.'gtJ^^iMiyy'.'i^ (^(Ujy i vn^^i» i '^i i iinnii^»mninuii[ ii nu i >' lV>»<-» q| (Hl |l i>Hi iii m i> U>' > nVl «* 01^ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA GIFT OF Estate of S, H, Cowell "^^ COMPLETE WORKS OF OLIVER .GOLDSMITH. COMPRISING HIS ESSAYS, PLAYS, POETICAL WORKS, AND VICAR OF WAKEFIELD : WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS. NEW EDITION. LONDON : GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, BROADWAY, LUDGATE ; NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET. ^•;A2e^^.^..eH^^,^ 2

• . . . 345 On the Instability of Worldly G-randeur ...... 351 Some Account of the Academies of Italy 352 Of Eloquence 353 Custom and Laws compared * 358 On the Pride and Luxury of the Middling Class of People . . . 359 Sabinus and Olinda 360 The Sentiments of a Frenchman on the Temper of the English . . 362 On Deceit and Falsehood 363 An Account of the Augustan Age of England . . . ' . . 366 Of the Opera in England 370 AK ENQUIRY INTO THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING 1. Introduction -^ 372 2. The causes which contribute to the decline of learning . . . 373 3. A view of the obscure ages w , . 377 4. Of the present state of polite learning in Italy .... 378 5. Of polite learning in Grermany 380 6. Of polite learning in Holland and some other countries of Europe. 382 7. 8. Of polite learning in France 384 9. Of learning in G-reat Britain 387 10. Of rewarding genius in England 388 11. Of the marks of literary decay in Franco and England . . , 393 12. Of the Stage . , .396 13. On Universities , 398 14. The Conclusion 401 LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD TO HIS FRIENDS IN THE EAST. 1. Introduction. A character of the Chinese Philosopher . . . 402 2. The arrival of the Chinese in London. His motives for tlie journey. Some descriptions of the streets and houses 404 3. The description of London continued. The luxury of the Enghsh. Its benefits. The fine Gentleman. The fine Lady . . .406 4. English pride. Liberty. An instance of both. Newspapers. Politeness . 408 CONTENTS, PAaa 5. Englisli passion for politics. A specimen of a newspaper. Charac- teristic of the manners of diiferent countries .... 409 6. Happiness lost by seeking after refinement. The Chinese philoso- pher's disgraces .412 7. The tie of wisdom only to make us happy. The benefits of travel- ling upon the morals of a philosopher 413 8. The Chinese deceived by a prostitute in the streets of London . 414 y. The licentiousness of the English, with regard to women. A charac- ter of a woman's man 415 10. The journey of the Chinese from Pekin to Moscow. The customs of the Daures . . . . . . . . . . 416 11. The benefits of luxury, in making a people more wise and happy . 418 12. The funeral solemnities of the English. Their passion for flattering epitaphs 419 13. An account of Westminster Abbey 421 14. The reception of the Chinese from a lady of distinction . . 423 15. Against cruelty to animals. A story from the Zendavest of Zoroaster 425 16. Of falsehood propagated by books seemingly sincere . . . 426 17. Of the war now carried on between Erance and England, with its frivolous motives 428 18. The story of the Chinese Matron 430 19. The English method of treating women caught in adultery. The Russian method 432 20. Some account of the republic of letters in England . . . 433 21. The Chinese goes to see a play . 435 22. The Chinese Philosopher's Son made a slave in Persia . . . 438 23. The English subscription in favour of the Erench prisoners com- mended 439 24. The venders of quack medicines and nostrums ridiculed . . 441 25. The natural rise and decline of kingdoms, exemplified in the history of the kingdom of Lao . 443 25*. The character of the man in black, with some instances of his in- consistent conduct 415 26. The history of the man in black 446 27. On the great number of old maids and bachelors in London. Some of the causes 450 28. A description of a club of authors 451 29. The proceedings of the club of authors 453 30. The perfection of the Chinese in the art of gardening. Tlie descrip- tion of a Chinese garden 456 31. Of the degeneracy of some of the English nobility. A mushroon feast among the Tartars 457 32. The manner of writing among the Chinese. The Eastern tales of Magazines, &c., ridiculed 459 33. Of the present ridiculous passion of the nobility for painting . . 462 34. The Philosopher's son describes a lady, his fellow- captive . . 464 35. A continuance of his correspondence. The beautiful captive con- sents to marry her lord 465 36. The correspondence still continued. He begins to be disgusted in the pursuit of wisdom. An allegory to prove it^ futility . . 466 37. The Chinese philosopher praises the justice of a late sentence, and instances the injustice of the king of France, in the case of the prince of Charolais , . . 469 CONTENTS. A 88. The description of true politeness. Two letters of tUfforeut coun- tries, by ladies falsely tliought polite at home .... 471 39. Tlie English still have poets, though not vei'sifiers . . . 473 40. The behaviour of the congregation in St. Paul's Church, at prayers . 474 41. The history of China more I'cplete with great actions than that of Europe 476 42. An apostrophe on the supposed death of Yoltaire . . . 478 43. Wisdom and precept may lessen our miseries, but can never increase our positive satisfactions 479 44. The ardour of the people of London in running after sights and monsters 482 45. A dream 484 46. Misery best relieved by dissipation 486 47. The absurdity of persons in high station pursuing employments be- neath them, exemplified in a faii'y tale ..... 487 48. The fairy tale continued 490 49. An attempt to define what is meant by Enghsh liberty . . . 492 50. A bookseller's visit to the Chinese 493 51. The impossibility of distinguishing men in England by their dress. Two instances of this 495 52. The absurd taste for obscene and pert novels, such as Tristram Shandy, ridiculed 497 53. The character of an important trifler 499 54. His charac^icr continued ; with that of his wife, his house, and fur- niture 501 55 Some thoughts on the present situation of affairs in the different countries of Europe 503 56. The difiiculty of rising in literary reputation without intrigue or riches 504 57. A visitation dinner described 506 58. The Chinese Philosopher's son escapes with the beautiful captive from slavery 508 59. The history of the beautiful captive 509 60. Proper lessons to a youth entering the world ; with fables suited to the occasion 512 61. An authentic history of Catharina Alexowna, wife of Peter the Great 514 62. The rise or the decline of literature, not dependent on man, but re- sulting from the vicissitudes of nature 517 63. The Great exchange happiness for show. Their folly in this respect of use to society 518 64. The history of a philosophic cobbler ...... 519 65. The difference between love and gratitude 521 66. The folly of attempting to learn wisdom by being a recluse . . 523 67. Quacks ridiculed. Some particularly mentioned .... 525 68. The fear of mad dogs ridiculed 527 69. Fortune proved not to be blind. The story of the avaricious miller . 529 70. The shabby beau, the man in black, the Chinese philosopher, &c., at Vauxhall 531 71. The marriage act censured ........ 533 72. Life endeared by ago 535 73. The description of a little great man 537 74. The necessity of amusing each other with now books insisted upon . 539 CONTENTS. pAoa 75. "Jlie preference of grace to beauty : an allegory .... 540 76. The behaviour of a shopkeeper and his journeyman . . . 542 77. The French ridiculed after their own manner 543 78. The preparations of both theatres for a winter campaign . . 545 79. The evil tendency of increasing penal laws, or enforcing even those already in being, with rigour 516 80. The ladies' trains ridiculed 548 81. The sciences useful in a populous state, prejudicial in a barbarous one 549 82. Some cautions on life, taken from a modern philosopher of China . 552 83. The anecdotes of several poets who lived and died in circumstances of wretchedness 553 8 1. The trifling squabbles of stage-players ridiculed . . . . 555 85. The races at Newmarket ridiculed. The description of a cart-race . 557 86. The folly of the Western parts of Europe, in employing the Eus- sians to fight their battles ........ 559 87. Tlie ladies advised to get husbands. A story to this pui-pose . 560 88. The folly of remote or useless disquisitions among the learned . 562 89. The English subject to the spleen 564i 90. The influence of climate and soil upon the temper and dispositions of the EngHsh 566 91. The manner in which some philosophers make artificial misery . 567 92. The fondness of some to admire the writings of lords, &c. . . 569 93. The philosopher's son is again separated from his beautiful com- panion ........... 570 94. Tbe father consoles himself upon this occasion .... 571 95. The condolence and congratulation upon the death of king G-eorge II. ridiculed. EngHsh moui'ning described .... 572 96. Almost every subject of literature has been already exhausted . 574 97. A description of the courts of justice in Westminster Hall . . 575 98. A visit from the little beau. The indulgence with which tlie fair sex are treated in several parts of Asia 577 99. A life of independence praised . ■ 578 100. That people must bo contented to be guided by those whom they have appointed to govern. A story to this effect .... 580 101. The passion for gaming among ladies, ridiculed .... 581 102. The Chinese philosopher begins to think of quitting England . 582 103. The arts some make use of to appear learned .... 583 104. The intended coronation described 585 105. Funeral elegies written upon the Gfreat, ridiculed. A specimen of one 587 106. The English too fond of believing every report without examination. A story of an incendiary to this purpose 588 107. The utility and entertainment Avhich might result from a journey into the East 589 108. The Chinese pliilosopher attempts to find out famous men . . 591 109. Some projects for introducing Asiatic employments into the courts of England 593 110. On the different sects in England, particularly Methodism . . 595 111. An election described 597 112. A literary contest of great importance : in which both sides fight by epigram 598 113. Against the marriage act. A fable 600 114. On the danger of having too high an opinion of human nature . 602 CONTENTS. PAGH 115. Whether love be a natural or fictitious passion . . ♦ . 60-1 116. A city night-piece 606 117. On the meanness of the Dutch at the coiu't of Japan . . . C07 118. On the distresses of the poor, exemplified in the life of a j)riYato sentinel 609 119. On the absurdity of some late English titles . . . 612 120. The irresolution of tlie English accounted for .... 613 121. The manner of trayellers in their usual relations ridiculed . . 614 122. The conclusion 616 THE VICAB OF WAKEFIELD. 1. The description of the family of Wakefield, in which a kindred likeness prevails as well of minds as of persons .... 618 2. Family misfortunes. The loss of fortune only serves to increase the pride of the worthy 620 3. A migration. The fortunate circumstances of our lives are generally found at last to be of om* own procm'ing 622 4. A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant happiness, wliich depends not on circumstance but constitution . . . .625 5. A new and great acquaintance introduced. What we place most hopes upon, generally proves most fatal 627 6. The happiness of a country fire-side .... . 629 7. A town wit described. The dullest fellows may learn to be comical for a night or two 630 8. An amour, which promises little good fortune, yet may be productive of much 633 9. Two ladies of great distinction introduced. Superior finery ever seems to confer superior breeding 637 10. The family endeavours to cope with their betters. The miseries of the poor when they attempt to appear above their circumstances . 639 11. The family still resolve to hold up their heads .... 611 12. Fortmie seems resolved to humble the family of Wakefield. Morti- fications are often more painful than real calamities . . . 613 13. Mr. Burchell is found to be an enemy, for he has the confidence to give disagreeable advice Q^ 14. Fresh mortifications, or a demonstration that seeming calamities may be real blessings 648 15. All Mr. Burchell's villainy at once detected. The folly of being over- wise 651 16. The family use art, which is opposed with still greater . . . 653 17. Scarcely any virtue found to resist the power of long and pleasing temptation 656 18. The pursuit of a father to reclaim a lost child of virtue . . 660 19. The description of a person discontented with the present govern- ment, and apprehensive of the loss of our liberties . . . 662 20. The history of a philosophic vagabond pursuing novelty, but losing content QQQ 21. The short continuance of friendship amongst the vicious, which is coeval only with mutual satisfaction 673 22. OiTences are easily pardoned where there is love at bottom . . 677 xii CONTENTS. * PAOB 23. None but the guilty can be long and completely miserable . . 679 24. Fresh calamities 682 25. No situation, howerer wretched it seems, but has some sort of com- fort attending it 684 26. A reformation in the- gaol. To make laws complete they should re- ward as well as punish . 686 27. The same subject continued .... ... 689 28. Happiness and misery rather the result of prudence than of yirtue in tliis life : Temporal evils or felicities being regarded by Heaven as things merely in themselves trifling, and unworthy its care in the distribution 691 29. The equal dealings of Providence demonstrated with regard to the happy and the miserable here below. That from the nature of pleasure and pain, the wretched must be repaid the balance of their sufferings in the life hereafter 696 30. Happier prospects begin to appear. Let us be inflexible, and fortune will at last change in our favour , 698 31. Former benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest . . 702 32. The conclusion 710 THE IIPE OLIVEK GOLDSMITH The life of a scliolai* seldom abounds with adventures. His fame is acqnirecl in solitude. Very dilTerent was the fate of Dr. Goldsmitli, whose hfe was various and checkered, and whose memoirs are replete with curious and entertaining matter. Oliver GtOLDSMITH was bom on the twenty-ninth day of Tfovember, 1728, at Pallas, in the parish of Forney and county of Longford, in Ireland. His father, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, a native of the county of Eoscommon, was a clergyman of the Established Church, and had been educated at Dublin College. He married Anne, daughter of the Rev. Oliver Jones, master of the Diocesan School of Elphin. Her mother's brother, the Rev. Mr. Green, lent the young couple the house in which oiu^ poet was born ; and at his death the Rev. Charles Goldsmith succeeded him in his benefice. Although Oliver had evidently his Clu'istian name from his mother's father, yet he used to assert, that it had been introduced into her family by some affinity with that of the Protector, Oliver Cromwell : he also claimed kindred to that of General Wolfe. Of our poet's early hfe and remarkable adventures at school and at college, we have a cm'ious account by his eldest sister, Catharine, wife of Daniel Hodson, Esq. which we present to the reader. " The Rev. Charles Goldsmith is allowed by all who knew him, to have been faithfully represented by his son in the character of the Tillage Preacher. He had seven children, viz. five sons and two daughters. Of his eldest son, the Rev. Henry Goldsmith, to whom his brother dedicated his ' Ti'aveller,' their father had formed the most sanguine hopes, as he had distinguished himself both at school and at college ; but he unfortimately married at the age of nineteen, which confined him to a curacy, and prevented his preferment in tha chm.'ch. " Oliver was his second son, and born, very imexpectedly, after an interval of seven years from the birth of the former child ; and the liberal education which their father was then bestowing on his eldest son, bearing hard upon his small income, he could only propose to bring vip Oliver to some mercantile employment. " With this view he was instructed by a school-master in his father's village, who had been a quarter-master in the army in Spain in Queen Anne's wars, and who, haying travelled over a considerable part of Europe, and being of a 1 THE LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. very romantic turn, used to entertain Oliver with his adventm*es ; the im- pressions these made on his scholar were behaved to have given him that wandering and unsettled turn during his future life. *' Oliver was from his earliest infancy very different from other children ; subject to particular humours, for the most part uncommonly serious and reserved, but when in gay spirits none ever so agreeable as he ; and he began at an early period to shew such signs of genius, that he quickly engaged the notice of all the friends of the family. At the age of seven or eight he dis- covered a natural turn for rhyming, and often amused his father and his friends with early poetical attempts. When he could scarcely write legibly, he was always scribbling verses, which he burnt as he wrote them. " Observing his fondness for books and learning, his mother, with whom he was ahvays a favourite, pleaded with his father to give him a liberal education : but his own narrow income, the expense attending the education of liis eldest son, and his numerous family, were strong objections. Oliver in the mean time was placed under the Rev. Mr. G-riffin, then schoolmaster of Elphin, and was received into the house of his father's brother, John Groldsmith, Esq. of Ballyoughter near that town, who with his family considered him as a prodigy for his age, and have handed down the following instance of his early wit. "A large company of young people of both sexes were assembled one evening at his uncle's, and Oliver, then but nine years old, was required to dance a hornpipe, a youth playing to them at the same time on a fiddle. Being but newly recovered from the small-pox, by which he was mvich dis- figured, and his figure being short and thick, the musician, very archly as he supposed, compared him to iEsop dancing ; and still harping on this idea, which he conceived to be very bright, our conceited gentleman had suddenly the laugh turned against him, by Oliver's stopping short iu the dance with this retort : Our herald hath proclaim'd this saying, See iEsop dancing, and his monkey playing. This smart reply decided his fortune, for from that time it was determined to send him to the University, and some of the relations, who were clergymen, kindly offered to contribute towards the expense, particularly the Rev. Thomas Contarinc, who had married Oliver's aunt, a gentleman of distmguished learning and good preferment. " With this view he was removed to the school of Athlone, about five miles from his father's house, and was for about two years there under the Rev. Mr. CampbcU, who had the character of being an ingenious master ; but he being obliged to resign for want of health, Oliver was sent to the Rev. Patrick Hughes, at Edgewortlistown, in the county of Longford, where he was fitted for the University. " In his last journey to this school, he had an adventure ^yhich is thought to have suggested the plot of his Comedy, * The Mistakes of a Night.' " Some friend had given him a guinea, and in his way to Edgewortlistown, which is about twenty miles from his father's house, he had diverted himself by viewing the gentlemen's seats on the load, until, at night, he found himself in a small town named Ardagh. He inquired for the best house in the place, meaning an inn, but, being understood too literally, he was shewn to the house of a private gentleman, where calling for somebody to take his horse and lead him to the stable, he alighted and was shewn into the parlour, being supposed to be a guest come to visit the mastei', whom he found sitting by a good fire. This gentleman immediately discovered Oliver's mistake ; but being a man of humour, and also learning from him the name of his father, who happened to be liis acquaintance, he encouraged his deception. Oliver accordingly ordered THE LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDhllTH. 3^ a good supper, and generously invited the master, liis wife, and dangliters, to partake of it ; treated tliem with a bottle or two of wine, and at going to bed ordered a hot cake to be prepared for breakfast : nor was it till at his departure, when he called for the bill, that he found he had been hospitably entertained in a private family. "In the June following, 1744, Oliver was sent to Dublin College, and entered under the Kev. Mr. Wilder, one of the fellows, to whom, as he was the son of a neighbouring gentleman, the young pupil was particularly recom- mended. But he was a man of harsh temper and violent passions, and Oliver no less thoughtless and unguarded, so that they very soon disagreed. Oliver formed some acquaintance in the city of Dublin, and was indisci-eet enough to invite company of both sexes to partake of a supper and a dance in his rooms. This circumstance, unfortunately, came to the ears of his tutor, who abruptly entered in the midst of all their gaiety, which he soon extinguished ; for he not only proceeded to the highest excess of personal abuse, but concluded with manual chastisement before all the company. •' The disgrace attending this cruel treatment drove the poor lad into despair; and he determined never more to see any of his friends, but to remove to some other country, where, totally unknown, he might seek his fortune. He accordingly disposed of his books and clothes, and left the college ; but loitered about in Dublin, till he had only a shilling left when he set out on his travels. His intention was to go on ship-board at Cork for some other country, he knew not whither. " On tliis shilling he supported himself, as he affirmed, for three days, and then parting by degrees with the clothes oiF his back, was reduced to such extremity of famine, that, after fasting twenty-four hours, he thought a handfid of gi'ey peas, given him by a girl at a wake, the most comfortable repast he ever made. By this time he began to be sensible of his folly, and, like the prodigal son, desirous of returning to his indulgent father. From his father's house he now was not so distant but that he contrived to send to his brother, who came to him, clothed and carried him back to college, where he effected something of a reconciliation with his tutor, but they were never afterwards on cordial terms. " Soon after this event his worthy father died, of whom he gives an account in * The Citizen of the World,' under the character of the Man in Black. Ilis good uncle Contarine endeavoured to supply his loss, and wished liim to pre- pare for holy orders. But for the clerical profession he had no liking, having always a strong inclination for visiting foreign counti'ies ; and when he did apply to the bishop, he was rejected because he was too young. His uncle, liowever, procured him the office of private tutor in the family of a neigh- bouring gentleman, where he continued about a year : but being averse to the necessary confinememt, he quitted his friends, and having saved about thirty pounds, and procured a good horse, he left the country. " His friends, after an absence of six weeks without having heard what had become of him, concluded he had quitted the kingdom ; when he suddenly returned to his mother's house without a penny, xipon a poor little horse not worth twenty shillings, which he called Fiddle-Back. His mother, as might be expected, was highly offended, but his brothers and sisters had contrived to meet him there, and at length effected a reconciliation. " Being required to account for the loss of his money and linen, and the horse on which he had departed ; he told them that he had been at Cork, where he had sold his horse, and paid for his passage to America. But the winds proving contrary for three weeks, he had amused himself by seeing every thing curious in and about that city, and on the day the wind proved fair, being 1—3 4> THE fiFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. engaged with a party in an cxcvu-sion into tlio country, the ship had sailed without him. He continued in Cork till lie had only two guineas left, out of which he paid forty shillings for Fiddle -Back, and when he wished to return home ho had only the remainmg crown* in his pocket. Although this was rather too little for a journey of a hundred and twenty miles, he had intended to yisit on the road, not far from Cork, a dear friend he had known in college, who had often pressed him to spend a summer at his house, and on wdiose as- sistance he depended for supplies. In this expectation he had giyen half his little stock to a poor woman in his way, who had solicited relief for herself and eight children, their father having been seized for rent and thrown into jail. "He found his friend just recovering from a severe illness; who received him in his cap and slippers, but expressed the greatest joy to see him. Oliver, delighted to think his distresses were now at an end, concealed no part of them from his host : to gratify his fine feelings and to excite his sympatliy, ho represented in the strongest terms not only his present destitute condition, but the little prospect ho had of returning home, on account of having so liighly disobliged his family ; and observed, that it must be a work of time, before he could again expect to be received into favour. The melancholy silence with which his alTecting tale was heard, he attributed to the tenderest compassion ; and the frequent sighs of his friend, as he walked about rubbing his hands and deeply lost in thought, consoled him ujider the dismal recital. The length of his friend's silence enabled him to renew the subject, till it was terminated by his host's observing very drily, how inconvenient it was for him to receive company in his ]5resent state ; that he had no provision in the house for a healthy person ; he had nothing but slops and milk-diet ; of which, if he pleased, Mr. Goldsmith might partake, but he feared it would not soon be got ready. This was dismal news to our hungry traveller, who, alas ! had fasted the whole day ; and it was not till six o'clock that an old woman appeared with a small bowl of sago for her master, and a porringer of sour milk with a piece of brown bread for his guest. This bemg soon dispatchcKl, the invalid went early to bed, and left Oliver to his own meditations. " In consulting with his friend on his unfortunate situation, he advised him to hasten home, as his family must be highly offended at his alssence. On this Oliver ventured to solicit the loan of a gumea for the support of himself and his hoi'se on the road. Again his host gravely advised him against running in debt, and that his own illness had deprived him of all his cash. But, my dear friend, said he, you may sell your horse for sufficient to bear your charges, and I will furnish you with another for the journey. When Oliver desired him to produce this steed, he drew from under a bed an oaken staff. At which the poor youth was so provoked, that he was going to apply it to his pate, when a loud knocking at the gate gave notice of a visitant. This was a neigh- bouring gentleman of a very engaging aspect; to whom, as if nothing had happened, our traveller was presented as the very ingenious young friend who had been mentioned to him with such high encomiums while they were at college. " The visit concluded Avith an invitation of the two friends to dine at that gentleman's house on the morrow. To this Oliver at first reluctantly con- sented ; but as he really stood in want of a dinner, at length he went, and was highly pleased with the entertainment. In the evening, when they were about to return, their host, who had observed some glances which shewed all was not right between the two fellow-collegians, insisted that Mr. Groldsmith should Btay and spend some days at his house ; who at parting desired the other would take care of the horse he had so kindly offered him, and not siu'feit Ms friends * Two guineas iu Irish currency is 21, 5s. 6d, TilE LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 5 trilh their milk-diet. To tliis our gentleman only replied with a sneer, and left Ohver to tell all the circumstances of his treatment : at which his generous host laughed heartily, and assured him it agreed with his neighbour's general character. *' Here our wanderer was most hospitably entertained, and kindly urged to prolong his stay, with a hbcral offer to be supphed with whatcrcr money he should want, and a man and horse to attend him home. Oliver begged leave to depart at the end of three days : which were most agreeably spent in the company of this worthy gentleman and two beautiful daughters, who did all in tlieir power to entertain and divert him. At his departure he refused the offer of the servant and the horse, and only accepted the loan of three half- guineas. " And now, dear mother, he concluded, after having struggled so hard to come home to you, I wonder you are not more rejoiced to see mc. — She and all present expressed their joy at his return, and enjoined him to transmit the most early and gi'ateful acknowledgments to his kind benefactor. " His uncle Contarine, who was also reconciled to him, now resolved to send him to the Temple, that ho might make the Law his profession. But in his \ci\j to London, he met at Dublin with a sharper, who tempted him to play, and emptied his x^ockcts of fifty pounds, with which he had been fui*nished for his voyage and journey. " He was obliged again to return to his poor mother, whose sorrow at his miscarriages need not bo described, and his own distress and disgrace may readily be conceived. To make short of the story, ho was again forgiven, his good micle received him once more into favour, and it was finally decided that lie should now be bred to tlio study of Physic. With this view he was sent to Edinbm'gh. From that time the writer of this narrative was a stranger to his history ; but she hath seen letters to his friends, which he wrote from Switzer- land, Germany, and Italy." We were unwilling to interrupt this narrative with dates and extracts from tlie college register. But these, with some additional anecdotes, we now suppl,y. Of his entrance at college we have the following record : 1741-. Jun. 11. Olivarius GoUhmilh, Siz. Jilius Caroli, Clerici, ann. agcns 15, natus in comitatu Wesimeath, educatus sub ferula Mi. Iluyhcs, admissus est. Tutor M. Wilder. His being admitted a sizer in Trinity College, Dublin, at that early ago, denotes a remarkable proficiency. Sizers there are expected to come better prepared than other boys, and usuallj'- apply for admission somewhat later in life. . But, whatever hopes iniglit have been formed of his attaining hero the distinctions of genius and learning, they were completely blasted by the unfor- tunate quarrel between him and his tutor, Theaker Wilder, a man of the most morose and merciless temper, who thenceforth persecuted liina with imrcmitted cruelty, especially at the quarterly examinations, when he would insult him before his fellow-students by sarcastic taunts and ironical applauses of vhe severest malignity. Under this savage tutor poor Goldsmith was exposed to so many mortifi- cations, that the consequence was habitual despondence and its concomitant idleness. One of his contemporaries describes him as " perpetually lounging about the college-gate." The very same is recorded of Johnson ; and shews that these two distinguished writers rose to their eminence in literature from the most unpromising beginnings. In such circvimstances it was not to be expected that Goldsmith could be a candidate for the usual premiums, nor are we to wonder that he did not obtain THE LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH, a scliolai'ship : yet on June 15th, 1747, lie was elected one of the exhibitionert on the foundation of Erasmus Smyth. He had not long before been prblicly censured for being concerned with many others in raising a great tumult, occasioned by a scholar's haying been arrested in a street adjoining to the college. The precincts of the university have always been held privileged from the intrusion of bailiffs. In 1747, this privilege was said to have been violated. To revenge this insult, a numerous body of scholars rushed into the town, explored the dens of the bailiffs, pumped them severely in an old cistern, and conducted tlie prisoner in triumph to the college. It was tiien proposed by a leader of their riots, to break open Newgate and make a general gaol-delivery. The enterprise was attempted ; but the assailants were beaten off by artillery : and some unfortunate spectators were reported to have lost their lives. Several of the ringleaders were expelled the university; but Goldsmith, having made an ingenvious confession, was pimished by a public admonition, on May 25, 1747*. Although Groldsmith's indolence was grown habitual, his genius sometimes da-mied tlu-ongh the gloom. Translations from the classics made by him at this period, are still remembered with applause. But not having attained the usual distinctions, and the character of a Sizer who misses both premiums and a scholarship, being little respected, his residence in college grew daily less eligible, so that probably he retired into the country, and came to Dublin only to answer for liis degree, and to commence. He was admitted to the degree of Bachelor of Arts, February 27, 1719, O.S., two years after the regular time. The loss of his father was now supplied to him by his uncle, the Kev. Thomas Contarine,t wliose penetration enabled him to see the brilhancy of Oliver's genius, tlu'ough all the dark shades wliich obsciu'cd it. Tlie friendship of this good clergyman extended its protection to him under every difficulty, tiU he had fixed lum at Edinbm'gh, in the year 1752-3. * In the words of the sentence, Quod sedilioni favisset et tumultuaiitlbus opem tulisset. So Dr. Wilson. ■\ This respectable clergyman had been contemporary with Berkeley, the celebrated bishop of Cloyne. He is even reported to have saved the life of that pliilosophei-, in the course of the well-known experiment in which he engaged for the purpose of forming a judgment of the degrees of pain suft'ered by suffocation. The history of Mr. Contarine's family is too remarkable not to deserve a place in a note, lie was lineally descended from the Contarini of Venice, one of the most illustrious in that republic. In Roman Catholic countries the younger sons and daughters are often condemned to monastic life and vows of celibacy. The ancestor of our poet's uncle, by a double violation of this law, married a noble nun. Obliged to fly witli the partner of liis indiscretion, they first sought refuge in France, where his wife died of the small-pox. Being there pursued by ecclesiastical censures, Contarini retired to England: but the puritanical manners which at that time prevailed affording him but a cold reception, lie was on his removal to Ireland, when at Chester he met with a young lady of the name Where lawns exl^ff8i:hat scorn Arcadian pride, %> And brighter streams than fam'd Hydaspes glide ; ^' There all around the gentlest breezes stray, -- There gentle music melts on every spray ; ^ THE TRAVELLER. 55 Creation's mildest charms arc there coiiihiu'cl, Extremes are only in the master's mind ! Stern o'er each bosom Eeason holds her stato Witli daring aims irregularly great ; Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by ; Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, By forms unfashion'd fresh from Natm'c's hand, Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, True to imagin'd right, above control, While e'en the peasant boasts these riglits to scan, iind learns to venerate himself as man. Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictur'd here, Tliine are those charms that dazzle and endear j Too blest indeed, were such without alloy, But foster'd e'en by Freedom ills annoy ; That independence Britons prize too high, Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tic : The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown j Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd. Ferments arise, imprison'd fsictions roar, Represt ambition struggles round lior sliore, "Till over- wrought, the general system feels, Its motions stop, or phrenzy fire the wheels. Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, A s duty, love, and honour, fail to sway. Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. Hence all obedience bows to thee alone. And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown : Till time may come, when, stript of all her chaniis, The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for famo, One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings, mihonour'd die. Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, I mean to flatter kings, or court the great ; Ye powers of truth, that bid my sou.1 aspire. Far from my bosom drive tlie low desire ; And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel Tlie rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel; Q-'*liou transitory floAver, alike undone By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun. Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, I only would repress them to secure ; ForJusJ3 experience tells, in every soil,^ "That those tliat tlimk must govern those that toil ;_ "And all that freedom's highest ainis canTcach,^ ~ IsTnit to"Tay proportionVl loarls on eaclir TfclTCOr should one order di,-;;; j,!,),! iouTTgrow Its double weight mu.-5t ruin all belov,'. 66 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. O then liow blind to all that truth requh'cs, 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 strctcli their own, When I behold a factious band agree To call it freedom when themselves are free ; Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law : The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, Pillag'd from slaves to purchase slaves at home ; Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, Te.ir 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 Avealth to sway the mind with double force. Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, Her useful sons exchang'd for useless ore ? Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, Like flaring tapers bright'ning as they waste ; Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, Lead stern depopulation in her traiti, And over fields where scattcr'd hamlets rose, In barren solitary pomp repose ? Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call. The smiling long-frequented village fall ? Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd, The modest matron, and the blushing maid, Eorc'd from their homes, a melancholy train, To traverse climes beyond the western main ; Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound ? E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays Through tangled forests and through dangerous v/ays | Whore beasts with man divided empire claim. And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim j 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 wlicre England's glories shine, 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 stray'd from pleasure and repose. To seek a good each government bestows ? In every government, tli on gh 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 cur?. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 57 Still to ourselves in every place consign' d, Our own felicity we make or find : With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. j Tlie lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, • i Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, \ To men remote from power but rarely known, j Leave reason, faith, and conscience all our own. | THE LESEETED VILLAaE. TO SIR JOSHUA EETNOLDS. Deati Sir, — I can have no expectations in an address of this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to establish my own. You can gain nothing from my admiration, as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel : and I may lose much by the severity of your judgment, as few have a j aster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest therefore aside, to which I never paid much attention, I must be indulged at present in following my aflTcctions. The only dedication I ever made was to my brother, because I loved him better than most other men. He is since dead. Permit me to in- scribe this Poem to you. How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to inquire ; but I know you will ob- ject (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion) tliat the depopulation it deplores is no where to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can scarcely make any other answer than that I sincerely believe what I have written : that I have taken all possible pains, in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I allege, and that all my views and inquiries have led me to believe those miseries real which I here attempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an inquiry, whether the country be depopulating or not j 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 imfatigued attention to a long poem. In regretting the depopulation of the countiy, 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 con- sider luxuiy as one of the greatest national advantages; and all the wisdom of antiquity in that particular, as erroneous. Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and continue to think those luxuries prejudi- cial 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 Ixiend, and ardent admirer, Outer GtOldsmith. To Dr. Goldsmith, AuTnoR op the Deserted Village, by Miss Aikin, aeterwakds Mrs. Barbauld. In vain fair Auburn weeps her desert plains ; She moves our envy who so well complains : In vain had proud oppression laid her low, She wears a garland on her faded brow. IS THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. IS'ow, Auburn, now, absolve impartial Fate, A\hich if it inakcs thee wretched, makes thee great. So uuobserv'd, some humble plant may bloom, Till erush'd, it fills the air with sweet perfume, •So had thy swains in ease and plenty slept, The poet had not sung, nor Britain wept. Nor let Britannia mourn her drooping bay, Unhonovu*'d Grenius, and her swift decay : O, patron of the poor, it cannot be, While one — one poet yet remains like thee. Nor can the Muse desert our favour' d Isle, Till thou desert the Muse, and scorn her smile. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Sweet Aubuen ! loveliest village of the plain. Where health and plenty cheer' d the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay' d. Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Scats of my youth, when every sport could pleaso, How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green. Where humble happiness endear'd each scene! How often have I paus'd on every charm, Tlie shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, Tlie decent churcli that topp'd the ncighb'ring hill, Tlie hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and Avhisp'ring lovers made ! How often have I bless' d the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play. And all the village train, from labour free. Led up their sports beneath the spi'eading tree, While many a pastime circled in the shade. The young contending as the old survey'd ; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ; And still as each repeated pleasure tir'd, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd ; The dancing pair that simply sought renown. By holding out, to tire each other doAvn ; Tlie swain mistrustless of his smutted face, AVhile secret laughter tittcr'd round the place ; Tlie 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 cheerfid influence shed. These were thy chai'ms — but all these charms are fled! Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Tliy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn j 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 ; THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 50 T^o more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, chok'cl with sedges, works its weedy way j •Along thy glades, a solitary guest. The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with imvaried cries. Sunk are thy boAvers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall, And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away thy children leare the land. (^ 111 fares tli^ land, to hast'ning ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; A breath can make them, as a breath has made : But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. ^ A time there Avas, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintain'd its man ; For him light labour spread licr wholesome store, Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more : His best companions, innocence and health j "^Aiid his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land and dispossess the swain ; Along the lawn, where scattcr'd hamlets rose. Unwieldy wealth, and cumb'rous pomp repose j And every want to luxury allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. « Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene, Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green j These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet AuBUiiN ! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds. Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds, And, many a year elaps'd, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. Swells at my breast, and turns tlio ]Dast to pain. In all my wand'rings round this world of care, In all my griefs — and GoD has giv'n my share — I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these hvimble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the close. And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to shew my book-learn'd skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first he flew. 83 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLttSMirtl. I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return — and die at liome at last. O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Bctreats fi-om 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 ; AVlio quits a woi'ld where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! For him no wretches, born to work and weep. Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep ; Nor 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 imperceiv'd decay, While resignation gently slopes tlie way ; And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last, His heaven commences ere the Avorld be past. Sweet was the sound, wlien oft, at ev'ning's close. Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften'd from below j The swain resjionsive as the milk-maid sung, Tlie sober herd that low'd to meet their young ; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. The playful children just let loose from school ; The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; These all in sweet confusion souglit the shade. And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 33 lit now the somids of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass -gi'own foot- way tread, But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widow'd, solitary tiling, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; She, wretched matron, forc'd in age, for bread. To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread. To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn j She only left of all the harmless train, Tlie sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd. And still where many a garden-flower grows wild j There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wisli'd to change his places "Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power. By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More bent to j'aise the wi'etched than to rise. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 61 I Ilis house was known to all tlic vagrant train, He chid their wand'rings, but rcliev'd their pain 5 The long remcmber'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast. The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim' d kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Slioulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won. Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn' d to glow, And quite forgot their rices 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 Ican'd to Virtue's side : But in his duty prompt at every call, He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all j And, as a bird each fond endearment tries. To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies. He tried each art, rcprov'd each dull delay, AUur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid. And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, The rev'rond champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace. His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools, who came to scoifi remain'd to pray. ■TTlie service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; E'en children foliow'd with endearing wile. And pluck' d his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth express' d. Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd j To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that hfts its awful form. Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule. The village master taught his little school ; A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew j Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's disasters in his morning face ; Full well they laugh' d with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he j 02 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Full well the busy whisper circling round, Convey' d the dismal tidings when he frown'd j Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, Tlic love he bore to learning was in fault ; The village all declar'd Jiow much ho knew, * T was certain he could write, and cypher too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And e'en the stoiy ran that he could guage : In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill. For e'en thougli vanqxiish'd, he could argue still ; While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound, Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around. And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumph' d is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high. Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd. Where gi'ey-beard mirth, and smiling toil retir'd. Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, And news much older than their ale Avent round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place ; Tlie white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door j The chest eontriv'd a double debt to pay, A bed by uight, a chest of di'awers by day j The pictures plac'd for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose j The hearth, except when winter chill' d the day. With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay, While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. Vain transitory splendours ! could not all Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall ! Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; Thither no more the peasant shall repair, To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear. Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear ; Tlie host himself no longer sliall 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, Dne native charm, than all the gloss of art; Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play. The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 63 Lightly tliey frolic o'ei* the vacant mind, Unenvy'd, unmolested, imconfiued. JBut the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, "With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain : And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy? / Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis ypur's to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and an happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her sliorc ; i Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, i 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 prido j Takes up a space that many poor supply' d : ! Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, |j Space for his horses, equipage and lioimds : ,,' The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, '' Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth ; I His seat, where solitary sports are seen, / Indignant spui'ns the cottage from the green : f Around the world each needful product flies, I For all the luxuries the world supplies, i While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure, all In barren sj^lcndour feebly waits the fall. As some fair female unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrow 'd charm that dress supplies. Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; . But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail. She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Tlius fares the land by luxury betray'd, In nature's simplest charms at first array'd. But verging to decline, its splendours rise Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; And while he sinks, without one arm to save. The country blooms — a garden and a grave. Wliere then, ah ! where shall poverty reside. To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And e'en the bai'e-worn common is deny'd. If to the city sped— What waits him there ? To see profusion that he must not share ; CJf THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH, To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxmy, and thin mankind ; To see each joy the sons of pleasm-e know Extorted from his fellow-creatui-e's woe. Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; Here, while the proud their long-di'awn pomps display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly deck'd admits the gorgeous train : Tumidtuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling ehai-iots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles ere annoy ! Sure these denote one universal joy ! Are these thy serious thoughts ? — Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn, Now lost to all : her friends, her virtue fled. Near her betrayer's door, she lays her head. And, pinch'd w^th 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 Aubuen, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? E'en*now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene. Where half the convex world intrudes between, Tlirough torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where w^ild 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 pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance erown'd. Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey. And savage men more murd'rous still than they ; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene. The cooling brook, the grassy vested green. The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. Good heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day That call'd them from their native walks away j THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 65 j When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round the bowcis, and fondly look'd their last, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain For seats like these beyond the Avestern main ; And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, Ketm'n'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. The good old sire, the first prepar'd to go To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; But for himself in conscious virtue brave, He only wish'd for v/orlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for her father's arms. "With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose ; And kiss'd her thoughtless babes Avitli many a tear, And clasp' d them close, in sorrow doubly dear j Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. ^X) luxury ! thou curst by heaven's decree, XHow ill exchang'd are things like these for thee ! ' How do thy potions with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasm'es only to destroy ! Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigom* not their own. At every draught more laVge and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank umvieldy woe ; Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, \JDown, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. E'en now the devastation is begun. And half the business of destruction done ; E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, I see the rural vu'tues 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 j And piety with wishes plac'd above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid> Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; Unfit in these degenerate times of shame. To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd. My shame in crowds, my solitary pride. Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woo. That found' st me poor at first, and keep'st me soj Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel. Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well, Farewell, and O ! where'er thy voice be try'd. On Torno's cliffs, or JPambamarca's side, 5 60 THE IFORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Whether where eqiiinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar w^orld in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigovirs of th' inclement clime ; Aid slighted trutli with tliy persuasive strain ; Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; Teach him, that states of native strength possest, Thougli very poor, may still be very blest ; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labour' d mole away ; While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky. THE aiFT. TO lEIS, IN BOW-STEEET, COVENT-GAEDEN. Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake. Dear mercenary beauty, Wliat annual off'ring shall I make Expressive of my duty. My heart, a victim to thine eyes. Should I at once deliver, Say, would the angry fair-one prize The gift, who slights the giver ? A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy. My rivals give — and let 'cm. If gems, or gold, impart a joy, I '11 give them — when I get 'em. I '11 give— but not the full-blown rose, Or rose-bud more in fashion : Such short-liv'd off' rings but disclose A transitory passion. I '11 give thee something yet unpaid. Not less sincere, than civil ; I '11 give thee — ah ! too charming maid, I'll give thee— to the devil. EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL. This tomb inscrib'd to gentle Paenell'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! Celestial themes confess'd his tunefid 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, Wliile converts thank their poet in the skies. EPILOGUE. 67 EPILOaUE TO THE COMEDY OE THE SISTERS. What ? five long acts — and all to make us wiser ? Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. Had she consulted me, she should have made Her moral play a spoaldng masquerade ; Warni'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking ; Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of thinking. Well, since she thus has shewn her want of skill, What if I give a masquerade ? — I will. But how ? ay, there's the rub ! [jy«zi^2?2^] — I've got my cuo ; The world's a masquerade ! the masquers, you, you, you. [Tb Boxes, Pit, and Gallenj. Lud ! what a group the motley scene discloses ! False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses ! Statesmen with bridles on ; and close beside 'em, Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em. There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore. These in their turn, with appetites as keen, Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen. Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman ; The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, And tries to kill, ere she 's got power to cure : Thus 'tis with all — their chief and constant care Is to seem every thing — but what they are. Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion ; Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade. Looking as who should say, dam'me ! who 's afraid ? [_Mimw1cinff, Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am You '11 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, If with a bribe his candour you attack, He bows, turns round, and whip — the man in black ! Yon critic, too — but whither do I run ? If I proceed, our bard will be undone ! Well then a truce, since she requests it too : Do you spare her, and I '11 for once spare you. 5-2 68 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. EPILOGUE, SPOKEN BY MKS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY. Enter MeS. Bulkley, who curtsies very low as beginning to speak. Then enter Miss Catley, who stands fall lie/ore her, and curtsies to the Audience, Mrs. BuL. Hold, Ma'am, your pardon. Wliat's your business here ? Miss Cat, The Epilogue. Mvs. BuL. Tlie Epilogue ? Miss Cat. Yes, the Epilogue, my deai* Mrs. BuL. Sure you mistake. Ma'am. The Epilogue I bring it. Miss Cat. Excuse me, Ma'am. The Author bid me sing it. EECITATIVE. Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, Suspend your conversation while I sing. Mrs. BuL. Why sui-e the girl 's beside herself; an Epilogue of singing, A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning. Besides, a singer in a comic set! Excuse me, Ma'am, I know the eliquctte. Miss Cat. What if we leave it to the House ? Mrs. BvL. The House! — Agreed. Mi.ss Cat. Agreed. Mrs. BcTL. And she whose party's largest shall proceed. And first I hope you '11 readily agree I 've all the critics and the wits for me. They, I am sure, will answer my commands : Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands. What, no return ? I find too late, I fear, That modern j udges seldom enter lierc. Miss Cat. I 'm for a different set. — Old men, whose. trade is Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies. EECITATIVE. Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling. Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling. AIR. — COTILLON. Turn, my fau'est, turn, if ever Strephou caught thy ravish'd eye. Pity take on your swain so clever, Who without your aid must die. Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu, Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho. Da Capo. Mrs. B[JL. Let all the old pay homage to your merit : G-ive me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. Ye travell'd tribe, ye maecaroni 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 Heinelle. !Miss Cat. Ay, take your travellers, ti'avellers indeed ! G-ive me my bon^iy Scot, that travels from the Tweed. Where are the cheels ? Ah ! Ah, I well discern The smiling looks of each bewitching bairne. A bonny young lad is my Jockey, EPILOGUE. C9 AIR. I '11 sing to amuse you by niglit and by clay, And be unco' merry v.lien you are but gay ; When you with your bagpipes are ready to play, My Yoicc shall be ready to carol away With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey. With Sa^Yney, and Jarvie, and Jockey. Mrs. BuL. Ye Gramesters, who so eager in pursuit, JMake but of all your fortune one va Toutc : Yo 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, — j'our Lordship misconceives the case." Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortmacr, I wish I 'd been call'd in a little sooner, Assist ni}-- cause with hands and voices hearty, Come end the contest here, and aid my party. AIR.— B-ILEINAMONT. Miss Cat. Yc brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, Assist me, I pray, in this wofiil 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 3'our only preventive. Your hands and your voices for mo. Mrs. BcJL. Well, IMadam, what if, after all this sparring, We both agree, like friends, to end oiu' jarring ? Miss Cat. And that our friendship may remain unbroken, Wliat if Ave leave the Epilogue unspoken ? Mrs. BuL. J\ greed. Miss Cat. Agreed. Mrs. BuL. And now with late repentance, Un-cpilogucd tlio Poet waits his sentence. Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit. \_Ejccunt. AN EPILOGUE, INTENDED TOE MRS. EULKLEr. There is a place, so Ariosto sings, A treasury for lost and missing things : Lost hmnan Avits have places there assign'd them, And they, Avho lose their senses, there may find theiu. But where 's this place, this storehouse of tlio age ? The Moon, says he : — but I affirm, the Stage ; At least in many things, I think, I see His lunar, and our mimic AA^orld agree. Both shine at niglit, for but at Foote's alone, We scarce exhibit till the sim 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 fmd their senses. to TtJE WOtiKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits, Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits. The gny 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 doats on dancing, Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on. Quits the Ballet^ and calls for IS'aney Dawson. The Gamester too, whose wits all high or low, Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw. Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, rinds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. The MohaAvk too — witli angry phrases stor'd. As " Dam'mc, Sir," and " Sir, I wear a sword ; " Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating, Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. Here 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.* THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE, Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Kever rang'd in a forest, or smok'd 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 ; 1 had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view, To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtti ; 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 fry'd in. But hold — let me pause — don't I hear you pronounce. This tale of the bacon's a damnable bomice ; AVell, suppose it a bounce — surj a poet may tiy. By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. But my lord, it's no bounce : I protest in my tur It's a truth and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.f To go on with my tale — as I gaz'd on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, * Tins Epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy (late Bishop of Proniore) ; but for what comedy it was intended is not remembered, t Lord Glare's nephew. r THE tiAUNCII OF VENISON. *}\ §0 i cut it, and sent it to Eeynolds undrest, To paint it, or eat it, just as be lik'd best. Of tke neck and tbo breast I bad next to dispose : 'Twas a neck and a breasi tbat niigbt rival Monroe's : But in parting with tbese I was puzzled again, Witb tbe bow, and the who, and the where, and the when. There's H— d, and C— y, and II— rtb, and H— IF, 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 cat, 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 wanting a shirt. While thus I debated, in reverie center' d, An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself,, enter'd j An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, And ho smil'd as he look'd at the venison and me. " What have we got here ? — Why this is good eating ! Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting?" " Why whose should it be ?" cried I with a flounce ; "I get these things often" — but that was a bomice : " Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are j)leased to be kind — but I hate ostentation." " If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, " I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me j No words — I insist on't — precisely at three ; We'll liave Johnson, and Burke, all the wits wall be there } My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare. And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner! We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. What say you — a pasty, it shall and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Here, porter — this venison with me to Mile-end ; No stii-ring — I beg — my dear friend — my dear friend!" Thus snatching his hat he brush'd off like the wind, And the porter and eatables follow' d behind. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And " nobody with me at sea but myself;"* Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty. Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty. Were things that I never dislik'd in my life, Tho' clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day in due splendom' to make my approach, I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. When come to the place Avhere we all were to dine, (A chair-lumber'd closet just twelve feet by nine :) My friend bade me Avelcome, 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 ; * See the letters that passed between his Royal Ilighaess IIeniy,Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Gro3yenor-^12mo. 1769. j 72 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. But no matter, I'll "vrarrant we'll make up tlie party "With two full as clerer, and ten times as hearty. Tlie one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, • They're both of them merry, and authors like you ; The one wi-ites the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; Some think he writes Cinna — he owns to Panurgc." "Wliile thus he dcscrib'd them by trade and by name, They enter' d, 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 hot j In the middle a place where the pasty — was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe it's my titter aversion, And yom' bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian, So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a x^ound, AVhile the bacon and liver went merrily round ; But what vex'd me most was that d 'd Scottish rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue. And, " Madam," quoth he, " may this bit be my poison. A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; Pray a slice of your liver, tho' may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe, till I'm ready to burst." *' The tripe," quotli the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, *' I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week : I like these here dinners so pretty and small ; But your friend, there, the doctor, eats nothing at all.'* " O — ho !" quoth my friend, " he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : There's a pasty" — " A pasty !" repeated the Jew ; "I don't care, if I keep a corner for 't too." "What the de'el, mon, a pasty!" re-echo'd the Scot, " Tho' 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 echo'd about. While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay' d. With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid : A visage so sad and so pale with affright, Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her ? That she came with some terrible news from the baker s And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus— but let similies drop — And now that I think on't, the story may stop. To be plain my good lord, it's but labour misplac'd, To send such good verses to one of your taste ; You've got an odd something— a kind of discerning, A relish — a taste — sicken'd over by learning ; At least, it's your temper, as very well known. That you think very slightly of all that's your own : So, perhaps, in yovir habits of thinking amiss. You may make a mistake, and think slightly of tliis. 73 FROM THE ORATOEIO OF THE CAPTlYITr. SONG-. The wretch condemn'd with life to part, Still, still on hope relies ; And ev'ry pang that rends the heart, Bids expectation rise. Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light, Adorns and cheers the way ; And still, as darker grows the night, Emits a brighter raj. SONG. O Memoet ! thou fond deceiver. Still importunate and rain, To former joys rcciimng ever, And turning all the past to pain ; Thou, like the world, the opprcst op])rcssing, Thy smiles increase the AA-rctch's avoc j And he who wants each other blessing, In thee must ever find a foe. THE CLOWN'S EEPLY. iToii'N' Trot was desir'd by two witty peers. To tell them the reason why asses had ears ; "An't please you," quoth Jolm, "I'm not given to letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters : HoAVc'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be sav'd ! without thinking on asses." EPITAPH ON EDWAED PUEDON.