw. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern what you'd be at per fectly ; and I believe the ladv must be sensible of the art with THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 131 which it is introduced. I suppose you perceive the meaning, madam, of his course of law. Miss Rich. I protest, sir, I do not I perceive only that you answer one gentleman before he has finished, and the other before he has well begun. Bail. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and I will make the matter out This here question is about severity, and justice, and pardon, and the like of they. Now to explain the thing Hontyw. O 1 curse your explanations. [Aside. Enter SERVANT. Serv. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to speak with you upon earnest business. Honeyw. That's lucky. (Aside). Dear madam, you'll excuse me and my good friends here, for a few minutes. There are books, madam, to amuse you. Come, gentlemen, you know I make no ceremony with such friends. After you, sir. Excuse me. Well, if I must But I know your natural politeness. Bail, Before and behind, you know. Fol. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and behind. [Exeunt HONEYWOOD, BAILIFF, and FOLLOWER. Miss Rich. What can all this mean, Garnet ? Garn. Mean, madam 1 why, what should it mean, but what Mr. Lofty sent you here to see ? These people he calls officers are officers sure enough ; sheriff's officers ; bailiffs, madam. Miss Rich. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though his perplexities are far from giving me pleasure, yet I own there's something very ridiculous in them, and a just punishment for his dissimulation. Garn. And so they are. But I wonder, madam, that the lawyer you just employed to pay his debts and set him free, has not done it by this time. He ought at least to have been here before now. But lawyers are always more ready to get a man into troubles than out of them. Enter SIR WILLIAM. Sir WiL For Miss Richland to undertake setting him free, I own, was quite unexpected. It has totally unhinged my schemes ,3* GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. to reclaim him. Yet it gives me pleasure to find that, among a number of worthless friendships, he has made one acquisition of real value ; for there must be some softer passion on her side that prompts this generosity. Ha! here before me? I'll endeavour to sound her affections. Madam, as I am the person that have had some demands upon the gentleman of this house, I hope you'll excuse me if, before I enlarged him, I wanted to see your- self. Miss Rich, The precaution was very unnecessary, sir. I sup- pose your wants were only such as my agent had power to satisfy. Sir Wil. Partly, madam. But I was also willing you should be fully apprised of the character of the gentleman you intended to serve. Miss Rich. It must come, sir, with a very ill grace from you. To censure it after what you have done, would look like malice ; and to speak favourably of a character you have oppressed, would be impeaching your own. And, sure, his tenderness, his humanity, his universal friendship, may atone for many faults. Sir Wil. That friendship, madam, which is exerted in too wide a sphere, becomes totally useless. Our bounty, like a drop of water, disappears when diffused too widely. They who pretend most to this universal benevolence are either deceivers or dupes, men who desire to cover their private ill nature by a pretended regard for all ; or men who, reasoning themselves into false feelings, are more earnest in pursuit of splendid than of useful virtues. Miss Rich. I am surprised, sir, to hear one, who has probably been a gainer by the folly of others, so severe in his censure of it. Sir Wil. Whatever I may have gained by folly, madam, you see I am willing to prevent your losing by it. Miss Rich. Your cares for me, sir, are unnecessary. I always suspect those services which are denied where they are wanted, and offered, perhaps, in hopes of a refusal. No, sir, my directions have been given, and I insist upon their being complied with. Sir Wil. Thou amiable woman ! I can no longer contain the expressions of my gratitude my pleasure. You see before you one who has been equally careful of his interest ; one, who has for some THE GOOD-NA TURED MAN. 133 time been a concealed spectator of his follies, and only punished in hones to reclaim him his uncle. Miss Rich. Sir William Honeywood ! you amaze me. How shall I conceal my confusion ? I fear, sir, you'll think I have been too forward in my services. I confess I Sir Wil. Don't make any apologies, madam. I only find myself unable io repay the obligation. And yet, I have been trying my interest of late to serve you. Having learned, madam, that you had some demands upon Government, I have, though unasked, been youi solicitor there. Miss Ritii. Sir, I'm infinitely obliged to your intentions. But my guardian haj employed another gentleman, who assures him of success. Sir Wil. Who"* the important little man that visits here? Trust me, madam, he's quite contemptible among men in power, and utterly unable to iwrvc you. Mr. Lefty's promises are much better known to people of fashion than his person, I assure you. Miss Rich. How bi.v e we been deceived ! As sure as can be here he comes. Sir Wil. Does he? Remember I'm to continue unknown. My return to England has not yet been made public. With what im- pudence he enters I Enter LOFTY. Loft. Let the chariot let my chariot drive off; I'll visit to his Grace's in a chair. Miss Richland here before me ! Punctual, as usual, to the calls of humanity. I'm very sorry, madam, things ol this kind should happen, especially to a man I have shown every where, and carried amongst us as a particular acquaintance. Miss Rich. I find, sir, you have the art of making the misfor tunes of others your own. Loft. My dear madam, what can a private man like me do ? One man can't do everything ; and then, I do so much in this way every day : Let me see ; something considerable might be done for him by subscription ; it could not fail if I carried the list I'll under- take to set down a brace of dukes, two dozen lords, and half the lower house, at my own peril 134 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. Sir Wil r And, after all, it's more than probable, sir, he might reject the offer of such powerful patronage. Loft. 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 utterly impracticable. Sir WiL His uncle ! then that gentleman, I suppose, is a par- ticular friend of yours. Loft. Meaning me, sir? Yes, madam, as I often said, My deal Sir William, you 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 procuring first-rate places for ninth-rate abilities. Miss Rich. I have heard of Sir William Honeywood ; he's abroad in employment: he confided in your judgment, I suppose? Loft. Why, yes, madam,! believe Sir William had some reason to confide in my judgment ; one little reason, perhaps. Miss Rich. Pray, sir, what was it ? Loft. Why, madam, but let it go no farther it was I procured him his place. Sir Wil. Did you, sir ? Loft. Either you or I, sir. Miss Rich. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind indeed. Loft. I did love him, to be sure; he had some amusing quali- ties ; no man was fitter to be a toast-master of a club, or had a better head. Miss Rich. A better head ? Loft. 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 Wil. He might have reason perhaps. His place is pretty considerable, I'm told. Loft. A trifle, a mere trifle among us men of business. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a greater. Sir Wil. Dignity of person, do you mean, sir? I'm told he's much about my size and figure, sir ? Loft. Ay, tall enough for a marching regiment ; but then he THE GOOD -NA TV RED MAN, 135 wanted a something a consequence of form a kind of a 1 believe the lady perceives my meaning. Miss Rich. Oh, perfectly 1 you courtiers can do anything, I ee. Loft. My dear madam, all this is but a mere exchange ; we do greater things for one another every day. Why, as thus, now : let me suppose you the first lord of the treasury ; you have an em- ployment in you that I want ; I have a place in me that you want ; do me here, do you there ; interest of both sides, few words, flat, done and done, and it's over. Sir Wil. A thought strikes me. (Aside.) Now you mention Sir William Honeywood, madam, and as he seems, sir, an acquaint- ance of yours, you'll be glad to hear he is arrived from Italy ; I had it from a friend who knows him as well as he does me, and you may depend on my information. Loft. The devil he is ! If I had known that we should not have been so well acquainted. [Aside. Sir Wil. He is certainly returned j and as this gentleman is a friend of yours, he can be of signal service to us, by introducing ine to him ; there are some papers relative to your affairs that re- quire despatch, and his inspection. Miss Rich. This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a person employed in my affairs ; I know you'll serve us. Loft. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. Sir William shall even wait upon him, if you think proper to command it Sir Wil. That would be quite unnecessary. Loft. Well, we must introduce you then. Call upon me let me see ay, in two days. Sir Wil. Now, or the opportunity will be lost for ever. Loft. Well, if it must be now, now let it be. But damn it, that's unfortunate ; my Lord Grig's cursed Pensacola business comes on ilus very hour, and I'm engaged to attend another time Sir Wil. A short letter to Sir William will do. Loft. You shall have it ; yet, in my opinion, a letter is a ver) bad way of going to work : f;u:e to face, that's my way. Sir tt'U. The letter, sir, will do quite as wel) 136 GOLDSMlTfTS PLA VS. Loft. Zounds ! sir, do you pretend to direct me ? direct me in the business of office ? Do you know me, sir ? who am I ? Miss Rich. Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not so much his as mine ; if my commands but you despise my power. Loft. Delicate creature ! your commands could even control a debate at midnight : to a power so constitutional, I am al! obedience and tranquillity. He shall have a letter: where is my secretary? Dubardieu ! and yet, I protest I don't like this way of doing business. I think if I spoke first to Sir William. But you will have it so. [Exit with Miss RICH LAND. Sir Wil. (alone.) Ha, ha, ha! This, too, is one of my nephew's hopeful associates. O vanity, thou constant deceiver, how do all thy efforts to exalt serve but to sink us ! Thy false colourings, like those employed to heighten beauty, only seem to mend that bloom which they contribute to destroy. I'm not displeased at this inter- view : exposing this fellow's impudence to the contempt it deserves may be of use to my design ; at least, if he can reflect, it will be of use to himself. Enter JARVIS. Sir Wil. How now, Jarvis, where's your master, my nephew? Jar. A.t his wit's ends, I believe : he's scarce gotten out of one scrape, but he's running his head into another. Sir Wil. How so ? Jar. The house has just been cleared of the bailiffs, and now he's again engaging tooth and nail in assisting old Croaker's son to patch up a clandestine match with the young lady that passes in the house for his sister. Sir Wil. Ever busy to serve others. Jar. Ay, anybody but himself. The young couple, it seems, are just setting out for Scotland ; and he supplies them with money for the journey. Sir Wil. Money ! how is he able to supply others, who has icarce any for himself? Jar. Why, there it is : he has no money, that's true ; but then, as he never said No to any request in his life, he has given them a bill* drawn t\ a friend of his, upon a merchant in the city, which THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 137 I am to get changed ; for you must know that I am to go with them c Sc otland myself. SirWil. How? Jar. It seems the young gentleman is obliged to take a different road from his mistress, as he is to call upon an uncle of his that lives out of the way, in order to prepare a place for their reception when they return ; so they have borrowed me from my master as :he properest person to attend the young lady down. Sir Wil. To the land of matrimony ! A pleasant journey, Jarvis. Jar. Ay, but I'm only to have all the fatigues on't. Sir Wil. Well, it may be shorter and less fatiguing than you imagine. I know but too much of the young lady's family and connections, whom I have seen abroad. I have also discovered that M'iss Richland is not indifferent to my thoughtless nephew ; and will endeavour, though, I fear, in vain, to establish that con- nection. But, come, the letter I wait for must be almost finished ; I'll let you farther into my intentions in the next room. [Exeunt. ACT IV. SCENE Croaker's House. Enter LOFTY. Lofty. Well, sure the devil's in me of late, for running my head ; mo such defiles as nothing but a genius like my own could draw te from. 1 was formerly contented to husband out my places and tensions with some degree of frugality ; but, curse it, of late I have ;iven away the whole Court Register in less time than they could >'mt the title-page : yet, hang it, why scruple a lie or two to come >! i fine girl, when I every day tell a thousand for nothing. Ha ! i i.Mieywood here before me. Could Miss Richland have set him u uuerty f Enter HONEYWOOD. Mr, Honeywood, I'm glad to see you abroad again. I find my :oncurrcnce was not necessary in your unfortunate affairs. I had 1 38 GOLDSMITH'S PL A YS. put things in a train to do your business ; but it is not for me to say what I intended doing. Honeyw. It was unfortunate indeed, sir. But what adds to my uneasiness is, that while you seem to be acquainted with my mis- fortune, I myself continue still a stranger to my benefactor. Loft. How ! not know the friend -that served you ? Honeyw. Can't guess at the person. Loft. Inquire. Honeyw. I have ; but all I can learn is, that he chooses to remain concealed, and that all inquiry must be fruitless. Loft. Must be fruitless ! Honeyw. Absolutely fruitless. Loft. Sure of that? Honeyw. Very sure. Loft. Then I'll be d d if you shall ever know it from me. Honeyw. How sir ? Loft. I suppose now, Mr. Honeywood, you think my rent-roll very considerable, and that I have vast sums of money to throw away; I know you do. The world, to be sure, says such things of me, Honeyw. The. world, by what I learn, is no stranger to youi generosity. But where does this tend ? Loft To nothing ; nothing in the world. The town, to be sure, when it makes such a thing as me the subject of conversation, has asserted, that I never yet patronized a man of merit Honeyw. I have heard instances to the contrary, even from yourself. Loft. Yes, Honeywood: and there are instances to the contrary, that you shall never hear from myself. Honeyw. Ha ! dear sir, permit me to ask you but one question. JLoft. Sir, ask me no questions ; I say, sir, ask me no questions; I'll be d d if I answer them. Honfyw. I will ask no farther. My friend ! my benefactor ! it is, it mu.st be here, that I am indebted for freedom, for hor our. Yes, thou worthiest of men, from the beginning 1 suspected it, but was afraid to return thanks ; which, if undeserved, might seem reproaches. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 139 Loft. I protest I do not understand all this, Mr. Honeywood. You treat me very cavalierly. I do assure you, sir Blood, sir, can't a man be permitted to enjoy the luxury of his own feelings, without all this parade ? Honeyw. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an action that adds to your honour. Your looks, your air, your manner, all confess it. Loft. Confess it.sir! fortune itself, sir, shall never bring me to confess it. Mr. Honeywood, I have admitted you upon terms of friendship. Dont't let us fall out; make me happy, and let this be buried in oblivion. You know I hate ostentation ; you know I do. Come, come, Honeywood, you know I always loved to be a friend, and not a patron. I beg this may make no kind of distance between us. Come, come, you and I must be more familiar. Indeed we must. Honeyw. Heavens! Can I ever repay such friendship? Is there any way? Thou best of men, can I ever return the obliga- tion ? Loft. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle ! But I see your heart is labouring to be grateful. You shall be grateful. It would be cruel to disappoint you. Honeyw. How ! teach me the manner. Is there any way ? Loft. From this moment you're mine. Yes, my friend, you shall know it I'm in love. Honeyw. And can I assist you ? Loft. Nobody so well. Honeyw. In what manner ? I'm all impatience. Loft. You shall make love for me. Honeyw. And to whom shall I speak in your favour ? Loft. To a lady with whom you have great interest, I asure you : Miss Richland. Honeyw. Miss Richtand ! Loft. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck the blow up to the hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter. Honeyiv. Heavens! was ever anything more unfortunate ? It is too much to" be endured. Loft. Unfortunate, indeed ! And yet I can endure it, till you 140 GOLDSMITH'S PL A YS. have opened the affair to her for me. Between ourselves, I think she likes me. I'm not apt to boast, but I think she does. Honeyw. Indeed ! But, do you know the person you apply to ? Loft. Yes, I know you are her friend and mine : that's enough. To you, therefore, I commit the success of my passion. I'll say no more, let friendship do the rest I have only to add, that if at any time my little interest can be of service but, hang it, I'll make no promises you know my interest is yours at any time. No apologies, my friend, I'll not be answered ; it shall be so. [Brit Honeyw. Open, generous, unsuspecting man ! He little thinks that I love her too ; and with such an ardent passion ! But then it was ever but a vain and hopeless one ; my torment, my perse- cution ! What shall I do? Love, friendship ; a hopeless passion, a deserving friend ! Love that has been my tormentor ; a friend that has, perhaps, distressed himself to serve me It shall be so. Yes I will discard the fondling hope from my bosom, and exert all my influence in his favour. And yet to see her in the posses sion of another ! Insupportable ! But then to betray a generous, trusting friend ! Worse, worse ! Yes, I'm resolved. Let me but be the instrument of their happiness, and then quit a country, where I must foi ever despair of finding my own. [Exit. Enter OLIVIA, and GARNET, who carries a milliner's box. Oliv. Dear me, I wish this journey were orer. No news of Jarvis yet ? I believe the old peevish creature delays purely to vex me. Gam. Why, to be sure, madam, I did hear him say, a little snubbing before marriage would teach you to bear it the bettei afterwards. Ohv. To be gone a full hour, though he had only to get a bill changed in the city ! How provoking ! Gam. I'll lay my life, Mr. Leontine, that had twice as much to do, is setting off by this time from his inn : and here you are left behind. Oliv. Well, let us be prepared for his coming, however. Are you sure you have omitted nothing, Garnet ? THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 14' Garn. Not a stick, madam all's here. Yet I wish I could take the white and silver to be married in. It's the worst luck in the world, in anything but white. I knew one Bett Stubbs, of our town, that was married in red ; and as sure as eggs is eggs, the bridegroom and she had a miff before morning. Oliv. No matter. I'm all impatience till we are out of the house. Garn. Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot the wedding- ring ! The sweet little thing I don't think it would go on my little finger. And what if I put in a gentleman's nightcap, in case of necessity, madam? But here's Jarvis. Enter JARVIS. Oliv. O Jarvis, are you come at last ? We have been ready this half hour. Now let's be going. Let us fly. Jarv. Ay, to Jericho ; for we shall have no going to Scotland this bout, I fancy. Oliv. How ! what's the matter? Jarv. Money, money, is the matter, madam. We have got no money. What the plague do you send me of your fool's errand for ? My master's bill upon the city is not worth a rush. Here it is ; Mrs. Garnet may pin up her hair with it Oliv. Undone 1 How could Honeywood serve us so ? What shall we do ? Can't we go without it ? Jarv. Go to Scotland without money I To Scotland without money ! Lord, how some people understand geography ! We might as well set sail for Patagonia upon a cork-jacket Oliv. Such a disappointment ! What a base, insincere man was your master, to serve us in this manner 1 Is this his good- nature ? Jarv. Nay, don't talk ill of my master, madam, I won't bear to hear anybody talk ill of him but myself. Garn. Bless us ! now I think on't, madam, you need not be under any uneasiness : I saw Mr. Leontine receive forty guineas from his father just before he set out, and he can't yet have left the inn. A short letter will reach him there. Oliv. Well remembered, Garnet ; I'll write immediately. How's GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. chis ! Bless me, my hand trembles so, I can't write a word. Do you write, Garnet ; and, upon second thought, it will be better from you. Garn. Truly, madam, I write and indite but poorly. I never was 'cute at my learning. But I'll do what I can to please you. Let me see. All out of my own head, I suppose ! Oliv. Whatever you please, Garn. ( Writing!) Muster Croaker Twenty guineas, madam ? Oliv. Ay, twenty will do. Garn. At the bar of the Talbot till called for. Expedition- Will be blown up All of a flame Quick despatch Cupid, the little god of love. I conclude it, madam, with Cupid : I love to see a love-letter end like poetry. Oliv. Well, well, what you please, anything. But how shall we send it ? I can trust none of the servants of this family. Garn. Odso, madam, Mr. Honeywood's butler is in the next room : he's a dear, sweet man : he'll do anything for me. Jarv. He ! the dog, he'll certainly commit some blunder. He's drunk and sober ten times a-day. Oliv. No matter. Fly, Garnet : anybody we can trust will do. [Exit GARNET.] Well, Jarvis, now we can have nothing more to interrupt us; you may take up the things, and carry them on to the inn. Have you no hands, Jarvis ! Jarv. Soft and fair, young lady. You, that are going to be married, think things can never be done too fast ; but we, that are old, and know what we are about, must elope methodically, madam. Oliv. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to be done over again Jarv. My life for it, you would do them ten times over. Oliv. Why will you talk so ? If you knew how unhappy they make me Jarv. Very unhappy, no doubt : I was once just as unhappy when I was going to be married myself. I'll tell you a story about that Oliv. A story ! when I am all impatience to be away. Was there ever such a dilatory creature 1 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 14. Jarv. Well, madam, if we must march, why we will march, that's all. Though, odds-bobs, we have still forgot one thing . we should never travel without a case of good razors, and a box of shaving powder. But no matter, I believe we shall be pretty well shaved by the way. [Going Enter GARNET. Garn. Undone, undone, madam. Ah, Mr. Jarvis, you said right enough. As sure as death, Mr. Honeywood's rogue of a drunken butler dropped the letter before he went ten yards from the door. There's old Croaker has just picked it up, and is this moment reading it to himself in the hall. Oliv. Unfortunate ! we shall be discovered. Garn. No, madam ; don't be uneasy, he can make neither head nor tail of it. To be sure he looks as if he was broken loose from Bedlam about it, but he can't find what it means for all that. O lud, he is coming this way all in the horrors ! Oliv. Then let us leave the house this instant, for fear he should ask farther questions. In the meantime, Garnet, do you write and send off just such another. [Exeunt Enter CROAKER. Croak. Death and destruction ! Are all the horrors of air, fire, and water, to be levelled only at me ! Am I only to be singled out for gunpowder-plots, combustibles, and conflagration? Here it is An incendiary letter dropped at my door. " To Muster Croaker, these with speed." Ay, ay, plain enough the direction ; ;ill in the genuine incendiary spelling, and as cramp as the devil. "With speed." O, confound your speed. But let me read it once more. (Reads.) " Muster Croaker, as sone as yowe see this, leve twenty gunnes at the bar of the Talboot tell caled for, ot yowe and yower experetion will be al blown up." Ah, but too plain. Blood and gunpowder in every line of it Blown up ! murderous dog ! All blown up ! Heavens ! what have I and my poor family done, to be all blown up ? (Reads.) " Our pockets are low, and money we must have." Ay, there's the reason ; they'll blow us up, because they have got low pockets 1 44 GOLDSMITHS PL A YS, {Reads.) " It is but a short time you have to consider ; for if this take wind, the house will quickly be all of a flame." Inhuman monsters ! blow us up, and then burn us 1 The earthquake at Lisbon was but a bonfire to it. (Reads!) " Make quick despatch, and so no more at present. But may Cupid, the little god of love, go with you wherever you go." The little god of love ! Cupid, the little god of love, go with me ; go you to the devil, you and your little Cupid together. I'm so frightened, I scarce know whether I sit, stand, or go. Perhaps this moment I'm treading on lighted matches, blazing brimstone, and barrels of gunpowder. They are preparing to blow me up into the clouds. Murder! We shall be all burnt in our beds; we shall be all burnt in our beds. Enter Miss HIGHLAND. Miss Rih. Lord, sir, what's the matter ? Croak. Murder's the matter. We shall be all blown up in our beds before morning. Miss Rich. I hope not, sir. Croak. What signifies what you hope, madam, when I have a certificate of it here in my hand ; will nothing alarm my family ? Sleeping and eating, sleeping and eating is the only work from morning till night in my house. My insensible crew could sleep though rocked by an earthquake, and fry beef steaks at a volcano. Miss Rich. But, sir, you have alarmed them so often already ; we have nothing but earthquakes, famines, plagues, and mad dogs, from year's end to year's end. You remember, sir, it is not above a month ago, you assured us of a conspiracy among the bakers to poison us in our bread ; and so kept the whole family a week upon potatoes. Croak. And potatoes were too good for them. But why do 1 jtand talking here with a girl, when I should be facing the enemy without ? Here, John, Nicodemus, search the house. Look into the cellars, to see if there be any combustibles below : and above, in the apartments, that no matches be thrown in at the windows. Let all the fires be put out, and let the engine be drawn out in the yard, to play upon the house in case of necessity. [Exit. THE GOOD-MATURED MAN. US Miss Rich. (Alone). What can he mean by all this ? Yet wh\ should I inquire, when he alarms us in this manner almost every day. But Honeywood has desired an interview with me in pri vate. What can he mean ? or rather, what means this palpitation at his approach? It is the first time he ever showed anything in his conduct that seemed particular. Sure he cannot mean to but he's here. Enter HONEYWOOD. Honeyw. I presumed to solicit this interview, madam, before 1 left town to be permitted Miss Rich. Indeed ! Leaving town, sir ? Honeyw. Yes, madam ; perhaps the kingdom. I 'have pre- sumed, I say, to desire the favour of this interview, in order to disclose something which our long friendship prompts. And yet ray fears Miss Rich. His fears! What are his fears to mine! (Aside,} We have indeed been long acquainted, sir ; very long. If I re- member, our first meeting was at the French ambassador's. Do you recollect how you were pleased to rally me upon my com- plexion there ? Honeyw. Perfectly, madam : I presumed to reprove you for painting ; but your warmer blushes soon convinced the company that the colouring was all from nature. Miss Rich. And yet you only meant it in your good-natured way, to make me pay a compliment to myself. In the same man- ner you danced that night with the most awkward woman in com- pany, because you saw nobody else 'vould take her out Honeyw. Yes ; and was rewarded the next night by dancing with the finest woman in company, whom everybody wished to take out Miss fltch. Well, sir, if you thought so then, I fear your judg- ment has since corrected the errors of a first impression. We generally show to most advantage at first. Our sex are like poor tradesmen, that put all their best goods to be seen at the windows. Honeyw. The first impression, madam, did indeed deceive me. I expected to find a woman with all the faults of conscious nattered 10 146 GOLDSMITH S PLA VS. beauty ; I expected to find her vain and insolent. But every da> has since taught me, that it is possible to possess sense without pride, and beauty without affectation. Miss Rich. This, sir, is a style very unusual with Mr. Honey wood ; and I should be glad to know why he thus attempts to increase that vanity, which his own lessons have taught me to despise. Honeyw. I ask pardon, madam. Yet, from our long friendship I presumed I might have some right to offer, without offence, what you may refuse without offending. Miss Rich. Sir ! I beg you'd reflect : though I fear, I shall scarce have any power to refuse a request of yours, yet you may be pre cipitate : consider, sir. Honeyw. I own my rashness ; but as I plead the cause of friend ship, of one who loves Don't be alarmed, madam who loves you with the most ardent passions, whose whole happiness is placed in you Miss Rich. I fear, sir, I shall never find whom you mean, by this description of him. Honeyw. Ah, madam, it but too plainly points him out ; though he should be too humble himself to urge his pretensions, or you too modest to understand them. Miss Rich. Well ; it would be affectation any longer to pretend ignorance; and I will own, sir, I have long been prejudiced in his favour. It was but natural to wish to make his heart mine, as he seemed himself ignorant of its value. Honeyw. I see she always loved him. (Aside.') I find madam, you're already sensible of his worth, his passion. How happy is my friend, to be the favourite of one with such sense to distinguish merit, and such beauty to reward it Miss Rich. Your friend, sir ? What friend ? Honeyw. My best friend my friend, Mr. Lofty, madam. Miss Rich. He, sir ! Honeyw. Yes, he, madam. He is, indeed, what your warmest vishes might have formed him ; and to his other qualities he adds that of the most passionate regard for you. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. Miss Rich. Amazement ! No more of this, I beg you, sir. Honeyw. I see your confusion, madam, and know how to in- terpret it And, since I so plainly read the language of your heart, shall I make my friend happy, by communicating your sen- timents. Miss Rich. By no means. Honeyw. Excuse me, I must ; I know you desire it. Miss Rich. Mr. Honeywood, let me tell you, that you wrong my sentiments and yourself. When I first applied to your friend ship, I expected advice and assistance : but now, sir, I see that it is in vain to expect happiness from him, who has been so bad an economist of his own ; and that I must disclaim his friendship who ceases to be a friend to himself. [Exit. Honeyw. How is this ! she has confessed she loved him, and yet she seemed to part in displeasure. Can I have done any thing to reproach myself with ? No ; I believe not : yet after all. ihese things should not be done by a third person : I should have spared her confusion. My friendship carried me a little too far. Enter CROAKER, with the letter in his hand, and MRS. CROAKER Mrs. Croak. Ha ! ha ! ha ! And so, my dear, it's your supreme wish that I should be quite wretched upon this occasion ? ha ! ha ! Croak. (Mimicking.} Ha ! ha ! ha ! And so, my dear, it's your supreme pleasure to give me no better consolation ? Mrs. Croak. Positively, my dear ; what is this incendiary stuff and trumpery to me ? our house may travel through the air like the house of Loretto, for aught I care, if I am to be miserable in it Croak. Would to Heaven it were converted into a house of correction for your benefit ! Have we not everything to alarm us ? Perhaps this very moment the tragedy is beginning. Mrs. Croak. Then let us reserve our distress till the rising of the curtain, or give them the money they want, and have done with them. Croak. r j\vz them my money ! And pray, what right have they to my money ? to t GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. Mrs. Croak. And pray, what right then have you to my good- humour ? Croak. And so your good-humour advises me to part with my money ? Why then, to tell your good-humour a piece of my mind, I'd sooner part with my wife. Here's Mr. Honeywood, see what he'll say to it. My dear Honeywood, look at this incendiary letter dropped at my door. It will freeze you with terror; and yet lovey here can read it can read it, and laugh. Mrs. Croak. Yes, and so will Mr. Honeywood. Croak. If he does, I'll suffer to be hanged the next minute in the rogue's place, that's all. Mrs. Croak. Speak, Mr. Honeywood ; is there anything more foolish than my husband's fright upon this occasion? Honeyw. It would not become me to decide, madam; but, doubtless, the greatness of his terrors now will but invite them to renew their villany another time. Mrs. Croak. I told you he'd be of my opinion. Croak. How, sir ! do you maintain that I should lie down under such an injury, and show, neither by my tears nor com- plaints, that I have something of the spirit of a man in me? Honeyw. Pardon me, sir. You ought to make the loudest complaints, if you desire redress. The surest way to have redress, is to be earnest in the pursuit of it. Croak. Ay, whose opinion is he of now ? Mrs. Croak. But don't you think that laughing off our fears is the best way? Honeyw. What is the best, madam, few can say ; but I'll main- tain it to be a very wise way. Croak. But we're talking of the best Surely th best way is to face the enemy in the field, and not wait till he plunders us in ou. very bed-chamber. Honeyw. Why, sir, as to the best, that that's a very wise way too. Mrs. Croak. But can anything be more absurd, than to double our distresses by our apprehensions, and put it in the power of every low fellow that can scrawl ten words of wretched spelling to torment us ? TUB GOOD-NATURED MAN, .4y Honeyw. Without doubt, nothing more absurd. Croak. How ! would it not be more absurd to despise the tattle till we are bit by the snake ? Honeyw. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. Croak. Then you are of my opinion. Honeyw. Entirely. Mrs. Croak. And you reject mine? Honeyw. Heavens forbid, madam ! No sure, no reasoning can be more just than yours. We ought certainly to despise malice if we cannot oppose it, and not make the incendiary's pen as fatal to our repose as the highwayman's pistol. Mrs. Croak. O ! then you think I'm quite right ? Honeyw. Perfectly right. Croak. A plague of plagues, we can't be both right I ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. My hat must be on my head, or my hat must be oft Mrs. Croak. Certainly in two opposite opinions, if one be per- fectly reasonable, the other can't be perfectly right. Honeyw. And why may not both be right, madam? Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking redress, and you in waiting the event with good-humour ? Pray, let me see the letter again. I have it This letter requires twenty guineas to be left at the bar of the Talbot Inn. If it be indeed an incendiary letter, what if you and I, sir, go there ; and when the writer comes to be paid for his expected booty, seize him ? Croak. My dear friend, it's the very thing ; the very thing. While I walk by the door, you shall plant yourself in ambush near the bar; burst out upon the miscreant like a masked battery; extort a confession at once, and so hang him up by surprise. Honeyw. Yes, but I would not choose to exercise too much severity. It is my maxim, sir, that crimes generally punish them- selves. Croak. Well, but we may upbraid him a little, I suppose? {Ironically.} Honeyw. Ay, but not punish hiin too rigidly. Croak. Well, well, leave that to my own benevolence. ISO GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. Honeyw. Well, I do ; but remember that universal benevolence is the first law of nature. [Exeunt HONEYWOOD and MRS. CROAKER. Croak Yes ; and my universal benevolence will hang the dog, if he had as many necks as a hydra. ACT V. SCENE An Inn. Enter OLIVIA and JARVIS. Oliv. Well, we have got safe to the inn, however. Now, if the post-chaise were ready Jar. The horses are just finishing their oats ; and, as they are not going to be married, they choose to take their own time. Oliv. You are for ever giving wrong motives to my impatience. Jar. Be as impatient as you will, the horses must take their own time ; besides, you don't consider we have got no answer from our fellow-traveller yet If we hear nothing from Mr. Leontine, we have only one way left us. Olio. What way? Jar. The way home again. Oliv. Not so. I have made a resolution to go, and nothing shall induce me to break it. Jar. Ay; resolutions are well kept when they jump with inclina- tion. However, I'll go hasten things without And I'll call, too, at the bar to see if anything should be left for us there. Don't be in such a plaguy hurry, madam, and we shall go the faster, I promise you. [Exit JARVIS. Enter LANDLADY. Land. What ! Solomon, why don't you move? Pipes and tobacco for the Lamb there. Will nobody answer? To the Dolphin; quick. The Angel has been outrageous this half hour. Did your ladyship call, madam ? Oliv. No, madam. Land. I find as you are for Scotland, madam. But that's no business of mine; married or not married, 1 ask no questions. To be sure we had a sweel li'tle couple set off from this two days ago THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. for the same place. The gentleman, for a tailor, was, to be sure, as fine a spoken tailor as ever blew froth from a full pot. And the young lady so bashful : it was near half an hour before we could get her to finish a pint of raspberry between us. Oliv. But this gentleman and I are not going to be married, 1 assure you. Land. May be not That's no business of mine ; for certain. Scotch marriages seldom turn out well. There was, of my own knowledge, Miss Macfag, that married her father's footman alack- a-day, she and her husband soon parted, and now keep separate cellars in Hedge-lane. Oliv. A very pretty picture of what lies before me 1 [Aside. Enter LEONTINE. Leant. My dear Olivia, my anxiety, till you were out of danger, was too great to be resisted. I could not help coming to see you set out, though it exposes us to a discovery. Oliv. May everything you do prove as fortunate. Indeed, Leontine, we have been most cruelly disappointed. Mr. Honey- wood's bill upon the city has, it seems, been protested, and we have been utterly at a loss how to proceed. , Leont. How ! an offer of his own too ! Sure he could not mean to deceive us ? Oliv. Depend upon his sincerity : he only mistook the desire for the power of serving us. But let us think no more of it I believe the post-chaise is ready by this. Land. Not quite, 'yet ; and, begging your ladyship's pardon, 1 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 01 as pretty raspberry as ever was tipt over tongue. Just a thimble ful to keep the wind off your stomach. To be sure, the last couple we had here, they said it was a perfect nosegay. Ecod, I sent them both away as good-natured Up went the blinds, round went the wheels, and, " Drive away, post-boy," was the word. Enter CROAKER. Ctoak. Well, while my triend Honey wood is upon the post of I5 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. danger at the bar, it must be my business to have an eye about me here. I think I know an incendiary's look ; for wherever the devil makes a purchase, he never fails to set his mark. Ha ! who have we here ? My son and daughter ! What can they be doing here ? Land. I tell you, madam, it will do you good ; I think I knn-.v by this time what's good for the north road. It's a raw night madam. Sir Leant. Not a drop more, good madam. I should now take it as a great favour if you hasten the horses, for I am afraid to be seen myself. Land. That shall be done. Wha, Solomon ! are you all de >d there ? Wha, Solomon, I say ! \Exit bawling. Oliv. Well, I dread lest an expedition begun in fear should end in repentance. Every moment we stay increases our danger, and adds to my apprehensions. Leant. There's no danger, trust me, my dear : there can be none. If Honeyv/ood has acted with honour, and kept my father, as he promised, in employment till we are out of danger, nothing can interrupt our journey. Oliv. I have no doubt of Mr. Honey wood's sincerity, and even his desire to serve us. My fears are from your father's suspicion.-! A mind so disposed to be^ alarmed without cause, will be but to ready when there's a reason. Leant. Why let him, when we are out of his power. But, belie \ me, Olivia, you have no great reason to dread his resentment. His repining temper, as it does no manner of injury to himself, so wii. it never do harm to others. He only frets to keep himself em ployed, and scolds for his private amusement Oliv. I don't know that ; but I'm sure, on some occasions, ii \oakes him look most shockingly. CROAKER, discovering himself. Croak. How does he look now ? How does he look now ? Olw. Ah! Leant. Undone, Croak. How do I look now? Sir, I am your very humble ser tant Madam, I am j ours. What, you are going off, are you? Then. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. i 51 first, if you please, take a word or two from me v^h you befort you go. Tell me first where you are going ; and \vh?n you havt told me that, perhaps I shall know as little as I did befove. Leont. If that be so, our answer might but increase youi dis pleasure, without adding to your information. Croak. I want no information from you, puppy : and you, too good madam, what answer have you got ? Eh ! (A cry without. Stop him/} I think I heard a noise. My friend Honeywood with out has he seized the incendiary ? Ah, no, for now I hear no more on't. Leant. Honeywood without ! Then, sir, it was Mr. Honeywood that directed you hither ? Croak. No, sir, it was Mr. Honeywood conducted me hither. Leant. Is it possible ? Croak. Possible ! Why he's in the house now, sir; more anxious about me than my own son, sir. Leont. Then, sir, he's a villain. Croak. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes most care o/ your father ? I'll not bear it I tell you, I'll not bear it Honey- wood is a friend to the family, and I'll have him treated as such. Leont. I shall study to repay his friendship as it deserves. Croak. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly he entered into my griefs, and pointed out the means to detect them, you would love him. as I do. (A cry without, Stop him!) Fire and fury ! they have seized the incendiary : they have the villain, the incendiary in view. Stop him ! stop an incendiary ! a murderer ! stop him ! [Exit. Oliv. Oh, my terrors ! What can this tumult mean ? Leont. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr. Honeywood's sin- cerity. But we shall have satisfaction : he shall give me instant satisfaction. Oliv. It must not be, my Leontine, if you value my esteem or happiness. Whatever be our fate, let us not add guilt to our mis- fortunes. Consider that our innocence will shortly be all that we have left us. You must forgive him. Leont. Forgive him ! has he not in every instance betrayed us ? Forced me to borrow money from him, which appears a mere trick 154 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. to delay us ; promised to keep my father engaged till we were out of danger, and here brought him to the very scene of our escape? Oliv. Don't be precipitate. We may yet be mistaken. Enter POSTBOY, dragging in JARVIS ; HONEYWOOD entering soon after. Post. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. Here is the incen- Jiary dog. I'm entitled to the reward; I'll take my oath I saw him ask for the money at the bar, and then run for it Honeyw. Come, bring him along. Let us see him. Let him learn to blush for his crimes. (Discovering his mistake.) Death ! what's here ? Jarvis, Leontine, Olivia ! What can all this mean ? Jar. Why, I'll tell you what it means : that I was an old fool, arid that you are my master that's all. Honeyw. Confusion ! Leant. Yes, sir, I find you have kept your word with me. After such baseness, I wonder how you can venture to see the man you have injured. Honeyw. My dear Leontine, by my life, my honour Leont. Peace, peace, tor shame ; and do not continue to aggra- vate baseness by hypocrisy. I know you, sir, I know you. Honeyw. Why, won't you hear me ! By all that's just, I knew not Leont. Hear you, sir ! to what purpose ? I now see through all our low arts ; your ever complying with every opinion; your never cfusing any request : your friendship's as common as a prostitute's 1 ivours, and as fallacious ; all these, sir, have long been contemp- ble to the world, and are now perfectly so to me. Honeyw. Ha ! contemptible to the world ; that readies me. [Aside. Leont. All the seeming sincerity of your professions, I now find. >v<;re only allurements to betray ; and all your seeming regret for iheir consequences, only calculated to cover the cowardice of youi h eart. Draw, villain ! Enter CROAKER, out of breath. Croak. Where is the villain? Where is the incendiary? (Seizing THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 5S 1he POSTBOY.) Hold him fast, the dog : he has the gallows in his face. Come, you dog, confess ; confess all, and hang yourself. Post. Zounds ! master, what do you throttle me for ? Croak, (Beating him.) Dog, do you resist? do you resist? Post. Zounds ! master, I'm not he ; there's the man that we thought was the rogue, and turns out to be one of the company. Croak. How ! Honeyw. Mr. Croaker, we have all been under a strange mistake here; I find there is nobody guilty; it was all an error; entirely an error of our own. Croak. And I say, sir, that you're in an error ; for there's guilt and double guilt, a plot, a damned Jesuitical, pestilential plot, and I must have proof of it Honeyw. Do but hear me. Croak. What ! you intend to bring 'em of I suppose? I'll heai nothing. Honeyw. Madam, you seem at least calm enough to hear reason. Olw. Excuse me. Honeyw. Good Jarvis, let me, then, explain it to you. Jar. What signifies explanations when the thing is done ? Honeyw. Will nobody hear me ? Was there ever such a set, so blinded by passion and prejudice? (To the Postboy.) My good friend, I believe you'll be surprised when I assure you Post. Sure me nothing I'm sure of nothing but a good beating. Croak. Come, then you, madam, if you ever hope for any favoui or forgiveness, tell me sincerely "U you know of this affair. Oliv. Unhappily, sir, I'm but too much the cause of your sus- picions. You see before you, sir, one that, with false pretences, has stepped into your family to betray it ; not your daughter Croak. Not my daughter I Oliv. Not your daughter but a mean deceiver who support me, I cannot Honeyw. Help, she's going ; give her air. Croak. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the air ; I would not hurt a hair of her head, whose ever daughter she may be not so bad as that neither. \xfunt all but CROAKER. , 5 6 GOLDS MI TITS PLAYS. Croak. Yes, yes, all's out ; I now see the whole affair : my son is either married, or going to be so, to this lady, whom he imposed ipon me as his sister. Ay, certainly so ; and yet I don't find it ifflicts me so much as one might think. There's the advantage of 'retting away our misfortunes beforehand, we never feel them when i hey come. Enter Miss RICHLAND and SIR WILLIAM. Sir Wil. But how do you know, madam, that my nephew intends Betting off from this place r Miss Rich. My maid assured me he was come to this inn, and my own knowledge of his intending to leave the kingdom suggested the rest. But what do I see ! my guardian here before us ! Who, my dear sir, could have expected meeting you here ? to what acci- dent do we owe this pleasure ? Croak. To a fool, I believe. Miss Rich. But to what purpose did you come ? Croak. To play the fool. Miss Rich. But with whom ? Croak. With greater fools than myse'it Miss Rich. Explain. Croak. Why, Mr. Honeywood brought me here, to do nothing, now I am here; and my son is going to be married to I don't know ho, that is here : so now you are as wise as I am. Miss Rich. Married ! to whom, sir ? Croak. To Olivia, my daughter, as I took her to be ; but who the devil she is, or whose daughter she is, I know no more than the man in the moon. Sir Wil. Then, sir, I can inform you ; and, though a stranger, } ji you shall find me a friend to your family. It will be enough, at present, to assure you, that both in point of birth and fortune the young lady is at least your son's equal. Being left by her father, Sir James Woodville Croak. Sir James Woodville ! What, of the west ? Sir Wil. Being left by him, I say, to the care of a mercenary iv retch, whose only aim was to secure her fortune to himself, she vas sent to France, under pretence of education; and there every THE GOOD-NATURED MAN, 157 art was tried to fix her for life in a convent, contrary to her inclina tions. Of this I was informed upon my arrival at Paris ; and, as I had been once her father's friend, I did all in my power to frus- trate her guardian's base intentions. I had even meditated to rescue her from his authority, when your son stepped in with more pleasing violence, gave her liberty, and you a daughter. Croak. But I intend to have a daughter of my own choosing, sir. A young lady, sir, whose fortune, by my interest with those who have interest, will be double what my son has a right to expect Do you know Mr. Lofty, sir ? Sir Wil. Yes, sir ; and know that you are deceived in him. But step this way, and I'll convince you. [CROAKER and SIR WILLIAM seem to confer. Enter HONEYWOOD. Honeyw. Obstinate man, still to persist in his outrage ! Insulted by him, despised by all I now begin to grow contemptible even to myself. How have I sunk by too great an assiduity to please . How have I over-taxed all my abilities, lest the approbation of a* single fool should escape me ! But all is now over. I have survived my reputation, my fortune, my friendships, and nothing remains henceforward for me but solitude and repentance. Miss Rich. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that you are setting off, without taking leave of your friends ? The report is, that you are quitting England : can it be ? Honeyw. Yes, madam ; and though I am so unhappy as to have fallen under your displeasure ; yet, thank Heaven ! I leave you to happiness ; to one who loves you, and deserves your love ; to one who has power to procure you affluence, and generosity to improve your enjoyment of it Miss Rich. And are you sure, sir, that the gentleman you mean is what you describe him ? Honeyw. I have the best assurances of it his serving me. He does indeed deserve the highest happiness, and that is in your power to confer. As for me, weak and wavering as I have been, obliged by all, and incapable of serving any, what happiness can 1 find but in solitude ? what hope, but in being forgotten? GOLDSMITH'S PLAVSt, Miss Rich. A thousand ! to live among friends that esteem you, whose happiness it will be to be permitted to oblige you. Honeyw. No, madam, my resolution is fixed. Inferiority among strangers is easy ; but among those that once were equals, insup- portable. Nay, to show you how far my resolution can go, I can now speak with calmness of my former follies, my vanity, my dissipation, my weakness. I will even confess, that among the number of my other presumptions, I had the insolence to think of loving you. Yes, madam, while I was pleading the passion of another, my heart was tortured with its own. But it is over j it was unworthy our friendship, and let it be forgotten. Miss Rich. You amaze me ! Honeyw. But you'll forgive it, I know you will ; since the con- fession should not have come from me even now, but to convince you of the sincerity of my intention of never mentioning it more. [Going. Miss Rich. Stay, sir, one moment Ha ! he here Enter LOFTY. Loft. Is the coast clear ? None but friends ? I have followed you here with a trifling piece of intelligence; but it goes no farther, things are not yet ripe for a discovery, t have spirits working at a certain board ; your affair at the treasury will be done in less than a thousand years. Mum ! Miss Rich. Sooner, sir, I should hope. Loft. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into proper hands that know where to push and where to parry ; that know how the land lies eh, Honeywood ? Miss Rich. It has fallen into yours. Loft. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, your thing is done. It is done, I say that's all. I have just had assurances from Lord Neverout, that the claim has been examined, and found admissible. Quietus is the word, madam. Honeyw. But how ? his lordship has been at Newmarket these ten days. Loft. Indeed ! Then, Sir Gilbert Goose must have been most iiaumabiy mistaken. I had it of him. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 159 Miss Rich. He ! why, Sir Gilbert and his family have been in tht country this month. Ljft. This month ! it must certainly be so Sir Gilbert's letter did come to me from Newmarket, so that he must have met his lordship there ; and so it came about I have his letter about me; I'll read it to you. (Taking out a large bundle?) That's from Paolfi of Corsica, that from the Marquis of Squilachi Have you a mind to see a letter from Count Poniatowski, now King of Poland? Honest Pon (Searching). O, sir, what! are you here too t I'll tell you what, honest friend, if you have not absolutely delivered my letter to Sir William Honeywood, you may return it. The thing will do without him. Sir Wil. Sir, I have delivered it ; and must inform you, it was received with the most mortifying contempt. Croak. Contempt ! Mr. Lofty, what can that mean ? Loft. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You'll find it come to something presently. Sir Wil. Yes, sir ; I believe you'll be amazed, if after waiting some time in the ante-chamber, after being surveyed with insolent curiosity by the passing servants, I was at last assured, that Sir William Honeywood knew no such person, and I must certainly have been imposed upon. Loft. Good ! let me die ; very good. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Croak. Now, for my life, I can't find out half the goodness of it. Loft. You can't ? Ha ! ha ! Croak. No, for the soul of me ! I think it was as confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from one private gentleman to mother. Loft. And so you can't find out the force of the message. Why, I was in the house at that very time. Ha ! ha ! it was I that sent that very answer to my own letter. Ha ! ha! Croak. Indeed 1 How? why? Loft. In one word, things between Sir William and me must bt behind the curtain. A party- has many eyes. He sides with Lor! Buzzard, I side .with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles tht mystery. ,6o GOLDSMITHS PLA YS. Croak. And so it does, indeed ; and all my suspicions are over. Loft. Your suspicions ! What, then, you have been suspecting, you have been suspecting, have you ? Mr. Croaker, you and I were friends ; we are friends no longer. Never talk to me. It's over ; I say, it's over. Croak. As I hope for your favour, I did not mean to offend. It escaped me. Don't be discomposed. Loft. Zounds ! sir, but I am jiscomposed, and will be discom- posed. To be treated thus ! Who am I ? Was it for this I have been dreaded both by ins and outs ? Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer, and praised in the St. fames si have I been chaired at Wildman's, and a speaker at Merchant-Tailor's Hall ? have I had my hand to addresses, and my head in the print shops ; and talk to me of suspects ? Croak. My dear sir, be pacified. What can you have but ask- ing pardon ? Loft. Sir, I will not be pacified Suspects ! Who am I ? To be used thus ! Have I paid court to men in favour to serve my friends; the lords of the treasury, Sir William Honeywood, and the rest of the gang, and talk to me of suspects ? Who am I, I say, who am I ? Sir Wil. Since you are so pressing for an answer, I'll tell you who you are : A gentleman as well acquainted with politics as with men in power ; as well acquainted with persons of fashion as with modesty : with lords of the treasury as with truth ; and withal, as you are with Sir William Honeywood. I am Sir William Honey- wood. (Discovering his ensigns of the Bath. ) Croak. Sir William Honeywood ! Honeyw. Astonishment ! my uncle ! (Aside.) Loft. So then, my confounded genius has been all this time only 'eading me up to the garret, in order to fling me out of the . mdow. Croak. What, Mr. Importance, and are these your works ? Suspect you ! You, who have been dreaded by the ins and outs \ you, who have had your hand to addresses, and your head stuck up in print-shops. If you were served right, you should have your head stuck up in a pillory. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. t6r Loft. Ay, stick it where you will ; for, by the Lord, it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks at present. Sir Wil. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you now see how incapable this gentleman is of serving you, and how little Miss Richland has to expect from his influence. Croak. Ay, sir, too well I see it ; and I can't but say I have had some boding of it these ten days. So I am resolved, since my son has placed his affections on a lady of moderate fortune, to be satisfied with his choice, and not run the hazard of another Mr. Lofty in helping him to a better. Sir Wil. I approve your resolution; and here they come to receive a confirmation of your pardon and consent Enter MRS. CROAKER, JARVIS, LEONTINE, and OLIVIA. Mrs. Croak. Where's my husband ? Come, come, lovey, you must forgive them. Jarvis here has been to tell me the whole affair ; and I say, you must forgive them. Our own was a stolen match, you know, my dear; and we never had any reason to repent of it Ctvak. I wish we could both say so. However, this gentleman, Sir William Honeywood, has been beforehand with you in obtain- ing their pardon. So, if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, I think we can tack them together without crossing the Tweed for it (Joining their hands.) Leant. How blest and unexpected ! What, what can we say to such goodness ? But our future obedience shall be the best reply. And as for this gentleman, to whom we owe Sir W. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your thanks, as I have here an interest that calls me. (Turning to Honeywood?) Yes, sir, you are surprised to see me ; and a desire of correcting your follies led me hither. I saw with indignation the errors of a mind that only sought applause from others; that easiness of disposition, which though inclined to the right, had not courage to condemn the wrong. I saw with regret those splendid errors, that still took name from some neighbouring duty ; your charity, that was but injustice; your benevolence, that was but weakness; and you II GOLDSMITH* S I-LA YS. ; riendship, but credulity. I saw with regret great talents and ex- pensive learning only employed to add sprightliness to error, and ncrease your perplexities. I saw your mind with a thousand >atural charms ; but the greatness of its beauty served only to ' tighten my pity for its prostitution. Honeyw. Cease to upbraid me, sir ; I have for some time but .00 strongly felt the justice of your reproaches. But there is one vay still left me. Yes, sir, I have determined this very hour to juit for ever a place where I have made myself the voluntary >lave of all, and to seek among strangers that fortitude which may ^ive strength to the mind, and marshal all its dissipated virtues. Vet, ere I depart, permit me to solicit favour for this gentleman ; vho, notwithstanding what has happened, has laid me under the i lost signal obligations. Mr. Lofty Loft. Mr. Honeywood, I'm resolved upon a reformation as well is you. I now begin to find that the man who first invented the .irt of speaking truth, was a much cunninger fellow than I thought him. And to prove that I design to speak truth for the future, I must now assure you that you owe your late enlargement o another ; as, upon my soul, I had no hand in the matter. So iow, if any of the company has a mind for preferment, he may ike my place ; I'm determined to resign. \Exit. Honeyw. How have I been deceived ! Sir Wil. No, sir, you have been obliged to a kinder, fairei .lend, for that favour to Miss Richland. Would she complete ,Lir joy, and make the man she has honoured by her friendship iappy in her love, I should then forget all, and be as blest as the . elfcire of my dearest kinsman can make me. Miss Rich. After what is past, it would but be affectation to , retend to indifference. Yes, I will own an attachment, which I uid was more than friendship. And if my entreaties cannot alter his ^solution to quit the country, I will even try if my hand has not . >\ver to detain him. (Giving her hand.) Honeyw. Heavens ! how can I have deserved all this ? How vpress my happiness, my gratitude? A moment like thi* over v ays an age of apprehension. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. Croak. Well, now I see content in every face ; but heaven send we be all better this day three months ! Sir Wil. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect yourself. He who seeks only for applause from without, has all his happiness in another's keeping. Honeyw. Yes, sir, I now too plainly perceive my errors; my vanity, in attempting to please all by fearing to offend any ; my meanness in approving folly lest fools should disapprove. Hence- forth, therefore, it shall be my study to reserve my pity for real distress ; my friendship for true merit ; and my love for her, who first taught me what it is to be happy. EPILOGUE.* SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY. || S puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure ; Thus, on the stage, our playwrights still depend For epilogues and prologues on some friend, Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, And make full many a bitter pill go down. Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, And teased each rhyming friend to help him out. An epilogue ! things can't go on without it 1 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 I No, no, I've other contests to maintain ; To-night I head our troops at Warwick Lane. * The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at Oxford, de ferred writing one himself till the very last hour. What is here offered owe* Ul its success to the graceful manner of the actress who spoke it II 1 1 64 GOLDS Ml TITS PLAYS. Go ask your manager." "Who? me ! Your pardon Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden." Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance^ Give him good words indeed, but no assistance. As some unhappy wight at some new play, At the pit door stands elbowing away, While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug ; His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes, Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise : He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grimace; But not a soul will budge to give him place. Since then, unhelped, our bard must now conform "To *bide the pelting of this pitiless storm," Blame where you must, be candid where you can, And be each critic the Good-Natured Man. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. A COMEDY. DEDICATION. TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. jjEAR SIR, By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean so much to compliment you as myself. It may do me some honour to inform the public that I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind also to inform them, that the greatest wit may be found in a character, without impairing the most un- affected piety. I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to this performance. The undertaking a Comedy, not merely senti- mental, was very dangerous : and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. to trust it to the public ; and, though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason to be grateful I am, dear Sir, Your most sincere Friend and Admirer, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. DRAMATIS PERSONS. Cast of the characters at Covtnt Garden in 1773. Diggory- - - MR. SAUNDERS. MEN. Str Charles Mar low MR. GARDNER. Young Marlow (kis son) MR. LEWIS. Hardcastle . MR. SHUTER. Hastings ... MR. DUBELLAMY. Tony Lumfkin - MR. QUICK. WOMEN. Mrs. Hardcastk - MRS. GREEN. Miss Hardcastle MRS. BUCKLEY. Miss Neville MRS. KNIVETON. Maid .... Miss WILLIAMS. Landlord, Servants, &>c. PROLOGUE, BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. Enter MR. WOODWARD, dressed in black, and holding a handkerchief to his eyes. JXCUSE 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. a I've that within " for which there are no plasters 1 Pray, would you know the reason why I'm crying ? The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying 1 And if she goes, my tears will never stop ; For as a play'r, I can't squeeze out one drop | I am undone, that's all shall lose my bread I'd rather but that's nothing lose my head. When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here. To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed. Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed I Poor Ned and I are dead, to all intents ; We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments f Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, We now and then take down a hearty cup. itib GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. What shall we do ? If Comedy forsake us, They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us: But why can't I be moral ? Let me try My heart thus pressing fixed my face and eye With a sententious look that nothing means, (Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes) Thus I begin "All is not gold that glitters, Pleasures seem sweet, but prove a glass of bitters. When ignorance enters, folly is at hand : Learning is better far than house and land. Let not your virtue trip : who trips may stumble^ And virtue is not virtue if she tumble." I give it up morals won't do for me ; To make you laugh, I must play tragedy. One hope remains hearing the maid was ill, A Doctor comes this night to show his skill, To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion, He, in Five Draughts prepared, presents a potions A kind of magic charm for be assured, If you will swallow it, the maid is cured : But desperate the Doctor's and her case is, If you reject the dose and make wry faces. This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, No poisonous drugs are mixed in what he givet. Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree ; If not, within he will receive no fee. The college, you, must his pretensions back, Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack. ACT L SCENE A Chamber in an Old-fashioned House. Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and MR. HARDCASTLK. Mrs. Hard. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're very particular. Is there a creature in the whole country but ourselves, that does not SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 167 take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the rust a little ? There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour, Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every winter. Hard. Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation to last them >he whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own fools at home ! In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach. Its fopperies come down not only as inside passengers, but in the very basket. Mrs. Hard. Ay, your times were fine times indeed ; you have been telling us of them for many a long year. Here we live in an old rumbling mansion that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing master ; and all our entertainment your old stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such old-fashioned jumpery. Hard. And I love it. I love everything that's old : old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wines ; and I believe, Dorothy (taking her hand), yo.u'll own I have been pretty fond of an old wife. Mrs. Hard. Lord, Mr. Hard castle, you're for ever at your Dorothys aud your old wives. You may be a Darby, but I'll be ao 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 .noney of that. Hard. Let me see; twenty added to twenty makes just fift\ aid seven. Mrs. Hard. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle ; I was but twenty when i was brought to bed of Tony, that I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my drst husband ; and he's not come to years of discretion yet. Hard. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have taught him finely. Mrs. Hard. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. I don't think a boy wants jauch Icarnir - to spend fifteen hundred a year. $68 GOLDSMITH'S flA PS. Hard. Learning, quotha! a mere composition of tricks and mischief. Mrs. Hard. Humour, my dear ; nothing but humour. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little humour. Hard. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If burning the footman's shoes, frightening the maids, and worrying the kittens be humour, he has it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popped my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face. Mrs. Hard. Am I to blame? The poor boy was always too sickly to do any good. A school would be his death. When he comes to be a little stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin may do for him ? Hard. Latin for him ! A cat and fiddle. No, no ; the ale- house and the stable are the only schools he'll ever go to. Mrs. Hard. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long among us. Anybody that looks in his face may see he's consumptive. Hard. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms. Mrs. Hard. He coughs sometimes. Hard. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way. Mrs. Hard. I'm actually afraid of his lungs. Hard. And truly so am I; for he sometimes whoops like a speaking-trumpet (TONY, hallooing behind the scenes.) Oh, there he goes a very consumptive figure, truly. Enter TONY, crossing the stage. Mrs. Hard. Tony, where are you going, my charmer ? Won't you give papa and me a little of your company, lovee ? Tony. I'm in haste, mother ; I cannot stay. Mrs. Hard. You shan't venture out this raw evening, my dear ; you look most shockingly. Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me down every moment. There's some fun going forward. Hard. Ay ; the alehouse ; the old place ; I thought so. Mrs. Hard. A low, paltry set of fellows. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 169 Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Muggins the excise- man, Jack Slang, the horse doctor, little Aminadab that grinds the music box, and Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter. Mrs. Hard. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for one night at least. Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not so much mindj but I can't abide to disappoint myself. Mrs. Hard. (Detaining him.) You shan't go. Tony. I will, I tell you. Mrs. Hard. I say you shan't Tony. We'll see which is the strongest, you or I. [Exit, hauling her out. Hard, (solus). Ay, there goes a pair that only spoil each other. But is not the whole age in a combination to drive sense and discretion out of doors ? There's my pretty darling Kate ! the fashions of the times have almost infected her too. By living a year or two in town, she's as fond of gauze and French frippery as the best of them. Enter Miss HARDCASTLE. Hard. Blessings on my pretty innocence! dressed out as usual, ray Kate. Goodness ! What a quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got about thee, girl ! I could never teach the fools of this age that the indigent world could be clothed out of the trimmings of the vain. Miss Hard. You know our agreement, sir. You allow me the morning to receive and pay visits, and to dress in my own manner ; and in the evening I put on my housewife's dress to please you. Hard. Well, remember I insist on the terms of our agreement ; and, by-the-by, I- believe I shall have occasion to try your oix-ilience this very evening. Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I don't comprehend your meaning. Hard, Then to be plain with you, Kate, I expect the young gentleman I have chosen to be your husband from town this very day. I have his Bather's letter, in which he informs me his son is >et out, and that he intends to follow himself shortly after. tyo GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. Miss Hard. Indeed ! I wish I had known something of this before. Bless me ! how shall I behave ? It's a thousand to one I shan't like him ; our meeting will be so formal, and so like a thing of business, that I shall find no room for friendship or esteem. Hard. Depend upon it, child, I never will control your choice; but Mr. Marlow, whom I have pitched upon, is the son of my old friend, Sir Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk so often. The young* gentleman has been bred a scholar, and is de- signed for an employment in the service of his country. I am told he's a man of an excellent understanding. Miss Hard. Is he ? Hard. Very generous. Miss Hard. I believe I shall like him, Hard. Young and brave. Miss Hard. I'm sure I shall like him. Hard. And very handsome. Miss Hard. My dear papa, say no more (kissing his hand), he's mine ; I'll have him. Hard. And to crown all, Kate, he's one of the most bashful and reserved young fellows in all the world. Miss Hard. Eh ! you have frozen me to death again. That word reserved has undone all the rest of his accomplishments. A reserved lover, it is said, always makes a suspicious husband. Hard. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides in a breast that is not enriched with nobler virtues. ^It was the very feature in his character that first struck roe. Miss Hard. He must have more striking features to catch me, I promise you. However, if he be so young, so handsome, and so everything as you mention, I believe he'll do still. I think I'll have him. Hard. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. It's more than an even wager he may not have you. Miss Hard. My dear papa, why will you mortify one so? Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking my heart at his indiffer- ence, I'll only break my glass for its flattery, set my cap to some newer fashion, and look out for some less difficult admirer. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Hard. Bravely resolved ! In the meantime, I'll go prepare the servants for his reception : as we seldom see company, they want as much training as a company of recruits the first day's muster. [Exit. Miss Hard. (Alone). Lud, this news of papa's puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome ; these he put last ; but I put them foremost. Sensible, good-natured; I like all that. But then reserved and sheepish, that's much against him. Yet can't he be cured of his timidity, by being taught to be proud of his wife ? Yes ; and can't I ? but I vow I'm disposing of the husband, be- fore I have secured the lover. Enter Miss NEVILLB. Miss Hard. I'm glad you're come, Neville, my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this evening ? Is there anything whim- sical about me ? Is it one of my well-looking davs, child ? am I in face to-day ? Miss Nev. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look again bless me ! sure no accident has happened among the canary birds or the gold fishes. Has your brother or the cat been meddling ? or has the last novel been too moving ? Miss Hard. No ; nothing of all this. I have been threatened I can scarce get it out I have been threatened with a lover. Miss Nev. And his name Miss Hard. Is Marlow. Miss Nev. Indeed I Miss Hard. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. Miss Nev. As I live, the most intimate friend of Mr. Hastings, my admirer. They are never asunder. I believe you must have seen him when we lived in town. Miss Hard. Never. Miss Nev. He's a very singular character, I assure you. Among women of reputation and virtue, he is the modestest man alive ; but his acquaintance give him a very different character among creatures of another stamp ; you Miss Hard. An odd ~ v to manage him I7 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS, but trust to occurrences for success. But how goes on your own affair, my dear ? has my mother been courting you for my brother Tony as usual ? Miss Nev. I have just come from one of our agreeable tefe-h- tetes. She has been saying a hundred tender things, and setting off her pretty monster as the very pink of perfection. Miss Hard. And her partiality is such, that she actually thinks him so. A fortune like yours is no small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole management of it, I'm not surprised to see hei unwilling to let it go out of the family. Miss Nev. A fortune like mine, which chiefly consists in jewels is no such mighty temptation. But at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but constant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at last However, I let her suppose that I am in love with her son ; and she never once dreams that my affections are fixed upon another. Miss Hard. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almosi love him for hating you so. Miss Nev. It is a" good-natured creature at bottom ; and I'm sure would wish to see me married to anybody but himself. BUT my aunt's bell rings for our afternoon's walk round the improve ments. Allons ! Courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical. Miss Hard. " Would it were bed-time, and all were well." [Exeunt SCENE An Alehouse Room. Sei>eral shabby fetiows with punch and tobacco. TONY at the hea.i of the table, a little higher than the rest, a mallet in his hand. Omnes. Hurrea ! hurrea ! hurrea ! bravo ! First Fel. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The 'squire is going to knock himself down for a song. Omnes. Ay, a song ! a song ! Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon this alehouse, the Three Pigeons. SONG. Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain, With grammar, and nonsense, and learning) Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, Gives genus a better discerning. SHh STOOPS TO CONQUER, Let them brag of their heathenish gods, Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians, Their qui's, and their quae's, and their quods, They re all but a parcel of pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, torolL When methodist preachers come down, A-preaching that drinking is sinful, I'll wager the rascals a crown, They always preach best with a skinfuL But when you come down with your pence, For a slice of their scurvy religion, I'll leave it to all men of sense, But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. Then come, put the jorum about, And let us be merry and clever, Our hearts and our liquors are stout, Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever ! Let some cry up woodcock or hare, Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons ; But of all the birds in the air, Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll Omnes. Bravo ! bravo ! First Pel. The 'squire has got spunk in him. Second Fel. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays he never gives us nothing that's low. Third Fel. O d - any thing that's low, I cannot bear it Fourth Fel. The genteel thing is the genteel thing at any time : if so be that a gentleman bees in a concatentation accordingly. Third Fel. I like the maxum of it, Master Muggins. What, '.hough I am obligated to dance a bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that May this be my poison, if my bear ever dances but to the very genteelest of tunes ; ' Water parted,' or ' The minuet n Ariadne.' Second Fel. What a pity it is the 'squire is not come to his own ( It would be well for all the publicans within ten miles round of him. Tony. Ecod ! and so it would, Master Slang ; I'd then show what it was to keep choice of company. Second Fel. O, he takes after his own father for that. To be 174 GOLDSMITHS PLA YS. sure old 'Squire Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. Foi winding the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a hare, or a wench, he never had his fellow. It was a saying in the place, that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls, in the whole county. Tony. Ecod ! and when I'm of age, I'll be no bastard, I pro- mise you. I have been thinking of Bet Bouncer and the miller's grey mare to begin with. But come, my boys, drink about and be merry, for you pay no reckoning. Well, Stingo, what's the matter? Enter LANDLORD. Land. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door. They have lost their way upon the forest ; and they are talking something about Mr. Hardcastle. Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentleman that's coming down to court my sister. Do they seem to be Lon- doners? Land. I believe they may. They look woundily like French- men. Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I'll set them right in a twinkling. (Exit LANDLORD). Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough company for you, step down for a moment, and I'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. [Exeunt Mob. Tony (alone). Father-in-law has been calling me whelp and hound this half-year. Now if I pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian ! But then I'm afraid afraid of what? I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a year, and let him frighten me out of that if he can. Enter LANDLORD conducting MARLOW and HASTINGS. Afar. What a tedious uncomfortable day have we had of it ! We were told it was but forty miles across the country, and we have come above threescore. Hast. And all, Marlow, from that unaccountable reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire more frequently on the way. Mar. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay myself under an obligation to every one I meet, and often stand the chance of an SHE STCOPS TO CONQUER. 175 Hast. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any answer. Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told you have been in- quiring for one Mr. Hardcastle in these parts. Do you know what part of the country you are in ? Hast. Not in the least, sir, but should thank you for infor- mation. Tony. Nor the way you came ? Hast. No, sir ; but if you can inform us Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, the first thing I have to inform you is, that you have lost your way. Mar. We wanted no ghost to tell us thaU Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask the place from whence you came ? Mar. That's not necessary toward directing us where we are to go. Tony. No offence ; but question for question is all fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross- Drained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face, a i laughter, and a pretty son? Hast. We have not seen the gentleman ; but he has the family you mention. Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talkative may- pole ; the son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that everybody is fond of? Mar. Our information differs in this. The daughter is said to be well-bred, and beautiful; the son an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at his mother's apron-strings. 'Tony. He-he-hem ! Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr. Hardcastle's house this night, I believe. Hast. Unfortunate ! Tony. It's a d d long, dark, boggy, dirty, dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle's ! ( Winking upm the LANDLORD.) Mr. Hardcastle's of Quagmire Marsh ? you understand me? r 76 GOLDSMITHS PLAVS. Land. Master Hardcastle's ! lack-a-daisy, my master come a deadly deal wrong ! When you came the bo the hill, you should have crossed down Squash Lane. Mar. Crossed down Squash Lane ! Land. Then you were to keep straight forward, till you came to four roads. Mar. Come to where four roads meet ? Tony. Ay ; but you must be sure to take only one of them. Mar. O, sir, you're facetious. Tony. Then keeping to the right, you are to go sideways, till you come upon Crack-skull Common ; there you must look sharp for the track of the wheel, and go forward till you come to Farmer Murrain's barn. Coming to the farmer's barn, you are to turn to the right, and then to the left, and then to the right-about again, till you find out the old mill Mar. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out the longitude ! Hast. What's to be done, Marlow ? Mar. This house promises but a poor reception ; though per- haps the landlord can accommodate us. Land. Alack, master 1 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 fause, in which the rest seem disconcerted.} I have it. Don't you think, Stingo, our landlady could accommodate the gentlemen by the fireside, with three chairs and a bolster ? Hast. I hate sleeping by the fireside. Mar. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster. Tony . You do, do you ? then, let me see what if you go on a mile farther, to the Buck's Head ; the old Buck's Head, on the Kill, one of the best inns in the whole county? Hast. O ho ! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, however. Land. (Apart to Tony.) Sure, you ben't sending them to your father's as an inn, be you ? Tony. Mum, you fool you. Let them find that out. (To them.) You have only to keep on straight forward, till vou come to a Sff STOOPS TO COtfQUEtt. large old house by the road side. You'll see a pair of large horns over the door. That's the sign. Drive up the yard and call stoutly about you. Hast. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants can't miss the way ? Tony. No, no ; but I tell you, though, the landlord is rich, and going to leave off business ; so he wants to be thought a gentle- man, saving your presence, he ! he ! He'll be for giving you his company ; and, ecod ! if you mind him, he'll persuade you that nis mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of peace. Land. A troublesome old blade, to be sure ; but he keeps as good wines and beds as any man in the whole country. Mar, Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no further connection. We are to turn to the right, did you say ? Tony. No, no ; straight forward, I'll just step myself, and show you a piece of the way. {To the Landlord.} Mum ! Land. Ah ! bless your heart, for a sweet, pleasant d - d mischievous fool. \Lxeunt. ACT IL SCENE An Old-fashioned House. Enter HARDCASTLE, followed by three or four awkward SERVANTS. Hard. WELL, I hope you are perfect in the table exercise I have been teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places, and can show that you have been used to good company, without ever stirring from home. Omnes. Ay, ay. Hard. When company comes, you are not to pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frighted rabbits in a warren. Omnes. No, no. Hard. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make a show at the side-table ; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. But you're not to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your pockets, Roger ; and from your head, it 178 GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. you blockhead you. See how Diggory carries his hands. They're a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter. Dig. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being upon drill Hard. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. You must be all attention to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of talking ; you must see us drink, and not think of drinking : you must see us eat, and not think of eating. Dig. By the laws, your worship, that's perfectly unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees eating going forward, ecod ! he's always wishing for a mouthful himself. Hard. Blockhead ! Is not a bellyful in the kitchen as good as a bellyful in the parlour? Stay your stomach with that re- flection. Dig. Ecod ! I thank your worship, 111 make a shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantry. Hard. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then if I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not al! burst out a-laughing, as if you made part of the company. Dig. Then ecod ! your worship must not tell the story of Old Grouse in the gun-room : I can't help laughing at that he ! he ! he ! for the soul of me. We have laughed at that these twenty years ha ! ha ! ha ! Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The story is a good one. Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that but still remember to be atten- tive. Suppose one of the company should call for a glass of wine, how will you behave? A glass of wine, sir, if you please. (To Diggory) Eh, why don't you move ? Dig. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage till I see the eatables and drnkabies brought upon the table, and then I'm as bauld as a lion. Hard. What, will nobody move ? Firrt Sen: I'm not to leave this place. Se&nd &rv. I'm sure il's no \ lace of mint, Third SJTI. Nor mine, for s SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 179 Dig. Wauns ! and I'm sure it canna be mine. Hard. You numbskulls ! and so while, like your betters, you are quarrelling for places, the guests must be starved. O you dunces ! I find I must begin all over again But don't I hear a coach drive into the yard ? To your posts, you blockheads. I'll go in the meantime and give my old friend's son a hearty re ception at the gate. [Exit HARDCASTLR Dig. By the elevens ! my place is gone quite out of my head. Roger. I know that my place is to be everywhere. first Serv. Where the devil is mine ? Second Sent. My place is to be nowhere at all ; and so I'ze go about my business. [Exeunt SERVANTS, running about, as if frightened, different ways. Enter SERVANT with candles, showing in MARLOW and HASTINGS. Serv. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome ! This way. Hast. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room and a good fire. Upon my word, a very well-looking house ; antique, but creditable. Mar. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master by good house-keeping, it at last comes to levy contri- butions as an inn. Hast. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good sideboard, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame a reckoning confoundedly. Mar. Travellers, George, must pay in all places; the only difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries, in bad inns you are fleeced and starved. Hast. You have lived pretty much among theta. In truth, I have been often surprised, that you who have seen so much of the world, with your natural good sense, and your many opportunities, could never yet acquire a requisite share of assurance. Mar. The Englishman's malady. But tell me, George, where could I have learned that assurance you talk of? My life has been chiefly spent in a college or an inn, in seclusion from that \2 2 GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. lovely part of the creation that chiefly teach men confidence. I don't know that I was ever familiarly acquainted with a single modest woman, except my mother. But among females of anothei class you know - Hast. Ay, among them you are impudent enough of all con science. Mar. They are of us, you know. Hast. But in the company of women of reputation I never snw such an idiot, such a trembler ; you look for all the world as if you wanted an opportunity of stealing out of the room. Mar. Why, man, that's because I do want to steal out of the room. Faith, I have often formed a resolution to break the ice, and rattle away at any rate. But I don't know how, a single- glance from a pair of fine eyes has totally overset my resolution. An impudent fellow may counterfeit modesty, but I'll be hanged if a modest man can ever counterfeit impudence. Hast. If you could but say half the fine things to them, that I have heard you lavish upon the bar-maid of an inn, or even a college bedmaker Mar. Why, George, I can't say fine things to them ; they freeze, they petrify me. They may talk of a comet, or a burning moun- tain, or some such bagatelle ; but to me, a modest woman, dressed out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole creation. Hast. Ha ! ha ! ha ! At this rate, man, how can you evei expect to marry ? Mar. Never ; unless, as among kings and princes, my bride were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like an eastern bride- groom, one were to be introduced to a wife he never saw before, it might be endured. But to go through all the terrors of a formal courtship, together with the episode of aunts, grandmothers, and cousins, and at last to blurt out the broad staring question of, "Madam, will you marry me?" No, no; that's a strain much above me, I assure you. Hast. I pity you. But how do you intend behaving to the lady you are come down to visit at the request of your father ? SHE STOOPS TO CONQUE&. 181 Mar. As I behave to all other ladies. Bow very low : answer yes or no to all her demands But for the rest, I don't think I shall venture to look in her face till I see my father's again. Hast. I'm surprised that one who is so warm a friend, can be so cool a lover. Mar. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my chief inducement down was to be instrumental in forwarding your happiness, not my own. Miss Neville loves you, the family don't know you ; as my friend you are sure of a reception, and let honour do the rest. Hast. My dear Marlow ! But I'll suppress the emotion. Were I a wretch, meanly seeking to carry off a fortune, you should be the last man in the world I would apply to for assistance. But Miss Neville's person is all I ask, and that is mine, both from her deceased father's consent, and her own inclination. Mar. Happy man 1 You have talents and art to captivate any woman. I'm doomed to adore the sex, and yet to converse with the only part of it I despise. This stammer in my address, and this awkward unprepossessing visage of mine, can never permit me to soar above the reach of a milliner's 'prentice, or one of the duchesses of Drury Lane. Pshaw ! this fellow here to interrupt us. Enter HARDCASTLE. Hard. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow? Sir, you are heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them a hearty reception in the old style at my gate. I like to see their horses and trunk*s taken care of. Mar. (Aside.) He has got our names from the servants already. (To him.) We approve your caution and hospitality, sir. (To Hastings.) I have been thinking, George, of changing our travelling dresses in the morning. I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine. Hard. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in thii house. Hast. I fancy, Charles, you're right : the first blow is half the battle. I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold. Hard. Mr. Marlow Mr. Hastings gentlemen pray, be under ISOLDSMITITS PLA VS. no restraint in this house. This is Liberty Hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you please here. Mar. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery to secure a retreat. Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when we went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the garrison Mar. Don't you think the venire for waistcoat will do with the plain brown? Hard. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men Hast. I think not : brown and yellow mix but very poorly. Hard. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men Mar. The girls like finery. Hard. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. Now, says the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to him you must have heard of George Brooks I'll pawn my dukedom, says he, but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood. So Mar. What, my good friend, if you gave us a glass of punch in the meantime, it would help us to carry on the siege with vigour. Hard. Punch, sir ! (Aside.) This is the most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with. Mar. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, after our journey, will be comfortable. This is Liberty Hall, you know. Enter ROGER with a cup. Hard. Here's a cup, sir. Mar. (Aside.) So this fellow, in his Liberty Hall, will only let ns have just what he pleases. Hard. (Taking the cup.) I hope you'll find it to your mind. I have prepared it with my own hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients are tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 183 sir? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. (Drinks.) Mar. (Aside.) A very impudent fellow this ! but he's a cha- racter, and I'll humour him a little. Sir, my service to you. (Drinks.) , Hast. (Aside.) I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and forgets that he's an innkeeper, before he has learned to be a gentleman. Mar. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work, now and then, at elections, I suppose ? Hard. No, sir, I have long given that work over. Since our betters have hit upon the expedient of electing each other, there is no business " for us that sell ale." Hast. So then you have no turn for politics, I find. Hard. Not in the least There was a time, indeed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of government, like other people, but finding myself every day grow more angry, and the government growing no better, I left it to mend itself. Since that, I no more trouble my head about Hyder Ally, or Ally Cawn than about Ally Croaker. Sir, my service to you. Hast. So that with eating above stairs, and drinking below, with receiving your friends within, and amusing them without, you lead a good pleasant bustling life of it Hard. I do stir about a great deal, that's certain. Half th differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlour. Mar. (After drinking.) And you have an argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than any in Westminster Hall. Hard. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy. Mar. (Aside) Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an innkeeper's philosophy ! Hast. So then, like an experienced general, you attack them on every quarter. If you find their reason manageable, you attack it with your philosophy ; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with this. Here's your health, my philosopher. (Drinks.) Hard. Good, very good, thank you ha 1 hal ha I Your 184 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. - . . . h- i ii .. i , ,_ ., . I.,-, i. .--... ii ^^^ generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hear. Mar. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I believe ifs almost time to talk about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for supper? Hard. For supper, sir ! (Aside.) Was ever such a request made to a man in his own house ! Mar. Yes, sir, supper, sir ; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you. Hard. (Aside.) Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. (To him.) Why really, sir, as for supper, I can't well tell. My Dorothy and the cook-maid settle these things between them, 1 leave these kind of things entirely to them. Mar. You do, do you ? Hard. Entirely. By-the-by, I believe they are in actual con- sultation upon what's for supper this moment in the kitchen. Mar. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy-council. It's a way I have got. When I travel I always choose to regulate my own supper. Let the cook be called. No offence, I hope, sir? Hard. O no, sir, none in the least ; yet I don't know how ; our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very communicative upon these occasions. Should we send for her, she might scold us all out of the house. Hast. Let's see your list of the larder, then. I ask it as a favour. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare. Mar. (To HARDCASTLZ, ivho looks at them with surprise.) Sir, he's very right, and it's my way to6. Hard. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's supper : I believe it's drawn out Your manner, Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Wallop. It was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his supper till he had eaten it Re-enter ROGER. Hast. (Aside.) All upon the high rope ! His uncle a colonel J SffE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 185 we shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of peace. Bu let's hear the bill of fare. Mar. (Perusing.) What's here? " For the first course ; for the second course ; for the dessert." The devil, sir, do you think we have brought down the whole Joiners' company, or the corpora tion of Bedford, to eat up such a supper ? Two or three little things, clean and comfortable, will do. Hast. But let's hear it. Mar. (Reading.) " For the first course at the top, a pig, and pruin sauce." Hast. Damn your pig, I say. Mar. And damn your pruin sauce, say I. Hard. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig with pruin sauce is very good eating. Mar. " At the bottom a calf s tongue and brains." Hast. Let your brains be knocked out, my good sir, I don't like them. Mar. Or you may clap them on a plate by themselves. Hard. (Aside.) Their impudence confounds me. (To them.) Gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations you please. Is there anything else you wish to retrench or alter, gentlemen ? Mar. Item. " A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and sausages, a Floren- tine, a shaking pudding, and a dish of tiff taff taffety cream." Hast. Confound your made dishes ; I shall be as much at a loss in this house as at a green and yellow dinner at the French ambassador's table. I'm for plain eating. Hard. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing you like, but if there be anything you have a particular fancy to Mar. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. So much for supper. And now to see that our beds are aired, and properly taken care o Hard. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not stir a step. Mar^ Leave that to you I I protest, sir, YOU must excuse me, I always look to these things myselt 186 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. Hard. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself easy on that head. Mar. You see I'm resolved on it (Aside.) A very trouble- some fellow this, as I ever met with. Hard. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you. (Aside.") This may be modern modesty, but I never saw anything look so like old-fashioned impudence. [Exeunt MARLOW and HARDCASTLE. Hast. (Alone.