* IIere 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 Avish to come back. AN ELEGY ON THE GLOEY OF HEE SEX, MES. MAEY BLAIZE. Good people all, with one accord, j Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word — From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom pass'd her door, | And always found her kind ; j She freely lent to aU the poor, — I Who left a pledge behind. ■ * This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wnsled his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and *iecan:e a scribbler in the ncAvspapers. He translated Voltaire 3 i IlENKIJklXE. j I 1 The works of Oliver goldsMitM. She strove the neighbourhood to please. With manners Avondrous "winning ; And never follow' d wicked ways, — Unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size ; She never slumber'd in her pew, — But when she shut her eyes. Her love was sought I do aver. By twenty beaux and more ; The king himself has follow' d her, — When she has walk'd before. But now her wealtli and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all ; Tlie doctors found, when she was dcad,- Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament in sorrow sore, For Kent-street well may say, That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more. She had not died to-day. RETALIATION : A POEM. [Dr Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James's Coflfee- lioiise. — One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on hira. Ilia country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for Rktaliatioi^, and at their next meeting produced the following poem.] Of old, when Scarron his companions invited Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united ; If our * landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish : Our t Dean shall be venison, jvist fresh from the plains ; Our X Burke shall be tongue Avith the garnish of brains : Our § WiU shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour, And II Dick with his pepper shall heighten the savour : Our ^ Cumberland's sAveet-bread its place shall obtain, And ** Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain : Our ft G-arrick 's a sallad ; for in liim Ave see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : To make out the dinner, full certain I am. That XX Bidge is anchovy, and §§ Reynolds is lamb ; * Tlie master of the St. James's coffee-house, where the Doctor, and the friends he has characterized in his poem, occasionally dined. \ Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland. % The Right Hon. Edmund Burke. g Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin. II Mr. Richard I?urke, collector of Grenada. ^ Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of tlie West Indian, Fashionable Lover, the Brothers, and various other productions. [After this note was written, of " Calvary, or the Death of Ciirist."] ** Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor (afterwards Bishop of Salisbury), an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen : particularly Lander on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes. tt David Garrick, Esq. J| Counsellor Johu Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar. g^ Sir Jo,shua Reynolds. RETALIATION. 75 That * Ilickcy 's a capon, and by the same rule, IVIagnaniinoiis Groldsmith, a gooseberry fool. At a dinner so various, at such a repast. Who 'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? Here waiter, more wine, let me sit while I 'm able. Till all my companions sink under the table ; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. Here lies the good f Dean, re-united to earth, Wlio mix'd reason with pleasure, and Avisdom with mirth ; If he had any faults he has left us in doubt, At least, in six weeks I cou'd not find 'cm out ; Yet some hare declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em. That sly-boots Avas cursedly cunning to hide 'em. Here lies om* good f Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; Who, born for the vmivcrse, naiTow'd his mind. And to party gave up what was meant for mankind ; Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat To persuade J Tommy Townshend to lend liim a vote j Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining. And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining ; Tliough equal to all things, for all things unfit, Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; For a patriot, too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient ; And too fond of the right, to pursue the expedient. In short, 'twas his fate, miemploy'd, or in place, sir. To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here lies honest § William, whose heart was a mint. While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in 't 5 The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along, His conduct still right, with his argument Avrong; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home ; Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none ; Wliat was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. Here lies honest Richard, Avhose fate I must sigh at j Alas ! that siich frolic should now be so quiet ! AVhat spirits were his ! Avhat wit and what whim! II Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ! Now wrangling and gi'umbling to keep up the ball ! Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick j But missing his mirth and agreeable vein. As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. * An eminent attorney, t Vide, page 74. % Mr. T. Townsend, member for Wliifchnrch. g Vide page 74. || Mr. Kicliaid Burke, vide page 74. Tliis gentleman liaviiig slightly fractured one of his arms and legs, at different times, tlie Doctor has rallied him on those ivccideuts, as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people. THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And comedy vrondcrs at being so fine ; Like a tragedy-queen he lias dizen'd her out, Or rather, like tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud, And coxcombs alike in their failings alone. Adopting his portraits, are pleas' d vrith their own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught, Or, wlierefore liis characters thus without fault ? Say, was it that vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, lie grew lazy at last, and drew from himself ? Here Douglas retires from his toils to I'clax, Tlie scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant rcclinea : When satire and censure encircled his throne, I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own ; But now he is gone, aiid we want a detector. Our * Dodds shall be pious, our f Kenricks shall Icctm'c j % Macplierson write bombast, and call it a style. Our Townshend make speeches, and I sliall compile ; New Landers and Bowci's the Tweed shall cross over, No counti-yinan living their tricks to discover j Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark. Here lies David G-arrick, describe me who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine : As a wit, if not first in the very fii'st line : Yet, with talent like these, and an excellent heart, The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. Like an ill-judging beauty, his coloiu's he spi'cad, And beplaster'd Avitli 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, Tie turn'd and he varied full ten times a day : Though scciu'c of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick If they were not his own by finessing and trick : He cast ofT his friends, as a huntsman his pack. For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came. And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame j 'Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, Who pepper'd the higliest, was surest to please. But let us be candid, and speak out our mind. If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. * The Rev. Dr. Dodd. t Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under tlie title of "The School of Shakespeare." , , « t James Macpherson, Esq , who, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. RETALIATION. 77 ' Ye ICenricks, ye * Kellys, and fWoocifalls so graye, ' Wliat a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ? How did Grub-street re-eclio the shouts that you rais'd, While he was be-Koscius'd, and you were beprais'd j But peace to his spmt, wherever it flies, To act as an angel and mix with the skies : Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, Shall still be his flatterers, go wliere he will, Old Shakspeare receive him Avith praise and witli love, And Beamnonts and Bens be his Kellys above.;}: Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature, And slander itself must allow him good nature ; He cherish' d his friend, and he relish'd a bumper; Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thiuiiper ; Perhaps you. may ask if the man was a miser : I answer ^N'o, no, for ho 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 Ilonest ? 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 Aviser 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 om* lieai't : * Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to tho Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c., &c. t Mr. William Wood fall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. X The following poems by Mi-. Garrick, may in some measure account for the severity exercised by Dr Goldsmith, in respect to that gentleman. JUPITER AND MERCURY, A Faex.e. Hebe Hermes, says Jove who ■with Nectar was mellow, Go, fetch me some clay— I v/ill make an oddfellov:! Right and wrong shall be jumbled, — much gold and some dross } Without cause be he pleaa'd, without cause be he cross; Be sure, as I work to throw in contradictious, A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to tictions ; Now mix these ingredients, which, warm'd in the baking, Turn'd to learning and gaming, religion and raking. With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste ; Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste ; That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail, Set fire to the head, and set tire to the tail; For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it, This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, and jjoej ; Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame. And among brother mortals — be Goldsmith his name; When on earth tiiis strange meteor no more shall appear. You Hermes, shall fetch him— to make us sport here, On Dr. Goldsmith's Characteristical Cooker}/, A. JEU D'eSPKIT. Are these the choice dishes the Doctor has sent us ? Is this the great poet whose works so content us? This Goldsmith's fine feast, who has written fine books ? Heaven sends us good meat, but the Devil sends cooks. 78 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judg'd without skill, he was still hard of hearing : When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff, He shifted his * trumpet, and only took snuif. POSTSCRIPT. [Afror tlie fourth edition of this Poem was printed, the publisher received the foUowiiig epitapli on Mr. Whitefoord,'!' from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith.] Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Though he merrily liy'd, he is now a X gi*ave man : Rare compound of oddity, frolic and fun ! Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun ; Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear ; Wlio scattered around wit and humour at will ; Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill : A Scotchman, from jDi'ide and from prejudice free ; A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. What pity, alas ! that so lib'ral a mind Should so long be to newspaper essays confin'd ! Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, Yet content " if the table he set in a roar ;" Whose talents to fill any station were fit. Yet happy if Woodfall § confess'd liim a wit. Ye newspaper Avitlings ! ye pert scribbling folks ! Who copied his squibs, and re-echo' d his jokes ; Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come. Still follow your master and visit his tomb : To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, ^nd copious libations bestow on his shrine ; Then strew all around it (you can do no less) II Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press. Merry Wliitefoord, farewell ! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humom*, I had almost said wit : This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, "Thou best humour' d man with the worst humour'd Muse.'^ SONa: INTENDED TO HATE BEEN SUNG IN THE COIIEDY OF "SHE STOOPS TO CONQFER."^ Ah me ! when shall I marry me ? Lovers are plenty ; but fail to relieve me. He, fond youth, that could carry me, Ofi'ers to love, but means to deceive me. * Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be under the necessity of using an ear trumpet in company. t Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays, J Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Doctor Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company without being infected with the itch of punning. 3 Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. ll Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser. ^ Sir, I send you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been pub- lished, and which might, perhaps, have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss llardcastle, in his admirable comedy of " She Stoops to Conquer;" but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung PROLOGUE. ry^ But I will rally aud combat the ruiuer ; Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover. PROLOaUE TO ZOBEIDE— A TRAGEDY. In these bold times, when Leai'ning's sons explore The distant climates, and the savage shore ; When wise astronomers to India steer. And quit for Venus many a brighter here ; While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, Forsake the fair, and patiently — go simpling, Our bard into the gcuei'al spirit enters. And fits his little frigate for adventures. With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden, He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading — Yet ere he lands, he 's order' d me before To make an observation on the shore. Where are we driven ? our reckoning sure is lost ! This seems a rocky and a dangei'ous coast. Lord, what a sultry climate am I under ! Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder: [Upj)er yallery. There mangroves spread, and larger than I 've seen 'em — [P^7. Here trees of stately size — and billing turtles in 'em — \_Balconies. Here ill-conditioned oranges abound — [^Staye. And apples, bitter apples, strew the gromid : [_Tasting them. The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear : I heard a hissing — there are serpents here ! O, there the people ai'e — ^best keep my distance ; Our Captain (gentle natives) craves assistance ; Our ship 's well stor'd — in yonder creek we 've laid her, His honour is no mercenary trader. Tliis is his first adventure, lend him aid. And we may chance to di'ive a thriving trade. His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, Equally fit for gallantry and war, W^hat, no reply to promises so ample? I 'd best step back — and order iip a sample. EPILOGUE SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWIS, IN THE CHARACTEK OF UARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT. Hold ! Prompter, hold ! a word before your nonsense ; I 'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. My pride forbids it ever should be said. My heels eclips'd the honom-s of my head ; it himself in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called "The Humours of Balamagairy," to %7hich he told me, he found it very difficult to adapt -worLls ; but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last fare- well. I preserve this little relic, in his own hand-writing, with an affectionate care. I am, Sir, your humble servant, James Boswell. 80 THE W0RK8 OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. That I found liiimoiir in a piebald vest, Or ever tlionglit that jumping was a jest, {_TaJi:es off Ms masl'. WTience, and what art thoii, 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 fili'd the scene with all thy brood, Of fools pursuing, and of fools pui'su'd ! Wliose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses, Whose only plot it is to break our noses ; Wliilst from below the trap-door Dcemons rise, And from above the dangling deities ; And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew ? May rosin'd lightning blast mc if I do ! No — I will act, I '11 vindicate the stage : Sliakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. OiF! off! vile trappings ! a new passion reigns ! The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins. Oh ! for a Eichard's voice to catch the theme • Give me anotlier horse ! bind up my wounds!— soft— 'twaa but a dream. Aye, '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 creatm-e blameless. Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, Once on the margin of a fomitain stood, And cavill'd at his image in the flood. "The deuce confoiuid," he ci-ies, "these drumstick shanks, They never have my gratitude nor thanks ; They're perfectly disgracefid! strike me dead! But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head. How piercing is that eye ! how sleek that brow! My horns ! —I 'm told horns are the fashion now." While thus he spoke, astonish'd to his view. Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew : Hoicks : hark forward ! came thmid'ring from behind, He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind : He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways ; He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze. At length his silly head, so priz'd before, Is taught his former folly to deplore ; Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, And at one bound he saves himself, like me. [Taking a jump through the stage-door. THE LOGICIANS KEFUTED. IN IMITATION or DEAN SWIPT. LoaiCiANS have but ill defin'd As rational the human mind ; Reason, they say, belongs to man, But let them prove it if they can. Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, By ratiocinations specious. THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 81 Have strove to prove with great precision, "With definition and division, Homo est ratione predilum ; But for my soul I cannot credit 'em. And must in spite of them maintain. That man and all his ways are vain j 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 j And that brute beasts are far before 'em, Deus est anima brutcrum. 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 unconfin'd, No politics disturb the mind ; Tliey eat their meals, and take their sport, Nor know who's in or out at court j They never to the levee go To treat as dearest friend, a foe ; They never importune his Grace, Nor ever cringe to men in place ; Nor undertake a dirty job, Nor draw the quill to write for Bob : Fraught with invective they ne'er go To folks at Pater-Noster Row : No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters. No pickpockets, or poetastei's. Are known to honest quadi-upeds. No single brute his felloAvs leads. Brutes never meet in bloody fray. Nor cut each other's throats for pay. Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape Comes nearest us in human shape. Like man he imitates each fashion, And malice is his ruling passion ; But both in malice and grimaces, A courtier any ape surpasses. Behold hun humbly cringing wait Upon the minister of state ; View him soon after to inferiors Aping the conduct of superiors : He promises with equal air. And to perform takes equal care. He in his turn finds imitators. At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, Their master's manners still contract, And footmen, lords and dukes can act, Tlius at the court both great and small, Behave alike, for all ape all. 6 82 THE WORKS OP OLIVER GOLDSMlTtT. STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. Amidst the clamour of exulting joys, Which triumph forces from the joatriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasiu'e start. O "Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe, Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear j Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow. Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive the foe thy dreadful vigotu' fled. And saw thee fall with joy -pronouncing eyes : Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead ! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. ON A BEAUTIEUL YOUTH STEUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNINa. SuEE 'twas by Providence design'd, Eathcr in pity than in hate. That he should be, like Cupid, blind, To save him from Narcissus' fate. A SONNET. WEEPlNa, murmiu'ing, complaining, Lost to every gay delight ; Myra, too sincere for feigning, Eears th' approaching bridal night. Yet why impair thy bright perfection ! Or dim thy beauty with a teai* ? Had JMyra follow'd my direction, She long had wanted cause of fear. THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN: A COMEDY. AS PEEFOEilED AT THE THEATEE-EOYAL, COVENT-GAEDEH". PEEEACE. When I undertook to write a comedy, I confess I was strongly prepossessed in favoiu' of the poets of the last age, and strove to imitate them. The tci-m "genteel comedy" was then unknown amongst us, and little more was desired by an audience than nature and humour, in whatever walks of life they were most conspicuous. The author of the following scenes never imagined that more woidd be expected of him, and therefore to delmeate character has been his principal aim. Those who know anything of composition, are sensible that, in pursuing humour, it will sometimes lead us into the recesses of tlie mean ; I was even tempted to look for it in the master of a spunging-house : but in deference to the public taste, grown of late, perhaps, too delicate, the scene of the bailiffs was retrenched in the representation. In deference also to the judgment of a few friends, who think in a particular way, the scene is THE COOD-NJTUR'D MAN. S3 here restored. The author siibmits it to the reader in his closet ; and hopes that too much refinement will not banish humour and character from ours, as it has already done from the Trench theatre. Indeed the Trench comedy is now become so very elevated and sentimental, that it has not only banished humour and Moliere from the stage, but it has banished all spectators too. Upon the whole, the author returns his thanlcs to the public for the favoiu'able reception which the Good-Natur'd l^fan has met with : and to Mr. Colman in particular, for his kindness to it. It may not also be improper to assure any who shall hereafter write for the theatre, that merit, or supposed merit, will ever be a sufficient passport to his protection, PROLOGUE, WEITTEN BY DE. JOHNSON; SPOKEN BY ME. BENSLEY. Peess'd by the load of life, the weary mind Surveys the general toil of human kind ; With cool submission joins the lab'ring train, And social soi'row loses half its pain : Our anxious bard, without complaint, may share This bustling season's epidemic care. Like Cffisar's pilot, dignified by fate, Toss'd in one common storm with all the great j ])istress'd alike, the statesman and the wit, AVhcn one a borough courts, and one the pit. The busy candidates for power and fame Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the same ; Disabled both to combat, or to fly. Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply. Uncheck'd on both loud rabbles vent their rage, As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. Th' offended burgess hoards his angiy tale For that bless'cl year when all that vote may rail; Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss. "This day the powder'd curls and golden coat," Says swelling Crispin, " begg'd a cobbler's vote." ".This night our wit," the pert apprentice cries, " Lies at my feet, I hiss him, and he dies." The great, 'tis true, can charm the electing tribe ', The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. Yet ju.dg'd by those whose voices ne'er were sold, lie feels no want of ill-persuading gold ; But confident of praise, if praise be due, Trusts without fear, to merit, and to you. MEN. 3Tr. noneywood .. Mr. Powell. Croaker .. Mr. SiiaTicu. Wt'J .. Mr. Woodward. 8ir William Honeyicood .. Mr. Clarke. Leonhne .. Mr. lilCNSLEV. Jarvis ... Mr. DUNSTALL. Butler ... ... Mr. Gushing. Bailiff .. Mr. 11. Smith. Dubardieu ... Mr, HoiiTOM. DRAMATIS PERSOI^^. Posihoy Mr. Quick. 31{ss Eicliland Olivia 2[rs. Croaker Garnet Landlady WOMEN. Mrs. Mrs. Mrs. Mrs. Mrs. Seem, LONDOX. riUI.KLKV, Mattocks. Pitt. (rKEEK. WUITJi. 6—2 84 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. ' ACT THE FIEST. Scene, y^» Ajmrtment in Young Honetwood's Home. Enter Sir William Hoketwood, Jaevis. Sir WiL. Good Jarvis, make no apologies foi' this honest bhmtness. Fidelity, like yours, is the best excuse for every freedom. J/E. I can't help being blunt, and being very angry too, when I hear you talk of disinheriting so good, so worthy a young gentleman as yoiu' nephew, my master. All the world loves him. Sir WiL. Siiy rather, that he loves all the world ; that is his fault. Jae. I am sure there is no part of it more dear to him than you are, though he has not seen you since he was a child. Sir WiL. What signifies his affection to me ; or how can I be proud of a place in a heart, where every sharper and coxcomb find an easy entrance ? Jae. I grant you that he is rather too good-natur'd ; that he's too much evei'y man's man ; that he laughs this minute with one, and cries the next with another : but whose instructions may he thank for all this ? Sir WiL. Not mine, sure ? My letters to him during my employment in Italy, tavight him only that philosophy which might prevent, not defend his errors. Jae. Faith, begging your honour's pardon, I'm sorry they taught him any philosophy at all ; it has only serv'd to spoil him. This same philosophy is a good horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on a journey. For my own part, whenever I hear liim mention the name on't, I'm always sure he's going to play the fool. Sir WiL. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his philosophy, I entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good-nature arises rather from his fears of offending the importunate, than his desire of making the deserving happy. Jae. What it rises from, I don't know. But, to be sm-e, every body has it, that asks it. Sir WiL. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have been now for some time a concealed spectator of his follies, and find them as boundless as his dissipation. Jae. And yet, faith, he has some fine name or other for them all. He calls his extravagance, generosity : and his trusting every body, imiversal benevo- lence. It was but last week he went security for a fellow whose face he scarce knew, and that he called an act of exalted mu — mu — mimificence j ay, that was the name he gave it. Sir WiL. And upon that I proceed, as my last efiort, though with very little hopes to reclaim him. That very fellow' has just absconded, and I have taken up the security. Now, my intention is to involve him in fictitious distress, before he has plunged himself into real calamity. To arrest him for that very debt, to clap an oliicer upon him, and then let him see which of his friends will come to his relief. Jae. Well, if I could but any way see him thoroughly vexed, every groan of his would be music to me ; yet, faith, I believe it impossible. I have tried to fret him myself every morning these three years ; but, instead of being angry, he sits as calmly to hear me scold, as he does to his hair-dresser. Sir WiL. We must try him once more, however, and I'll go this instant to put my scheme into execution : and I don't despair of succeeding, as, by your means, I can have frequent opportunities of being about him, without being known. What a pity it is, Jarvis, that any man's good- will to others should produce so much neglect of himself, as to require correction ! Yet, we must touch his weaknesses with a delicate hand. There are some faults so nearly allied to excelknce, that we can scarce weed out tlue vice without eradicating the virtue. \_Exit, THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 85 Jar. Well, go tliy ways, Sir William Honeywood. It is not without reason that the world allows thee to be the best of men. But here comes his hopeful nephew; the strange good-natur'd, foolish, open-hearted — And yet, all his faults are such that one Iotcs him still the better for them. Enter Honeywood. Hon. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my friends this morning ? Jar. You have no friends. Hon. Well ; from my acquaintance then ? Jar. {Fulling out bills.) A few of our usual cards of compliment, that's all. This bill from your tailor : this from your mercer : and this from the little broker in Crooked-lane. He says he has been at a great deal of trovible to get back the money you borrowed. Hon. That I don't know : but I'm sure we were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to lend it. Jar. He has lost all patience. Hon. Then he has lost a vei-y good thing. Jar. There's that ten guineas you were sending to the poor gentleman and his children in the Fleet. I believe that would stop his mouth, for a while at least. Hon. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their mouths in the mean time ? Must I be cruel because he happens to be importunate ; and, to relieve his avarice, leave them to insupportable distress ? Jar. 'Sdcath ! Sir, the question now is how to relieve yourself. Yourself — liav'n't I reason to be out of my senses, when I see things going at sixes and sevens ? Hon. Wliatever reason you may have for being out of your senses, I hope you '11 allow that I'm not quite unreasonable for continuing in mine. Jar. You're the only man alive in your present situation that could do so — Every thing upon the waste. There's Miss Richland and her fine fortune gone already, and upon the point of being given to your rival. Hon. I 'm no man's rival. Jar. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disinherit you ; your own fortune almost spent ; and notxiing but pressing creditors, false friends, and a pack of drunken servants that your kindness has made unfit for any other family. Hon. Then they have the more occasion for being in mine. Jar. Soli! What will you have done with him that I caught stealing your plate in the pantry ? In the fact ; I caught him in the fact. Hon. In the fact ? If so, I really think that we should pay him his wages and turn him off. Jar. He shall be turn'd off at Tyburn, the dog : we '11 hang him, if it be only to frighten the rest of the family. Hon. No, Jarvis : it 's enough that we have lost what he has stolen, let us not add to it the loss of a fcllow-creatm-e ! Jar. Very fine ; well, here was the footman just now, to complain of the butler ; he says he does most work, and ought to have most wages. Hon. That's but just j though perhaps here comes the butler to complain of the footman. Jar. Ay, it's the way with them all, from the scullion to the privy-counsellox'. If they have a bad master they keep quarrelling with hixn j if they have a good master, they keep quarrelling with one another. Enter Butler, drun7c. But. Sir, I'll not stay in the family with Jonathan; you must part with him, or part with me, that's the cx-ex-exposition of the matter, sir. Hon. Full and explicit enough. But what 's his fault, good Philip ? 86 THE WOIiKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. But. Sir, lie's given to drinking, sir, and I sliall have niy morals corrupted, by keeping sucli company. Hon. Ha! ha! He has such a diverting way — Jau. O, quite amusing. But. I fmd my wine 's a-going, sir ; and hquors don't go without mouths, sir; I hate a drunkard, sir. Hon. Well, uell, Philip, I '11 hear you upon that another time, so go to bed now. J.MJ, To bed! Let him go to the devih But. Bogging yoiir honour's pardon, and begging your pardon, master Jarvis, I '11 not go to bed, nor to the devil neither. I have enough to do to mind my cellar. I forgot, your honour, Mr. Croaker is below. I came ou purpose to tell you. Hon. Why didn't you shew him up, blockhead ? But. Shew him up, sir ! With all my heart, sir. Up or down, all 's one to me. ^ lExit. Jar. Ay, we have one or other of that family in this house from morning till night. He comes on the old affair, I suppose. The match between his son that's just return'd from Paris, and Miss Kiehlaud, the young lady he's guardian to. Hon. Perhaps so. Mr. Croaker, knowing my friendship for the young lady, has got it into his head that I can persuade her to what 1 please. Jab. Ah ! if you loved yourself but half as well as she loves you, we should soon see a marriage that would set all things to rights again. Hon. Love me ! Sure, Jarvis, you dream. !N"o, no ; her intimacy with me never amounted to more than friendship — mere friendship. That she is the most lovely woman that ever warm'd the human heart with desire, I own. But never let me harbour a thought of making her imhappy, by a connection with one so uuAvorthy her merits as I am. jS^o, Jarvis, it shall be my study to serve her, even in spite of my wishes ; and to secure her happiness, though it destroys my own. Jae. Was ever the like ! I want patience. Hon. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain Miss Richland's consent, do you think I could succeed with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker his wife ; wlio, though both very fine in their way, are yet a little opposite in their dis- positions, you know. Jar. Opposite enough, heaven knows ; the very reverse of each other ; she all laugh and no joke ; he always complaining and never sorrowful ; a fretful j)Oor soul that has a new distress for every hour in the four and twenty — Hon. Hush, hush, he 's coming up, he '11 hear you. Jar. One whose voice is a passing-bell — Hon. Well, well, go, do. Jar. a raven that bodes nothing but mischief; a coffin and cross bones ; a bundle of rue ; a s^Drig of deadly nightshade; a—{Honei/wood, stopping his mouth, at last pushes him off.) [Exit Jarvis. Hon. I must own, my old monitor is not entirely wrong. There is some- thing in my friend Croaker's conversation that quite depresses me. His very mirLh is an antidote to all gaiety, and his appearance has a stronger effect on my spirits than an undertaker's shop.— Mr. Croaker, this is such a satisfaction — E7iter Croaker. Ceo. a pleasant morning to Mr. Honey wood, and many of them. How is this ! you look most shockingly to-day, my dear friend. I hope this weather does not affect your spirits. To be sure, if this weather continues — I say nothing — But God send we be all better this day three months. THE GOOD-NATUKD MAN. 87 Hon. I heartily concur in the wish, though, I own, not in your appre- hensions. Ceo. May be not! indeed what signifies what weather we have in a country going to ruin like ours ? Taxes rising, and trade falhng. Money flying out of the kingdom, and Jesuits swarming into it. I know at this time no less than an hundred and twenty-seven Jcsviits between Charing-cross and Temple-bar. Hon. The Jesuits will scarce pervert you or me, I should hope. Ceo. May be not. Indeed what signifies whom they pervert in a country that has scarce any religion to lose ? I 'm only afraid for our wives and daughters. Hon. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, I assure you. Ceo. May be not. Indeed what signifies whether they be perverted or no ? the women in my time were good for something, I have seen a lady drest from top to toe in her own manufactures formerly. But now-a-days the devil a thing of their own manufacture 's about them, except their faces. Hon. But, however these faults may be practised abroad, you don't find them at home, either with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, or Miss Eichland. Ceo. The best of tliem will never bo canoniz'd for a saint when she *s dead. By the bye, my dear friend, I don't find this match between Miss Richland and my son miTch relish'd, eitlier by one side or t' other. Hon. I thought otherwise. Ceo. Ah, Mr. Iloneywood, a little of your fine serious advice to the young lady might go far : I know she has a very exalted opinion of your under- standing. Hon. But would not that be usurping an authority that more properly belongs to yourself? Ceo. My dear friend, you know but lillle of my authority at home. People think, indeed, because they see me come out in a morning thus, with a pleasant face, and to make my friends merry, that all 's well within. But I have cares that would break an heart of stone. My wife has so encroached upon every one of my privileges, that I 'm now no more than a mere lodger in my own house. Hon. But a little spirit exerted on your side might perhaps restore your autliority. Ceo. No, though I had the spirit of a lion ! I do rouse sometimes. But what then ? always haggling and haggling. A man is tired of getting the better before his wife is tired of losing the victory. Hon. It 's a melancholy consideration indeed, that oiu' chief comforts often produce our greatest anxieties, and that an increase of our possessions is but an inlet to new disquietudes. Ceo. Ah, my dear friend, these were the very words of poor Dick Doleful to me not a week before he made away with himself. Indeed, Mr. Iloneywood, I never see you but you put me in mind of pooi* — Dick. Ah, there was merit neglected for you ! and so true a friend ; we lov'd each other for thirty years, and yet he never asked me to lend him a single farthing. Hon. Pray what coidd induce him to commit so rash an action at last ? Ceo. I don't know ; some people were malicious enougli to say it was keeping company with me ; because we used to meet now and then and open our hearts to each other. To be sure I loved to hear him talk, and he loved to hear me talk ; poor dear Dick. He us'd to say that Croaker rhim'd to joker ; and so we us'd to laugh — Poor Dick. \_Going to cry. Hon. His fate aficcts mo. Ceo. Ay, he grew sick of this miserable Hfe, where we do nothing but eat and grow hungry, dress and undress, get up and lie down ; while reason, that should watch like a nurse by our side, falls as fast asleep as we do. 88 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Hon. To say truth, if wo compare that part of life which is to come, by that which we have pass'd, the prospect is hideous. Ceo. Life at the greatest and best is but a froward child, that must be humour* d and coax'd a little till it falls asleep, and then all the care is over. Hon. Very true, sir, nothing can exceed the vanity of our existence, but the folly of our pursuits. We wept when we came into the world, and every day tells us wliy. Ceo. Ah, my dear friend, it is a perfect satisfaction to be miserable with you. My son Leontine shan't lose the benefit of such fine conversation. I '11 just step home for him. I am willing to shew him so much seriousness in one scarce older than himself — And what if I bring my last letter to the Gazetteer on the increase and progi'css of earthquakes ? It will amuse us, I promise you. I there prove how the late earthquake is coming round to pay us another visit from London to Lisbon, from Lisbon to the Canary Islands, from the Canary Islands to Palmyra, from Pahnyra to Constantinople, and so from Constan- tinople back to London again. [Exit. Hon. Poor Croaker ! his situation deserves the utmost pity. I shall scarce recover my spirits these three days. Sure to live upon such terms is worse than death itself. And yet, when I consider my own situation, a broken fortune, an hopeless passion, friends in distress ; the wish but not the power to serve them {pausing and sighing.) Enter Butleb. But. More company below, sir : Mrs. Croaker and Miss Richland j shall I shew them up ? but they 're showing up themselves. [Exit. Enter Mrs. Ceoakee and Miss EiCHLAND. Miss Rich. You 're always in sucli spirits. Mrs. Ceo. We have just come, my dear Honeywood, from the auction. There was the old deaf dowager, as usual, bidding like a fury against herself. And then so curious in antiques ! herself the most genuine x)iece of antiquity in the whole collection. Hon. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasiness from friendship makes me unfit to share in this good humour : I know you '11 pardon me. Mrs. Ceo. I vow he seems as melancholy as if he had taken a dose of my husband this morning. Well, if Richland here can pardon you, I must. Miss Rick. You would seem to insinuate, Madam, that I have particular reasons for being disposed to refuse it. Mrs. Ceo. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, don't bo so ready to wish an explanation. Miss Rich. I own I should be sorry, if Mr. Iloneywood's long friendship and mine should be misunderstood. Hon. Therp 's no answering for others. Madam. But I hope you '11 never find me presuming to ofier more than the most delicate friendship may readily allow. Miss Rich. And I shall be prouder of such a tribute from you than the most passionate professions from others. Hon. My own sentiments, Madam : friendship is a disinterested commerce between equals j love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves. Miss Rich. And, without a compliment, I know none more disinterested, or more capable of friendship than Mr. Honeywood. Mrs. Ceo. And, indeed, I know nobody that has more friends, at least among the ladies. Miss Fruzz, Miss Odbody, and Miss Winterbottom, praise him in all companies. As for Miss Biddy Bundle, she is his professed admirer. Miss Rich, Indeed ! an admirer ! I did not know. Sir, yoi; weye smoli THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 89 a favourite there. But is slie seriously so handsome ? Is she the mighty thing talked of ? Hon. The town, Madam, seldom begins to praise a lady's beauty, till she 's beginning to lose it, {^Smiling.) Mrs. Ceo. But she 's resolved never to lose it, it seems. For, as her natural face decays, her skill improves in making the artificial one. Well, nothing diverts me more than one of those fine, old, dressy things, who thinks to conceal her age, by every where exposing her person ; sticking herself up in the front of a side-box : trailing through a minuet at Almack's ; and then, in the public gardens, looking for all the world like one of the painted ruins of the place. Iloif. Every age has its admirers, ladies. Wliile you, perhaps, are trading among the warmer climates of youth ; there ought to be some to carry on an useful commerce in the frozen latitudes beyond fifty. Miss Rich. But, then, the mortifications they must sufier before they can be fitted out for traffic. I have seen one of them fret a whole morning at her hair-dresser, when all the fault was her face. Hon. And yet, I '11 engage, has carried that face at last to a very good market. This good-natured town. Madam, has husbands, like spectacles, to fit every age, from fifteen to fourscore. Mrs. CiiO. Well, you're a dear good-natur'd creature. But you know you're engaged witli us this morning upon a strolling party. I want to show Olivia the town, and the things ; I believe I shall have business for you for the whole day. Hon. I am sorry. Madam, I have an appointment with Mr. Croaker, which it is impossible to put ofi*. Mrs. Ceo. What! with my husband ! then I 'm resolved to take no refusal. Nay, I protest you must. You know I never laugh so much as with you. if ON. Wliy, if I must, I must. I '11 swear you have put me into such spirits. Well, do you find jest, and I '11 find laugh, I promise you. We'll wait for the chariot in the next room. [Exeunt. Enter Leontine and OLIVIA. Leon. There they go, thoughtless and happy. My dearest Olivia, what would I give to see you capable of sharing in their amusements, and as cheerful as they are ! Oliv. How, my Leontine, how can I be cheerful, when I have so many terrors to oppress me ? The fear of being detected by tliis family, and the apprehensions of a censuring world, when I must be detected — ■ Leon. The world! my love, what can it say? At worst it can only say that, being compelled by a mercenary guardian to embrace a life you disliked, you formed a resolution of flying with the man of your choice ; that you confided in liis honour, and took refuge in my father's house j the only one where your's covild remain without censure. Oliv. But consider, Leontine, your disobedience and my indiscx'ction : your being sent to France to bring home a sister ; and, instead of a sister, bringing home Leon. One dearer than a thousand sisters. One that I am convinced will be equally dear to the rest of the family, when she comes to be known. Oliv. And that, I fear, will shortly be. Leon. Impossible, 'till we ourselves think proper to make the discovery. My sister, you know, has been with lior aunt, at Lyons, since she was a cliild, and you find every creatui'e in the family takes you for her. Oliv. But anayn't she write, mayn't her aunt write ? [to me. Leon. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all my sister's letters are directed eO THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Oliv. But won't your refusing Miss Richland, for whom you know the old gentleman intends you, create a suspicion ? Leon. There, there's my master-stroke. I have resolved not to refuse herj nay, an hour hence I have consented to go with my father, to make her an oiler of my heart and fortune. Oliv. Your heart and fortune! I;EON. Don't be alarm' d, my dearest. Can Olivia think so meanly of my honom', or my love, as to suppose I could ever hope for happiness from any but her ? No, my Olivia, neither the force, nor, permit me to add, the delif^acy of my passion, leave any room to suspect me. I only oITer Miss Eicliland an heart I am convinc'd she will refuse ; as I am confident, that, without knowing it, her affections are fixed upon Mr. Honeywood. Oliv. Mr. Honeywood ! You '11 excuse my apprehensions : but when your merits come to be put in the balance — Leon. You view them with too much partiality. ITowever, by making this offer, I show a seeming compliance with my father's command j and perhaps, upon her rel'usal, I may have his consent to choose for myself. Oliv. Well, I submit. And yet, my Leontine, I own, I shall envy her even your pretended addresses. I consider every look, every expression of your esteem, as due only to me. This is folly perhaps : I allow it : but it is natural to suppose, that merit which has made an impression on one's own heart, may be powerful over that of another. Leon. Don't, my life's treasure, don't lot us make imaginary evils, when you know we have so many real ones to encounter. At worst, you know, if Miss Richland should consent, or my father refuse his pardon, it can but end in a trip to Scotland : and — _, , ^ ^ Enter Croaker. Cro. Where have you been, boy ? I have been seeking you. My friend Honeywood here, has been saying such comfortable things. Ah ! he's an ex- ample indeed. Where is he ? I left liim here. Leon. Sir, I believe 3'ou may see him, and hear him too in the next room: he's preparing to go out with the ladies. Clio. Grood gracious, can I believe my eyes or my ears ! I'm struck dumb with his vivacity, and stunn'd with the loudness of his laugh. Was there ever such a transformation! (a laugh hehind the scenes, Croaker mimics it). Ha ! ha ! ha ! there it goes : a plague take their balderdash ; yet I could ex- pect nothing less, when my precious wife was of the party. On my conscience, ! I believe she could spread an horse-laugh through the pews of a tabernacle. Leon. Since you find so many objections to a wife, Sir, how can you be so earnest in recommending one to me ? Cbo. I have told you, and tell you again, boy, that Miss Richland's fortune j must not go out of the family j one may find comfort in the money, whatever I one does in the wife. j Leon. But, Sir, though in obedience to your desire, I am ready to marry j her ; it may be possible, she has no inclination to me. I Ceo. I'll tell you once for all how it stands. A good part of Miss Rich- j land's large fortune consists in a claim upon government, Avhich my good j friend, Mr. Lofty, assures me the Treasury will allow. One half of this she is to forfeit, by her father's will, in case she refuses to marry you. So, if she rejects you, we seize half her fortune j if she accepts you, we seize the whole, ! and a fine girl into the bargain. Leon. But, Sir, if you will but listen to reason Ceo. Come, then, produce your reasons. I tell you I'm fix'd, determined, BO now produce your reasons. When I'm determined, I always listen to reason, because it can then do uo harm. THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 91 Leon. You have alleged that a mutual ch.oice was tlie first requisite in matrimonial happiness. Ceo. Well, and you have both of you a mutual choice. She has her choice — to marry you, or lose half her fortune ; and you have your choice — to marry her, or pack out of doors without any fortune at all. Leon. An only son, Sir, might expect more indulgence. Ceo. An only father, Sir, might expect more obedience ; besides, has not your sister here, that never disobliged me in her life, as good a right as you ? He's a sad dog, Livy my dear, and would take all from you. But he shan't, I tell you he shan't, for you shall have your share. Olivia. Dear Six', I wish you'd be convinc'd that I can never be happy in any addition to my fortune, which is taken from his. Ceo. Well, well, it 's a good child, so say no more ; but come with mo, and we shall see something that will give us a great deal of pleasure, I pro- mise you ; old Kuggins, the curry-comb maker, lying in state ; I'm told he makes a very handsome corpse, and becomes his coffin prodigiously. He was an intimate friend of miiie, and these arc friendly things we ought to do for each other. [Eaeunt. ACT IL Scene, Ceoakee's House. Miss EicnLiND G-aenet. Miss EiCH. Olivia not his sister ? Olivia not Leontine's sister ? You amaze me ! GrAE. No more his sister than I am j I had it all from his own servant ; I can get any thing from that quarter. Miss Eicn. But how? Tell me again, Garnet. Gae. Why, Madam, as I told you before, instead of going to Lyons, to bring home his sister, who has been there with her aunt tliese ten years ; he never went further than Paris : there he saw and fell in love with this young lady, by-the-bj^e, of a prodigious family. Miss Ricn. And brought her home to my guardian, as his daughter ? Gae, Yes, and his daughter she will be. If he don't consent to their mar- ringe, they talk of trying what a Scotcli parson can do. Miss Ricn. Well, I own they have deceived me — And so demurely as Olivia carried it too! — Would you believe it. Garnet, I told her all my secrets; and yet the sly cheat concealed all this from me ? Gae. And, upon my word. Madam, I don't much blame her : she was loth to trust one with her secrets, that Avas so very bad at keeping her own. Miss KiciT. But, to add to their deceit, the young gentleman, it seems, pre- tends to make me serious proposals. My guardian and he are to be here pre- sently, to open the affair in form. You know I am to lose half my fortune if I refuse him. Gae. Yet, what can you do ? For being, as you are, in love with Mr. Iloncywood, Madam — Miss Rick. How ! idiot ; what do you mean ? In love with Mr. Honey- wood! Is this to provoke me ? Gae. That is. Madam, in friendship with him ; I meant nothing more than friendship, as I hope to be married ; nothing more. Miss Ricu. 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 re- fusal at last upon them. 92 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. G-AR. Deliciovis! and that will secure your wliole fortune to yourself. Well, wlio could have thought, so innocent a face could cover so much 'cuteness ! Miss EiCH. Why, girl, I only oppose my prudence to their cunning and practise a lesson they have taught me against themselves. Gae. Then you're likely not long to want employment, for here they come, and in close conference. Enter Ceoakee, Leontine. Leon. Excuse me, Sir, if I seem to hesitate upon the point of putting to the lady so important a question. Ceo. 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 half or the whole. Come, let me see with what spirit you begin ? Well, why don't you! Eh ! What ? Well then — I must, it seems — Miss Richland, my dear, I be- lieve you guess at our business ; an affair which mj son here comes to open, that nearly concerns your happiness. Miss Ricn. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to be pleased with any thing that comes recommended by you. Cuo. 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 — ^liem — of explaining an affair — which — himself — can best explain, Madam. Ceo. 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 sliall deliver. Cro. My mind misgives me, the fellow will never be brought on {Aside.) In short. Madam, you see before you one that loves you ; one whose whole happiness is all in you. Miss Rich. I never had any doubts of your regard. Sir j and I hope you can have none of my duty. Ceo. That's not the thing, my little sweeting ; my love ! No, no, another guess lover than I ; there he stands. Madam, his very looks declare the force of his passion — Call up a look, you dog {Aside). But then, had you seen him as I have, weeping, speaking soliloquies and blank verse, sometiiues melancholy, and sometimes absent — Miss-Ricn. I fear. Sir, he's absent now ; or such a declaration would have come most properly from himself Ceo. Himself! Itladam, he would die before he could make such a confes- sion ; and if he had not a channel for his passion through me, it would ere now have drowned his understanding. Miss Rich. I must grant, Sir, tliere are attractions in modest diffidence above the force of words. A silent address is the genuine eloquence of sincerity. Ceo. 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 veiy powerfully in his favour. And yet I shall be thought too forward in making such a contession : shan't I, Mr. Leontine ? Leon. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. But if modesty attracts liei', impudence may disgust her. I'll try. {Aside). Don't imagine from my silence, Madam, that I want a due sense of the honour and happiness intended me. My father. Madam, tells me, your humble servant is not totally indiffer- ent to you. He admires you ; I adore you ; and when we coiue together, upon my soul I believe we shall bo tlie happiest couple in all St. James's. THE QOOi)-NJTUR'i) MAN. 93 Miss Bicn. If I could flatter myself, you thought as you speak, Sir — Leon. Doubt my siucerity, Madam ? By yoiu- dear self I swear. Ask tlic brarc, if they desire glory ? ask cowards, if tlicy coTet safety Ceo. Well, well, no more questions about it. Leon. Ask the sick, if they long for health? ask misers if they lore money? ask Ceo. Ask a fool, if they 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 ardovir almost compels me — forces me to comply. • And yet I 'm afraid he '11 despise a conquest gained with too much case : won't you, Mr. Lcontine ? Leon. Confusion ! (Jside.) Oh, by no means, Madam, by no means. And yet, Madam, you talked of force. There is nothing I would aroid so much as compulsion in a thing of this kind. No, Madam, I will still be generous, and leave you at liberty to refuse. Ceo. But I tell you. Sir, the lady is not at liberty. It 's a match. You gee she says nothing. Silence gives consent. Leon. But, Sir, she talked of force. Consider, Sir, the cruelty of con- straining her inclinations. Ceo. But I say there's no cruelty. Don't you know, blockhead, that girls have always a roundabout way of saying yes before company ? So get yovi both gone together into the next room, and hang him that interrupts the tender explanation. Get you gone, I say ; I '11 not hear a word. Leon. JBut, Sir, I must beg leave to insist Ceo. Get off, you puppy, or I '11 beg leave to insist upon knocking you doAvn. Stupid whelp : But I don't wonder, the boy takes entirely after his mother. [Exeunt Miss Bich. and Leon, Filter Mrs. Ceoaeee. Mrs. Ceo. Mr. Croaker, I bring you something, my dear, that I believe will make you smile. Ceo. I '11 hold you a guinea of that, my dear. Mrs. Ceo. A letter ; and, as I knew the hand, I ventur'd to open it. Ceo. And how can you expect your breaking open my letters should give me pleasm'e ? Mrs. Ceo. Poo, it 's from youi' sister at Lyons, and contains good news : read it. Ceo. What a Frenchified cover is here ! That sister of mine has some good qualities, but I could never teach her to fold a letter. Mrs. Cbo. Told a fiddlestick ! Bead what it contains. Ceoae:ee, reading. " Deae Nick, — An English gentleman, of large fortune, has for some time made private, though honourable proposals to your daughter Olivia. They love each other tenderly, and I find she has consented, without letting any of the family know, to crown his addresses. As such good offers don't come every day, your own good sense, his large fortune, and family considerations, will induce you to forgive her. "Yours, ever, " BachaeT) Ceoieee." My daughter Olivia, privately contracted to a man of large fortune ! Tliis is good news, indeed. My heart never foretold me of this. And yet, liow slily the little baggage has carried it since slie came home. Not a word on't to the old ones for the world. Yet I thought I saw something she wanted to conceal* 94 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Mrs. Ceo. Well, if they have conccal'd their amour, they shan't conceal their wedding ; that shall be public, I 'm resolved. Ceo. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the most foolish part of the ceremony. I can never get this woman to think of the more serious part of the nuptial engagement. Mrs. Ceo. What would you have me tl sink of their funeral? But come, tell me, my dear, don't you owe more to me than you care to confess? Would you ever have been knoAvn to Mr. Lofty, who has undertaken Miss Eichland's claim at the treasury, but for me ? Who was it first made him an acquaintance at Lady Shabbaroon's rout ? Who got him to promise us his interest ? Is not he a back-stairs favourite, one that can do what he pleases with those that do what they please ? Is not he an acquaintance that all your groaning ana lamentation could never have got us ? Ceo. He is a man of importance, I grant you. And yet, what amazes me is, that while he is giving away places to all the world, he can't get one for himself. Mrs. Ceo. That, perhaps, may be owing to his nicety. Great men are not easily satisfied. J Filter 'Fr-esck Seryant. See. An express from Monsieur Lofty. He vil be vait upon your honour's instrammant. He be only giving four five instruction, read two three memo- rial, call upon von ambassadeur. He vil be vid you in one tree minutes. Mrs. Ceo. You see now, my dear. What an extensive department ! Well, friend, let your master knov.-, that we are extremely honoured by this honour. Was there anything ever in a higher style of breeding! All messages among the great are now done by express. Ceo. To be sure, no man does little things with more solemnity, or claims more respect, than he. But ho 's in the right on 't. In our bad world, respect is given where respect is claim'd.. Mrs. Ceo. Never mind the world, my dear : you were never in a pleasantcr place in your life. Let us now think of receiving him with proj)er respect — (A loud rapping at the door) and there he is, by the thundering raio. Ceo. Ay, verily, there he is ! as close upon the heels of his own express, as an endorsement upon the back of a bill. Well, I '11 leave you to receive him, whilst I go to chide my little Olivia for intending to steal a marriage without mine, or her aunt's consent. I must seem to be angry, or she too may begin to despise my authority. [_Exit. Enter Lofty, speaJcing to Ms Servant. LoP. "And if the "Venetian Ambassador, or that teazing creature the Marquis, should call, I'm not at home. Pam'me, I '11 be pack-horse to none of them." My dear Madam, I have just snatched a moment — "And if tlio expresses to his G-race be ready, let them be sent off; they 're of importance." Madam, I ask a thousand pardons. Mrs. Ceo. Sir, this honour LoE. " And, Dubardieu ! if the person calls about the commission, let him know that it is made out. As for Lord Cumbercourt's stale request, it can keep cold ; you understand me." Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. Mrs. Ceo. Sir, this honom- LoE. " And, Dubardieu ! if the man comes from the Cornish borough, you must do him ; you must do him, I say." Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. " And if the Eussiaur-ambassador calls : but he will scarce caU to-day, I believe." And now. Madam, I have just got time to express my happiness in having the honour of being permitted to profess myself your most obedient humble servant. THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 95 Mrs. Cro. Sir, the liappiness and honour are all mine j and yet, I 'm only robbing the public wliile I detain you. Lor. Sink the public, Madam, when the fair are to be attended. Ah, could all my hours be so charmingly devoted ! Sincerely, don't you pity us poor creatures in affairs ? Thus it is eternally ; solicited for places here, teazed for pensions there, and coiu'ted eyerywhere. I know you pity me. Yes, I see you do. Mrs. Ceo. Excuse me, Sir. *' Toils of empires pleasures are," as Waller says. LoF. Waller, Waller ; is he of the house ? Mrs. Ceo. The modern poet of that name, Sir. LoF. Oh, a modern ! We men of business despise the moderns ; and as for the ancients we have no time to read them. Poetry is a pretty thing enough for om' wives and daughters ; but not for us. Wlay now, here I stand that know nothing of books. I say. Madam, I know nothing of books ; and yet, I believe upon a land-carriage fishery, a stamp act, or a jag-hire, I can talk my two hours without feeling the want of them. Mrs. Ceo. The world is no stranger to Mr. Lofty's eminence in every capacity. LoF. 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 arc pleased to represent me as a formidable man. I know they are pleased to bespatter me at all their httle dirty levees. Yet, upon my soul, I wonder what they see in me to treat me so ! Measures, not men, have always been my mark ; and I vow, by all that 's honourable, my resentment has never done the men, as more men, any manner of harm— that is, as mere men, Mrs. Cro. What importance, and yet what modesty! Lop. Oh, if you talk of modesty. Madam ! there I own, I 'm accessible to praise : modesty is my foible : it was so the Duke of Brentford used to say of mo. " I love Jack Lofty," he used to say : "no man has a finer knowledge of things ; quite a man of information ; and when he speaks upon his legs, by the Lord he 's prodigious, he scouts them i and yet all men have their faults j too much modesty is his," says his grace. Mrs. Clio. And yet, I dare say, you don't want assurance when you come to solicit for your friends. LoF. O, there indeed I'm in bronze. Apropos! I have just been men- tioning Miss Eichland's case to a certain personage; we must name no names. When I ask, I am not to be put off, Madam. No, no, I take my friend by the button. A fine girl. Sir ; great justice in her case. A friend of mine. Borough interest. Business must be done, Mr. Secretary. I say, Mr. Secretary, her business must be done, Sir. That 's my way, Madam. Mrs. Cro. Bless me! you said all this to the Secretary of State, did you? LoF. I did not say the secretary, did I ? WeU, curse it, since you have found me out, I will not deny it. It was. to the secretary. Mrs. Cro. This was going to the fountain-head at once, not applying to the understrappers, as Mr. Honeywood would have had us. LoF. Honeywood ! ho ! he ! He was, indeed, a fine solicitor, I suppose you have heard what has just happened to him ? Mrs. Cro. Poor dear man ; no accident, I hope, LoF. Undone, Madam, that 's all. His creditors have taken him into custody. A prisoner in his own house. Mrs, Cro, A prisoner in liis own house ? How ! At this very time ? I 'm quite unhappy for him. 1 96 THE tVORkS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Lop. Why so am I. The man, to be sm-e, was immensely good-natur'd. But then I could never find that he had anything in him. Mrs. Ceo. His manner, to be sure, was excessive harmless ; some, indeed, thought it a little dull. For my x^art, I always concealed my opinion. Lop. It can't be concealed, Madam ; the man was dull, dull as the last new comedy ! a poor impracticable creature ! I tried once or twice to know if he was fit for business ; but he had scarce talents to be groom-porter to an orange- baiTow. Mrs. Ceo. How dilFerently does Miss Richland think of him ! For, I beliere, with all his faults, she loves him. Lop. Loves him! Does she? Yon should cure her of that by all means. Let me see ; what if she were sent to him this instant, in his present doleful situation ? My life for it, that works her cure. Distress is a perfect antidote to love. Suppose we join her in the next room ? Miss Eichland is a fine girl, has a fine fortune, and must not be throAvn away. Upon my honour, Madam, I have a regard for Miss Richland ; and rather than she should be throAvn away, I should think it no indignity to marry her myself. [Exeunt. Enter Olivia and Leontine. Leon. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every reason to expect Miss Rich- land's refusal, as I did every thing in my power to deserve it. Her indelicacy surprises me. Oliv. Sure, Leontine, there 's nothing so indelicate in being sensible of your merit. If so, I fear I shall be the most guilty thing alive. Leok. 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? Oliy. Let us now rather consider what is to be done. We have both dis- sembled too long — I have always been ashamed — I am now quite weary of it. Sure, I could never have undergone so nivich for any other but yow. Leon. And you shall find my gratitude equal to your kindest compliance. Though our friends should totally forsake us, Olivia, we can draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune. Oliv. Then why should we defer our scheme of humble happiness, when it is now in our power ? I may be the favourite of your father, it is true ; but can it ever be thought, that his present kindness to a supposed child, will contmue to a known deceiver ? Leon. I have many reasons to believe it will. As his attachments are but few, they are lasting. His own marriage was a private one, as ours may be. Besides, I have sounded him already at a distance, and find all his answers exactly to our wish. Nay, by an expression or two that dropped from him, I am induced to think he knows of this affair. Oliv. Indeed ! But that would be an happiness too great to be expected. Leon. However it be, I 'm certain you have power over him ; and am per- suaded, 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. Leon. And that 's the best reason for trying another. Oliv. If it must be so, I submit. Leon. As we could wish, he comes this way. Now, my dearest Olivia, be resolute. I '11 just retire within hearing, to come in at a proper time, either to share your danger, or confirm your victory. \_ExLt. Enter Ceoakee. Ceo. Yes, I must forgive her j and yet not too easily, neither. It will bo THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN, 97 proper to keep iip the decorums of resentment a little, if it be only to impress her with an idea of my aiitliority. Oliv, How I treiublo to approach him ! — Might I presume, sir — If I interrupt you — Ceo. No, child, where I have an affection, it is not a littlo thing that can interrupt me. Affection gets over little things. Oliv. Sir, you 're too kind. I 'm sensible how ill I deserve this partiality. Yet, heaven knows, there is nothing I would not do to gain it. Ceo. And you have but too well succeeded, you little hussy, you. With those endearing ways of yours, on my conscience, I could be brought to forgive any thing, unless it were a very great offence indeed. Oliv. Eut mine is such an offence — When you know my guilt — Yes, you shall know it, though I feel the greatest pain in the confession. Ceo. Why then, if it be so very great a pain, you may spar* yourself the trouble ; for I know every syllable of the matter before you begin. Oliv. Indeed ! Then I 'm undone. Ceo. Ay, Miss, you wanted to steal a match, without letting me know it, did you ? But I 'm not worth being consulted, I suppose, when there 's to be a marriage in my own family. No, I 'm to have no hand in the disposal of my own children. No, I 'm nobody. I 'm to be a mere article of family lumber ; a piece of crack' d china to be stuck up in a corner. Oliv. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your authority could induce us to conceal it from you. Ceo. No, no, my consequence is no more ; I 'm as little minded as a dead Russian in winter, just stuck up with a pipe in its mouth till theije comes a thaw — It goes to my heart to vex her. \_Aside. Oliv. I was prepar'd, sir, for yovir anger, and despair'd of pardon, even wliilo I presum'd to ask it. But your severity shall never abate my affection, as my punishment is but justice. Ceo. And yet you should not despair neither, Livy. Wo 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. Ceo. 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, ti'ansport ! this kindness overpowers me. Ceo. 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 — Ceo. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin you ; but where 's the girl that won't dissemble for an 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. Leon. 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. Ceo. And, good sir, who sent for you, with that fine tragedy face, and flour- ishing manner ? I don't know what we have to do with your gi-atitudo upon tliis occasion. ^ 98 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Leon. How, sir ! Is it possible to be silent, when so much obliged ? Would TOti refuse me the plcasxu'e of being grateful ? of adding my thanks to my Olivia's ? of sharing in the transpoi'ts that you have thus occasioned ? Ceo. Lord, sir, we can be happy enough, without your coming in to make up the party. I don't know what 's the matter Avith the boy all this day ; he has got into sucli a rhodomontade manner all this morning ! Leon. But, sir, I that have so large a part in the benefit, is it not my duty to shew my joy ? is the being admitted to your favour so slight an obligation ? is the happiness of marrying my Olivia so small a blessing ? Clio. Marrying Olivia! mai'rying Olivia; marrying his own sister! Sure the boy is out of his senses. His own sister ! Leon. My sister ! Oliv. Sister ! How have I been mistaken ! \_Aside. Leon. Some curs'd mistake in all this I fhid ! [Aside. Clio. What does the booby mean ? or has he any meaning ? Eh, wliat do you mean, yoix blockhead you? Leon. Mean, Sir — why, Sir— only, when my sister is to be married, that I have the pleasure of marrying her, Sir, that is, of givmg her away, Sir — I have made a point of it. Clio. O, is that all ! Gl ive her away— You have made a point of it. Then you had as good make a point of first giving away yourself, as I'm going to prepare the writings between you and Miss Richland this very minute. What a fuss is here about nothing! Why wliat's the matter now? I thought I had made you at least as happy as you could wish. Oliv. O ! yes, Sir, very happy. Clio. Do you foresee any thing, child ? You look as if you did. I think if anything was to be foreseen, I have as sharp a look-out as* another : and yet I foresee nothing. lExiL Leontine, Olivia. Oliv. What can it mean ? Leon. He knows something, and yet for my life I can't tell what. Oliv. It can't be the connection between us, I'm pretty certain. Leon. Whatever it be, my dearest, I'm resolved to put it out of fortune's power to repeat our mortification. I'll haste and px'epare for our journey to Scotland this very evening. My friend Honeywood has promised me his advice and assistance. I'll go to him, and repose our distresses on his friendly bosom : and I know so much of his honest heart, that if he can't relieve our uneasiness, lig will at least share them. [Exeunt. ACT IIL Scene, Young Honeywood'^ House, Bailiff, Honeywood, Follower. Bail. Lcokey, Sir, I have arrested as good men as you in my time : no dispar- agement of you neither. Men that would go forty guineas on a game of crib- bage. I challenge the town to shew a man in more genteeler pr?x3tice than myself. Hon. Without all question, Mr. . I forget your name. Sir. Bail. How can you forget what you never knew ? he ! he ! he ! Hon. May I beg leave to ask your name ? Bail. Yes, you may. Hon. Then, pray, Sir, what is your name ? Bail. Tliat I didn't promise to tell you. He ! he ! he! A joke breaks no boues, as we say among us that practise the law. Hon. You may have reason for keeping it a secret, perhaps ? THE GOOD-NATUED MAN, 99 Bail. The law does nothing without reason. I'm ashamed to tell my name to no man, Sir. If you can shew cause, as why, upon a special capus, that I should prove my name — Bvit, come, Timothy Twitch is my name. And, now you know my name, what have you to say to that ? Hon. Nothing in the world, good Mr. Twitch, but that I have a favour to ask, that's all. Bail. Ay, favours are more easily asked than granted, as we say among its that practise the law. I have taken an oath against granting favours. Would you have me perjure myself? Hon. But my request will come recommended in so strong a manner, as, I believe, you'll have no scruple {pulling out his purse). The thing is only this : I believe I shall be able to discharge this trifle in two or three days at fartliest; but as I would not have the affair known for the world, I have thoughts of keeping you, and yovir good friend liere, about me till the debt is discharged ; for which I shall be properly grateful. Bail. Oh! that's another maxurn, and altogether within my oath. For certain, if an honest man is to get any thing by a thing, there's no reason why all things should not be done in civility. Hon. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr. Twitch ; and yours is a neces- eai'y one. (Gives him money.) Bail. Oh ! your honour ; I hope your honour takes nothing amiss as I does, as I docs nothing but my duty in so doing. I'm sure no man can say I ever give a gentleman, that was a gentleman, ill-usage. If I saw that a gentle- man was a gentleman, I have taken money not to see him for ten weeks together. Hon. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. Bal. Ay, Sir, it's a perfect treasui'e. I love to see a gentleman with a ten- der heart. I don't know, but I think I have a tender heai*t myself. If all that I have lost by my heart was put together, it would make a — but no mat- ter for that. Hon. 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 hmnanity ; but I'll shew you my hvimanity this moment. There's my follower here, little Flanigan, with a wife and four children, a guinea or two would be more to him, than twice as much to another. Now, as I can't shew him any humanity myself, I must beg leave you'll do it for me. Hon. I assm'c 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 sup- pose. But set in case company comes. — Little Flanigan here, to be sure, has a good face ; a very good face ; but then, lie is a little seedy, as we say among us that practise the law. Not well in clothes. Smoke the pocket-holes, Hon. Well, that shall be remedied withovit delay. Enter Seeyant. See. Sir, Miss Richland is below. Hon. How unlucky ! Detain her a moment. We must improve my good friend, little Mr. Flanigan's appearance first. Here, let Mr. Flanigan have a suit of my clothes — quick — the brown and silver— Do you hear ? See. That your honour gave away to the begging gentleman that makes verses, because it was as good as new. Hon. The white and gold then. ^:er. That, your honour, I made bold to sell, because it was good for nothing. 100 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Hon. Well, the first that conies to hand then. The blue and 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 hira. There's not a prettier scout in the four counties after a shy-cock than he : scents like a hound ; sticks like a weazle. He was master of the ceremonies to the black Queen of Morocco, when I took him to follow me. {Re-enter Flanigan.) Ileh, ecod, I think he looks so well, that I don't care if I have a siiit from the same place myself. Hon. Well, avcII, I hear the lady coming. Dear Mr. Twitch, I beg you'll give your friend directions not to speak. As for yourself, I know you will say nothing without being directed. Bail. Never you fear me ; I '11 shew the lady that I have something to say for myself as well as another. One man has one way of talking, and another man has another, that's all the difference between them. Enter Miss Richland and her Maid. Miss Rich. You'll be surpris'd, Sir, with this visit. But you know I'm yet to thank you for clioosing my little library. Hon. Tlianks, Madam, are imnecessary : as it was I that was obliged by your commands. Chairs here. Two of my very good friends. Mi*. Twitch and Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, sit without ceremony. Miss Rich. Who can these odd-lookuig men be ! I fear it is as I was in- formed. It must be so. (Aside.) Bail., after a pause. Pretty weather, very pretty weather for the time of the year, Madam. Fol. Very good circuit weather in the country. Hon. You oflicers ai'e generally favourites among the ladies. My friends, Madam, have been upon very disagreeable duty, I assure you. The fair should, in some measure, recompense the toils of the brave ! Miss Rich. Our officers do indeed deserve every favour. The gentlemen are in the marine service, I presume, Sir ? Hon. Why, Madam, they do — occasionally serve in the fleet, Madam. A dangerous service ! Miss Rich. I'm told so. And I own it has often surprised me, that while we have had so many instances of bravery there, we have had so few of wit at home to praise it. Hon. I grant. Madam, that our poets have not written as our soldiers have fought ; but they have done all they could, and Hawke or Amherst could do no more. Miss Rich. I'm quite displeased when I see a fine subject spoiledby a dull writer. Hon. We should not be so severe against dull writers, Madam. It is ten to one, but the dullest writer exceeds the most rigid French critic who presumes to despise him. Fol. Damn the French, the parle vous, and all that belongs to them. Miss Rich. Sir ! Hon. Ha, ha, ha ! honest Mr. Flanigaai. A true English officer. Madam ; he's not contented with beating the French, but he will scold them too. Miss Rich. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not convince me but that seve- rity in criticism is necessary. It Avas om\ first adopting the severity of Fi'ench taste, that has brought them in turn to taste us. Bail. Taste us! By the Lord, Madam, they devour us. Grive monseers but a taste, and I'll be damn'd but they come in for a bellyful. Miss Rich. Very extraordinary this ! Fol. Bat very true. What makes the bread rising? the parle vous that THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 101 devour u&. What makes the mutton five-pence a pound? the pavle vous that eat it up. What makes the beer threepence-halfpenny a pot ? Hon. Ah! the vulgar rogues; all will be out. {Aside.) Eight, gentlemen, very right, upon my word, and quite to the purpose. They draw a parallel. Madam, between the mental taste and that of our senses. We are ii^jured as much by the French severity in the one, as by French rapacity in the other. That's tlieir meaning. Miss EiCH. Though I don't see the force of the parallel, yet I'll own, that we should sometimes pardon books, as we do om* friends, that have now and then agreeable absui'dities to recommend them. Bail. That's all my eye. The King only can pardon, as the law says ; for set in case Hon. I'm quite of your opinion, Sir. I see the whole drift of your argu- ment. Yes, certainly, our presuming to pardon any work, is arrogating a power that belongs to another. If all have power to condemn, what writer can be free ? Bail. By his habus corpus. His liabus corpus can set him free at any time : for, set in case Hon. I'm oblig'd to you. Sir, for the hint. If, Madam, as my friend ob- serves, our laws are so careful, of a gentleman's person, sure we ought to be equally careful of his dearer part, liis fame. FoL. Ay, but if so be a man's nabb'd you know — Hon. Mr. Flanigan if you spoke for ever, you could not improve the last observation. For my own part I think it conclusive. BiiL. As for the matter of that, mayhap — Hon. Nay, Sir, give me leave in this instance to bo positive. For -vyhere Is the necessity of censuring works without genius, which must shortly sink of themselves ? what is it, but aiming our unnecessary blow against a victim ali'eady under the hands of justice ? Bail. Justice! O, by the elevens, if you talk about justice, I tliiuk I am at home there : for, in a course of law — Hon. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern what you'd be at perfectly ; and I be- lieve the lady must be sensible of the art with which it is introduced. I sup- pose you perceive the meaning, Madam, of his coui'se of law. Miss Rich. I protest. Sir, I do not. I perceive only that you answer one gentleman befoi'c he has finished, and the other before he has m'cII 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 tlio thing — Hon. O ! curse your explanations. \_Aside. Enter Servant. Seb. Mr., Leontine, Sir, below, desires to speak with you upon earnest business. Hon. 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. B.4.IL. Before and behind you know. FoL. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and behind. \_Exeimt Honey wood, BailiiF, and Follower. Miss Ricn. What can all this mean. Garnet ? Gar. Mean, Madam ! why, what should it mean, but what Mr. Lofty sent YOU here to see! These people he calls officers are officers sure enough: bIic riff's officers ; bailiffs, Madam. 102 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH Miss Rich. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though his perplexities are far from giving me pleasure, yet I OAvn there's something very ridiculous in them, and a just punishment for his dissimulation. G-Ai{. 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. Ejiter SiE William. For Miss Eichland to undertake setting him free, I own, was quite unex- pected. It has totally imhinged my schemes to reclaim him. Yet it gives me pleasvire 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 liope you'll excuse me, if before I enlarged him, I wanted to see yourself. Miss Rich. The precaution was very unnecessary, sir. I suppose your wants were only such as my agent had power to satisfy. Sir WiL. Partly, Madam. But I was also willing you should be fully apprised of tlie character of the gentleman you intended to serve. Miss Rich. It must come, sir, with a very ill gi-ace 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 impeacliing your own. And sure, his tenderness, his hmnaiiity, his universal friendship may atone for many faults. Sir WiL. "That friendship. Madam, which is exerted in too wide a splicre, becomes totally useless. Our bounty, like a drop of water, disappears when diffused too widely. They, who pretend most to this universal benevolence, arc cither 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 time been a concealed spectator of his follies, and only punished, in hopes to reclaim them — his urtele ! Miss Rich. Sir William Honeywood ? You amaze me. How shall I con- ceal my confusion ? I fear, sir, you '11 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 toe repay the obligation. And yet, I have been trying my interest of late to servt, you. Having learnt, Madam, that you had some demands upon Government I have, though unasked, been your solicitor there. Miss Rich. Sir, I 'm infinitely obliged to your intentions. But my guardian has 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 powei', and utterly unable to THE GOOB-NATVTCD MAN. 103 scrre you. Mr. Lofiy's promises are much better known to people of fasliion, than liis person, I assiu-e you. Miss Eicir. Fow liave we been deceived ! As sure as can be, here lie comes. Sir WiL. Does he ? Remember I 'm to continue unknown. My return to England has not as yet been made public. With what impudence he enters! Enter Lofty. Lop. Let the chariot — let my chariot drive off; I '11 visit to his Grace's in a chair. Miss Richland here before me! Punctual, as usual, to the calls of humanity. I'm very soriy, Madam, things of this kind should happen, especially to a man I have sheAvn every where, and cai-ried amongst us as a partictdar acquaintance. Miss Rich. I find, sir, you have the art of making the misfortunes of others your own. Lop. My dear Madam, what can a private man like me do ? One man can't do every tiling ; and then, I do so much in this way every day : let me see ; something considerable might be done lor him by subscription ; it could not fail if I carried the list. I '11 undertake to set down a brace of dukes, two dozen lords, and half the lower house, at my own peril. Sir WiL. And, after all, it's more than probable. Sir, he might reject the offer of such powerful pati'onage. LoF. Then, Madam, what can we do ? You know I never make promises. J\\ truth, I once or twice tried to do something with him in tlie 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 particular friend of yours. LoF. Meaning me. Sir ? — Yes, Madam, as I often said, my dear Sir William, you are sensible I would do any thing, as far as my poor interest goes, to serve your family : but what can be done ? there 's no procuring first-rate places for ninth-rate abilities. ]\Iiss Rich. I have heard of Sir "William HoneyAvood ; he 's abroad in cmplo3anent: he confided in your judgment, I suppose. LoF. Why, yes, Madam, I believe Sir William had some reason to confide in my judgment ; one little reason, perhaps. Miss Rich. Pray, sir, what was it ? LoF. Why, Madam — but let it go no farther — it was I procured him his place. Sir WiL. Did you, Sir ? LoF. Either you or I, Sir. Miss Rich. This, Mr. Lofly, was very kind indeed. LoF. I did love him, to be sure : lie had some amusing qualities ; no man was fitter to be a toast-master to a club, or had a better head. Miss Rich. A better head ? LoF. 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. LoF, 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. LoF. Ay, tall enough for a marching regiment ; but then lie wanted a some- thing— a consequence of form — a kind of a — I believe the lady perceives my meaning. 104, THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Miss Rich. O, perfectly : you courtiers can clo any thing, I see. Lo¥. My dear Madam, all tliis is but a mere exchange : tvc do greater things for one another every day. Why, as thus, now : let me suppose you the First Lord of the Treasury ; you have an employment in you that I want ; I have a place in me that you want ; do me here, do you there : interest of both sides, few words, flat, done and done, and it's over. Sir WiL. A thought strikes me. (Aside.) Now you mention Sir William IIoneyAvood, Madam ; and as he seems, sir, an acquaintance of yoixrs ; you '11 be glad to hear he 's arriv'd from Italy ; I had it from a friend who knows him as well as he docs me, and you may depend on my information. Lor. The devil he is ! If I had known that, we should not have been quite 60 Avell acquainted. [^Aside. Sir WiL. Ho is certainly return'd ; and, as this gentleman is a friend of yours, he can be of signal service to us, by introducing me to him ; there are some papers relative to your alTairs, that require dispatch and his inspection. Miss Eicn. This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a person employed in my alfairs : I know you '11 serve us. LoF, 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. LoF. Well, we must introduce you then. Call upon me — let me see — ay, in two days. Sir WiL. Now, or the opportunily will be lost for ever. LoF. Well, if it must be now, now let it be. But damn it, that 's unfor- tunate ; my Lord G-rig's cursed Pensacola business comes on this very hoiu', and I 'm engaged to attend — another time Sir WiL. A short letter to Sir William will do. LoF. You shall have it ; yet, in my opinion, a letter is a very bad way of going to work ; face to face, that's my way. Sir WiL. The letter. Sir, will do quite as well. LoF. Zounds ! Sir, do you pretend to direct me ? direct me in the business of office ? Do you know me, Sir ? who am I ? Miss E-ICH. l)ear Mr. Lofty, this request is not so much his as mine ; if my commands — but you despise my poAver. LoF. Delicate creature ! your commands could even control a debate at mid- night : to a power so constitutional, I am all obedience and tranquillity. Ho 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. [2:' I did hear him say, a little snubbing, before marriage, would teach you to bear it the better afterwards. Liv. To be gone a full hour, though he had only to get a bill changed in the city ! How provoking ! GrAR. I '11 lay my life, Mr. Leontine, that had twice as much to do, is setting off by this time fi'om 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 ? G-Ait. Not a stick. Madam — all 's here. Yet I wish you could take the white and silver to be married in. It 's the worst luck in the world, in any thing but white. I knew one Bett Stubbs, of our town, that was married in red ; and, as sure as eggs is eggs, tlie bridegi'oom and she had a miff before moraing. Oliv. No matter. I 'm all impatience till we are out of the house. GrAK. Bless me. Madam, I had almost forgot the wedding ring ! — The sweet little thing — I don't think it would go on my little finger. And what if I put in a gentleman's night-cap, in case of necessity, Madam? But here's Jarvis. Enter Jarvis. Oliv. O Jarvis, are you come at last ? We have been ready this half hour. Now let 's be going. Let us fly ! Jab. Ay, to Jericho ; for we shall have no going to Scotland this bout, I Ainoy. Oliv. How ! what 's the matter ? Jar. Money, money, is tlie 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 tlie city is not worth a rush. Here it is ; Mrs. Garnet may pin up her hair with it. Oliv. Undone ! How could Honey wood serve us so ! What shall we do ? Can't we go without it ? Jar. Go to Scotland without money! To Scotland without money! Lord, how some people understand geography! We might as well set sail for Patagonia upon a cork jacket. Oliv. Such a disappointment ! What a base insincere man was your master, to serve us in this manner! Is this his good-natm*e ? Jar. Nay, don't talk ill of my master, Madam. I won't bear to hear any body talk ill of him but myself. G-AR. Bless us ! now I think on't, Madam, you need not be under any 108 THE WORKS OF OLlVEU GOLDSMITH. uneasiness : I saw Mr. Leontine receive forty guineas from his fatlicr jnst before lie set out, and he can't jet hare left the inn. A short letter will reach him there. Oliy. Well rcmcmbcr'd, Garnet ; I 'D write immediately. How 's this ! Bless me, my hand trembles so, I can't write a word. Do you write, Garnet ; and, upon second tliought, it will be better from you. Gah. Truly, Madam, I write and indite but poorly. I nerer was kute at my learning. But I '11 do what I can to please you. Let me see. All out of my own head, I suppose ? Oliv. Whatever you please. Gae. ( JVriiing.) Muster Croaker — twenty guineas, Madam ? Oliv. Aj, twenty will do. Gae. At the bar of the Talbot till call'd for. Expedition— Will be blown uj) — All of a flame— Quick dispatch — Cupid, the little god of love — I conclude it, Madam, with Cupid : I love to see a love-letter end like poetry. Oliv. Well, well, what you please, anything. But how shall we send it? I can trust none of the servants of this family. Gar. Odso, Madam, Mr. Ilonoywood's butler is in tlie next room : he's a dear, sweet man ; he '11 do any thing for me. Jar. He ! the dog, he '11 certainly commit some blunder. He's drunk and sober ten times a day. Oliv. No matter. Fly Garnet ; any body we can trust will do. \_Exit Garnet.] Well, Jarvis, now we can have nothing more to interrupt \is. You may take up the things, and carry them on to the inn. Have you no hands, Jarvis ? Jar. Soft and fair, young lady. You, that are going to bo married, think things can never bo done too fast : but we, that are old, and know what we are about, must eloj)o methodically. Madam. Oliv. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to be done over again Jar. 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 Jar. Very unhappy, no doiibt : I was once just as unhappy when I was going to be married myself. I '11 tell you a story about tliat Oliv. A story ! when I'm all impatience to be away. Was there ever such a dilatory creature Jar. Well, Madam, if wc must march, why we will march ; thafs all. Though, odds bobs, we have still forgot one thing we should never travel with- out — 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. \_Gowg. Enter Garnet. Gar. Undone, undone. Madam. Ah, Mr. Jarvis, you said right enough. As sui'e as death, Mr. Honeywood's rogue of a drunken butler dropp'd the letter before he went ten yards from the door. There's old Croaker has just pick'd it up, and is this moment reading it to himself in the haU. Oliv. Unfortvmate ! Wc shall be discovered. G-AE. No, Madam : don't be uneasy, he caji make neither head nor tail of it. To be sure he looks as if he was broke loose from Bedlam about it, but he can't find what it means for all that. O lud, he is coming this way all in the 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 an- other. \_Exeunt. Enter Croaker. Ceo. Death and destruction ! Are all the hoiTors of air, fire, and water, to THE GOOD-NATUWD MAN. 109 be levell'd only at me ! Am I only to bo singled out for gnnpowder-plots, combustibles, and conflagration ! Here it is — An incendiary letter dropped at my door. " To Muster Croaker, these witli speed." Ay, ay, plain enough, the direction : all in the genuine incendiary spelling, and as cramp as tlie devil. " With speed." O, confound your speed. But let me read it once more. (Reads). "Muster Croaker as sone as yowe see this leve twenty guineas at the bar of the Talboot tell called for or yowe and yower cxperetiou will be al blown vip." Ah, but too plain. Blood and gunpowder in every line of it. Blown up! murderous dog! All blown xip! Heavens! what have I and my poor family done, to be all blown up ! (Heads.) " Our pockets are low, and money we must have." Ay there's the reason ; they '11 blow us up, because Ihey have got low pockets. (Reads.) "It is but a short time you ]iave to consider; for if this takes wind, the house will quickly be all of a flame." Inhuman monsters ! blow us up, and then burn na. The earthquake at Lisbon was but a bonfire to it. (Reads). " Make quick dispatch, and so no more at present. But may Cupid, the little god of love, go with you wherever you go." The little God of love! Cupid, the little god of love, go with me! Go you to the devil, you and your little Cupid together ; I 'm so frightened, I scarce know whether I sit, stand, or go. Perhaps this moment I'm treading on lighted matches, blaz- ing brimstone, and barrels of gunpowder. They are preparing to blow me up into the clouds. Murder! We shall be all burnt in our bcdsj we shall be all burnt in our beds. E7ife)' Miss EicniAND. Miss Rich. Lord, Sir, what's the matter ? Ceo. Murder's the matter. We shall be all blown up in our beds before morning. Miss EiCH. I hope not, Sir. Ceo. 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, sleep- ing and eating is the only work from morning till night in my house. My in- sensible crew could sleep, though rock'd by an earthquake j and fry beef-steaks at a volcano. Miss Rich. But, Sir, you have alarmed them so often akeady, we have no- tliing 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. Ceo. And potatoes were too good for them. But why do I stand talking here with a girl, when I should be facing the enemy without? Here, John, Nicodemus, search the house. Look into the cellars, to see if there be any combustibles below; and above, in the apartments, that no matches be thrown in at the windows. Let all the fires be put out, and let the engine be drawn out in the yard, to play upon the house in case of necessity. [Exit. Miss Rich., alone. What can he mean by all this ? Yet, why should I in- quire, when he alarms us in this manner almost eveiy day ! But Honey wood has desired an interview with me in private. What can he mean ? or, rather, what means this palpitation at his approach ? It is the first time he ever shewed anything in his conduct that seemed particular. Sure he cannot mean to but he's here. Eiiter HoNETWOOD. Hon. I presumed to solicit this interviev/, Madam, before I left tovm, to be permitted Miss Rich. Indeed I Leaving town, Sir ? — Hon. Yes, Madam ; perhaps the kingdom. I have presumed, I say, to de- 110 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. sire the favour of this interview, — in order to disclose something which our long friendsliip prompts. And yet my fears — Miss Rich. His fears ! What are his fears to mine ? {Aside.) We have indeed been long acquainted, Sir ; very long. If I remember, our first meet- ing was at the French ambassador's. — Do you recollect how you were pleased io rally me upon my complexion there ? Il02f. Perfectly, Madam : I presumed to reprove you for painting : but 3'our warmer blushes soon convinced the company, that the colom-ing was all from nature. Miss Rich. And yet you only meant it in your good-natured way, to male me pay a compliment to myself. In the same manner you danced that night with the most awkward wofnan in company, because you saw nobody else would take her out. Hon. Yes ; and was rewarded the next night, by dancing with the finest woman in company, whom every body wished to takf out. Miss Rich. Well, Sir, if you thought so then, I fear your judgment has since corrected the errors of a first impi'ession. We generally sliew to most advantage at first. Our sex are like poor tradesmen, that put all their best goods to be seen at the windows. Hon. The first impression, Madam, did indeed deceive me. I expected to find a woman with all the faults of conscious flattered beauty. I expected to find her vain and insolent. But every day has since taught me that it is pos- sible to possess sense without pride, and beauty without afiectation. Miss Rich. This, Sir, is a style very unusual with Mr. Honeywood ; and I should be glad to know why he thus attempts to increase that vanity, which his own lessons have taught me to despise. Hon. I ask pardon, Madam. Yet, from our long friendship, I presumed I might have some right to oiler, without ofience, what you may refuse without offending. Miss Rich. Sir ! I beg you'd reflect : though, I feai', I shall scarce have any power to refuse a request of yours ; jet you may be precipitate : consider. Sir. Hon. I own my rashness ; but as I plead the cause of friendship, of one who loves. — Don't be alarmed, Madam— who loves you with the most ardent passion, whose whole happiness is placed in you Miss Rich. I fear, sir, I shall never find whom you mean, by this description of him. Hon. Ah, Madam, it but too plainly points him out ; though he should be too hmnble himself to urge his pretensions, or you too modest to understand them. Miss Rich. Well ; it would be afifectation any longer to pretend ignorance ; and I will own, sir, I have long been prejudiced in his favoui'. It was but natural to wish to make his heart mine, as he seemed himself ignorant of its value. Hon. 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 ! Wliat friend ? Hon. My best friend — my friend Mr. Lofty, Madam. Miss Rich. He, sir ! Hon. Yes, he. Madam. He is, indeed, what your warmest wishes might have formed him. And to his other qualities he adds that of the most passionate regard for you. Miss Rich. Amazement ! — l^o more of this, I beg you, sir. THE GOOD-NATUKD MAN. HI Hon. I see your confusion, Madam, and know how to interpret it. And, since I so plainly read tho language of your heart, shall I make my friend happy, by communicating your sentiments ? Miss KiCH. By no means. Hon. Excuse me ; I must ; I know you desire it. Miss EiCH. Mr. Honeywood, let mo tell you, that you wrong my sentiments and yourself. When I first applied to your friendship, I expected advice and assistance ; but now, Sir, I see tliat it is in vain to expect happiness from him, Avho has been so bad an oeconomist of his own ; and that I must disclaim his friendship who ceases to be a friend to himself. [^Exit. Hon, 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, these things should not bo done by a tliird person : I should have spared her confusion. My friendship carried me a little too far. Enter Croaker, ivitJt the Letter in his hand, and Mrs. Croaker. Mrs. Cao. Ha! ha! ha! And so, my dear, it's your supreme wish that I should bo quite wretched upon this occasion ? ha ! ha ! Croaker, mimicking. Ha ! ha ! ha ! And so, my dear, it 's your supreme pleasure to give me no better consolation ? Mrs. Cro. Positively, my dear ; what is tliis hiccndiary stuif 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, Cro. Would to heaven it were converted into an house of correction for your benefit. Have we not every thing to alarm us? Perhaps this very moment the tragedy is beginning. Mrs. Cro. Then let us reserve our distress till the rising of the curtain, or give them the money they want, and have done with them. Cro. G-ive them my money! — And pray, what right have they to my money ? Mrs. Cro. And pray, what right then have you to my good humour ? Cro. And so your good humour advises me to part with my money ? WJiy 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 '11 say to it. My dear Honeywood, look at this inc-mdiai«y letter, dropped at my door. It will freeze you with terror ; and yet lovey here can read it — can read it, and laugh. Mrs. Cro. Yes, and so will Mr. Honeywood. Cro. If he does, I '11 suffer to be liang'd the next minute in the rogue's place, that 's all. Mrs. Cro. Speak, Mr. Honeywood ; is there any thing more foolish than my husband's fi-ight upon this occasion ? Hon. It would not become me to decide. Madam ; but doubtless, the greatness of his terrors, now will but invite them to renew their villainy another time. Mrs. Cro. I told you, he 'd be of my opinion. Cro, How, sir! do you maintain that I should lie down under such an injuiy, and shew neither by my tears, nor complaints, that I have something of the spirit of a man in me ? Hon. Pardon me, sii*. You ought to make the loudest complaints, if you desire redress. Tho surest way to have redress is to be earnest in the pursuit of it. Cro. Ay, whose opinion is he of now? Mrs. Cro. But don't you think that laughing off our fears is the best way? Hon. What is the best, Madam, few can say ; but I '11 maintain it to be a very wise way. 112 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Ceo. But we 're talking of the best. Surely the best way is to face the enemy in tlie field, and not wait till he plunders us in our very bed-chamber. Hon. Why, sir, as to the best, that — that's a vciy wise way too. Mrs. Cjio. But can any thing be more absurd, than to double our distresses by our apprehensions, and put it in the power of every low fellow, that can scrawl ten words of wretched spelling, to torment us ? Hon. Without doubt, nothing more absurd. Cro. How ! would it not be more absurd to despise the rattle till we are bit by the snake ? Hon. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. Ceo. Then you are of my opinion ? Hon. Entirely. Mrs. Ceo. And you reject mine ? Hon. Heavens forbid. Madam! No sure, no reasonnig can be more just than yours. We ought certainly to despise malice if wo cannot oppose it, and not make the incendiary's pen as fatal to our repose as the highwayman's pistol. Mrs. Ceo. O ! then you thiiik I 'm quite right ? Hon. Perfectly riglit. Ceo. a plague of plagues, we can't be both right. I ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. My hat must be on my head, or my hat must be off. Mrs. Ceo. Certainly, in two opposite opinions, if one be perfectly reasonable, the other can't be perfectly right. Hon. And why may not both be right, Madam ? Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking redi-ess, and you in waiting the event with good lumiour ? Pray let me see the letter again. I have it. This letter requires twenty guineas to be left at the bar of ^\q 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 ? Ceo. My dear friend, it '^b 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 masqued battery ; extort a confession at once, and so hang him up by sm*prise. Hon. Yes, but I would not choose to exercise too much severity. It is my maxim, Sir, that crimes generally punish themselves. Ceo. WeU, but we may upbraid him a little, I suppose ? [Ironically. Hon. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. Ceo. Well, well, leave that to my own benevolence. Hon. Well, I do j but remember that universal benevolence is the first law of nature. [Exeunt Honeywood and Mrs. Croaker. Ceo. Yes ; and my miiversal benevolence wiU hang the dog, if he had as many necks as a hydra. ACT THE FIETII. Scene, an Inn. Enter Olivia, Jaevis. OhiY. Well, we have got safe to the inn, however. Now, if the post-chaise were ready — Jab. 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 ai-e for ever giving wrong motives to my impatience. Jar. Bo 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-travellci* yet. If we hear notliing from Mr, Leoutme, we haye only one way left us. Oliv. What way? fliE GOOD-NATUR'B MAN. 113 Jar. Tlie 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 inclination. liowever, I '11 go hasten things without. And I '11 call, too, at the hai*, tcJ see if anything should be left for us there. Don't bo in sUch a plaguy liurryj Lladam, and we shall go the faster, I promise you. [Exit Jarvis: Enter Landlady. Land, What! Solomon, why don't you moTC ? 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 're for Scotland, Madam — But that 's no business of mine ; married, or not married, I ask no questions. To be sure we had a sweet little couple set off from this two days ago for the same place. The gentleman, for a tailor, was, to be sure, as fine a spoken tailor, as ever blew froth from a full pot. And the young lady so bashful, it was near half an horn* before we co\:dd get her to finish a pint of raspberry between us. Oliv. But this gentleman and I are not going to be married, I assure you. Land. May be not. That 's no business of mine ; for certain, Scotch marriages seldom turn out. 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 ! [Aside. Enter Leontine. Leon. 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 wo have been utterly at a loss how to proceed. Leon. How ! an offer of his own too. Sure, he could not mean to deceive us. Oliv. Depend iipon 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, I don't think yom* ladyship quite ready for the post-chaise. The north road is a cold place, Madam. I have a drop in the house of as pretty raspberry as ever was tipt over tongue. Just a thimble full to keep the wind off yovir stomach. To be sui-e, the last couple we had here, they said it was a perfect nosegay. Ecod, I sent them botli away as good-natured. — Up went the blinds, round went the wheels, and drive away, post-boy, was the word. Enter Croaker. Ceo. Well, while my friend Honeywood is upon the post of danger at the bar, it must be my business to have an eye about me here. I think I know an incendiary's look ; for wherever the devil makes a purchase, he never fails to set his mark. Ha! who have we here? My son and daughter! What can they be doing here ! Land. I tell you. Madam, it will do you good ; I think I know by this time what's good for the north road. It 's a raw night, Madam. — Sir — Leon. Not a drop more, good Madam. I should now take it as a greater favour, if you hasten the horses, for I am afraid to be seen myself. S 114 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Land. That shall be done. Wha, Solomon ! are yon all dead there ? "Wha, Solomon, I say ! [Exit, baivling. Onv. Well ! I dread, lest an expedition begun in fear, shotild end iji re- pentance. — Every moment we stay increases om* danger, and adds to my ap- prehensions. Leon. There 's no danger, trust me, my dear ; there can be none. If Honeywood has acted with honour, and kept my father as he promised, in employment till we are out of danger, nothing can interrupt our journey. Oliv. I have no doubt of Mr. Honey wood's sincerity, and even his desires to serve us. My fears are from your father's suspicions. A mind so disposed to be alarmed without a cause, will be but too ready when there's a reason. Leon. Why let him when we are out of his power. But believe me, Olivia, you have no great reason to dread his res^itment. His repining temper, as it does no manner of injury to himself, so wiU it never do harm to others. He only frets to keep himself employed, and scolds for his private amusement. Oliv. I don't know that ; but, I 'm sure, on some occasions, it makes him look most shockingly. Clio, discovering himself. How does he look now ? — How does he look now ? Oliv. Ah! Leon. Undone. CfiO. How do I look now ? Sir, I am your very humble servant. Madam, I am yours. What, you are going off, are you ? Then first, if you please, take a word or two from me with you before you go. Tell me first where you are going ; and when you have told me that, perl^ps I shall know as little as I did before. Leon. If that be so, our answer might but increase your displeasure, without adding to your information. Ceo. 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 Honey wood without — has he seized the incendiary ? Ah, no, for now 1 liear no more on 't. Leon. Honeywood without ! Then Sir, it was Mr. Honeywood that du'ected you hither ? Ceo. No, Sir, it was Mr. Honeywood conducted me hither. Leon. Is it possible ? Ceo. Possible ! Why he's in the house now. Sir : more anxious about me than my own son. Sir. Leon; Then, Sir, he's a villain. Ceo. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes most care of your father ? I'll not bear it, I tell you I '11 not bear it. Honeywood is a friend to the family, and I '11 have him treated as such. Leon. I shall study to repay his friendship as it deserves. Ceo. 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, slop him.) Fire and fury! they liave seized the incendiary : they have niur- the villain, the incendiary in view. Stop him! stop an incendiary derer ; stop him ! ' \_Ea;iti Oliv. Oh, my terrors ! What can this tumult mean ? Leon. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr. Honeywood's sincerity. But we shall have satisfaction : he shall give me instant satisfaction. Oliv. It must not be, my Leontine, if you value my esteem or my happi- ness. Whatever be our fate, let us not add guilt to our misfortunes — Consi- der that our iimocence will shortly be all that we have left us. You must forgive him. THE GOOD-NATUWD MAN. 115 Leon. Forgive him ! Has he not in every instance betrayed us ? Forced to borrow money from him, which appears a mere trick to delay us : promised to keep my father engaged till we were out of danger, and here brought him to the very scene of our escape ? Oliv. Don't be jprecipitate. We may yet be mistaken. Enter Postboy, dragging in Jaevis ; Honeywood . entering soon after. Post. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. Here is the incendiary dog. I 'm entitled to »the reward ; I '11 take my oath I saw him ask for the money at the bar, and then run for it. Hon. Come, bring him along. Let us see him. Let him learn to blush for his crimes. (Discovering his mistake.) Death ! what's here ! Jarvis, Leon- tine, Olivia ! What can all this moan ? Jae. Why, I '11 tell you what it means ; that I was an old fool, and that you are my master — that's all. Hon. Confusion! Leon. Yes, Sir, I find you have kept your word with me. After such base- ness, I wonder how you can venture to see the man you have injured ! Hon. My dear Leontine, by my life, my honour — Leon. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not continue to aggravate baseness by hypocrisy. I know you. Sir, I know you. Hon. Why won't you hear me ? By all that's just, I know not — Leon. Hear you. Sir ! to what purpose ? I now see through all your low arts ; your ever complying with every opinion ; your never refusing any re- quest; your friendship's as common as a prostitute's favours, and as fallacious; all these. Sir, have long been contemptible to the world, and are now perfectly so to me. Hon. Ha ! contemptible to the woi4d ! that reaches me. (Aside.) Leon. All the seeming sincerity of your professions, I now find, were only allurements to betray ; and all your seeming regret for their consequences only calculated to cover the cowardice of your heart. Draw, villain ! Enter Ceoaker out of breath. Ceo. Wliere is the villain ? Where is the incendiary ? (Seizing the postboy.) Hold him fast the dog : he has the gallows in his face. Come, you dog, con- fess ; confess all, and hang yourself. Post. Zounds ! master, what do you throttle me for ? Ceo., 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 tmnis out to be one of the company. Ceo. How ! Hon, 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. Ceo. And I say, Sir, that yoii're in an error ; for there's guilt and double guilt, a plot, a damned Jesuitical pestilential plot, and I must have pi'oof of it. Hon. Do but hear me. Ceo. What, you intend to bring *em off, I suppose; I '11 hear nothing. Hon. Madam, you seem at least calm enough to hear reason. Oliv. Excuse me. Hon. G-ood Jarvis, let me then explain it to you. Jab. What signifies explanations when the thing is done ? ^ Hon. Will nobody hear me ? Was there ever such a set, so blinded by pas- sion and prejudice! (To the postboy.) My good friend, I believe you '11 bo surprised, when I assure you — Post. Sure me nothing — I 'm sure of nothing but a good beating. S-2 116 THE IVOJiKH OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Ceo. Come then you, Madam, if you ever hope for any favoui' or forgive* ness, tell me sincerely all you know of this affair. Oliv. Unhappily, Sir, 1 'm but too much the cause 6i your suspicions : you see before you, Sir, one that with false pretences has stept into your family to betray it : not your daughter — Clio. Not my daughter ! Oliv. Not your daughter — but a mean deceiver — who — support me, I cannot — Hoj^. Help, she's going, give her air. Cro. 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. [Exeunt all hut Croaker. Cro. Yes, yes, all 's out : I now see the whole affair i my son is cither mar- ried, or going to be so, to this lady, whom he imposed upon me as his sister. Ay, certainly so ; and yet I don't find it afflicts me so much as one might think. There's the advantage of fretting away our misfortunes beforehand, we never feel them when they come. Enter Miss Kichland and Sib William. Sir WiL. But how do you know, Madam, that my nephew intends setting off from this place ? Miss KiCH. 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, covild have expected meeting you here ? to what accident do we owe this pleasui'c ? Cro. To a fool, I believe. Miss Eicn. But to what piu'pose did you come? Ceo. To play the fool. Miss Rich. But with whom ? Cro. With greater fools than myself. Miss Rich. Explain. Ceo. 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 wlio, that is here : so now you are as wise as I am. Miss Rich. Married ! to whom. Sir ? Cro. 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, yet you shall find me a friend to your family : it will be enough, at present, to assure you, that both in point of birth and fortune the young lady is at least your son's equal. Being left by her father, Sir James Woodville Cro. Sir James Woodville ! What of the west ? Sir WiL. Being left by liim, I say, to the care of a mercenary wretch, whose only aim was to seem'e her fortune to himself, slie was sent to Fi'ance, un- der pretence of education ; and there every art was tried to fix her for life in a convent, contrary to her inclinations. Of this I was informed upon my ar- rival at Paris ; and, as I had been once her father's friend, I did all in my power to frustrate her guardian's base intentions. I had even meditated to rescue her from his authority, when your son stept in v»ith more pleasing vio- lence, gave her liberty, and you a daughter. Ceo. 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 W^iL, Yes, Sir ; and know that you are deceived in him. But step this way, and I '11 convince you. [Croaker and Sir Vf illiam seem to confer. THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. Ill \ Enter Honetwood. Hon. 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 overtaxed all my abilities, lest the approbation of a single fool should escape me ! But all is now over ; I have survived my reputation, my fortune, my friendships, and nothing remains henceforward for me but solitude and repentance. Miss Ricn. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that you are setting oflP, without taking leave of your friends ? The report is, that you are quitting England. Can it be ? Hon. 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 your 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 ? Hon. 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 nnd wavering as I have been, obliged by all, and incapable of serving any, what happiness can I find but in solitude ? What hope but in being forgotten ? Miss Rich. A thousand ! to live among friends that esteem you, whoso happiness it will be to be permitted to oblige you. Hon. No, Madam, my I'esolution is fixed. Inferiority among strangers is easy ; but among those that once were eqvials, insupportable. Nay, to show you how far my resolution can go, I can now speak with calmness of my former follies, my vanity, my dissipation, my weakness. I will even confess, tliat, among the number of my other presumptions, I had the insolence to think of loving you. Yes, Madam, while I was ])leading the passion of another, my heart was tortur'd with its own. But it is over, it was unworthy our friend- ship, and let it be forgotten. Miss Rich. You amaze me ! Hon. But you '11 forgive it^ I know you will : since the confession should not have come from me even now, but to convince you of the sincerity of my intention of — never mentioning it more. \^Going. Miss Rich. Stay, Sir, one moment— Ha! he here— Enter Lofty, Lop. Is the coast clear ? None but friends. I have followed you here with a trifling piece of intelligence ; but it goes no farther ; things are not yet ripe for a discovery. I have spirits working at a certain board ; your affair at the treasury will be done in less than— a thousand years. Mum ! Miss Rich. Sooner, Sir, I should hope. LoF. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into proper hands, that know where to push and where to parry ; that know how the land lies — eh, Honey- wood ! Miss Rich. It has fallen into yours. Lop. Well, to keepj^ou 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.. Hon. But how ! his lordship has been at Newmarket these ten days. LoF. Indeed! Then Sir G-ilbert Groose must have been most damnably mistaken. I had it of him. Miss Rich. He ! why Sir G-ilbert and his family have been in the country this month. JjOF. This month ! it niust certainly be so — Sir Gilbert's letter did come to 118 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. me from Newmarket, so that he must have met his lordship there ; and so it came about. I have his letter about me ; I '11 read it to you. {Taking out a large bundle). That's from Paoli of Corsica, that from the Marquis of Squilachi. — Have you a mind to see a letter from Count Poniatowski, how King of Poland— Honest Pon — {Searching.) O, Sir, what are you here too ? I '11 tell you what, honest friend, if yovi 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. Cro. Contempt! Mr. Lofty, what can that mean? LOF. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You '11 find it come to something presently. Sir WiL. Yes, Sir, I believe you '11 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. LoF. Grood ; let me die ; very good. Ha ! ha ! ha ! CiiO. Now, for my life, I can't find out half the goodness of it. Lop. You can't. Ha ! ha ! Ceo. No, for the sovil of me ! I think it was as confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from one private gentleman to another. LoF. 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 ray own letter. Ha ! ha ! Clio. Indeed ! How ! why ! LoF. In one word, things between Sir William and me must be behind the curtain. A party has many eyes. He sides with Lord Buzzard, I side with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the mystery. Ceo. And so it does, indeed ; and all my suspicions -are over. LoF. 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. Ceo. As I hope for your favour, I did not mean to offend. It escaped me. Don't be discomposed. LoF. Zounds ! Sir, but I am discomposed, and will be discomposed. To be treated thus ! Who am I ? Was it for this I have been dreaded both by ins and outs ? Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer, and praised in the St. James's ? Have I been cliaired at Wildmah's, and a speaker at Merchant-Taylors' Hall ? Have I had my hand to addresses, and my head in the print-shops ; and talk to me of suspects ? Ceo. My dear Sir, be pacified. What can you have but asking pardon ? LoF. Sir, I will not be pacified — Suspects ! Who am I to be used tlius ! Have I paid court to men in favour to servo my friends ; the Lords of the Treasury, Sir William Honeywood, and the rest of the gang, and talk to me i of suspects ! W^ho am I ? I say, who am I ? Sir WiL. Since, Sir, you are §0 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 ti-easury as with truth : and with ail, as you are with Sir VV'illiam Honey- wood. — I am Sir William Honeywood. \_Discoverinj his ensigns of the Bath. Ceo. Sir William Honeywood ! Hon. Astonishment! my uncle! (Aside.) LoF. So then, my confounded genius has been all this time only leading me Tip to the garret, in order to fling me out of the window. THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 119 Ceo. What, Mr. Importance, and ai-e these youi* works ? Suspect you ! You, who have been dreaded by the ins and outs ; you, who have liad 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. Lor. 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. j Ceo. Ay, Sir, too well I see it ; and I can't but say I have had some boding | of it these ten days. So I 'm resolved, since my son has placed his affections \ on a lady of moderate fortune, to be satisfied with his choice, and not run the [ hazard of another Mr. Lofty in helping him to a better. ' Sir WiL. I approve your resolution j and here they come to receive a con- I firmation of your pardon and consent. i Enter Mrs. Ceoaker, Jarvis, Leontine and Olivia. i Mrs. Cbo. Where 's my husband ? Come, come, lovey, you must forgive j tliem. Jarvis here has been to tell me the whole affair ; and I say, you must I forgive them. Our own was a stolen match, yoa know, my dear j and we never had any reason to repent of it. Ceo. I wish we could botli say so. However, this gentleman. Sir William Iloneywood, has been befoTehand with you in obtaining their pardon. So, if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, I think we can tack them together without crossing the Tweed for it. [Joining their hands. Leon. How blest and unexpected ! Wliat, what can we say to such good- ness ! But our future obedience shall be the best reply. And as for, this gentleman, to whom'we owe — Sir WiL. Excuse me, Sir, if I interrupt your thanks, as I have here an interest that calls me. {Turning to Honey wood.) Yes, sir, you are surprised to see me ; and I own that a desire of correcting your follies led me hither. I saw with indignation the errors of a mind that only sought appla"use 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 ; yoiu* benevolence, that was but weakness ; and your friendship, but credulity. I saw with regret great talents and extensive learning only ! employed to add sprightliness to error, and increase your perplexities. I saw \ your mind with a thousand natural charms : but the greatness of its beauty j sei'ved only to heighten my pity for its prostitution. ' Hon. Cease to upbraid me, Sir : I have for some time but too strongly felt j the justice of your reproaches. But there is one way still left me. Yes, Sir, | I have determined this very hour to quit for ever a place where I have made myself the voluntary slave of all, and to seek among strangers that fortitude Avhieli may give strength to the mind, and marshal all its dissipated virtues. Yet, ere I depart, permit me to solicit favour for this gentleman ; who, not- withstanding what has happened, has laid me under the most signal obligations. Mr. Lofty Lop. Mr. Honeywood, I 'm resolved upon a reformation as well as you, I now begin to find that the man who first invented the art of speaking trutli was a much cunninger fellow than I thought liim. And to prove that I design to speak truth for the future, I must now assure you, that you owe your late enlargement to another ; as, upon my soul, I had.no hand in the matter. So now, if any of the company has a mind for preferment, he may take my place, I 'm determined to resign. \_Exit. 120 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Hon, How have I been deceired ! Sir WiL. No, Sir, you have been obliged to a kinder, fairer friend for that favour. To Miss Richland. Would she complete our joy, and make the man she has honoured by her friendship happy in her love, I should then foi'get all, and be as blest as the welfare of my dearest kinsman can make me. Miss Rich. After what is past it would be but affectation to pretend to indifference. Yes, I will own an attachment, which I find was more than friendship. And if my intrcaties cannot alter his resolution to quit tlie country, I will even try if my hand has not power to detain him. \_Giving her hand. Hon. Heavens ! how can I have deserved all this ? How express my hap- piness, my gratitude ! A moment like this overpays an age of apprehension. Cro. Well, now I see content in every face ; but heaven send we be all better this day tlu'ce months ! Sir WiL. Henceforth, nephew, Icam to respect yourself. He who seeks only for applause from without, has all his happiness in another's keeping. Hon. Yes, Sir, I now too plainly perceive my errors ; my vanity in attempting to please all by fearing to offend any ; my meanness in approving folly, lest fools should disapprove. Henceforth, 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 MES. BULKLET. As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure ; Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights still depend For Epilogues and Prologues on some friend, Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, And make full many a bitter pill go down. Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, And teas' d each rhyming friend to help him out. An Epilogue, things can't go on without it ; It could not fail, would you but set about it. Young man, cries one, (a bard laid up in clover) Alas, young man, my writing days are over ; Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I ; Your brother doctor there, perhaps, may try. What I ! dear sir, the doctor interposes ; What, plant my thistle, sir, among his roses ! No, no, I 've other contests to maintain ; To-night I head our troops at Warwick-lane. G-o ask your manager — Who ? me ! Your pardon 3 Those tilings are not our forte at Covent-garden. Our author's friends, thus plac'd 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 ; • The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at Oxford, deferred writJnf? one himself till the very last hour. What ia here offered^ owes all its success to the graceful manner of the actress who spoke it. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 121 His simpering friends, with pleasure in tlieir eyes, Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise : He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they gt'imace ; But not a sonl will budge to give him place. Since then, unhclp'd, oiu* bard must now conform " To 'bide the pelting of this pit'lcss storm," Blame where you miist, be candid where you can, And be each critic the Good-natur' d Man. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER: OB, THE MISTAKES OF A NiaHT. A COMEDY. AS IT IS ACTED AT THE THEATBE-EOTAL, COVENT-GAHDEN t TO SAMUEL JOHl^SOI^, L.L.D. Deae Sie, — By inscribing this slight performance tp 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 servo the interests of mankind also to inform them, that the greatest wit may be found in a character, without impairing the most unaffected piety. I liave, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to this performance. Tlie undertaking a Comedy, not merely sentimental, was very dangerous ; and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various stages, always thouglit it so. However, I ventured to trust it to the public ; and, though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason to bo grateful. I am, dear sii*, your most sincere friend and admirer, Oliveb Goldsmith. PKOLOaUE ET DAVID GAEEICK, ESQ. Enter Mr. VVoodwaed, dressed in black, and holding a Handkerchief to his Eyes. Excuse me, Sirs, I pray — I can't yet speak — I 'm crying now — and have been all the week. " 'Tis not alone tliis mourning suit," good masters : *' I've that within" — for which there are no plasters ! Pray, would you know the reason why I 'm crying ? The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a dying! And if she goes, my tears will never stop ; For as a play'r, I can't squeeze out one drop ; I am undone, that 's all — shall lose my ln*ead— I 'd rather, but that 's nothing — lose my head. When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here. To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed. Who deals in Sentimentals, will succeed ! Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents ; We can as soon speak Greek as Sentiments 1 i 122 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. I3otli nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, We now and then take down a hearty cup. What shall we do ? — If Comedy forsake us ! They '11 turn us out, and no one else will take us. But, why can't I be moral ? — Let me try — My heart thus pressing— fix' d my face and eye — V/ith a sententious look, that nothing means, (Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes) Thus I begin — " All is not gold that glitters, *' Pleasures seem sweet, but prove a glass of bitters. " When ign'rancc enters, folly is at hand : " Learning is better far than house and land. " Let not your virtue trip, who trips may stumble, " And virtue is not virtue, if she tumble." I give it up — morals won't do for me ; To make you laugh, I must play tragedy. One hope remains — hearing the maid was ill, A Doctor comes this night to shew his skill. To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion, He, in five draughts prepar'd, presents a potion : A kind of magic charm — for be assur'd. If you will swallow it, the maid is cur'd : But desperate the Doctor, and her case is, If you reject the dose, and make wry faces ! This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives. No pois'nous drugs arc mix'd in what he gives. Should he succeed, you '11 give him his degree j If not, within he will receive no fee ! The College you, must his pretensions back, Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack. DRAMATIS PERSONiE. MEN. Sir Ch dries Ma rlow Young Marlow (his son) .. Hardcaslle Hastings Tony Lumphin Dig gory Mr. Gardneb. Mr. Lewis. Mr. Shcteb. Mr. DUBELLAMT. Mr. Quick. Mr. Saukders. Mrs. Hardcaslle 3Iiss Hardcaslle Miss Neville ... Maid' WOMEN. Mrs. Ghees. Mrs. BuLKF-KV. Mrs. Kniveiok. Mrs. WlLLEJlS. Landlord, Servants, dx. de. ACT THE FIRST. Scene, a ChamJjsr m an old-fashioned House, Eater Mrs. Hakdgastle and Mr. Hardcastle. Mrs. Ha"RT). I vow, Mr. Ilardcastle, you're very particular. Is there a creature in the whole counti'y but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the rust a little ? There 's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour Mrs. Grrigsby, go to take a month's polishing every winter. Ha-RD. Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation to last them the whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own fools at home! In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach : its fopperies come down not only as inside passengers, but in the very basket. Mrs. Hard. Aj, 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 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 123 Lest visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, tlie curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, tlie lame dancing-niaster ; and all our entertainment your old stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Mai-lborough. I hate such old-fashioned ti-umpery. Haed. And I love it. I love every thing that's old : old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine ; and, I believe, Dorothy, {taking her hand) you '11 own I have been pretty fond of an old wife. Mrs. Haed. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you 're for ever at your Dorothys and your old wifes. You may be a Darlsy, but I '11 be no Joan, I promise yo u I 'm not so old as you 'd make me, by more than one good year. Add twenty to twenty, and make money of that. Haed. Let me see ; twenty added to twenty makes just fifty and seven. Mrs. Haed. It 's false, Mr. Hardcastle : I was but twenty when I was brouglit to bed of Tony, that I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband j and he's not come to years of discretion yet. Haed. l^^or ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have taught him finely. Mrs. HiED. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. I don't think a boy wants much learning to spend fifteen hundred a year. Haed. Learning, quotha! A mere composition of tricks and mischief. Mrs. Haed. Humour, my dear : nothing but humour. Come, Mr. Hard- castle, you must allow the boy a little humour. Haed. I 'd sooner allow him an horse-pond. If burning the footmen's shoes, frightening the maids, and worying the kittens be humour, he has it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow I popt my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face. Mrs. Haed. And 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 ? HaeiJ. Latin for him. A cat and a fiddle. No, no, the alehouse and the stable are the only schools he '11 ever go to. Mrs. Haed. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long among us. Any body that looks in his face may see he's consumptive. Haed. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms. Mrs. Haed. He coughs sometimes. Haed. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way. Mrs. Haed. I 'm actually afraid of his lungs. Haed. And truly so am I ; for he sometimes whoops like a speaking trum- pent—( iTo^y halloowg behind the scenes) — 0, there he goes — a very consump- tive figure, truly. Enter TONT, crossing the stage. Mi's. Haed. Tony, where are you going, my charmer ? Won't you give papa and I a little of your company, lovee ? Tony. I 'm in haste, mother, I cannot stay. Mrs. Haed. You shan't venture out this raw evening, my dear : you look most shockingl3\ Tony. I can't stay, I tell vou. The Three Pigeons expects me down every moment. There's some fun "going forward. Haed. Ay ; the ale house, the old place : I thought so. Mrs. Haed. A low, paltry set of fellows. Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Muggins the exciseman. Jack Slang the horse doctor, little Aminadab that grinds the music box, and Tom Twist that spins the pewter plattQr. 124. THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Mrs. Haed. 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. Hahd. {Detaining Mm.) You shan't go. Tony. I wiU, I tell you. Mrs, Haed. I say you shan't. Tony. We'll see which is strongest, you or T. \_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 drire sense and discretion out of doors ? There's my pretty darling Kate ! the fashions of the times have almost infected her too. i3y living a year or two in town, she is as fond of gauze and French frippery as the best of them. Enter Miss Kaedcastle. Haet). Blessings on my pretty innocence! drest out as usual, my Kate. G oodness ! What a quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got about thee, girl ! I could never teach the fools of this age, that the indigent world could be clotlied out of the trimmings of the vain. Miss IIaed. You know our agreement, Sir. You allow me the morning to receive and pay visits, and to dress in my own manner j and in the evening I put on my housewife's dress to please you. Haed. Well, remember I insist on the terms of our agreement ; and, by- the-by, I believe I shall have occasion to try your obedience this very evening. Miss Haed. I protest, Sir, I don't comprehend yom' meaning. Haed. 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 liis father's letter, in which he' informs me his son is set out, and that he intends to follow himself shortly after. Miss Haed. 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 meet- ing will bo so formal, and so like a thing of business, that I shall find no room for friendship or esteem. Haed. Depend upon it, child, I never will control your choice ; but jMt*. Marlow, whom I have pitched upon, is the son of my old friend. Sir Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk so often. The young gentleman has been bred a scholar, and is designed for an employment in the service of his country. I am told he's a man of an excellent understanding. Miss Haed. Is he ? Haed. Very generous. Miss Haed. I believe I shall like him. Haed. Young and brave. Miss Haed. I 'm sure I shall like him. Haed. And very handsome. Miss Haed. My dear papa, say no more, {kissing his hands) he 's mine, I' 11 have him. Haed. And, to crown all, Kate, he 's one of the most bashful and reserved young fellows in all the world. Miss Haed. 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. Haed, On the contrary, modesty seldom resides in a breast that is not en- riched with nobler virtues. It was the very feature in Ids character that first struck me- Miss Haed. He must have more striking features to catch me, I promise BHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 125 you. Ilowerer, if he be so young, so liaudsonie, nnd so eyery thing, as you mention, I believe he '11 do still. I think I '11 have him. Haed. Ay, Kate, but there's still an obstacle. It's more than an even wager he may not have you. Miss Haed. My dear papa, "why will you mortify one so ? — Well, if he re- fuses, instead of breaking my heart at his indiiTerencc, I '11 only break my glass for its flattery : set my cap to some newer fasliion, and look out for some less difficult admirer. Haed. Bravely resolv'd ! In the meantime I '11 go prepare the servants for his reception : as we seldom see company, they want as mueli training as a company of recruits the first day's muster. [Exit. Miss Haed. 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 liim. Yet can't he be cured of his timidity, by being taught to be proiid of his wife ? Yes, and can't I — But I vow I 'm disposing of the husband, before I have secured the lover. Enter Miss Neville. Miss Haed. I'm glad you're come, Neville, my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this evening ? Is there anything whimsical about me ? Is it one of my well-looking days, child ? am I in face to-day ? Miss Nev. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look again — bless me ! — sure no accident has happened among the canary birds, or the gold fishes. Has your brother or the cat been meddling ? or has the last novel been too moving ? Miss Haed. No; nothing of all this. I have been tln-eatened — 1 can scarce get it out — I have been threatened with a lover. Miss Nev. And his name—— Miss Haed. Is Marlow. Miss Nev. Indeed! Miss Haed. 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. MisB Haed. Never. Miss Nev. He 's a very singular character, I assure you. Among women of reputation and virtue he is the modestest man alive ; but his acquaintance give him a very different character among creatures of another stamp : you understand me. Miss Haed. An odd character indeed. I shall never be able to manage him. What shall I do ? Pshaw, think no more of him, but trust to occur- rences 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 tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a hundred tender things, and setting off her pretty monster Jis the very pink of perfection. Miss Haed. And lier partiality is such, that she actually thinks him so. A fortune like yours is no small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole management of it, I 'm not surprised to see her unwilling to let it go out of the family. Miss 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 Haed. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost love him or hating you so. 126 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMlTtl. Miss Kev. It is a good-natured creature at bottom, and I'm sure would wisli to see me married to anybody but himself. But my aunt's bell rings for our afternoon's walk round the improyements. Allons ! Courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical. Miss Haed. " Would it were bed-time, and all were well." [Exeunt. Scene, an Alehouse Rocm. Several nJiahlrj fellous with punch and tolacco. Tony at the head of the table a little higher than the rest^ a mallet in his hand. Omneb. Hurrea! lutrrca! hun'ea! bravo! FiEST Tel. 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 '11 sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon this alehouse, The Three Pigeons. soNa. Let school-masters puzzle their brain, With grammar, and nonsense, and learning ; Good liquor, I stoutly maintain. Gives genus a better discerning. Let them brag of their heathenish gods. Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians : Their qui's, and their quae's, and their quod's, They 're all but a parcel of pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. When methodist preachers come down, A-preaching that drinking is sinful, I '11 wager the rascals a crown, They always preach best with a skinful. But when j'ou come down with your pence, For a slice of their scurvy religion, I '11 leave it to all men of sense, But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. Toroddle, toroddle, toroU. Then, come, put the jorum about. And let us be meny and clever, Our hearts and our liquors are stout. Here 's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. Let some cry up woodcock or hare. Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons, But of all the gay birds in the air. Here 's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. Omnes. Bravo, bravo ! First Fel. The 'squire has got s^^imk in him. Second Fel. I loves to hear him sing, bekays he never gives us nothing that 's low Third Fel. O damn anything that's low, I cannot bear it. Fourth Fel. The genteel thing is the genteel thing at anytime. If so be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly. Third Fel. I like the maxum of it. Master Muggins. What, though I am obligated to dance a bear, a man may be a gentleman for aU that. May this be my poison if my bear ever dances but to the very genteelest of tunes; *' Water Parted," or " The minuet in Ariadne." SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEU. 127 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 sure, old 'squire Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For winding the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a hare, or a wench, he never had his fellow. It was a saying in the place, that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls in the whole county. Tony. Ecod, and when I 'm of age, I '11 be no bastard, I promise you. I have been thinking of Bett Bouncer and the miller's grey mare to begin with. But, come, my boys, drink about and be merry, for you pay no reckon- ing. Well, Stingo, what 's the matter ? Enter Landloed. Land. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door. They have lost their way upo' the forest ; and they are talking something about Mr. Hardcastie. Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentleman that 's coming down to court my sister. Do they seem to be Londoners ? Land. I believe they may. They look woundily like Frenchmen. Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I'll set them right in a twinkling. {Exit Landlord.) Grentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough company for you, step down for a moment, and I '11 be with you in the squeez- ing 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 hmidred a year, and let him frighten me out of that if he can. Enter Landloed, conducting Maelow and Hastings. Mae. 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. Mae. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay myself under an obligation to every one I meet, and often stand the chance of an unmannerly answer. Hast. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any answer. Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I 'm told you have been inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastie 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 information. Tony. Nor the way you came ? Hast. No, Sir j 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. Mae. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. Ton?. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold so as to ask the place from whence you came ? ^ Mae. That 's not necessary towards directing us where we are to go. Tony. No offence ; but question for question is all fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastie a ci'oss-grain'd, old-fashion' d, whimis- cal fellow, with an ugly face ; a daughter, aud a pretty son ? Hast. We have not seen the gentleman, but he has the family you mention. 128 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talkative maypole ; the BQ13, a pretty, vrell-bred, agreeable youth, that every body 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 hia mother's apron-string. Tony. He-he-hcm ! — Then gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr. Hardcastle's house this night, I believe. IIast. Unfortunate! Tony. It 's a damn'd long, dark, boggy, dirty, dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle's ! ( Winking upon the Landlord.) Mr. Hardcastle's, of Quagmire Marsh — you understand me ? Land. Master Hardcastle's ! Lock-a-daisy, my masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong ! When you came to the bottom of the hill, you should have cross'd down Squash-Lane. Mar. Cross 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 sliarp 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 perhaps the land* lord can accommodate us. Land. Alack, master, wo have but one spare bed in the whole house. Tony. And to my knowledge, that's taken up by three lodgers already. {After a pause, in which the rest seem disconcerted.) 1 have hit it. Don't you think. Stingo, our landlady could accommodate the gentlemen by the fire-side, with — three chairs and a bolster ? Hast. I hate sleeping by the fire-side. 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 further, to the Buck's Head ; the old Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best inns in tlic 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 yoiu' father's as an inn, be you ? Tony. Mum, you fool you. Let them find that out. {To them.) You have only to keep on straight forward, till you come to a large old house by the road side. You '11 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 sei-vants can't miss the way ?^ Tony. No, no ; but I tell you though, the landlord is rich, and going to leave ofi" business ; so he wants to be thought a gentleman, saving your pre- sence, he ! he ! he ! He '11 be for giving you his company, and t!Cod, if you mind him, he '11 persuade you that Lis mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of peace. Land. A troiiblesomo old blade, to be sm'e j but a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole countrj^. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 129 Mae. Well, if he supplies \is witli these, we shall want no farther connec- tion. We are to turn to the right, did you say ? Tony. 'No, no ; straight forward. 1 '11 just step myself, and shew you a piece of the way. {To the LancUo7'd.) Mum, Land. Ah, bless your hearty for a sweet, pleasant — ' damn'd mischiev- ous son of a whore. [Exeunt. ACT II. Scene, an old-fashioned House. Enter TLk'RTiCk^T'LE, followed by three or four aioJcward Servants. IIaud. Well, I hope you are perfect in the table exercise I hare been teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places, and can shew that you have been used to good company, without 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. IIaed. You, Diggory, whom I have taken fi-om the barn, are to make a shew at tlie side-table ; and you, Eoger, whom I have advanced from the plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. But you're not to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your pockets, Roger; and from your head, yoii blockhead you. Sec how Diggory carries his hands. They 're a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter. Dia. Ay, mind how I hold tlicm. 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 sec us drink, and not think of chunking ; you must see us eat, and not think of eating. Dia. Ey the laws, your worship, that 's parfectly unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod he 's always wiahing for a mouthful himself. Hard. Blockhead ! Is not a belly-full in the kitchen as good as a bclly-fuU in the parlom* ? Stay your stomach with that reflection. Dia. Ecod, I thank your worship, I '11 make a shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantry. Hard. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then if I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not all burst out a-laughing, as if you made part of the company. Dia. Then ecod your worship must not tell the story of ould gi'ouse in the gun room : I can't help laughing at that — he ! he ! ho ! — 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 laugli at that — but still remember to be attentive. Suppose one of the company should call for a glass of wine, how will you behave ? A glass of wine, Sir, if you please. {To Diggory) — Eh, why don't you move ? Dia. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage till I see the eatables and di'iukables brought upo' the table, and then I 'm as bauld as a lion. Hard. What, will nobody move ? First Serv. I 'm not to leave this place. Second Serv. I 'm sure it 's no place of mine. Third Serv. Nor mine, for sartain. Dia. Wauns, and I 'm sure it canna be mine. D 130 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. IIahd. You numbskulls ? and so while, like your betters, you are quarrelling for places, tlie guests must be starved. O you dunces ! I find I must begin all oyer again Bat don't I hear a coach drive into the yard ? To your posts, you blockheads. I'll go in the mean time and give my old friend's sou a hearty reception at the gate. \_Exit Hardcastle, Dia. By the elevens, my place is gone qiiite out of my head. IvOGI-. I know that my ^Dlace is to be every where. First Serv. Where the devil is mine ? Second Serv. My place is to be no where at all ; and so ize go about ray business. {Exeunt set-vants, running about as if frighted, different ways. Enter Servant with Candles, shelving 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 housekeeping, it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn. Hast. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good side-board, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put in in the bill, inflame a reckoning confoundedly. Mar. Travellers, Greorge, must pay in all places. The only difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for luxui-ies j in bad inns you are fleeced and starved. Hast. You have lived pretty miich among them. In truth, I have been often surprised, that you, who have seen so much of the world, with your natural good sense, and your many opportunities, could never yet acquu*e a requisite share of assurance. Mar. The Englishman's malady. But tell me, Greorge, where could I have learned that assurance you talk of ? My life has been chiefly spent in a college or an inn, in seclusion from that lovely part of the creation that chiefly teach men confidence. I don't know that I was ever familiarly acquainted with a single modest woman — except my mother— But among females of another class, you know — Hast. Ay, among them you are impudent enough of all aonscienco. Mar. They are of us, you know. Hast. But in the company of women of reputation I never saw such an idiot, such a trembler ; you look for all the world as if you wanted an oppor- tunity of stealing out of the room. Mae. 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 T 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 '11 be hanged if a modest man can ever counterfeit impudence. Hast. If you could but say half the fine things to them, that I have heard you lavish upon the bar-maid of an inn, or even a college bed-maker Mar. Why, Greorge, I can't say fine things to them : they freeze, they petrify me. They may talk of a comet, or a burning mountain, or some such bagatelle. But to me, a modest woman, drest out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole creation. Hast. Ha ! ha ! ha ! At this rate, man, how can you ever expect to marry ? Mar, Never, unless, as among kings and princes, my bride were to be courted by proxy. If indeed, like an eastern bridegroom, one were to be introduced to a wife he never saw before, it might be endured. But to go through all the terrors of a formal courtshi}), together with the episode of SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 131 aunts, grandmothers, and cousins, and at last to blunt out the broad staring question of, Madam, will you mai-ry me ? No, no j 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 ? Mae. As I behave to aU other ladies. Boav 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 sui'prised 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 '11 suppress the emotion. Were I a wretch, ineauly seeking to carry off a fortime, 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. Mae. Happy man ! You have talents and art to captivate any woman. I 'm doom'd to adore the sex, and yet to converse with the only pai't of it I despise. This stammer in my address, and this awkward prepossessing visage of mine, can never x^ermit 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 Haedcastle. Haed. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. "Which is Mr. Marlow? Sir, you are lieartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to receive my friends with my back to the fii'e. I like to give them a hearty reception in the old style at my gate. I like to see their horses and trunks taken care of. Mae. {Aside.) He has got our names from the servants already. {To Mm) We approve your caution and hospitality, Sir. {To Hastings.) I have been thinking, G-eorge, of changing our travelling dresses in the morning. I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine. Haed. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you '11 use no ceremofiy in this house. Hast. I fancy, G-eorge, you 're "right: the first blow is half the battle. I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold. Haed. Mr. Marlow — Mr, Hastings — gentlemen — pray be under no restraint in this house. This is Liberty-hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you please here. Mae. 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. Haed. Yom* talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when we went to besiege Denain. He first simimoned the garrison. Mae. Don't you think the ventre d'or waistcoat will do with the plain brown ? Haed. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men Hast. I think not : brown and yellow mix but very poorly. Haed. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison, wliieh might consist of about five thousand men ' Mae. The girls like finery. Haed. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed 133 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. "witli stores, ammunition, and otlier implements of war. Now, says the Dulce of Marlborongli to Greorge Brooks, that stood next to him — you must have heard of George Brooks — I '11 pawn my dukedom, says he, but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood. So Mae. What, my good friend, if you gave us a glass of punch in the mean time, it would help lis to carry on the siege with vigour. Hard. Punch, Sir ! {Aside). This is the most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with. Mae. Yes, Sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, after our journey will be comfortable. This is Liberty-hall, you know. IIaed. Ilere 's a cup, Sir. Mae. {Aside.) So this fellow, in his Liberty-hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. IIaed. {leaking the cup.) I hope you '11 find it to your mind. I liave pre- pared it with my own hands, and I believe you '11 own the ingredients are tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, Sir ? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. {Brinks.) Mae, (Aside.) A very impudent fellow this ! but he 's a character, and I '11 humour him a little. Sir, my service to you. {Drin/cs.) Hast. (Aside.) I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and forgets that he 's an innkeeper, before he has learned to bo a gentleman, Mae. 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. IIaed. No, Sir, I have long given that work over. Since our betters have hit upon the expedient of electing each otlier, there is no business " for us that sell ale." Hast. So, then,* you have no turn for politics, T find. IIaed. Not in the least. There was a lime, indeed, T fretted myself about the mistakes of government, like other people : but finding mj^solf 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 Hcyder 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. Haed. I do stir about a great deal, that 's certain. Half the differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlour. Mar. (After drinJdng.) And you have an argument in your cup, old gen- tleman, better than any in Westminster-hall. Haed. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy. Mae. (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 philo- sophy ; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with this. Ilere 's your health, my philosopher. {Drinks) Haed. Groocl, very good, thank you : ha! lia! Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hear. Mae. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I believe it's almost time to talk about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for supper ? Haed. For supper, Sir ! (Aside.) Was ever such a request to a man in his own house ! SHE STOOPS TO CONQVER. 135 Mar. Yes, Sir, supper, Sir ; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make dev'lisli work to-night in the larder, I promise you. Haed. {Aside.) Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. {To 7iim.) Why really, Sir, as for supper I can't well tell. My Dorothy, and the cook- maid, settle these things between them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them. Mae. You do, do you? Haed. Entirely. By-the-by, I believe they are in actual consultation upon what's for supper this moment in the kitchen. Mae. Then I beg they '11 admit me as one of their privy council. It 's a way I have got. When I travel, I always choose to regulate my own supper. Let the cook be called. No offence, I hope. Sir. Haed. 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 tho larder then. I ask it as a favour. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare. ]Mae. {To Ilardcasile, xcho looks at them with surprise^ Sir, he 's very right and it 's my way too. ' Haed. 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. Yoiu- 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 lie had eaten it. Hast. {Aside) All upon the high rope! His uncle a colonel! wa shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of the peace. But let 's hear the bill of fare. Mae. {Perusing) What's here? For the first course; for the second course : for tlie desert. The devil! Sir, do you tliink we have brought down the whole Joiners' company, or the corporation of Bedford, to eat up such a supper ? Tavo or three little things, clean and comfortable, will do. Hast. But let's hear it. Mae. {Reading) For the first course at the top, a pig, and pruin sauce. Hast. Damn your pig, I say. Mae. And damn your pruin sauce, say I. Haed. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungiy, pig with pruin sauce IS very good eating. Mae. At the bottom a calf's tongue and brains. Hast. Let your brains be knock'd out, my good Sir, I don't like them. Mae. Or you may clap them on a plate by themselves. Haed. {Aside) Their impudence confounds me. {To them) aentlemen, 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 Florentine, a shak- ing pudding, and a dish of tiff— taff— taffety cream. Hast. Confoimd your made dishes ! I shall be as much at a loss in this Jiouse as at a green and yellow dinner at the French ambassador's table. I 'm for plain eating. Haed. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing you like, but if there be anyUung you have a particular fancy to Mae. 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 arc air'd, and properly taken care of. Hard. I intreat you '11 leave all that to me. You shall not stir a step. 131. Ttm tVOtlKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH Mab. Leave that to you ! I protest. Sir, you must excuse me, I always look to these things myself. IIaed. I must insist, Sir, you '11 make yourself easy on that head. Mae. Yoii see I 'm resolved on it. {Aside) A very troublesome fellow this, as I ever met with. Haed. Well, Sir, I 'm resolved at least to attend you. {Aside) This may be modem modesty, but I never saw any thing look so like old-fashiou'd im- pudence. [Exeunt Marlow and Ilardcastle. 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. Eather let mc ask the same question, as I could never have hoped to meet my dearest Constance at an inn. Miss Niiv. 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, whoin 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 mc talk so often, lia ! ha ! ha ! Hast. He whom your aunt intends for you ? he of whom I have such just apprehensions ? Miss Net. You have nothing to fear from him, I assm'c you. You'd adore him, if you knew how heartily he despises me. My aimt 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 arc now fatigued with their journey, but they '11 soon be refreshed ; and then, if my dearest girl will trust in her faithful Hastings, we shall soon be landed in France, where even among slaves the laws of marriage are respected. Miss Nev. I have often told you, that though ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little fortune behind with reluctance. The greatest part of it was left me by my uncle, the India director, and chiefly consists in jewels. I have been for some time persuading my aimt to let mc wear them. I fancy I 'm very near succeeding. The instant they are put into my possession, you shall find me ready to make them and myself yours. Hast. Perish tlic baubles !• Your person is all I desire. In the meantime my friend Marlow must not be let into his mistake. I know the strange re- serve of his temper is such, that, if abruptly informed of it, he would instantly quit the house before our plan was ripe for execution. Miss Nev. But how shall we keep him in the deception ? Miss Hardcastlc is just returned from walking ; what if we still continue to deceive him ? This, this way \_T/iei/ confer. Enter Maelow. Mae. The assiduities of these good people teaze me beyond bearing. My host seems to think it ill manners to leave me alone, and so he claps not only himself, but his old-fashioned wife, on my back. They talk of coming to sup with us too ; and then, I suppose, we are to run the gauntlet through all the rest of the family. — What have we got here ! — Sim STOOPS TO CONQUER. 135 Hast. My deai* Charles ! Let me congratulate you ! — The most fortunate accident ! — Who do you thmk is just alighted ? Mae. Cannot guess. Hast. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle and Miss Neville. Give me leave to introduce Miss Constance Neville to your acquaintance. Happening to dine in the neighbourhood, they called on their return to take fresh horses here. Miss Hardcastle has just stept into the next room, and will be back in an instant. Wasn't it lucky ? ch ! Mae. (Aside.) I have been mortified enough of all conscience, and here comes something to complete my embarrassment. Hast. Well, but wasn't it the most fortunate thing in the world ? Mar. Oh! 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 respectful — To-morrow let it be. [^Offering to go. Miss Ney. By no means. Sir. Your ceremony will displease her. The disorder of your dress will shew the ardour of your impatience. Besides, she knoAvs you are in the house, and will permit you to see her. Mae. O ! the devil ! how shall I support it ? Hem ! hem ! Hastings, you must not go. You are to assist me, you know. I shall be confoundedly ridi- culous. Yet, hang it ! I '11 take courage. Hem ! Hast. PshaAv, man! it's but the first plunge, and all's over. She's but a woman, you know. Mae. And of all women, she that I dread most to encounter ! Enter Miss Haedcastle, as returned from walking. Hast., introducing them. Miss Hardcastle, Mr. Mai'low. I 'm proud of bringing two persons of such merit together, that only want to know, to esteem each other. Miss Haed. {Aside.) Now for meeting my modest gentleman with a de- mure face and quite in his own manner. {After a pause, in which he ajypears very uneasy and disconcerted.) I 'm glad of your safe arrival, Sir. I 'm told you had some accidents by the way. Mae. 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 '11 insure you the victory. Miss Haed. I 'm afraid you flatter, Sir. You that have seen so much of the finest company can find little entertainment in an obscure corner of the country. Mae. {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 way to enjoy it at last. Hast. {To him.) Cicero never spoke better. Once more, and you are con- firmed in assurance for ever. Mae. ( To him.) Hem ! Stand by me, then, and when I 'm down, throw in a word or two to set mc iq:) again. Miss Haed. An observer, like you, upon life were, I fear, disagreeably em- ployed, since you must have had much more to censure than to approve. Mab. 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. 136 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Well ! Miss Ilardcastle, I sec 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 of all things. {To him.) Zounds ! George, sure you won't go ? how can you leave us ? Hast. Our presence will but spoil conversation, so we '11 retire to the next room. ( 7b him.) You don't consider, man, that we are to manage a little tete- a-tete of our own. [^Exeunf. Miss Haed. {After a pause.) But you have not been wholly an observer, I pre- Bume, Sir : the ladies, I should hope, have employed some part of your addi-esses. Mak. {Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon me, Madam, I — I — I — as yet have studied — only — to — deserve them. Miss Haed. And that, some say, is the very worst way to obtain them. Mae. Perha]5s 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 Haed. Not at all. Sir ; there is nothing I like so much as grave con- versation myself ; I could hear it for ever. Indeed I have often been surprised how a man of sentiment could ever admire those light any pleasures, where noticing reaches the heart. Mae. It 's a disease of the mind. Madam. In the variety of tastes there must be some, who, wanting a relish for um — a — um. Miss Haed. I understand you. Sir. There must be some, who, wanting a relish for refined pleasures, pretend to despis.e what they are incapable of tasting. Mae. My meaning, Madam, but infinitely better expressed. And I can't help observing a Miss Haed. {Aside.) "Wlio could ever suppose this fellow impudent upon such occasions ? {To him.) You were going to observe, Sir Mae. I was observing, Madam — I protest, Madam, I forget what I was going to observe. Miss Haed. {Aside.) 1 vow and so do I. {To him.) You were observing, Sir, that in this age of hypocrisy — something about hypocrisy, Sir. ]\Iae. Yes, Madam. In this age of hypocrisy there are few who upon strict inquiry do not — a — a — a — Miss Haed. I understand you perfectly. Sir. Mae. {Aside.) Egad ! and that's more than I do myself. Miss Haed. You mean that in this hypocritical age there are few that do not condemn in public what they practice in private, and think they pay every debt to virtue when they praise it. Mae. True, Madam ; those who have most vu'tue in their mouths, have least of it in their bosoms. But I 'm sure I tire you, Madam. Miss Haed. Not in the least. Sir ; there 's something so agi'ceable and spirited in your manner, such life and force — pray. Sir, go on. Mae. Yes, Madam. I was saying that there are some occasions when a total want of courage. Madam, destroys all the and puts us upon a — a — a — Miss Haed. 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 '11 joroceed. Mae. Yes, Madam. Morally speaking, Madam — But I see Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. I would not intrude for the world. Miss Haed. I protest, Sir, I never was more agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray go on. Mae. Yes, Madam, I was But she beckons us to join her. Madam, shall I do myself the lionoiu' to attend you ? SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 137 i Miss Haed. Well then, I '11 follow. Mar, (Aside) This pretty smooth dialogue has done for me. lE.riL Miss Hard, alone. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Was there ever such a sober sentimental interview ? I 'm certain he scarce look'd in my face the whole time. Yet the i fellow, but for his unaccountable bashfulness, is pretty well too. He has good i sense, but then so buried in his fears, that it fatigues one more than ignorance. I If I could teach him a little confidence, it would be doing somebody that I j know of a piece of service. But who is that somebody ? — That, faith, is a I question I can scarce answer. \_Exit. ' Enter Tony and Miss Neville, followed ly Mrs. Hardcastle and Hastings, i ToNT. Wliat do you follow me for, cousin Con ? I wonder you 're not j asham'd to be so very engaging. Miss Nev. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one's own relations, and not be i to blame. ■ I Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation you want to make me though ; but it won't do. I tell you, cousin Con, it won't do ; so I beg you '11 keep your distance, I want no nearer relationship. \_She follows, coquetting him to the lack scene. Mrs. Hard. Well, I vow, Mr. Hastings, you are very entertaining. There 's nothing in the world I love to talk of so much as London, and the fashions, though I was never there myself. Hast. Never there ! You amaze me ! From your air and manner, I concluded you had been bred all your life either at Eanelagh, St. James's, or Tower Wharf. Mrs. Hard. O! 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 that serves to raise me above some of our neighbouring rustics ; but who can have a manner, that has never seen the PantJieon, the Grotto Gardens, the Borough, and such places where the nobility chiefly resort? All I can do is, to enjoy London at second-hand. I take care to know every tete-a-tete from the Scandal- ous Magazine, and have all ih.e fashions, as they come out, in a letter from the two Miss R ickets of Crooked Lane . Pray how do you like this head, Mr. Hastings ? Hast. Extremely elegant and dcgagee, upon my word, Madam. Your frisevu' is a Frenchman, I suppose ? Mrs. Hard. I protest, I dressed it myself from a pi-int in the Lady's T\Iemorandum-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 May'ress at a City Ball. Mrs. Hard. I vow, since inoculation began, there is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman; so one must dress a little particular, or one u.ay 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 tlu'ow off* his great flaxen wig, and Avhere 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 ago you may wear what you please, and it must become you. 188 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMlTIf. Mrs. Hard. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you take to be the most fashion- able age about town ? Hast. Some time ago, forty was all the mode j but I 'm told the ladies mtcnd to bring up fifty for the ensuing winter. Mrs. IIabd. Seriously. Then I shall be too young for the fashion. Hast. No lady begins now to put on jewels till she's past forty. For instance, Miss there, in a polite circle, would be considered as a cliild as a mere maker of samplers. Mrs. Haed. And yet Mrs. Niece thinks herself as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels, as the oldest of us all. Hast, Your niece, is she ? And that young gentleman, a brother of yours, I should presume ? Mrs. Haed. 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 cousui Constance this evening ? ToNT. I have been saying no soft things ; but that it 's very hard to bo followed about so. Ecod! I've not a place in the house now that 's left to myself, but the stable. Mrs. Haed. Never mind him. Con, my dear, he 's in another 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 damned confounded — crack. Mrs. Haed. Ah ! he 's a sly one. Don't you think they are like each other about the mouth, Mr. Hastings ? The Blenkinsop movith to a T. They 're of a size too. Back to back, my pretties, that Mr. Hastings may see you. Come, Tony. ToNT. You had as good not make me, I tell you. {Measuring.) Miss Nev. O lud ! he has almost cracked my head. Mrs. Haed, O, the monster ! For shame, Tony. You a man, and behave so ! Tony. If I 'm a man, let me have my fortin. Ecod j I '11 not be made a fool of no longer. Mrs. Haed. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that I 'm to get for the pains I have taken in your education ? I that have rock'd you in your cradle, and fed that pretty mouth Avith a spoon ! Did not I Avork that waistcoat to make you genteel ? Did not I prescribe for you every day, and weep while the receipt was operating ? Tony. Ecod! you had reason to weep, for you have been dosing me ever since I was born. I have gone through every receipt in the complete House- wife ten times over ; and you have thoughts of coursing me through Qiuncey next spi'ing. But, ecod ! I tell you, I '11 not be made a fool of no longer. Mrs. Haed. Wasn't it all for yom' good, viper ? Wasn't it all for yoiu* good ? Tony. I wish you'd let me and my good alone then. Snubbing this Avay 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. Haed. 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, vmfeeling monster ! Tony. Ecod ! mamma, your own notes are the wildest of the two. Mrs. Haed. Was ever the like ? But I see he wants to break my heart, I see he docs. Hast. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the young gentleman a little. I 'm certain I can persuade him to his duty. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUM. 139 Mrs. IIaed. Well ! I must retire. Come, Constance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the ■wretcliedncss of my situation ; was ever poor woman so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, undutiful boy ! Exeunt Mrs. Ilardcastle and Miss Neville. Hastings, Tony. Tony, singing. " There was a young man riding by, and fain would have his will. Rang do didlo dee." Don't mind her. Let her cry. It 's the comfort of her heart. I have seen her and sister cry over a .book for an liour together, and they said, they liked the book the better the more it made them cry. Hast. Then jou. 're no friend to the ladies, I find, my pretty young gen- tleman ? Tony. That 's as I find 'um. Hast. Not to her of your mother's choosing, I dare answer ? And yet she appears to mc a pretty well-tempered girl. Tony. That's because you don't know her as well as I. Ecod! I know every inch about her ; and there 's not a more bitter cantackerous toad in all Christendom. Hast. (Aside.) Pretty encouragement this for a lover ! Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. She has as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a colt the first day's breaking. Hast. To me she appears sensible and silent! Tony. Ay, before company. But when she 's with her playmate, she *8 as loud as a hog in a gate. Hast. But there is a meek modesty about her that channs me. Tony. Yes, but curb her never so little, she kicks up, and you 're flung in a ditch. Hast. Well, but you must allow her a little beauty. — Yes, you must allow her some beauty. Tony. Bandbox ! She 's all a made up thing, mum. Ah ! could you but see Bouncer of these parts, you might then talk of beauty. Ecod, she has tAvo eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and red as a pulpit cushion. Slie 'd make two of she. Hast. Well, what say you to a friend that would take this bitter bargain ofi" your hands ? Tony. Anon. Hast. Would you thank him that would take Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and your dear Betsy ? Tony. Ay ; but where is there such a friend, for who wovdd take her ? Hast. I am he. If you but assist me, I '11 engage to whip her off to France, and you shall never hear more of her. Tony. Assist you ! Ecod I Avill, to the last drop of my blood. I '11 clap a pair of horses to your chaise that shall trundle you off in a twinkling, and may be get you a part of her fortin beside in jewels that you little dream of. Hast. My dear 'squire, this looks like a lad of spirit. Tony. Come along, then, and you shall see more of my spirit before you have done with me. {Sinrjing.) We are ihe boys That fears no noise "Where the thundering cannons roar. {Exeunt. ACT III. Enter IIardcastle, alone. Hard. WirAT could my old friend Sir Charles mean by recommending his BOn as the modcstest young man in town? Tome he appears the most im- 140 THE WORKS OF OZIVER GOLDSMITH. pudent piece of brass tliat ever spoke ■with a tongue. He has taken posses- sion of the easy chair by the fire-side ah'eady. 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 Haedcastle, jjlainli/ dressed. Hasd. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed your dress, as I bade you : and yet, I believe, there was no great occasion. Miss Hard. I find such a pleasure. Sir, in obeying your commands, that I take care to observe them without ever debating theu' propriety. Hard. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you some cause, particularly when I recommended my modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day. Miss Hard. You taught me to expect something extraordinary, and I find the original exceeds the description. Hard. I was never so surprised in my life ! He has quite confounded all my faculties ! Miss Hard. I never saw any thing like it : and a man of the world too ! Hard. Ay, he learned it all abroad — what a fool Avas I, to think a young man could learn modesty by travelling. He might as soon learn wit at a mas- querade. 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 bash- ful manner — Hard. Whose look ? whose manner, child ? Miss Hard. Mr. Marlow's ; his mauvaise honte, his timidity, struck me at the first sight. Hard. Then your first sight deceived you ; for I think him one of the most brazen fii'st sights that ever astonished my senses. Miss Hard. Sure, Sir, you rally ! I never saw any one so modest. Hard. And can you be serious ? I never saw such a 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 familiarity that made my blood freeze again. Miss Hard. He treated me with diffidence and respect ; censured tlie man- ners of tlie age ; admired the prudence of girls that never laughed ; tired me with apologies for being tiresome ; then left the room with a bow, and " Madam, I would not for the world detain you." Hard. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his life befoi'e ; asked twenty questions, and never waited for an answer ; interrupted my best remarks with some silly pun ; and when I was in my best story of the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, he asked if I had not a good hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your father if he was a maker of punch. Miss HARDi One of us must certainly be mistaken. Hard. If he be what he has shewn himself, I 'm determined he shall never have my consent. Miss Hard. And if he be the sullen thing I take him, he shall never have mine. Hard. In one thing then we are agreed — to reject him. Miss Hard. Yes. But upon conditions. For if you should find him less impudent, and I more presuming ; if you find him more respectful, and I SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 141 more importunate 1 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. Haed. If we should find him so But that's impossible. The first ap- pearance has done my business. I 'm seldom deceived in that. Miss Hakd. And yet there may be many good qualities under that first ap- pearance. Haed. 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 Cgu.re for every virtue. Miss IIaed. I hope, Sir, a conversation begun with a compliment to my good sense won't end with a sneer at my understanding ? Hard. Pardon me, Kate. But if yomig Mr. Brazen can find the art of re- conciling contradictions, he may please us both, perhaps. Miss Haed. And as one of us must be mistaken^ what if we go to make farther discoveries ? Haed. Agreed. But depend on 't I 'm in the right. Miss Haed. And depend on 't I 'm not much in the wrong. \_Exeunt. Enter Tony, running in with a casket. ToKY. Ecod ! I have got them. Here they are. My cousin Con's neck- laces, bobs and all. My mother shan't cheat the poor souls out of their fortin neither. O ! my genus, is that you. Enter Hastings. Hast. My dear friend, how have you managed with your mother ? I hope you have amused her with pretending love for your cousin, and that you are willing to 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 '11 tell you no fibs. I procm-ed them by the rule of thumb. If I had not a key to every drawer in mother's bureau, how could I go to the 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 avmt this very instant. If she suc- ceeds, it will be the most delicate way at least of obtaining them. Tony, Well, keep them, till you know liow 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! hero they are. Morrice ! Prance ! [Exit Hastings. Tony, Mrs. Haedcastle, and Miss Neville. Mrs. Haed. 