} So I find this fellow's civilities begin to grow troublesome. But who can be angry at those assiduities which are meant to please him? Ha! what do I see? Miss Neville, by all that's happy ! Enter Miss NEVILLE. Miss Nev. My dear Hastings ! To what unexpected good fortune, to what accident, am I to ascribe this happy meeting ? Hast, Rather let me ask the same question, as I could never have hoped to meet my dearest Constance at an inn. Miss Nev. An inn ! sure you mistake : my aunt, my guardian, lives here. What could induce you to think this house an inn ? Hast. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with whom I came down, and I, have been sent here as to an inn, I assure you. A young fellow, whom we accidentally met at a house hard by, directed us hither. Miss Nev. Certainly it must be one of my hopeful cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard me talk so often ha ! ha ! ha ! Hast. He whom your aunt intends for you ? he of whom I have such just apprehensions ? Miss Nev. You have nothing to fear from him, I assure you. You'd adore him if you knew how heartily he despises me. My aunt knows it too, and has undertaken to court me for him, and actually begins to think she has made a conquest. Hast. Thou dear dissembler ! You must know, my Constance, I have just seized this happy opportunity of my friend's visit here to get admittance into the family. The horses that carried us down are now fatigued with their journey, but they'll soon be refreshed ; and then, if my dearest girl will trust in her faithful SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 187 Hastings, we shall soon be landed in France, where even among slaves the laws of marriage are respected. Miss Nev. \ have often toM you, that though ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little fortune behind with reluctance. The greatest part of it was left me by my uncle, the India director, *nd chiefly consists in jewels. I have been for some time per- suading my aunt to let me wear them. I fancy I'm very near succeeding. The instant ihcj are put into my possession, you shall find me ready to make them and myself yours. Hast. Perish the baubles ! Your person is all I desire. In the meantime, my friend Marlow must not be let into his mistake. I know the strange reserve of his temper is such, that if abruptly informed of it, he would instantly quit the house before our plan was ripe for execution. Miss Neii. But how shall we keep him in the deception? Miss Hardcastle is juse returned from walking; what if we still con- tinue to deceive him? This, this way \They confer. Enter MARLOW. Mar. The assiduities of these good people tease me beyond bearing. My host seems to think it ill manners to leave me alone, and so he claps not only himself but his old-fashioned wife on my back. They talk of coming to sup with us too and then. 1 suppose, we are to run the gauntlet through all the rest of the family. What have we got here? Hast. My dear Charles ! Let me congratulate you ! The most fortunate accident ! .Who do you think is just alighted ? Mar. Cannot guess. Hast. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle and Miss Neville, tiive me leave to introduce Miss Constance Neville to your .1 quaintance. Happening to dine in the neighbourhood, they called on their return to take fresh horses here. Miss Hardcastle has just stepped into the next room, and will be back in an instant. 'V'asn't it lucky? eh ! Mar. (Aside.) I have been mortified enough of all conscience, MR! here comes something to complete ray embarrassment. Hast. Well, but wasn't it the most fortunate thing in the world? i88 GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. Mar, Oh f yes. Very fortunate a most joyful encounter. But our dresses, George, you know, are in disorder what if we should postpone the happiness till to-morrow ? To-morrow at her own house. It will be every bit as convenient, and rather more respect ful. To-morrow let it be. [.Offering to go. Miss Ncv. By no means, sir. Your ceremony will displease her The disorder of your dress will show the ardour of your impatience. Besides, she knows you are in the house, and will permit you to see her. Mar. Oh ! the devil ! how shall I support it ? Hem ! hem ' Hastings, you must not go. You are to assist me, you know. 1 shall be confoundedly ridiculous. Yet, hang it ! I'll take courage. Hem! Hast. Pshaw, man! it's but the first plunge, and all's over. She ' but a woman, you know. Mar. And of all women, she that I dread most to encounter. Enter Miss HARDCASTLE, as returned from walking. Hast. (Introducing them.) Miss Hard castle, Mr. Marlow. I'u proud of bringing two persons of such merit together, that onl\ want to know, to esteem each other. Miss Hard. (Aside) Now for meeting my modest gentlemar. with a demure face, and quite in his own manner. (After a pans, , in which he appears. very uneasy and disconcerted.') I'm glad of you; safe arrival, sir. I'm told you had some accidents by the way. Mar. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some. Yes, madam. a good many accidents, but should be sorry madam or rather glad of any accidents that are so agreeably concluded. Hem ! Hast. (To him.) You never spoke better in your whole life Keep it up, and I'll insure you the victory. Miss Hard. I'm afraid you flatter, sir. You that have seen so much of the finest company, can find little entertainment in an ob scure corner of the country. Mar. (Gathering courage.) I have lived, indeed, in the world, madam ; but I have kept very little company. I have been but an observer upon life, madam, while others were enjoying it. Miss Nev. But that, I am told, is the .vay to enjoy it at last SffB STOOPS TO CONQUER. l9 Hast. {To him.) Cicero never spoke better. Once more and you are confirmed in assurance for ever. Mar. (To him.) Hem ! stand by me, then, and when I'm down, throw in a word or two to set me up again. Miss Hard. An observer, like you, upon life were, I fear, disa greeably employed, since you must have had much more to censure than to approve. Mar. Pardon me, madam. I was always willing to be amused The folly of most people is rather an object of mirth than uneasiness. Hast. (To him.) Bravo, bravo ! Never spoke so well in your whole life. Well, Miss Hardcastle, I see that you and Mr. Marlow are going to be very good company. I believe our being here will but embarrass the interview. Mar. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We like your company 01 all things. (To him.) Zounds ! George, sure you won't go? hov can you leave us ? Hast. Our presence will but spoil conversation, so we'll retire to the next room. (To him.) You don't consider, man, that we are to manage a little tete-a-tete of our own. [Exeunt. Miss Hard. (After a fame.) But you have not been wholly an observer, I presume, sir, the ladies, I should hope, have employed some part of your addresses. Mar. (Relapsing into timidity) Pardon me, madam, I I I as yet have studied only to deserve them. Miss Hard. And that, some say, is the very worst way to obtain them. Mar. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to converse only with the more grave and sensible part of the sex But I'm afraid I grow tiresome. 'Miss Hard. Not at all, sir ; there is nothing I like so much as grave conversation myself; I could hear it for ever. Indeed, I have often been surprised how a man of sentiment could ever ad mire those light airy pleasures, where nothing reaches the heart. Mar. It's a disease of the mind, madam. Inthevarieb of tastes there must be icme who, wanting a relidi for un i a um. 1 90 GOLDSMITH'S PL A VS. Miss Hard. I understand you, sir. There must be some who, wanting a relish for refined pleasures, pretend to despise what they are incapable of tasting. Mar. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better expressed. And I can't help observing a Miss Hard. (Aside.) Who could ever suppose this fellow impu- dent upon some occasions ! (To him.) You were going to observe, sir Mar. I was observing, madam I protest, madam, I forget what I was going to observe. Miss Hard. (Aside.) I vow and so do I. (To him.) You wer* observing, sir, that in this age of hypocrisy something about hy- pocrisy, sir. Mar. Yes, madam. In this, age of hypocrisy there are few who, upon strict inquiry, do a a a Miss Hard. I understand you perfectly, sir. Mar. (Aside.) Egad ! and that's more than I do myself. Miss Hard. You mean that in this hypocritical age there are few that do not condemn in public what they practise in private, and think they pay every debt to virtue when they praise it. Mar. True, madam; those who have most virtue in their mouths have least of it in their bosoms. But I'm sure I tire you, madam. Miss Hard. Not in the least, sir ; there's something so agree- able and spirited in your manner, such life and force pray, sir, go on. Mar. Yes, madam, I was saying that there are some occa- sions when a total want of courage, madam, destroys all the and puts us upon a a a Miss Hard. I agree with you entirely ; a want of courage upon some occasions assumes the appearance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most want to excel. I beg you'll proceed. Mar. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, madam But I see Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. I would not intrude for the world. Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I never was more agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray go on. ShE STOOPS TO CONQUER. I9l Mar. Yes, madam, I was But she beckons us to join her. Madam, shall I do myself the honour to attend you ? Miss Hard. Well, then, I'll follow. Afar. (Aside.) This pretty smooth dialogue has done for me. [Exit. MIJS Hard. (Alone.') Ha ! ha ! ha ! Was there ever such a sober sentimental interview? I'm certain he scarce looked in my face the whole time. Yet the fellow, but for his unaccountable bashful- ness, is pretty well, too. He has good sense, but then so buried in his fears, that it fatigues one more than ignorance. If I could teach him a little confidence, it would be doing somebody that I know of a piece of service. But who is that somebody ? That, faith, is a question I can scarce answer. [Exit. Enter TONY and Miss NEVILLE, followed by MRS. HARDCASTLK and HASTINGS. Tony. What do you follow me for, Cousin Con ? I wonder you're not ashamed to be so very engaging. Miss Nev. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one's own relations, and not be to b.~me. Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation you want to make me, though ; but it won't do. I tell you, Cousin Con, it won't do ; so I beg you'll keep your distance, I want no nearer relationship. [She follows, coquetting him to the back Scene. Mrs. Hard. Well ! I vow, Mr. Hastings, you are very entertain- ing. There is nothing in the world I love to talk of so much as London, and the fashions, though I was never there myself. Hast. Never there ! You amaze me ! From your air and man- ner, I concluded you had been bred all your life either at Ranelagh, St. James's, or Tower Wharf. Mrs. Hard. Oh! sir, you're only pleased to say so. We country persons can have no manner at all. I'm in love with the town, and :.-.at serves to raise me above some of our neighbouring rustics ; :it who can have a manner that has never seen the Pantheon, the > Grotto Gardens, the Borough, and such places, where the nobility diiefly 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^ GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS and have all the fashions, as they come out, in a letter from the two Miss Rickets of Crooked Lane. Pray, how do you like this head, Mr. Hastings? Hast. Extremely elegant and degagk, upon my word, madam. Your friseur is a Frenchman, I suppose ? Mrs. Hard. I protest, I dressed it myself from a print in the " Ladies' Memorandum-book " for the last year. Hast. Indeed ! Such a head in a side-box at the play-house would draw as many gazers as my Lady Mayoress at a city ball. Mrs. Hard. I vow, since inoculation began, there is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman, so one must dress a little par- ticular, or one may escape in the crowd. Hast. But that can never be your case, madam, in any dress. [Bowing. Mrs. Hard. Yet, what signifies my dressing when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side as Mr. Hardcastle? all I can say will never argue down a single button from his clothes. I have often wanted him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and where he was bald to plaster it over, like my Lord Pately, with powder. Hast. You are right, madam ; for, as among the ladies there are none ugly, so among the men there are none old. Mrs. Hard. But what do you think his answer was ? Why, with his usual Gothic vivacity, he said I only wanted him to throw off his wig, to convert it into a tete for my own wearing Hast. Intolerable ! At your age you may wear what you please, and it must become you. Mrs. Hard. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you take to be the most fashionable age about town ? Hast. Some time ago, forty was all the mode ; but I'm told the ladies mean to bring up fifty for the ensuing winter. Mrs. Hard. Seriously. Then I shall be too young for the fashion. Hast. No lady now begins to put on jewels till she's past forty. For instance, miss there, in a polite circle, would be considered as a child, as a mere maker of samplers. Mrs. Hard. And yet Mrs. Niece thinks herself as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels, as the oldest of us all. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 193 Hast. Your niece, is she? And that young gentleman, a brother of yours, I should presume ? Mrs. Hard. My son, sir. They are contracted to each other Observe their little sports. They fall in and out ten times a-day. as if they were man and wife already. (To them.) Well, Tony, child, what soft things are you saying to your cousin Constance this evening ? Tony. I have been saying no soft things ; but that it's very hard to be followed about so. Ecod ! I've not a place in the house now that's left to myself, but the stable. Mrs. Hard. Never mind him, Con, my dear ; he's in anothei story behind your back. Miss Nev. There's something generous in my cousin's manner. He falls out before faces to be forgiven in private. Tony. That's a d d confounded crack. Mrs. Hard. Ah ! he's a sly one. Don't you think they're like each other about the mouth, Mr. Hastings ? The Blenkinsoj mouth to a T. They're of a size too. Back to ba< k, my pretties that Mr. Hastings may see you. Come, Tony. Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell you. (Measuring \ Miss Nev. O lud ! he has almost cracked my head. Mrs. Hard. Oh, the monster! For shame, Tony. You a man, md behave so ! Tony. If I'm a man let me have my fortin. Ecod ! I'll not bi made a fool of no longer. Mrs. Hard. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that I'm to get for the pains I have taken in your education ? I that have rocked you in your cradle, and fed that pretty mouth with a spoon ! Did not I work that waistcoat to make you genteel ? Did not 1 prescribe for you every day, and weep while the receipt wa^ operating ? Tony. Ecod ! you had reason to weep, for you have been dosiru me ever since I was born. I have gone through every receipt ir the Complete Housewife ten times over ; and you have thought of coursing me through Quincey, next spring. But, ecod 1 I tel< you, I'll not be made a fool of no longer. 3 194 GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. Mrs. Hard. Wasn't it oil for your good, viper ? Wasn't il all for your good ? Tony. I wish you would let me and my good alone, then. Snubbing this way when I'm in spirits. If I'm to have any good, .let it come of itself ; not to keep dinging it, dinging it into one so. Mrs. Hard. That's false; I never see you when you're in spirits. No, Tony, you then go to the alehouse or kennel. I'm never to be delighted with your agreeable wild notes, unfeeling monster ! Tdny. Ecod! mamma, your own notes are the wildest of the two. Mrs. Hard. Was ever the like? But I see he wants to break my heart ; I see he does. Hast. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the young gentleman a little. I'm certain I can persuade him to his duty. Mrs. Hard. Well, I must retire. Come, Constance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the wretchedness of my situation : was ever poor woman so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, undutiful boy ? [Exeunt MRS. HARDCASTLE and Miss NEVILLE. HASTINGS and TONY. Tony. (Singing.) ** There was a young man riding by, And fain would have his will. Rang do didlo dee." Don't mind her. Let her cry. It's the comfort of her heart I have seen her and sister cry over a book for an hour together ; and they said they liked the book the better the more it made them cry. Hast. Then you're no friend to the ladies, I find, my pretty young gentleman ? Tony. That's as I find 'um. Hast. Not to her of your mother's choosing, I dare answer? And yet she appears to me a pretty, well-tempered girl. Tony. That's because you don't know her so well as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her; and there's not a more bitter cantankerous toad in all Christendom. Host. (Aside.} Pretty encouragement this for a lover I SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 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 da>'s breaking. Hast. To me she appears sensible and silent Tony. Ay, before company. But when she's with her play mates, she's as loud as a hog in a gate. Hast. But there is a meek modesty about her that charms me Tony. Yes, but curb her never so little, she kicks up, and you're flung in the ditch. Hast. Well, but you must allow her a little beauty. Yes, yov must allow her some beauty. Tony. Bandbox! She's all a made-up thing, mun. Ah ! could you but see Bet Bouncer of these parts, you might then talk of beauty. Ecod ! she has. two eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and red as a pulpit cushion. She'd make two of she. Hast. Well, what say you to a friend that would take this bittei bargain off your hands ? Tony. Anan ! Hast. Would you thank him that would take Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and your dear Betsy ? Tony. Ay; but where is there such a friend, for who would take her? Hast. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll engage to whip he- 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 oli in a twinkling, and maybe get you a part of her fortin beside in jewels that you little dream of. Hast. My dear 'squire, this looks like a lad of spirit. Tony. Come along, then, and you shall see more of my spiri before you have done with me. (<&""^> * We are the boys That fear no noise Where the thundering cannons roar.* [Exeunt, 196 GOLDSlflTffS PLATS. ACT IIL Enter HARDCASTLE, alone. Hard. What could my old friend Sir Charles mean by recom- mending his son as the modestest young man in town ? To me he appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. He has taken possession of the easy-chair by the fireside already. He took off his boots in the parlour, and desired me to see them taken care of. I'm desirous to know how his impudence affects my daughter. She will certainly be shocked at it Enter Miss HARDCASTLE, plainly dressed. Hard. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed your dress, as I bid you ; and yet, I believe, there was no great occasion. Miss Hard. I find such a pleasure, sir, in obeying your com- mands, that I take care to observe them without ever debating their propriety. Hard. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you some cause, par- ticularly when I recommended my modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day. Miss Hard. You taught me to expect something extraordinary, and I find the original exceeds the description. Hard. I was never so surprised in my life ! He has quite con- founded all my faculties ! Miss Hard. I never saw anything like it : and a man of the world too ! Hard. Ay, he learned it all abroad what a fool was I, to think a young man could learn modesty by travelling. He might as soon learn wit at a masquerade. Miss Hard. It seems all natural to him. Hard. A good deal assisted by bad company and a French dancing-master. Miss Hard. Sure you mistake, papa ! A French dancing-master could never have taught him that timid look that awkward address that bashful manner. Hard. Whose look ? whose manner, child ? SffE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Miss Hard. Mr. Mallow's : his mauvaise hontc, his timidity struck me at the first sight Hard. Then your first sight deceived you ; for I think him one of the most brazen first sights that ever astonished my senses. Miss Hard. Sure, sir, you rally 1 I never saw any one so modest. Hard. And can you be serious ? I never saw such a bouncing swaggering puppy since I was born. Bully Dawson was but a fool to him. Miss Hard. Surprising ! He met me with a respectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look fixed on the ground. Hard. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly air, and a fami- liarity that made my blood freeze again. Miss Hard. He treated me with diffidence and respect ; cen- sured the manners of the age ; admired the prudence of girls that never laughed ; tired me with apologies for being tiresome ; tnen left the room with a bow, and " Madam, I would not for the world detain you."- Hard. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his life before ; asked twenty questions, and never waited for an answer ; inter- rupted my best remarks with some silly pun ; and when I was in my best story of the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, he asked if I had not a good hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your father if he was a maker of punch ! Miss Hard. One of us must certainly be mistaken. Hard. If he be what he has shown himself, I'm determined he shall never have my consent. Miss Hard. And if he be the sullen thing I take him, he shall never have mine. Hard. In one thing then we are agreed to reject him. Miss Hard. Yes ; but upon conditions. For if you should finu him less impudent, and I more presuming ; if you find him more respectful, and I more importunate I don't know the fellow is well enough for a man Certainly we don't meet many such at a horse-race in the country. Hard. If we should find him so But that's impossible. The GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. first appearance has done my business. I'm seldom deceived in that. Miss Hafd. And yet there may be many good qualities under that first appearance. Hard. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's outside to her taste, she then sets about guessing the rest of his furniture. With her a smooth face stands for good sense, and a genteel figure for every virtue. Miss Hard. I hope, sir, a conversation begun with a compli- ment to my good sense, won't end with a sneer at my under* standing ? Hard. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. Brazen can find the art of reconciling contradictions, he may please us both, perhaps. Miss Hard. And as one of us must be mistaken, what if we go to make farther discoveries ? Hard. Agreed. But depend on't, I'm in the right Miss Hard. And depend on't, I'm not much in the wrong. \Exeuntt Enter TONY, running in with a casket. Tony. Ecod ! I have got them. Here they are. My cousin Con's necklaces, bobs and alL My mother shan't cheat the poor souls out of their fortin neither. Oh f my genus, is that you ? Enter HASTINGS. Hast. My dear friend, how have you managed with your mother ? I hope you have amused herjvith pretending love for your cousin, and that you are willing to be reconciled at last ? Our horses will be refreshed in a short time, and we shall soon be ready to set off Tony. And here's something to bear your charges by the way (giving the casket) ; your sweetheart's jewels. Keep them ; and hang those, I say, that would rob you of one of them. Hast. But how have you procured them from your mother ? Tony. Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no fibs. I procured them by the rule of thumb. If I had not a key to every drawer SffS STOOPS TO CONQUER. 199 in mother's bureau, how could 1 go to the alehouse so often as I do ? An honest man may rob himself of his own at any time. Hast. Thousands do it every day. But to be plain with you, Miss Neville is endeavouring to procure them from her aunt this very instant If she succeeds, it will be the most delicate way at least of obtaining them. Tony. Well, keep them, till you know how it will be. But I know how it will be well enough, she'd as soon part with the only sound tooth in her head. Hast. But I dread the effects of her resentment, when she finds she has lost them. Tony. Never you mind her resentment, leave me to manage that I don't value her resentment the bounce of a cracker. Zounds ! here they are. Morrice ! prance ! [Exit HASTINGS. TONY, MRS. HARDCASTLE, and Miss NEVILLE. Mrs. Hard. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. Such a girl as you want jewels ! It will be time enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence, when your beauty begins to want repairs. Miss Nev. But what will repair beauty at forty, will certainly improve it at twenty, madam. Mrs. Hard. Yours, my dear, can admit of none. That natural blush is beyond a thousand ornaments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at present. Don't you see half the ladies of our ac- quaintance, my Lady Kill-daylight, and Mrs. Crump, and the rest of them, carry their jewels to town, and bring nothing but paste and marcasites back ? Miss Nev. But who knows, madam, but somebody that shall be n imeless would like me best with all my little finery about me ? Mrs. Hard. Consult your glass, my dear, and then see if with iuch a pair of eyes you want any better sparklers. What do you ihink, Tony, my dear? does your cousin Con want any jewels in your eyes to set off her beauty ? Tony. That's as hereafter may be. Miss Nev. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would oblige me Mrs. Hard. A parcel of old-fashioned rose-and- table cut things. They would make you look like the Court of King Solomon at a GOLDSMITHS PLAYS. 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 te! her so at once, as she's so longing for them ? Tell her they'n lost. It's the only way to quiet her. Say they're lost, and cal. me to bear witness. Mrs. Hard. (Apart to Tony.} You know, my dear, I'm onh keeping them for you. So if I say they're gone, you'll bear me witness, will you ? He ! he ! he ! Tony. Never fear me. Ecod 1 I'll say I saw them taken out with my own eyes. Miss Nev. I desire them but for a day, madam. Just to be permitted to show them as relics, and then they may be locked up again. Mrs. Hard. To be plain with you, my dear Constance, if 1 could find them you should have them. They're missing, I assure you. Lost, for aught I know ; but we must have patience wherever they are. Miss Nev. Ill not believe it ; this is but a shallow pretence to deny me. I know they are too valuable to be so slightly kept and as you are to answer for the loss Mrs. Hard. Don't be alarmed, Constance. If they be lost, I must restore an equivalent But my son knows they are missing. and not to be found. Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are missing, and not to be found ; I'll take my oath on't. Mrs. Hard. You must learn resignation, my dear ; for though we lost our fortune, yet we should not lose our patience. See me, how calm I am. Miss Nev. Ay, people are generally calm at the misfortunes of others. Mrs. Hard. Now I wonder a girl of your good sense should waste a thought upon such trumpery. We shall soon find them ; and in the meantime you shall make use of my garnets till voui jewels be found. Miss Ntv. I detest garnets, SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. jol Mrs. Hard. The most becoming things in the world to set ofl a clear complexion. You have often seen how well they look upon me : you shall have them. [Exit. Miss Nev. I dislike them of all things. You shan't stir. Was ever anything so provoking, to mislay my own jewels and force me to wear her trumpery ? Tony. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the garnets, take what you can get. The jewels are your own already. I have stolen them out of her bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your spark, he'll tell you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her. Miss Nev. My dear cousin ! Tony. Vanish. She's here, and has missed them already. [Exit Miss NEVILLE.] Zounds ! how she fidgets and spits about like a Catherine wheel. Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE. Mrs. Hard. Confusion ! thieves I robbers ! we are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone ! Tony. What's the matter, what's the matter, mamma ? I hope nothing has happened to any of the good family. Mrs. Hard. We are robbed. My bureau has been broken open, the jewels taken out, and I'm undone. Tony. Oh ! is that all ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! By the la\vs, I never saw it better acted in my life. Ecod, I thought you was ruined in earnest ha ! ha ! ha ! Mrs. Hard. Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest My bureau has been broken open, and all taken away. Tony. Stick to that ha ! ha 1 ha ! stick to that I'll bear wit ness, you know ; call me to bear witness. Mrs. Hard. I tell you, Tony, by all that's precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined for ever. Tony. Sure I know they are gone, and I'm to say so. Mrs. Hard. My dearest Tony, but hear me. They're gone, I say. Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to laugh- -ha! ha! I know who took them well enough ha I ha ! ha ' Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a blockhead, that can't tell the 203 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. difference between jest and earnest ? I tell you I'm not in jest, booby. Tony. That's right, that's right ; you must be in a bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect either of us. I'll bear witness that they are gone. Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a cross-grained brute, that won't hear me ? Can you bear witness that you're no better than a fool ? Was ever poor woman so beset with fools on one hand, and thieves on the other? Tony. I can bear witness to that Mrs. Hard. Bear witness again, you blockhead you, and Fll turn you out of the room directly. My poor niece, what will be- come of her ! Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my distress ? Tony. I can bear witness to that Mrs. Hard. Do you insult me, monster ? I'll teach you to vex your mother, I will. Tony. I can bear witness to that (He runs off, she follow* him.) Enter Miss HARDCASTLE and MAID. Miss Hard. What an unaccountable creature is that brother of mine, to send them to the house as an inn ha 1 ha ! I don't wonder at his impudence. Maid. But what is more, madam, the young gentleman, as you passed by in your present dress, asked me if you were the barmaid. He mistook you for the barmaid, madam. Miss Hard. Did he ? Then as I live I'm resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, how do you like my present dress? Don't you think I look something like Cherry in the Beaux's Stratagem ? Maid. It's the dress, madam, that every lady *ears in the country, but when she visits or receives company. Miss Hard. And are you sure he does not remember my face or person ? Maid. Certain of it. Miss Hard. I vow I thought so ; for though we spoke for some SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 203 time together, yet his fears were such that he never once looked up during the interview. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would have kept him from seeing me. Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him in this mis- take? Miss Hard. In the first place, I shall be seen, and that is no small advantage to a girl who brings her face to market. Then I shall perhaps make an acquaintance, and that's no small victory gained over one who never addresses any but the wildest of our sex. But my chief aim is to take my gentleman off his guard, and, like an invisible champion of romance, examine the giant's force before I offer to combat Maid. But are you sure you can act your part, and disguise your voice so that he may mistake that, as he has already mis- taken your person ? Miss Hard. Never fear me. I think I have got the true bar cant Did your honour call ? Attend the Lion there. Pipes and tobacco for the Angel. The Lamb has been outrageous this hatf hour. Maid. It will do, madam. But he's here. [Exit MAIIX Enter MARLOW. Afar. What a bawling in every part of the house. I have scarce a moment's repose. If I go to the best room, there I find my host and his story ; if I fly to the gallery, there we have my hostess with her courtesy down to the ground. I have at last got a moment to myself, and now for recollections. ( Walks and muses.) Miss Hard. Did you call, sir? Did your honour call? Mar. (Musing.) As for Miss Hardcastle, she's too grave and sentimental for me. Miss Hard. Did your honour call ? (She still places herself before him, he turning away.) Mar. No, child (musing). Besides, from the glimpse I ha her, I think she sq lints. Miss Hard. I'm sure, sir, I heard the bell ring. Mar. No, no (musing). I have pleased my father, ho' 204 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. by coming down, and 111 to-morrow please myself by returning. (Taking out his tablets and perusing.) Miss Hard. Perhaps the other gentleman called, sir ? Afar. I tell you no. Miss Hard. I should be glad to know, sir. We have such a parcel of servants ! Mar. No, no, I tell you (looks full in her face). Yes, child, I think I did call I wanted I wanted I vow, child, you are vastly handsome. Miss Hard. O la, sir, you'll make one ashamed. Mar. Never saw a more sprightly malicious eye. Yes, yeSj my dear, I did call. Have you got any of your a what d'ye call it in the house ? Miss Hard. No, sir, we have been out of that these ten days. Mar. One may call in this house, I find, to very little purpose. Suppose I should call for a taste, just by way of trial, of the nectar of your lips ; perhaps I might be disappointed in that too. Miss Hard. Nectar ! nectar ! That's a liquor there's no call for in these parts. French I suppose. We keep no French wines here, sir. Mar. Of true English growth, I assure you. Miss Hard. Then it's odd I should not know it We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I have lived here these eighteen years. Mar. Eighteen years ! Why one would think, child, you kept the bar before you was born. How old are you ? Miss Hard. Oh ! sir, I must not tell my age. They say women and music should never be dated. Mar. To guess at this distance, you can't be much above forty. (Approaching.) Yet nearer I don't think so much. (Approaching.) By coming close to some women, they look younger still ; but when we come very close indeed (Attempting to kiss her.) Miss Hard. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One would think you wanted to know one's age as they do horses, by mark of onouth. Mar. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill If you keep SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. aoj me at this distance, how is it possible you and I can ever be acquainted ? Miss Hard. And who wants to be acquainted with you ? I want no such acquaintance, not I. I'm sure you do not treat Miss Hardcastle that was here a while ago in this obstropalous manner. I'll warrant me, before her you looked dashed, and kept bowing to the ground, and talked, for all the world, as if you was before a Justice of Peace. Mar. (Aside.) Egad, she has hit it, sure enough ! (To fur.} In awe of her, child ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! A mere awkward squinting thing ; no, no. I find you don't know me, I laughed and rallied her a little ; but I was unwilling to be too severe. No, I could not be too severe, me ! Miss Hard. Oh ! then", sir, you are a favourite, I find, among the ladies ? Mar. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And yet, hang me, 1 don't see what they find in me to follow. At the ladies' club in :own I'm called their agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my real name, but one I'm known by. My name is Solomons; Mr. Solomons, my dear, at your service. (Offering to salute her.) Miss Hard. Hold, sir, you are introducing me to your club, not to yourself. And you're so great a favourite there, you say ? Mar. Yes, my dear. There's Mrs. Mantrap, Lady Betty Black- leg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. Langhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your humble servant, keep up the spirit of the place. Miss Hard. Then it is a very merry place, I suppose ? Mar. Yes, as merry as cards, supper, wine, and old women ^an make us. Miss Hard. And their agreeable Rattle ha ! ha ! ha ! Mar. (Aside.) Egad ! I don't quite like this chit. She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, child ? Miss Hard. I can't but laugh to think what time they all have for minding their work or their family. Mar. (Aside.) All's well ; she don't laugh at me. (To her.) Do you ever work, child ? ao6 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. Miss Hard. Ay, sure. There's not a screen or a quilt in the whole house but what can bear witness to that Mar. Odso ! then you must show me your embroidery. I embroider and draw patterns myself a little. If you want a judge f your work, you must apply to me. (Seizing her hand.) Miss Hard. Ay, but the colours do not look well by candle- light. You shall see all in the morning. (Struggling.) Mar. And why not now, my angel ? Such beauty fires beyond the power of resistance. Pshaw ! the father here 1 My old luck I never nicked seven that I did not throw ames-ace three times* following. \Exit MARLUW. Enter HARDCASTLE, who stands in surprise. Hard. So, madam. So I find this is your modest lover. This is your humble admirer, that kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only adored at humble distance, Kate, Kate, art thou not ashamed to deceive your father so ? Miss Hard. Never trust me, dear papa, but he's still the modest man I first took him for ; you'll be convinced of it as well as I. Hard. By the hand of my body, I believe his impudence is in- fectious ! Didn't I see him seize your hand ? Didn't I see hin> haul you about like a milkmaid ? And now you talk of his respect and his modesty, forsooth ! Miss Hard. But if I shortly convince you of his modesty, that he has only the faults that will pass off with time, and the virtues that will improve with age, I hope you'll forgive him. Hard. The girl would actually make one run mad ! I tell you, I'll not be convinced. 1 am convinced. He has scarce been thret hours in the house, and he has already encroached on all my prerogatives. You may like his impudence, and call it modesty: but my son-in-law, madam, must have very different qualifications. Miss Hard. Sir, I ask but this night to convince you. Hard. You shall not have half the time, for I have thoughts f turning him out this very hour. * Ames-ace or ambs-adfe L> two ace* thrown at the same time on two dice. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 207 Miss Hard. Give me that hour, then, and I hope to satisfy yoil. Hard, Well, an hour let it be then. But 111 have no trifling with your father. All fair and open, do you mind me ? Miss Hard. I hope, sir, you have ever found that I considered your commands as my pride j for your kindness is such, that my duty as yet has been inclination. [Exeunt. ACT IV. Enter HASTINGS and Miss NEVILLE. Hast. You surprise me ! Sir Charles Marlow expected here this night ! Where have you had your information ? Miss Nev. You may depend upon it I just saw his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells him he intends setting out a few liours after his son. Hast. Then, my Constance, all must be completed before he arrives. He knows me ; and should he find me here, would discover my name, and perhaps my designs, to the rest of the family. Miss Nev. The jewels, I hope, are safe ? Hast. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Marlow, who keeps the keys of our baggage. In the meantime I'll go to prepare matters for our elopement I have had the 'squire's promise of a fresh pair of horses ; and if I should not see him again, will write him further directions. [Exit. Miss Nev. Well ! success attend you. In the meantime I'll go amuse my aunt with the old pretence of a violent passion for my cousin. [Exit. Enter MARLOW, followed by a SERVANT. Mar. I wonder what Hastings could mean by sending me so valuable a thing as a casket to keep for him, when he knows the only place I have is the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door. Have you deposited the casket with the landlady, as I ordered you ? Have you put it into her own hands ? Serv Yes, your honour. ao8 GOLDSMITH'S PLA VS. Mar. She said she'd keep it safe, did she ? Serv. Yes, she said she'd keep it safe enough ; she asked me howj came by it? and she said she had a great mind to make me give an account of myself. [Exit SERVANT. Mar. Ha ! ha ! ha ! They're safe, however. What an un- accountable set of beings have we got amongst ! This little bar- maid though runs in my head most strangely, and drives out the absurdities of all the rest of the family. She's mine, she must be mine, or I'm greatly mistaken. Enter HASTINGS. Hast. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell her that I intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. Mario w here, and in spirits too! Afar. Give me joy, George ! Crown me, shadow me with laurels ! Well, George, after all, we modest fellows cfon't want for success among the women. Hast. Some women, you mean. But what success has your honour's modesty been crowned with now, that it grows so inso- lent upon us? Mar. Didn't you see the tempting, brisk, lovely, little trmng, that runs about the house with a bunch of keys to its girdle ? Hast. Well, and what then ? Mar. She's mine, you rogue you. Such fire, such motion, such eyes, such lips but, egad ! she would not let me kiss them though. Hast. But are you sure, so very sure of her ? Mar. Why, man, she talked of showing me her work above stairs, and I am to improve the pattern. Hast. But how can you, Charles, go about, to rob a woman of her honour? Mar. Pshaw ! pshaw ! We all know the honour of the barmaid of an inn. I don't intend to rob her, take my word for it ; there's nothing in this house I shan't honestly pay for. Hast. I believe the girl has virtue. Mar. And if she has, I should be the last man in the world tnat would attempt to corrupt it SHE STOOPS TO CONQVkk. Hast. You have taken care, I hope, of the casket I sent you to lock up ? It's in safety ? Mar. Yes, yes. It's safe enough. I have taken care of it. But how could you think the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door a place of safety ? Ah ! numskull ! I have taken better precau tions for you than you did for yourself I have Hast. What? Mar. I have sent it to the landlady to keep for you. Hast. To the landlady I Mar. The landlady. Hast. You did? Mar. I did. She's to be answerable for its forthcoming, you know. Hast. Yes, she'll bring it forth with a witness. Mar. Wasn't I right ? I believe you'll allow that I acted pru- dently upon this occasion. Hast. (Aside.} He must not see my uneasiness. Mar. You seem a little disconcerted though, methinks. Sure nothing has happened ? Hast. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits in all my life. And so you left it with the landlady, who, no doubt, very readily undertook the charge. Mar. Rather too readily. For she not only kept the casket, but, through her great precaution, was going to keep the messenger too. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Hast. He ! he ! he ! They're safe, however ? Mar. As a guinea in a miser's purse. Hast. (Aside.) So now all hopes of fortune are at an end, and we must set off without it. (To him.) Well, Charles, I'll leave you to your meditations on the pretty barmaid, and he ! he ! he ! may you be as successful for yourself, as you have been for me. [Exit Mar. Thank ye, George : I ask no more. Ha 5 ha i ha I Enter HARDCASTLK. I no longer know my own house. It's turned all topsy- *ivanta have got irunk already. I'll bear it no sra GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. and yet, from my respect for his father, I'll be calm. (To Aim.) Mr. Marlow, your servant I'm your very humble servant (Bowing tow.} Mar. Sir, your humble servant (Aside.) What's to be the won- der now ? Hard. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, sir, that no man alive ought to be more welcome than your father's son, sir. I hope you think so? Mar. I do, from my soul, sir. I don't want much entreaty. I generally make my father's son welcome wherever he goes. Hard. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. But though I say nothing of your own conduct, that of your servants is insufferable. Their manner of drinking is setting a very bad example in this house, I assure you. Mar. I protest, my very good sir, that is no fault of mine. If they don't drink as they ought, they are to blame. I ordered them not to spare the cellar. I did, I assure you. (To the side-scene.) Here, let one of my servants come up. (To him.) My positive directions were, that as I did not drink myself, they should make up for my deficiencies below. Hard. Then they had your orders for what they do? I'm satisfied ! Mar. They had, I assure you. You shall hear from one of themselves. Enter SERVANT, drunk. Mar. You, Jeremy ! come forward, sirrah ! What were my orders ? Were you not told to drink freely, and call for what you thought fit, for the good of the house ? Hard. (Aside.) I begin to lose my patience. Jeremy. Please your honour, liberty and Fleet Street for ever ! Though I'm but a servant, I'm as good as another man. I'll drink for no man before supper, sir, d me ! Good liquor will sit upon a good supper, but a good supper will not sit upon hiccup upon my conscience, sir. Mar. You see, my old friend, the fellow is as drunk as he can possibly be. I don't know what you'd have more, unless you'd have the poor devil soused in a beer-barrel. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. til Hard. Zounds ! he'll drive me distracted, if I contain myself any longer. Mr. Marlow, sir, I have submitted to your insolence for more than four hours, and I see no likelihood of its coming to an end. I'm now resolved to be master here, sir, and I desire that you and your drunken pack may leave my house directly. Mar. Leave your house ! Sure you jest, my good friend ! What ! when I'm doing what I can to please you ! Hard. I tell you, sir, you don't please me ; so I desire you'll leave my house. Mar. Sure you cannot be serious? at this time of night, and such a night ? You only mean to banter me. Hard. I tell you, sir, I'm serious ! and now that my passions are roused, I say this house is mine, sir ; this house is mine, and I command you to leave it directly. Mar. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A puddle in a storm. I shan't stir a step, I assure you. (In a serious tone.} This your house, fellow! It's my house. This is my house. Mine while I choose to stay. What right have you to bid me leave this house, sir ? I never met with such impudence, curse me ; never in my whole life before. Hard. Nor I, confound me if ever I did. To come to my house, to call for what he likes, to turn me out of my own chair, to insult the family, to order his servants to get drunk, and then to tell me, " This house is mine, sir." By all that's impudent it makes me laugh. Ha! ha! ha! Pray, sir (bantering), as you take the house, what think you of taking the rest of the furniture? There's a pair of silver candlesticks, and there's a fire-screen, and here's a pair of brazen-nosed bellows ; perhaps you may take a fancy to them. Mar. Bring me your bill, sir ; bring me your bill, and let's rrake no more words about it. Hard. There are a set of prints, too. What think you of the '' Rake's Progress " for your own apartment? Mar. Bring me your bill, I say ; and I'll leave you and your in- fe^nal house directly. ffard. Then there's a mahogany table that you may see youi own face in. Mar. My bill, I say. 14 a it* Gorj)SMrrfrs PLA vs. Hard. I had forgot the great chair for your own particular slumbers, after a hearty meal. Mar. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, and let's hear no more on't. Hard. Young man, young man, from your father's letter to me. I was taught to expect a well-bred modest man as a visitor here, but now I find him no better than a coxcomb and a bully ; but be will be down here presently, and shall hear more of it. \Exit. Mar. How's this ? Sure I have not mistaken the house. Every- thing looks like an inn ; the servants cry " Coming ;" the atten- dance is awkward ; the barmaid, too, to attend us. But she's here, and will further inform me. Whither so fast, child ? A word with you. Enter Miss HARDCASTLE. Miss Hard. Let it be short, then. I'm in a hurry. (Aside.} I believe he begins to find out his mistake. But it's too soon quite to undeceive him. Mar. Pray, child, answer me one question. What are you, and what may your business in this house be ? Miss Hard. A relation of the family, sir. Mar. What, a poor relation ? Miss Hard. Yes, sir, a poor relation, appointed to keep the keys, and to see that the guests want nothing in my power to give them. Mar. That is, you act as barmaid of this inn. Miss Hard. Inn ! O la what brought that in your head r One of the best families in the county keep an inn Ha ! ha ! ha \ old Mr. Hardcastle's house an inn ! Mar. Mr. Hardcastle's house 1 Is this Mr. Hardcastle's house, child? Miss Hard. Ay, sure. Whose else should it be ? Mar. So then, all's out, and I have been damnably imposed on. Oh, confound my stupid head, I shall be laughed at over the whole town. I shall be stuckup in caricatura in all the print-shops. The Dullissimo- Matearoni. To mistake this house of all others for an inn, and my father's old friend for an innkeeper 1 What a swagger SffS STOOPS TO CONQUER. 313 ing puppy must he take me for ? What a silly puppy do I find my- self! There, again, may I be hanged, my dear, but I mistook you for the barmaid. Miss Hard. Dear me ! dear me ! I'm sure there's nothing in my behaviour to put me upon a level with one of that stamp. Mar. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in for a list of blunders, and could not help making you a subscriber. My stu- pidity saw everything the wrong way. I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and your simplicity for allurement But it's over This house I no more show my face in. Miss Hard. I hope, sir, I have done nothing to disoblige you. I'm sure I should be sorry to affront any gentleman who has been so polite, and said so many civil things to me. I'm sure I should be sorry (pretending to cry) if he left the family upon my account I'm sure I should be sorry people said anything amiss, since I have no fortune but my character. Mar. (Aside.} By Heaven ! she weeps. This is the first mark of tenderness I ever had from a modest woman, and it touches me. (To her.) Excuse me, my lovely girl : you are the only part of the family I leave with reluctance. But to be plain with you, the difference of our birth, fortune, and education, makes an honour- able connection impossible ; and I can never harbour a thought of seducing simplicity that trusted in my honour, of bringing ruin upon one whose only fault was being too lovely. Miss Hard. (Aside.) Generous man ! I now begin to admire him. (To him.) But I am sure my family is as good as Miss Hardcastle's, and though I'm poor, that's no great misfortune to a contented mind ; and, until this moment, I never thought that it was bad to want fortune. Mar. And why now, my pretty simplicity ? Hfiss Hard. Because it puts me at a distance from one, that, if I had a thousand pounds, I would give it all to. Mar. (Aside.) This simplicity bewitches me, so that if I stay, I'm undone. I must make one bold effort and leave her. (To her.) Your partiality in my favour, my dear, touches me most sen- sibly - t and were I to live for myself alone, I could easily fix my 1 14 GOLD -MITIfS PLA YS. choice. But I owe too much to the opinion of the world, too much to the authority of a father ; so that I can scarcely speak it it affects me Fare-well [Exit. Miss Hard. I never knew half his merit till now. He shall not go, if I have power or art to detain him. I'll still preserve the character in which I stooped to conquer, but will undeceive my papa, who perhaps may laugh him out of his resolution. [Exit. Enter TONY and Miss NEVILLE. Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next time. I have done my duty. She has got the jewels again, that's a sure thing ; but she believes it was all a mistake of the servants. Miss Nev. But, my dear cousin, sure you won't forsake us in this distress? If she in the least suspects that I am going off, I shall certainly be locked up, or sent to my Aunt Pedigree's, which is ten times worse. Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are d d bad things. But what can I do ? I have got you a pair of horses that will fly like Whistle-jacket ; and I'm sure you can't say but I have courted you nicely before her face. Here she comes, we must court a bit or two more, for fear she should suspect us. (Ttiey retire and seem to fondle.) Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE. Mrs. Hard. Well, I was v 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 ? What, billing, exchanging stolen glances and broken murmurs ? Ah 1 Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little now and then to be sure. But there's no love lost between us. Mrs. Hard. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the flame, only to make it burn brighter. Miss Nev. Cousin Tony promises to give us more of his company at home. Indeed, he shan't leave us any more. It won't leave us, Cousin Tony, will it ? SHE STOOPS TV CONQUER. flj Tony, Oh ! it's a pretty ueature. No, I'd sooner leave my horse in a pound, than leave you when you smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you so becoming. Miss Nev. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help admiring that natural humour, that pleasant, broad, red, thoughtless {patting his cheek) ah ! it's a bold face, Mrs. Hard. Pretty innocence ! Tony. I'm sure I always loved Cousin Con's hazel eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she twists this way and that over the haspi- colls, like a parcel of bobbins. Mrs. Hard. Ah ! he would charm the bird from the tree, I was never so happy before. My boy takes after his father, poor Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. The jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours in- continently. You shall have them. Isn't he a sweet boy, my dear? You shall be married to-morrow, and we'll put off the rest of his education, like Dr. Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter opportunity. Enter DIGGORY. Dig. Where's the 'squire ? I have got a Irtter for your worship. Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my letters first. Dig. I had orders to deliver it into your own hands. Tony. Who does it come from ? Dig. Your worship mun ask that o' the letter itself. Tony. I could wish to know though (turning t/ic letter and gazing on it). Miss Nev. (Aside.) Undone ! undone ! A letter to him from Hastings. I know the hand. If my aunt seis it, we are ruined for ever. I'll keep her employed a little if I can. (To MRS. HARD- CASTLE.) But I have not told you, madam, of my cousin's smart answer just now to Mr. Marlow. We so laughed You must know, madam This way a little, for he must not hear us. (They corner.) Teny. (Still gazing.) A d d cramp piece of penmanship, as ever I saw in my life. I can read your print hand very well. But here there are such handles, and shanks, and dashes, that one can scarce know the head from the tail " To Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire." It's very odd I can read the outside of rav Setters, where iy own name is well enough. But when I C<> V T*. to opei it, it's all it6 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. buzz. That's hard, very hard ; for the inside of the letter ii always the cream of the correspondence. Mrs. Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Very well, very well. And so, my son was too hard for the philosopher. Miss Nev. Yes, madam ; but you must hear the rest, madam. A little more this way, or he may hear us. You'll hear how he puzzled him again. Mrs Hard. He seems strangely puzzled now himself, me thinks. Tony. (Still gazing.) A d d up and down hand, as if it was disguised in liquor. (Reading.) " Dear Sir," Ay that's that. Then there's an M, and a T, and an S, but whether the next be an izzard, or an R, confound me, I cannot tell. Mrs. Hard. What's that, my dear? can I give you any assist- ance? Miss Nev. Pray, aunt, let me read it Nobody reads a cramp hand better than I (Twitching the letter from him). Do you know who it is from ? Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger the feeder. Miss Nev. Ay, so it is (pretending to read). Dear 'Squire, hoping that you're in health, as I am at present The gentlemen of the Shake-bag club has cut the gentlemen of the Goose-green quite out of feather. The odds um odd battle um long fighting um here, here, it's all about cocks and fighting ; it's of no con- sequence ; here, put it up, put it up. (Thrusting the crumpled Utter upon him.) Tony. But I tell you, miss, it's of all the consequence in the world. I would not lose the rest of it for a guinea. Here, mother, do you make it out. Of no consequence ! (Giving MRS. HARD- CASTLE the letter.) Mrs. Hard. How's this ! (reads) " Dear 'Squire, I'm now wait- ing for Miss Neville, with a post-chaise and pair, at the bottom of the garden, but I find my horses yet unable to perform the journey. I expect you'll assist us with a pair of fresh horses, as you promised. Despatch is necessary, as the hag (ay, the hag), your mother, will Otherwise suspect us. Yours, Hastings." Grant me patience 1 I shall run distracted ! My rage chokes me. SHE STOMPS TO CONQUER. 217 Miss Nev. I hope, madam, you'll suspend your resentment for a few moments, and not impute to me any impertinence, or sinistei design that belongs to another. Mrs. Hard. ( Courtesying very low.} Fine spoken, madam ; you are most miraculously polite and engaging, and quite the very pink of courtesy and circumspection, madam. (Changing her tone.} And you, you great ill-fashioned oaf, with scarce sense enough to keep your mouth shut : were you, too, joined against me ? But I'll de- feat all your plots in a moment. As for you, madam, since you have go': a pair of fresh horses ready, it would be cruel to dis- appoint them. So, if you please, instead of running away with your spark, prepare, this very moment, to run off with me. Your old Aunt Pedigree will keep you secure, I'll warrant me. You too, sir, may mount your horse, and guard us on the way. Here, Thomas, Roger, Diggory 1 I'll show you that I wish you better than you do yourselves. \Exit. Miss Nev. So now I'm completely ruined. Tony. Ay, that's a sure thing. Miss Nev. What better could be expected from being con- nected with such a stupid fool, and after all the nods and signs I made him ? Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own cleverness, and not my stupidity, that did your business. You were so nice and so busy with your Shake-bags and Goose-greens, that I thought you could never be making believe. Enter HASTINGS. Hast. So, sir, I find by my servant that you have shown my letter, and betrayed us. Was this well done, young gentleman? Tony. Here's another. Ask miss there, who betrayed you ? Ecod, it was her doing, not mine. Enter MARLOW. Mar. So I have been finely used here among you. Rendered contemptible, driven into ill manners, despised, insulted, laughed at Tony. Here's another. We shall have all Bedlam broke loose presently. ai8 GOLDSMITHS PLA VS. Miss Nev. And there, sir, is the gentleman to whom we all owe every obligation. Mat. What can I say to him? a mere boy, an idiot, whose ignorance and age are a protection. Hast. A poor contemptible booby, that would but disgrace correction. Miss Nev. Yet with cunning and malice enough to make him- self merry with all our embarrassments. Hast. An insensible cub. Mar. Replete with tricks and mischief. Tony. Baw 1 I'll fight you both one after the other with baskets. Afar. As for him, he's below resentment But your conduct, Mr. Hastings, requires an explanation. You knew of my mistakes, yet would not undeceive me. Hast. Tortured as I am with my own disappointments, is this i time for explanations ? It is not friendly, Mr. Marlow. Mar. But, Sir Miss Nev. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your mistake, till it *as too late to undeceive you. Be pacified. Enter SERVANT. Serv. My mistress desires you'll get ready immediately, madam The horses are putting to. Your hat and things are in the next room. We are to go thirty miles before morning. [Exit Servant. Miss Nev. Well, well, I'll come presently. Mar. (To HASTINGS.) Was it well done, sir, to assist in render- ing me ridiculous? To hang me out for the scorn of all my ac juaintance? Depend upon it, sir, I shall expect an explanation. Hast. Was it well done, sir, if you're upon that subject, to 'ieliver what I entrusted to yourself, to the care of another, sir ? Miss Nev. Mr. Hastings ! Mr. Marlow ! Why will you increase my distress by this groundless dispute? I implore, I entreat vou Enter SERVANT. Serv. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is impatient [Exit Servant. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 319 Miss Nev. I come. Pray be pacified. If I leave you thus, I shall die with apprehension. Enter SERVANT. Seru. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. The horses are waityig. [Exit Servant. Miss Nev. O, Mr. Marlow, if you knew what a scene of con- straint and ill-nature lies before me, I am sure it would convert your resentment into pity. Mar. I'm so distracted with a variety of passions that I don't know what to do. Forgive me, madam. George, forgive me. You know my hasty temper, and should not exasperate it. Hast. The torture of my situation is my only excuse. Miss Nev. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have that esteem foi me that I think, that I am sure you have, your constancy for three years will but increase the happiness of our future connection. If Mrs. Hard. (Within.} Miss Neville. Constance, why Con- stance, I say. Miss Nev. I'm coming. Well, constancy, remember, constancy is the word. \Exit. Hast. My heart ! how can I support this ? To be so near happiness, and such happiness! Mar. (To Tony.} You see now, young gentleman, the effects of your folly. What might be amusement to you is here disappoint ment, and even distress. Tony. (J*'rom a reverie.) Ecod I I have hit it : it's here. Your hands. Yours, and yours, my poor Sulky. My boots there, ho ! Meet me two hours hence at the bottom of the garden ; and if you don't find Tony Lumpkin a more good-natured fellow than you thought for, I'll give you leave to take my best horse, and Bet Bouncer into the bargain. Come along. My boots, ho ! [Exeunt. ACT. V. Enter HASTINGS and SERVANT. Hast. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville drive off, you fay? 20 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. Serv. Yes, your honour. They went off in a post-coach, and the young 'squire went on horseback. They're thirty miles off by this time. Hast. Then all my hopes are over. Sent. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He and the old gentleman of the house have been laughing at Mr. Marlowl mis- take this half hour. They are coming this way. Hast. Then I must not be seen. So now to my fruitless appointment at the bottom of the garden. This is about the time. [Exit. Enter SIR CHARLES and HARDCASTLK. Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The peremptory tone in which he sent forth his sublime commands! Sir Char. And the reserve with which I suppose he treated all your advances. Hard. And yet he might have seen something in me above a common innkeeper, too. Sir Char. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for *n uncommon innkeeper ha ! ha ! ha ! Hard. Well, I'm in too good spirits to think of anything but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union of our families will make our personal friendships hereditary ; and though my daughter's fortune is but small Sir Char. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune to me? Mv SOD is possessed of more than a competence already, and can want nothing but a good and virtuous girl to share his happiness and increase it If they like each other, as you say they do Hard. If, man 1 I tell you they do like each other. My daughter as good as told me so. Sir Char. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, you know. Hard. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest manner my- self; and here he comes to put you out of your ifs t I warrant him. Enter MARLOW Afar. I come, sir, once more to ask pardon for my strange conduct I can scarce refect on my insolence without confusion. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 221 Hard. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too gravely. An houi or two's laughing with my daughter will set all to rights again. She'll never like you the worse for it Mar. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation. Hard. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. Marlow ; if I am not 3ec"eived, you have something more than approbation thereabouts. i ou take me ? Mar. Really, sir, I have not that happiness. Hard. Come, boy, I'm an old fellow, and know what's what as well as you that are younger. I know what has passed between you j but mum. Mar. Sure, sir, nothing has passed between us but the most profound respect on my side, and the most distant reserve on hers. Vou don't think, sir, that my impudence has been passed upon all the rest of the family ? Hard. Impudence ! No, I don't say that not quite impudence though girls like to be played with and rumpled a little too some- times. But she has told no tales, I assure you, Mar. I never gave her the slightest cause. Hard. Well, well, I like modesty in its place well enough. But this is over-acting, young gentleman. "You may be open. Your father and I will like you the better for it. Mar. May I die, sir, if I ever Hard. I tell you, she don't dislike you j and as I'm sure you like her Mar. Dear sir I protest, sir Hard. I see no reason why you should not be joined as fast as the parson can tie you. Mar. But hear me, sir Hard. Your father approves the match, I admire it; every moment's delay will be doing mischief, so Mar. But why won't you hear me ? By all that's just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle the slightest mark of my attach- ment, or even the most distant hint to suspect me of affection. We had but one interview, and that was formal, modest, and un- interesting. GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. Hard. (Aside.) This fellow's formal, modest impudence is beyond bearing. Sir Char. And you never grasped her hand, or made any pro- testations ? Mar. As heaven is my witness, I came down in obedience to your commands ; I saw the lady without emotion, and parted without reluctance. I hope you'll exact no further proofs of my duty, nor prevent me from leaving a house in which I suffer so many mortifications. [Exit. Sir Char. I'm astonished at the air of sincerity with which he parted. Hard. And I'm astonished at the deliberate intrepidity of his assurance. Sir Char, I dare pledge my life and honour upon his truth. Hard. Here comes my daughter, and I would stake my happi- ness upon her veracity. Enter Miss HARDCASTLE. Hard. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us sincerely and without reserve : has Mr. Marlow made you any profession of love or affection ? Miss Hard. The question is very abrupt, sir I But since you require unreserved sincerity, I think he has. Hard. (To SIR CHARLES.) You see. Sir Char. And pray, madam, have you and my son had more than one interview? Miss Hard. Yes, sir, several. Hard. (To SIR CHARLES). You see, Sir Char. But did he profess any attachment ? Miss Hard. A lasting one. Sir Char. Did he talk of love? Miss Hard. Much, sir. Sir Char. Amazing 1 And all this formally? Miss Hard. Formally. ffard. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied, Sir Char* And how did he behave, madam? SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 223 Miss Hard. As most professed admirers do : said some civil things of my face ; talked much of his want of merit, and the greatness of mine; mentioned his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with pretended rapture. Sir Char. Now I'm perfectly convinced indeed. I know his conversation among women to be modest and submissive. This forward, canting, ranting manner by no means describes him ; and, I am confident, he never sat for the picture. Miss Hard. Then what, sir, if I should convince you to your face of my sincerity ? If you and my papa, in about half an hour, will place yourselves behind that screen, you shall hear him declare his passion to me in person. Sir Char. Agreed. And if I find him what you describe, all my happiness in him must have an end. [Exit. Miss Hard. And if you don't find him what I describe I fear my happiness must never have a beginning. [Exeunt. Scene changes to the back of the Garden. Enter HASTINGS. Hast. What an idiot am I to wait here for a fellow who pro- bably takes a delight in mortifying me. He never intended to be punctual, and I'll wait no longer. What do I see? It is he ! and ijerhaps with news of my Constance. Enter TONY, booted and spattered. /fast. 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 vorld, if you knew but all. This riding by night, by-the-by, is nrserlly tiresome. It has shook me worse than -the basket of a .a;ige-coach. Hast. But how? where did you leave your fellow-travellers? Art. they in safety? Are they housed? Tony. Five and twenty miles in two hours and a half is no such bad driving. The poor beasts have smoked for it : rabbit me, but I'd rather ride 'orty miles after a fox Uan ten with, such varmint. /ins? Well, but where have you left the ladies ? I die ath im- patience. 124 GOLDSMITH'S PLA YS. Tony. Left them ! Why, where should I leave them but where I found them ? Hast. This is a riddle. Tony. Riddle me this, then. What's that goes round the house, and round the house, and never touches the house ? Hast. I'm still astray. Tony. Why, that's it, mun. I have led them astray. By jingo, there's not a pond or a slough within five miles of the place but they can tell the taste of. Hast. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I understand : you took them in a round, while they supposed themselves going forward, and so you have at last brought them home again. Tony. You shall hear. I first tocjk them down Feather-bed Lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. I then rattled them crack over the stones of Up-and-down Hill. I then introduced them to the gibbett on Heavy-tree Heath : and from that, with a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at the bottom of the garden. Hast. But no accident, I hope. Tony. No, no, only mother is confoundedly frightened. She thinks herself forty miles off. She's sick of the journey ; and the cattle can scarcely crawl. So if your own horses be ready, you may whip off with cousin, and I'll be bound that no soul here can budge a foot to follow you. Hast. My dear friend, how can I be grateful ! Tony. Ay, now it's dear friend, noble 'squire. Just now it was all idiot, cub, and run me through. D n your way of fighting, I say. After we take a knock in this part of the country we kiss and be friends. But if you had run me through then I should be dead, and you might go kiss the hangman. Hast. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten to relieve Miss Neville : if you keep the old lady employed, I promise to take care of the young one. [Exit HASTINGS. Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. Vanish ! She's got from the pond, and draggled up to the waist like a mermaid. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Enter Mrs. HARDCASTLE. Mrs. Hard. Oh, Tony, I'm killed ! Shook ! Battered to death \ I shall never survive it. That last jolt, that laid us against the juickset hedge, has done my business. Tony. Alack, mamma, it was all your own fault You would be for running away by night, without knowing one inch of the way. Mrs. Hard. I wish we were at home again. I never met so many accidents in so short a journey. Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our way. Whereabout do you think we are, Tony? Tony. By my guess we should come upon Crack-skull Common, about forty miles from home. Mrs. Hard. O lud ! O lud ! The most notorious spot in all the country. We only want a robbery to make a complete night on'L Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma, don't be afraid. Two of the five that kept here are hanged, and the other three may not find us. Don't be afraid. Is that a man that's galloping behind us ? No, it's only a tree. Don't be afraid. Mrs. Hard. The fright will certainly kill me. Tony. Do you see anything like a black hat moving behind the thicket ? Mrs. Hard. Oh, death ! Tony. No : it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, mamma ; don'l be afraid. Mrs. Hard. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man coming towards us. Ah ! I'm sure on't. If he perceives us we are undone. Tony. (Aside.) Father-in-law, by all that's unlucky, come to take one of his night walks. (To her.) Ah ! it's a highwayman, with pistols as long as my arm. A d d ill-looking fellow. Mrs. Hard. Good Heaven defend us ! He approaches. Tony. Do you hide yourseli in that thicket, and leave me to manage him. If there be any danger, I'll cough and cry htm, 5 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. When I cough, be sure to keep close. (MRS. HARDCASTLE hides behind a tree in the back Scene.) Enter HARDCASTLE, Hard. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of people in want o( help. Oh, Tony, is that you? I did not expect you so soon back. Are your mother and her charge in safety ? Tony. Very safe, sir, at my Aunt Pedigree's. Hem. Mrs. Hard. (From behind.) Ah, death ! I find there's danger. Hard. Forty miles in three hours ; sure that's too much, my youngster. Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make short journeys, as they say. Hem. Mrs. Hard. (From behind?) Sure he'll do the dear boy no harm. Hard. But I heard a voice here; I should be gkd to know from whence it came. Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I was saying that forty miles in four hours was very good going. Hem. As to be sure it was. Hem. I have got a sort of cold by being out in the air. We'll go in, if you please. Hem. Hard. But if you talked to yourself, you did not answer your- self. I'm certain I heard two voices, and am resolved (raising his voice) to find the other out Mrs. Hard. (From behind.) Oh ! he's coming to find me out Oh! Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you ? Hem. I'll lay down my life for the truth hem I'll tell you all, sir. (Detaining him.) Hard. I tell you I will not be detained. I insist on seeing. It's in vain to expect I'll believe you. Mrs. Hard. (Running forward from behind.) O lud ! he'll murder my poor boy, m> darling Here, good gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my money, my life, but spare that young gentleman ; spare my child, if you have any mercy. Hard. My wife, as I'm a Christian. From whence can she come ? or what does she mean ? Mrs. Hard. (Kneeling.] Take compassion on us, good Mr. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 227 Highwayman. Take our money, our watches, all we have, but spare our lives. We will never bring you to justice ; indeed we won't, good Mr. Highwayman. Hard. I believe the woman's out of her senses. What, Dorothy, don't you know me ? Mrs. Hard. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive ! My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could have expected to meet you here in this frightful place, so far from home ? What has brought you to follow us ? Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your wits? So far from home, when you are within forty yards of your own door ! (To him.} This is one of your old tricks, you graceless rogue you! (To her.} Don't you know the gate and the mulberry-tree? and don't you remember the horse-pond, my dear ? Mrs. Hard. Yes, I shall remember the horse-pond as long as I live ; I have caught my death in it (To TONY.) And is it to you, pou graceless varlet, I owe all this 1 I'll teach you to abuse your mother, I will. Tony. Ecod ! mother, all the parish says you have spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits on't Mrs. Hard. I'll spoil you, I will. [Follows him off the stage. Exit. Hard. There's morality, however, in his reply. \Exit. Enter HASTINGS and Miss NEVILLE. Hast. My dear Constance, why will you deliberate thus ? If we delay a moment, all is lost for ever. Pluck up a little resolution, and we shall soon be out of the reach of her malignity. Miss Nev. I find it impossible. My spirits are so s"unk with the agitations I have suffered, that I am unable to face any new danger. Two or th^ee years' patience will at last crown us with happihess. Hast. Such a tedious delay is worse than inconstancy. Let us fly, my charmer. Let us date our happiness from this very moment. Perish fortune ! Love and content will increase what we possess beyond a monarch's revenue. Let me prevail ! Miss Nev. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence once more comes GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. to my relief, and I will obey its dictates. In the moment of pas sion, fortune may be despised, but it ever produces a lasting repentance. I'm resolved to apply to Mr. Hardcastle's compassion and justice for redress. Hast. But though he had the will, he has not the power to relieve you. Miss Nev. But he has influence, and upon that I am resolved to rely. Hast. I have no hopes. But since you persist, I must reluct- antly obey you. \Exeunt. Scene changes, Enter SIR CHARLES and Miss HARDCASTLE. Sir Char. What a situation am I in ! If what you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If what he says be true, I shall then lose one that, of all others, I most wished for a daughter. Miss Hard. I am proud of your approbation ; and to show I merit it, if you place yourselves as I directed, you shall hear his explicit declaration. But he comes. Sir Char. I'll to your father, and keep him to the appointment. [Exit SIR CHARLES. Enter MARLOW. Mar. Though prepared for setting out, I come once more to take leave ; nor did I, till this moment, know the pain I feel in the separation. Miss Hard. (In her own natural manner.} I believe these sufferings cannot be very great, sir, which you can so easily re- move. A day or two longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by showing the little value of what you now think proper to regret. Mar. (Aside.) This girl every moment improves upon me. (To her.) It must not be, madam, I have already trifled too long with my heart My very pride begins to submit to my passion. The disparity of education and r rcrtune, the anger or a parent, and the contempt of my equals, begin to lose their weight ; and nothing can restore me to myself but this painful effort of resolution. Miss Hard. Then go, sir : I'll urge nothing more to detain you. Though my family be as good as hers you came down to visit, and SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 229 my education, I hope, not inferior, what are these advantages without equal affluence? I must remain contented with the slight approbation of imputed merit ; I must have only the mockery of your addresses, while all your serious aims are fixed on fortune. Enter HARDCASTLE and SIR CHARLES, from behind. Sir Char. Here, behind this screen. Hard. Ay, ay; make no noise. I'll engage my Kate covers him with confusion at last. Mar. By heavens ! madam, fortune was ever my smallest consideration. Your beauty at first caught my eye; for who could see that without emotion? But every moment that I converse with you, steals in some new grace, heightens the picture, and gives it stronger expression. What at first seemed rustic plainness, now appears refined simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, now strikes me as the result of courageous innocence and con- scious virtue. Sir Char. What can it mean ? He amazes me f Hard. I told you how it would be. Hush ! Mar. I am now determined to stay, madam, and I have too good an opinion of my father's discernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approbation. Miss Hard. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, cannot detain you. Do you think I could suffer a connection in which there is the smallest room for repentance ? Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a transient passion to load you with confusion ? Do you think I could ever relish that happiness which was ac- quired by lessening yours ? . Mar. By all that's good, I can have no happiness but what's in your power to grant me ! Nor shall I ever feel repentance but in not having seen your merits before. I will stay even contrary to your wishes ; and though you should persist to shun me, I will make my respectful assiduities atone for the levity of my past conduct. Miss Hard. Sir, I must entreat youTI desist. As our acquaint nee began, so let it end, in indifference. I might have given an GOLDSMITHS FLA YS, hour or two to levity; but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think I could ever submit to a connection where I must appear mercenary, and you imprudent ? Do you think I could ever catch at the con- fident addresses of a secure admirer ? Mar. (Kneeling.') Does this look like security? Does this look like confidence? No, madam, every moment that shows me your merit, only serves to increase my diffidence and confusion. Here let me continue - Sir Char. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how hast thou deceived me 1 Is this your indifference, your uninteresting conversation ? Hard. Your cold contempt; your formal interview 1 What have you to say now? Mar. That I'm all amazement ! What can it mean ? Hard. It means that you can say and unsay things at pleasure. That you can address a lady in private, and deny it in public , that you have one story for us, and another for my daughter. Mar. Daughter ! This lady your daughter ? Hard. Yes, sir, my only daughter: my Kate; whose else should she be ? Mar. Oh, the devil ! Miss Hard. Yes, sir, that very identical tall squinting lady you were pleased to take me for (courtesying) ; she that you addressed as the mild, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold forward agreeable Rattle of the ladies' club. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Mar. Zounds ! there's no bearing this ; it's worse than death ! Miss Hard. In which of your characters, sir, will you give us leave to address you ? As the faltering gentleman, with looks on the ground, that speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy; or. the loud confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morning ? Ha I ha! ha! Mar. Oh, curse on my noisy head ! I never attempted to be impudent yet, that I was not taken down ! I must be gone. Hard. By the hand of my body, but you shall not I see it was all a mistake, and X am rejoiced to find it You shall not SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 431 stir, I tell you. I know shell forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate ? We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. [They retire, she tormenting him, to the back Scene. Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and TONY. Mrs. Hard. So, so, they're gone off. Let them go, I care not Hard. Who gone ? Mrs. Hard, My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr. Hastings, from town. He who came down with our modest visitor here. Sir Char. Who, my honest George Hastings ? As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice. Hard. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm proud of the con- nection. Mrs. Hard. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not taken her fortune ; that remains in this family to console us for her loss. Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary? Mrs. Hard. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. Hard. But you know if your son, when of age, refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune is then at her own disposal. Mrs. Hard. Ay, but he's not of age, and she has not thought proper to wait for his refusal. Enter HASTINGS and Miss NEVILLE. Mrs. Hard. (Aside.) What, returned so soon 1 I begin not to like it. Hast. (To HARDCASTLE.) For my late attempt to fly off with your niece, let my present confusion be my punishment. We are now come back, to appeal from your justice to your humanity. By her father's consent I first paid her my addresses, and our passions were first founded in duty. Miss Nev. Since his death, I have been obliged to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an hour of levity, I was ready even to give up my fortune to secure my choice. But I'm now recovered from the delusion, and hope from your tenderness what is denied me from a nearer connection. Mrs. Hard. Pshaw, pshaw ! this is all but the whining end of a modem novel GOLDSMITH'S Hard. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand whom I now offer you ? Tony. What signifies my refusing ? You know I can't refuse her till I'm of age, father. Hard. While I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely to conduce to your improvement, I concurred with your mother's desire to keep it secret But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I must now declare you have been of age these three months. Tony. Of age ! Am I of age, father ? Hard. Above three months. Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my liberty. (Taking Miss NEVILLE'S hand.) Witness all men by these pre- sents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, esquire, of BLANK place, refuse you, ConsUuitia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So Constance Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Liimpkin is his own man again. Sir Char. Oh, brave 'squire I Hast. My worthy friend ! Mrs. Hatd. My undutiful offspring ! Mar. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sincerely. And could I prevail upon my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest man alive if you would return me the favour. Hast. (To Miss HARDCASTLE.) Come, madam, you are now driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm sure he loves you, and you must and shall have him. Hard. (Joining their hands.) And I say so too. And, Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't believe you'll ever repent your bargain. So now to supper. To- morrow we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us, and the mistakes of the night shall be crowned with a merry morning. So, boy, take her ; and as you have been mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that you may never be mistaken in the wife. \Exeunt omnes. THE VICAR OF WAKEF1ELD. PREFACE. [jHERE are a hundred faults in this thing, and a hundred things might be said to prove them beauties : but it is needless. A book may be amusing with numerous errors, or it may be very dull without a single absurdity. The hero of this piece unites in himself the three greatest characters upon earth , he is a priest, a husbandman, and the father of a family. He is drawn as ready to teach and ready to obey ; as simple in affluence and majestic in adversity. In this age of opulence and refinement how can such a character please ? Such as are fond of high life will turn with disdain from the simplicity of his country fireside ; such as mistake ribaldry for humour will find no wit in his harmless conversation ; and such as have been taught to deride religion will laugh at one whose chief stores of comfort are drawn from futurity. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. CHAPTER L THE DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD, IN WHICH A KINDRED LIKENESS PREVAILS AS WELL OF MINDS AS OF PERSONS. WAS ever of opinion, that the honest man who married and brought up a large family, did more service than he who continued single, and only talked of population. From this motive, I had scarce taken orders a year before I began to think seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife as she did her wedding-gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but sucil qualities as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a good-natured notable woman ; and as for breeding, thera were few country ladies who could show more. She could read any English book without much spelling ; but for pick- 236 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ling, preserving, and cookery, none could excel her. She prided herself also upon being an excellent contriver in housekeeping ; though I could never find that we grew richer with all her contrivances. However, we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness increased as we grew old. There was in fact nothing that could make us angry with the world or each other. We had an elegant house, situate in a fine country, and a good neighbourhood. The year was spent in moral or rural amusements ; in visiting our rich neighbours, and relieving such as were poor. We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo ; all our adventures were by the fire- side, and all our migrations from the blue bed to the brown. As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry wine, for which we had great reputation : and I profess, with the veracity of an historian, that I never knew one of them find fault with it. Our cousins, too, even to the fortieth remove, all re- membered their affinity, without any help from the heralds' office, and came very frequently to see us. Some of them did us no great honour by these claims of kindred ; as we had the blind, the maimed, and the halt amongst the number. However, my wife always insisted that, as they were the same flesh and blood, they should sit with us at the same table. So that, if we had not very rich, we generally had very happy, friends about us : for this remark- will hold good through life, that the poorer the guest, the better pleased he ever is with being treated : and as some DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY. men gaze with admiration at the colours of a tulip, or the wing of a butterfly, so I was by nature an admirer of happy human faces. However, when any one of our relations was found to be a person of very bad character, a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid of, upon his leaving my house, I ever took care to lend him a riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes a horse of small value, and I always had the satisfaction of finding he never came back to return them. By this the house was cleared of such as we did not like ; but never was the family of Wakefield known to turn the traveller, or the poor dependent, out of doors. Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness ; not but that we sometimes had those little rubs which Pro- vidence sends to enhance the value of its favours. My orchard was often robbed by schoolboys, and my wife's custards plundered by the cats or the children. The Squire would sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his lady return my wife's civilities at church with a mutilated courtesy. But we soon got over the uneasiness caused by such accidents, and usually in three or four days began to wonder how they vexed us. My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were educated without softness, so they were at once well-formed and healthy ; my sons hardy and active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. When I stood in the midst of the little circle, which promised to be the supports of my declining age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story of Count Abensberg, who, in Henry II.'s progress through Germany, while other courtiers came with their treasures, THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. brought his thirty-two children, and presented them to his sovereign as the most valuable offering he had to bestow. In this manner, though I had but six, I considered them as a very valuable present made to my country, and conse- quently looked upon it as my debtor. Our eldest son was named George, after his uncle, who left us ten thousand pounds. Our second child, a girl, I intended to call after her aunt Grissel ; but my wife, who, during her pregnancy, had been reading romances, insisted upon her being called Olivia. In less than another year we had another daughter, and now I was determined that Grissel should be her name ; but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand godmother, the girl was, by her directions, called Sophia ; so that we had two romantic names in the family : but I solemnly protest I had no hand in it. Moses was our next, and after an interval of twelve years we had two sons more. , It would be fruitless to deny my exultation when I saw my little ones about me ; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my wife were even greater than mine. When our visitors would say, " Well, upon my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest children in the whole country." " Ay, neighbour," she would answer, " they are as heaven made them, hand- some enough, if they be good enough ; for handsome is that handsome does." And then she would bid .the girls hold up their heads ; who, to conceal nothing, were cer- tainly very handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling a cir- cumstance with me, that I should scarce have remembered to mention it, had it not been a general topic of conver- sation in the country. Olivia, now about eighteen, had that DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY. 239 luxuriancy of beauty with which painters generally draw Hebe; open, sprightly, and commanding. Sophia's fea- tures were not so striking at first ; but often did more certain execution ; for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one vanquished by a single blow, the other by efforts successfully repeated. The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of her features, at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers, Sophia to secure one Olivia was often affected from too great a desire to please. Sophia even repressed excellence from her fears to offend The one entertained me with her vivacity when I was gay, the other with her sense when I was serious. But these qualities were never carried to excess in either, and I have often seen them exchange characters for a whole day together. A suit of mourning has transformed my coquette into a prude, and a new set of ribands has given her younger sister more than natural vivacity. My eldest son, George, was bred at Oxford, as I intended him for one of Lhe learned professions. My second boy, Moses, whom I designed for business, received a sort of miscellaneous education at home. But it is needless to attempt de- scribing the particular characters of young people that had >een but very little of the world. In short, a family like- ;. ss prevailed through all ; and, properly speaking, the) but one character, that of being all equally generous, us, simple, and inoffensive. CHAPTER II. FAMILY MISFORTUNES. THE LOSS OF FORTUNE ONLY SERVES TO INCREASE THE PRIDE OF THE WORTHY. HE temporal concerns of our family were chiefly committed to my wife's management ; as to the spiritual, I took them entirely under my own direction. The profits of my living, which amounted to but thirty-five pounds a year, I made over to the orphans and widows of the clergy of our diocese ; for, having a sufficient fortune of my own, I was careless of tem- poralities, and felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty with- out reward. I also set a resolution of keeping no curate, and of being acquainted with every man in the parish, ex- horting the married men to temperance, and the bachelors to matrimony ; so that in a few years it was a common say- ing, that there were three strange wants at Wakefield, a parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, and ale- houses wanting customers. Matrimony was always one of my favourite topics, and I wrote several sermons to prove its happiness : but there was a peculiar tenet which I made a point of supporting : for I FA MIL Y MISfOR TUNES. 241 maintained with Whiston, that it was unlawful for a priest of the church of England, after the death of his first wife, to take a second, or, to express it in one word, I valued myself upon being a strict monogamist. 1 was early initiated into this important dispute, en which so many laborious volumes have been written. I published some tracts upon the subject myself, which, as they never sold, I have the consolation of thinking are read only by the happy few. Some of my friends called this my weak side ; but alas ! they had not like me made it a subject of long contemplation. The more I reflected upon it, the more important it appeared ; I even went a step beyond Whiston in displaying my principles : as he had engraven upon his wife's tomb that she was the only wife of William Whiston ; so I wrote a similar epitaph for my wife, though still living, in which I extolled her prudence, economy, and obedience, till death ; and having got it copied fair, with an elegant frame, it was placed over the chimney-piece, where it answered several very useful purposes. It admonished my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity to her ; it in- spired her with a passion for fame, and constantly put hrr in mind of her id. It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often re- commended, that my eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his affections upon the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, who was a dignitary in the church, and in cir- cumstances to give her a large fortune ; but fortune was her smallest accomplishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all (exrept my two daughters) to be completely 16 24* TffE V7CAR Of WAKE FIELD. pretty. Her youth, health, and innocence were still height- ened by a complexion so transparent, and such a happy sensibility of look, as even age could not gaze on with in- difference. As Mr. Wilmot knew that I could make a very handsome settlement on my son, he was not averse to the match ; so both families lived together in all that harmony which generally precedes an expected alliance. Being con- vinced by experience that the days of courtship are the most happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen the period ; and the various amusements which the young couple every day shared in each other's company, seemed to increase their passion. We were generally awaked in the morning by music, and on fine days rode a-hunting The hours between breakfast and dinner the ladies devoted to dress and study : they usually read a page, and then gazed at. themselves in the glass, which even philosophers might own often presented the page of greatest beauty. At dinner my wife took the lead ; for, as she always insisted upon carving everything herself, it being her mother's way, she gave us upon these occasions the his- tory of every dish. When we had dined, to prevent the ladies leaving us, I generally ordered the table to be re- moved ; and sometimes, with the music- master's assistance, the girls would give us a very agreeable concert. Walking out, drinking tea, country-dances, and forfeits, shortened the rest of the day, without the assistance of cards, as 1 hated all manner of gaming, except backgammon, at which my old friend and I sometimes took a twopenny hit. Nor can I here pass over an ominous circumstance that hap- FAMILY MISFORTUNES. 243 pened the last time we played together ; I only wanted to fling a quartre, and yet I threw deuce-ace five times running. Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at last it was thought convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the young couple, who se.emed earnestly to desire it. During the preparations for the wedding, I need not describe the busy importance of my wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters ; in fact, my attention was fixed on another object, the completing a tract which I intended shortly to publish in defence of my favourite principle. As I looked upon this as a master-piece, both for argument and style, I could not in the pride of my heart avoid showing it to my old friend Mr. Wilmot, as I made no doubt of receiving his approbation ; but not till too late I discovered that he was most violently attached to the contrary opinion, and with good reason ; for he was at that time actually courting a fourth wife. This, as may be expected, produced a dispute attended with some acrimony, which threatened to inter- rupt our intended alliance ; but on the day before that appointed for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the sub- ject at large. It was managed with proper spirit on- both sides ; he asserted that I was heterodox, I retorted the charge : he replied, and I rejoined. In the mean time, while the con- troversy was hottest, I was called out by one of my rela- tions, who, with a face of concern, advised me to gu'e up the dispute, at least till my son's wedding was over, Howl" cried I, "relinquish the cause of truth, and *44 THE VICAR OP WAKEFIEL&. him be a husband, already driven to the very verge of absurdity ? You might as well advise me to give up my fortune as my argument." " Your fortune," returned my friend, " I am now sorry to inform you, is almost nothing. The merchant in town, in whose hands your money was lodged, has gone off, to avoid a statute of bankruptcy, and is thought not to have left a shilling in the pound. I was unwilling to shock you or the family with the account till after the wedding : but now it may serve to moderate your warmth in the argument; for, I suppose, your own prudence will enforce the necessity of dissembling, at least till your son has the young lady's fortune .secure." "Well," re- turned I, " if what you tell me be true, and if I am to be a beggar, it shall never make me a rascal, or induce me to disavow my principles. I'll go this moment and inform the company of my circumstances ; and as for the argument, I even here retract my former concessions in the old gentle- man's favour, nor will I allow him now to be a husband in any sense of the expression." It would be endless to describe the different sensations of both families when I divulged the news of our misfor- tune ; but what others felt was slight to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr. Wilmot, who seemed before suf- ficiently inclined to break off the match, was by this blo\\ soon determined ; one virtue he had in perfection, which was prudence, too often the only one that is left us at seventy-tw