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. Haed. Yours, my dear, can admit of none. That natural blush is beyond a thousand ornaments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at present. Don't you see half the ladies of our acquaintance, my Lady Kill- daylight, and 142 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Mrs. Crump, and the rest of them, carry theu* jewels to town, and bring nothing but paste and marcasites back. Miss Nev. But who knows, Madam, but somebody that shall be nameless would like me best with all my little finery about me ? Mrs. Hard. Consult your glass, my dear, and then see if, with such a pair of eyes, you want any better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, my dear? Does your cousin Con want any jewels in your eyes to set off her beauty ? ToKY. That's as thereafter may be. Miss Nev. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would oblige me. Mrs. Haed. a pai'cel of old-fashioned rose-and-table cut things. They would make you look like the Court of King Solomon at a puppet-shoAv. Besides, I believe I can't readily come at them. They may be missing for aught I know to the contrary. Tony. {Apart to Mrs. Hardcastle.) Then why don't you tell her so at once, as she 's so longing for tliem ? Tell her they 're lost. It 's the only way to quiet her. Say they 're lost, and call me to bear witness. Mi's. IIabd. {Apart to Tony.) You know, ray dear, I'm only keeping them for you. So if I say they 're gone, you '11 bear me witness, will you ? He ! he! he! Tony. Never fear me. Ecod! I '11 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 shew them as relics, and then they may be locked up again. Mrs. Hard. To be jolain with you, my dear Constance ; if I could find them you should have them. They're missing, I assure you. Lost for aught I know ; but we must have patience wherever they are. Miss Nev. I '11 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 alarm'd, 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 '11 take my oath on 't. Mrs. Hard. You must learn resignation, my dear ; for though we lose our fortune, yet we should not lose our patience. See me, how calm I am. Miss Net. 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 mean time you shall make use of my garnets till your jewels be found. Miss Nev. I detest garnets. Mrs. Hard. The most becoming things in the world to set off a clear com- plexion. You have often seen how well they look upon mo. You shall have them. [^Exit. Miss Nev. I dislike them of all things. You shan't stir. — Was ever any thing so provoking, to mislay my own jewels, and force me to wear her trumpery ? Tony. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the garnets, take what you can get. The jewels are your own already. I have stolen them out of her bureau, and Bhe does not kuow it. Fly to your spark, he '11 tell you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her. Miss Nev. My dear cousin ! Tony. Vanish. She 's here, and has missed them already. Zounds ! how she fidgets and spits about like a Catherine wheel. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 143 Enter Mrs. Haedcastle. Mrs. Haed. Confusion ! Thieves ! robbers ! we are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone. Tony. What's the matter, what's the matter, mamma? I hope nothing has happened to any of the good family ! Mrs. Haed. 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 laws, I never saw it better acted in my life. Ecod, I thought you was ruin'd in earnest, ha! ha ! ha! Mrs. Haed. Why, boy, I 'm ruin'd in earnest. My bureau has been broken open, and all taken away. Tony. Stick to that; ha! ha! ha! stick to that. I'll bear witness, you know ; call me to bear witness. Mrs. Haed. I tell you, Tony, by all that 's precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruin'd for ever. Tony. Sure, I know they are gone, and I'm to say so. Mrs. Haed. My dearest Tony, but hear me. They 're gone, I say. Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to laugh, ha ! ha ! I know who took them well enough, ha ! ha ! ha ! Mrs. Haed. Was there ever such a blockhead, that can't tell the diflference 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 '11 bear witness that they are gone. Mrs. Haed. Was there ever such a cross-grain'd 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. Haed. Bear witness again, you blockhead you, and I '11 turn you out of the room directly. My poor niece, what will become of her ! Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed mj distress ? Tony. I can bear witness to that. Mrs. Haed, Do you insult me, monster ? I '11 teach you to vex your mother, I will. Tony. I can bear witness to that. [He rims off^ she follows him. Enter Miss Haedcastle and Maid. Miss Haed. Wliat an unaccountable creatiu'e is that brother of mine, to send them to the house as an inn, ha! ha! I don't wonder at his impudence. Maid. But what is more. Madam, the young gentleman, as you passed by in your present dress, ask'd me if you were the bar-maid ? He mistook you for the bar-maid. Madam. Miss Haed. Did he ? Then as I live I'm resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me. Pimple, how do you like my present dress ? Don't you think I look something like Cherry in the Beaux Stratagem. Maid. It 's the di'css, Madam, that every lady wears in the country, but when she visits or receives company. Miss Haed. And are you sure he does not remember my face or person ? Maid. Certain of it. Miss Haed. I vow, I thought so ; for though we spoke for some time together, yet his fears were such that he never once looked up during the interview. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would have kept him from seeing me. Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him in his mistake ? Miss Haed. 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 perlmps make an acquaintance, and that's no small victory gained over one who never addresses lU THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. any but the wildest of lier sex. But my chief aim is, to take my gentleman oil' 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 mistaken your person ? Miss Hat{D. Never fear me. I think I have got the true barcant — Did your lionoiu* call ? Attend the Lion there. — Pipes and tobacco for the Angel. — ■ The Lamb has been outrageous this half-hour. Maid. It will do, Madam. But he 's here. [Ea'U Maid. Enter Maelow. Mae. "What a bawling in every part of the house! I have scarce a moment's repose. If I go to the best room, there I find my host and his story. If I fly to the gallery, there we have my hostess with her courtesy down to the ground. I have at last got a moment to myself, and now for recollection. [Wal/:s and mtises. Miss Haed. Did you call, Sir ? Did your honour call ? Mae. {Musing.) As for Miss Uardcastle, she's too grave and sentimental for me. Miss Haed. Did your honour call ? [_She still places herself lefore him, he turning aivag.'] Mae. No, child, (musing.) Besides, from the glimpse I had of her, I think she squints. Miss Haed. I 'm sure. Sir, I heard the bell ring. Mae. No, no, (Musing.) I have pleased my father, however, by coming down, and I '11 to-morrow please myself by returning. \_Tah\ng out his tablets, and perusing. ]\Iiss Haed. Perhaps the other gentleman called. Sir ? ]\Iae. I tell you, no. Miss Haed. I should be glad to know. Sir. We have such a parcel of servants. Mae. No, no, I tell you. (Loo/csfull in her face.) Yes, child, I tliink I did call. I wanted — I wanted 1 vow, child, you are vastly handsome. Miss Haed. O la, Sir, you '11 make one asham'd. Mae. Never saw a more sprightly malicious eye. Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you got any of your — a — what d'ye call it in the house. Miss Haed. No, Sir, we have been out of that these ten days. Mae. 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 ; per- haps I might bo disappointed in that too. Miss Haed. Nectar ! nectar ! That's a liquor, there 's no call for in these parts. French, I suppose. We keep no French wines here, Sir. Mae. Of true English growth, I assure you. Miss Haed. Then it 's odd I should not know it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I have lived hero these eighteen years. Mae. Eighteen years ! Why one wovild think, child, you kept the bar be- fore you was born. How old are you ? Miss Haed. O ! Sir, I must not tell my age. They say, women and music should never be dated. Mae. To guess at this distance you can't be much above forty (approaching) Yet, nearer, I don't think so much (a])2)roaching.) By commg close to some women they look younger still; but when we come very close indeed — tat- tempting to Mss her.) Miss Haed. Pray, Sir, keep your distance. One would think you wanted to know one's age as they do horses, by mai'k of mouth. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 145 Mae. I protest^ child, you use me extremely ill. If you keep me at this distance, how is it possible you and I can ever be acquainted ? Miss Hard. And who wants to be acquainted with you ? I want no such acquaintance, not I. I'm sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle that was here awhile ago in this obstropalous manner. I'll warrant me, before her you look'd dash'd, and kept bowing to the ground, and talk'd, for all the world as if you was before a justice of peace. Mae. {Aside.) Egad! She has hit it, sure enough. {To her.) In awe of her, child ? Ha ! ha ! ha! A mere awkward squinting thing, no, no. I find you don't know me. I laugh'd, and rallied her a little ; but I was unwilling to be too severe. No, I could not be too severe, cm'se me. Miss Hard. O ! then, Sir, you are a favourite, I find, among the ladies ? Mar. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And yet, hang me, I don't see what they find in me to follow. At the ladies' club in town I 'm called their agree- able 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 your- self. And you 're so great a favoiu'ite there, you say ? Mae. Yes, my dear. There's Mrs. Mantrap, Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. Langhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your humble servant, keep up the spu'it of the place. Miss Hard. Then it 's a very mciTy place, I suppose ? Mar. Yes, as merry as cards, supper, wine, and old women can make us. Miss Hard. And their agreeable Rattle, ha ! ha ! ha ! Mar. {Aside.) Egad ! I don't like this chit. She looks knowing, me thinks. You laugh child ! Miss Hard. I can't bat 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 ? Miss Hard. Ay, sure. There 's not a screen or quilt in the whole house but what can bear witness to that. Mae. Odso ! then you must shew me your embroidery. I embroider and draw patterns myself a little. If you want a judge of your work, you must apply to me. [^Seizing her hand. Miss Hard. Ay, but the colom's do not look well by candlelight. 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 ! My old luck : I never nick'd seven that I did not throw ames ace three times following. [Exit Marlow. Enter Hardcastle, who stands in surprise. Hard. So, Madam. So, I find, this is yoiu' modest lover. This is your humble admirer that kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only ador'd at humble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not asham'd 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 '11 be convinc'd of it as well as I. Hard. By the hand of my body, I believe his impudence is infectious! Didn't I see him seize your hand ? Didn't I see him hawl you about like a milk-maid? And now you talk of his respect and his modesty, forsooth. Miss Hard. But if I shortly convince you of his modesty, that he has only the faults that will pass off with time, and the virtues that will improve with age, I hope you'll forgive him. Hard. The girl would actually make one run mad ! I tell you, I'll not bo U6 THE WOMS OP OLIVER GOLDSMITH. conTinced. I am convince^d. He liaa scarce been tlii-ee hours in the house, and he has abeady encroached on all my prerogatives. You may like his impu- dence, and call it modesty. But my son-in-law, Madam, must have very dif- ferent qualifications. Miss Haed. Sir, I ask but this night to convince you. Haed. You shall not have half the time, for I have thoughts of turning him out this very hour. Miss Haed. Give me that hour then, and I hope to satisfy you. Haed. Well, an hour let it be then. But I 'U have no trifling with your father. All fair and open, do you mind me ? Miss Haed. I hope, Sir, you have ever found that I considered your com- mands 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! Wliere have you had your information ? Miss Nev. You may depend upon it. I just saw his letter to Mr. Hard- castle, in which he tells him he intends setting out a few hours after his son. Hast. Then, my Constance, all must be completed before he arrives. He knows mo ; and should ho 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 mean time I '11 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 vsrite him farther directions. [Exit. Miss Nev. Well j success attend you ! In the mean time I '11 go amuse my aunt with the old pretence of a violent passion for my cousin. [Exit. Enter Maelow, followed ly a Servant. Mae. 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 ? See. Yes, your honour. Mae. She said she'd keep it safe, did she ? See. Yes, she said she'd keep it safe enough ; she ask'd me how I came by it ? and she said she had a great mind to make me give an accomit of myself. [Exit Servant. Mae. Ha ! ha ! ha ! They 're safe, however. What an unaccountable set of beings have we got amongst! This little bar-maid though runs in my head most strangely, and drives out the absm'dities of all the res<; of the family. She 's mine, she must be mine, or I 'm greatly mistaken. Enter Hastings. Hast. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell her that I intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. Marlow here, and in spirits too ! Mab. Grive me joy, George ! Crown me, shadow me with laurels ! Well, G-eorge, after all, we modest fellows don't want for success among the women. Hast. Some women, you mean. Bat what success has your honour's modesty been crowned with now, that it grows so insolent upon us ? Mae. Didn't you see the tempting, brisk, lovely, little thing, that runs about the house with a bunch of keys to its girdle ? Hast. Well, and what then ? SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Il7 Mae. She 's mine, you rogue you. Such fire, such motion, such eyes, such lips — but, egad ! she would not let me kiss them though. Hast. But are you so sure, so very sm^e of her ? Mar. Why, man, she talk'd of shewing me her work abore stairs, and I am to approve the pattern. Hast. But how can you, Charles, go about to rob a woman of her honour ? Mae. Pshaw ! pshaw ! We all know the honour of the bar-maid of an inn. I don't intend to rob her : take my word for it, there's nothing in this house I shan't honestly pay for. Hast. I believe the gii-l has virtue. Mae. And if she has, I should be the last man in the world that would attempt to corrupt it. Hast. You have taken care, I hope, of the casket I sent you to lock up ? 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 ? Ali, nmnbskuU ! I have taken better precautions for you than you did for yourself 1 have Hast. What! Mar. I have sent it to the landlady to keep for you. Hast. To the landlady ? Mar. The landlady. Hast. You did ? Mae. I did. She 's to be answerable for its forthcoming, you know. Hast. Yes, she '11 bring it forth with a witness. Mar. Wasn't I right ? I believe you '11 allow that I acted prudently 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? Mae. Eather 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 Mm.) Well, Charles, I '11 leave you to your meditations on the pretty bar-maid, and, he ! he ! he I may you be as successful for your- self as you have been for me ! [Exit. Mae. Thank ye, Greorge ! I ask no more. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Enter Haedcastle. Hard. I no longer know my own house. It 's turn'd all topsy-turvy. His servants have got drunk already. I '11 bear it no longer ; and yet, from my respect for his father, I '11 be calm. {To him.) Mr. Marlow, your servant. I 'm your very humble servant. \_Bowing loiv. Mae. Sir, your humble servant. {Aside.) What 's to be the wonder now ? Hard. I believe. Sir, you must be sensible. Sir, that no man alive ought to be more welcome than your father's son, Sir. I hope you think so ? Mae. I do from my soul, Sir. I don't want much entreaty. I generally make my father's son welcome wherever he goes. Hard. I believe you do, from my soul, Sir. But though I say nothing to your own conduct, that of your servants is insufferable. Their manner of drinking is setting a very bad example in this house, I assm'e you. 10—2 148 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Mae. I protest, my very good Sir, that is no fault of mine. If tliey 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 tip. {To Mm.) My positive directions were, that as I did not drink myself, they should make vip for my deficiencies below. Hakd. Then they had your orders for what they do ! I 'm satisfied ! Mae. They had, I assure you. You shall hear from one of themselves. Enter Seetant, drunk. Mae. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, sirrah ! Wliat were my orders ? Were you not told to drink freely, and call for what you thought lit, for th« good of the house ? Haed. {Aside.) I begin to lose my patience. Jee. Please your honour, liberty and Fleet-street for ever ! Though I 'm but a servant, I 'm as good as another man. I '11 di'ink for no man before supper, Sir, dammy ! Good liquor will sit upon a good supper, but a good supper will not sit upon liiccup upon my conscience, Sii*. Mae. 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. Haed. Zounds! he '11 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. Mae. Leave 3'our house ! Sure you jest, my good friend? Wliat when I 'm doing what I can to please you ? Haed. I tell you, Sir, you don't please me j so I desire you 'U leave my house. Mae. Sure you cannot be serious ? At this time o'night, and such a night? You only mean to banter me ? Haed. 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^ Mae. 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 to leave this house. Sir ? I never met with such impudence, curse me, never in my whole life before. Haed. 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 furnitvu'e ? 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 ? Mae. Bring me your bill. Sir j bring me your bill, and let 's make no more words about it. Haed. There are a set of prints too. What think you of the Eake's Progress for your own apartment ? ]\Iae. Bring me your bill, I say ; and I '11 leave you and your infernal house directly. Haed. Then there *s a mahogany table that you may see your o^vn face in. Mae. My bill, I say. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 149 Haed, I had forgot the great chair, for your own particular slumbers after a hearty meal. Mae. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, and let 's hear no more on't. Haed. 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 j but he will be down here presently, and shall hear more of it. \_Exit. Mae. How 's this ! Sure I have not mistaken the house ! Everything looks like an inn. Tlie servants cry, Coming. The attendance is awkward ; the bar-maid too to attend us. But she 's here, and wiU farther inform me. Whither so fast, child ? A word with you. Enter Miss IIaedcastle. Miss Haed. Let it be short then. I 'm in a hm-ry. (Aside.) I believe he begins to find out his mistake, but it 's too soon quite to undeceive liim. Mae. Pray, child, answer me one question. What are you, and what may your business in this house be ? Miss Haed. A relation of the family, Sir. Mae. What, a poor relation ? Miss Haed. Yes, Sir. A poor relation, appointed to keep the keys, and to see that the guests want nothing in my power to give them. Mae. That is, you act as the bar-maid of this inn. Miss Haed. Inn ! O law — ^What brought that in your head ? One of the best families in the county keep an inn ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! old Mr. Hardcastle's house an inn ! Mae. Mr. Hardcastle's house ! Is this Mr. Hardcastle's house, child ? Miss Haed. Ay, sure. Wliose else should it be ? ^ Mae. So then all's out, and I have been damnably imposed on. O, con- found my stupid head, I shall be laugh'd at over the whole town. I shall be stuck up in caricatura in all the print-shops. The Dullissimo Maccaroni. To mistake this house of all others for an inn, and my father's old friend for an innkeeper ! Wliat a swaggering puppy must he take me for ! What a silly puppy do I find myself! There again, may I be hanged, my dear, but I mis- took you for the bar-maid. Miss Haed. Dear me! dear me! I 'm sure there 's nothing in my behaviour to put me upon a level with one of that stamp. Mae. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in for a list of blunders, and could not help making you a subscriber. My stupidity saw every thing the wrong way. I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and yom* simplicity for allurement. But it's over — This house I no more shew my face in. Miss Haed. I liope. Sir, I have done notliiug to disoblige you. I 'm sure I should bo sorry to affront any gentleman who has been so polite, and said so many civil things to mo. I 'm sm'e I should be sorry {pretending to cry) if he left the family upon my account. I 'm sure I should be sorry, people said any thing amiss, since I have no fortvme but my character. Mae. (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, niy lovely girl, you are the only part of the family I leave with reluctance. But to be jolain with you, the difference of our birth, fortune, and education, makes an honourable connexion impossible ; and I can never harbour a thought of seducing simplicity that trusted in my honom', of bringing ruin upon one, whose only fault was being too lovely. Miss Haed, (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 150 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. I 'm poor, that 's no great misfortune to a contented mind, and, until thia moment, I never thought that it was bad to want a fortune. Mae. And why now, my pretty simplicity ? Miss Hard. Because it puts me at a distance from one, that if I had a thousand pounds I would give it all to. Mae. {Aside.) This simplicity bewitches me, so that if I stay, I 'm undone. I must make one bold effort, and leave her. {To her.) Your partiality in my favour, my dear, touches me most sensibly ; and were I to live for myself alone, I could easily fix my choice. But I owe too much to the opinion of the world, too much to the authority of a father, so that — I can scarcely speak it — it affects me. Farewell ! \_Exit. Miss Haed. I never knew half his merit till now. He shall not go, if I have power or art to detain him. I '11 still preserve the character in which I stooped to conquer ; but will undeceive m.-^ papa, who, perhaps, may laugh him out of his resolution. [Exit Enter Tony, Miss Neville. Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next time. I have done my duty. She has got the jewels again, that 's a sure thhig j 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 damn'd bad things. But what can I do ? I have got you a pair of horses that will fly like Whistlcjacket, and I 'm sm'e you can't say but I have courted you nicely before lier face. Here she comes, we must court a bit or two more, for fear she should suspect us. \Ihey retire, and seem tofondte. Enter Mrs. Haedcastle. Mrs. Haed. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to be sure. But my son tells me it was all a mistake of the servants. I slian't be easy, however, till they arc fairly mai*ried, and then let her keep her own fortune. But what do I see ! fondling together, as I 'm alive. I never saw Tony so spi-ightly before. Ah ! liave I caught you, my pretty doves! What, billing, exchanging stolen glances and broken murmurs. Ah ! Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little now and then, to be sure. But there's no love lost between us. Mrs. Haed. 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 liome. Indeed, he shan't leave us any more. It won't leave us, cousin Tony, will it ? Tony. O! it's a pretty creature. No, I'd sooner leave my horse in a pound, than leave you when you smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you so becoming. Miss Nev. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help admiring that natural humour, that pleasant, broad, red, thoughtless,— (^a^/i«5' his cheek) ah ! it 's a bold face. Mrs. Haed. Pretty innocence! Tony. I 'm sure I always lov'd cousin Con's hazle eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she twists this way and that, over the haspicolls, like a parcel of bobbins. Mrs. Haed. Ah ! he would charm the bird from the tree. I was never so happy before. My boy takes after his father, poor Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. The jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours incontinently. You shall have them. Isn't he a sweet boy, my dear ? You shall be married to-morrow, and we '11 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 151 put off the rest of hia education, like Dr. Drowsy's sermons, ' to a fitter opportunity. Enter DiGGORT. Dia. Where 's the 'squire ? I have got a letter for your worship. Tony. Grive 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 the letter, and gazing on it.) Miss Nev. {Aside.) Undone ! undone ! A letter to him from Hastings. I know the hand. If my aunt sees it we are ruined for ever. I '11 keep her employ' d a little if I can. {To Mrs. Hardcastle.) But I have not told you, Madam, of my cousin's smart answer just now to Mr, Mario w. We so laugh' d — You must know. Madam. — This way a little, for he must not hear us, \_They confer, Tony. {Still gazing) A damn'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 tell the head from the tail, " To Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire." It's very odd, I can read the outside cf my letters, where my own name is, well enough. But when I come to open it, it 's all buzz. That 's hard, very hard j for the inside of the letter is always the cream of the correspondence. Mrs, Haed. 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 '11 hear how he pvizzled him again. Mrs, Hard. He seems strangely puzzled now himself, methinks, Tony. {Still gazing.) A damn'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 assistance ? 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 teU, except from Dick Gringer the feeder. Miss Nev. Ay, so it is, {jjretending to read.) Dear 'squire hoping that you 're in health, as I am at this present. The gentlemen of the Shake-bag club has cut the gentlemen of the Goose-green quite out of feather. The odds um— odd battle um — long fighting — um— here, here, it's all about cocks and fighting ; it 's of no consequence ; here, put it up, put it up, [ Thrusting the crumpled letter upon Mm. Tony. But I tell you, Miss, it's of all the consequence in the world. I would not lose the rest of it for a guinea. Here, mother, do you make it out. Of no consequence! {^Giving Mrs. Hardcastle the letter. Mrs. Haed. How 's this ! {reads) " Dear 'squire, I 'm now waiting for Miss " Neville, with a post-chaise and pair, at the bottom of the garden, but I find *' my horses yet tmable to perform the journey. I expect you '11 assist us " with a pair of fresh horses, as you promised. Dispatch is necessary, as the " hag (ay, the hag), your mother, will otherwise suspect us. Yours,, Hastiags." Grant me patience ! I shall run distracted. My rage chokes me. Miss Nev. I hope, Madam, you '11 suspend your resentment for a few moments, and not impute to me any impertinence, or sinister design, that belongs to another. Mrs. Haed. {Curtesying very low) Fine spoken, Madam, you are most mi- 152 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. raculously polite and engaging, and quite tlie very pink of courtesy and circumspection, Madam. {Changing her tone,) And you, you great ill- fasliioned oaf, with scarce sense enougli to keep your moutli shut. Were you too joined against me ? But I '11 defeat all your plots in a moment. As for you. Madam, since you have got a pair of fresh horses ready, it would be Cruel to disappoint them. So, if you please, instead of running away with your spark, prepare, tliis very moment, to run off with me. Your old amit Pedigree will keep you secure, I '11 warrant me. You too, Sir, may moiuit your horse, and guaiti us upon the way. Here, Thomas, Eoger, Piggory ! I '11 shew you, that I wish you better than you do yourselves. [Exit. Miss Nev. So now I 'm completely ruined. Tony. Ay, that 's a sure thing. Miss Nev. What better could be expected from being connected with such a stupid fool— and after all the nods and signs I made him ? Tony. By the laws. Miss, it was your own cleverness, and not my stupidity, that did your business. You were so nice and so busy with your Shake-bags and Groose-greens, that I thought you could never be making believe. Enter Hastings. Hast. So, Sir, I find by my servant, that you liave shewn my letter, and betray'd us. Was this well done, young gentleman ? Tony. Here 's another. Ask Miss there, who beti-ay'd you ? Ecod, it was her doing, not mine. Enter Mariow. Mae. So I have been finely used here among you. Eendered contemptible, driven into ill manners, despised, insulted, laughed at. Tony. Here 's another. We shall have old Bedlam broke loose presently. Miss Nev. And there, Sir, is the gentleman to whom we all owe every obligation. Mae. 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 himself merry with all our embarrassments. Hast. An insensible cub. Mae. Replete with tricks and mischief. Tony. Baw ! dam 'me, but I '11 fight you both one after the other-*— with baskets. Mae. 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 disappointmentSj is this a time for explanations ? It is not friendly, Mr. Mario w. Mae. But, Sir — Miss Nev. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your mistake, till it was too late to undeceive you. Enter Seevant. See. My mistress desires you '11 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 '11 come presently. Mae. {To Hastings.) Was it well done. Sir, to assist in rendering me ridi- culous ? To hang me out for the scorn of all my acquaintance ? Depend upon it, Sir, I shall expect an explanation. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 153 Hast, Was it well done, Sir, if you 're upon tliat subject, to deliver 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 you Enter Servant. See. Your cloali, Madam. My mistress is impatient. [^Exit Servant. Miss Nev. I come. Pray bo pacified. If I leave you thus, I shall die with apprehension. Enter Seevant. See. Your fan, muff, and gloves, Madam. The horses are waiting. Miss Nev. O, Mr. Marlow ! if you knew what a scene of constraint and ill-nature lies before me, I 'm sure it would convert your resentment into pity. Mae. I 'm so distracted with a variety of passions, that I don't know what I do. Forgive me, Madam. Greorge, 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 for me that I think, that I am sure you have, your constancy for three years will but increase the happiness of our futm'e connexion. If — Mrs, Haed. {Within.) Miss Neville. Constance, why Constance, I say. Miss Nev. I 'm coming. Well, constancy, remember constancy, is the word. [^Exit. Hast. My heart! how can I support this 9 To be so near happiness, and such happiness ! Mae. ( To Tony.) You see now, young gentleman, the effects of your folly. Wliat might be amusement to you, is here disappointment, and even distress. Tony. {From a reverie.) Ecod, 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-natur'd fellow than you thought for, I '11 give you leave to take my best horse, and Bet Bouncer into the bargain. Come along. My boots, ho ! lExeunt. ACT V. Enter Hastings and Seevant. Hast. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville drive off, you say. See. 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. See. Yes, Sir, Old Sir Charles is arrived. He and the old gentleman of the house have been laughing at Mr. Marlow's mistake this half hour. They are coming this way. 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 Chaeles and Haedcastle. Haed. Ha! ha! ha! The peremptory tone in which he sent forth his sublime commands ! Sir CnA. And the reserve with which I suppose he treated all your advances. Haed. And yet he might have seen something in me above a common inn- keeper, too. Sir Cha. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an uncommon innkeeper, ha ! ha! ha! Haed. Well, I *m in too good spirits to think of anything but joy. Yes, 151 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. my dear friend, this union of our families will make our personal friendships liBreditary ; and though my daughter's fortune is but small— — Sir Cha. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune to me ? My son is possessed of more than a competence already, and can want nothing hut a good and Tirtuous girl to share his happiness and increase it. If they like each otlie* —as you say they do—— I Haed. If, man ! I tell you they do like each other. My daughter as good | as told me so- : Sir Cha. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, you know. Haed, I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest manner myself j and here he comes to put you out of yom* ifs, I warrant him. Enter Marlow. Mas. I come, Sir, once more, to ask pardon for my strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on my insolence without confusion. IIaed. Tut, 'hoy, a trifle! You take it too gravely. An hour or two's laughing with my daughter will set all to rights again. She '11 never like you the worse for it. Mae. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation. Hard. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. Marlow ; if I am not deceived, you have something more than approbation thereabouts. You take me. Mae. Really, Sir, I have not that happiness. Haed. 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 ; but mum. Mar. Sure, Sir, nothing has passed between us but the most profotmd respect on my side, and the most distant reserve on lier's. You don't think, Sir, that my impudence has been passed upon all tlie rest of the family. Hard. Impudence ! No, I don't say that — not quite impudence — though girls like to be play'd Avitli, and rumpled a little too sometimes. 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; 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 Ilardcastle the slightest mark of my attachment, or even the most distant hint to suspect me of affection. We had but one interview, and that was formal, modest, and uninteresting. Hard. {Aside.) This fellow's formal modest impudence is beyond bearing. Sir Cha. And you never grasped her hand, or made any protestations. Mar. As Heaven is my witness, I came down in obedience to yoiir com- mands. I saw the lady without emotion, and parted without reluctance. I hope yovi '11 exact no farther proofs of my duty, nor prevent me from leaving a house in which I suffer so many mortifications. \_Eot;it. Sir Cha. I 'm astonished at the air of sincerity with which he parted Hard. And I 'm astonished at the deliberate intrepidity of his assurance. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 155 Sir Cha. I dare pledge my life and honour upon his truth. Hard. Here cornea my daughter, and I would stake my happiness upon her veracity. Enter Miss Haiidcastle. Haed. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us sincerely and without reserve: has Mr. Marlow made you any professions of love and affection ? Miss Haed. The question is very abrupt, Sir. But since you require unre- served sincerity, I think he has. Haed, {To Sir Charles.) You see. Sir Cha. And pray, Madam, have you and my son had more than one in- terview ? Miss Haed. Yes, Sir, several. Haed. {To Sir Charles) You see. Sir CiiA. But did he profess any attachment ? Miss Haed. A lasting one. Sir Cha. Did he talk of love ? Miss Haed. Much, Sir. Sir Cha. Amazing ! And all this formally ? Miss Haed. Formally. Haed. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied. Sir Cha. And how did he behave, Madam ? Miss Haed. As most professed admirers do. Said some civil things of my face, talked much of his want of merit, and the gi-eatness of mine ; mentioned his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with pretended rapture. Sir Cha. 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 j and, I am confident, he never sate for the picture. Miss Haed. 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 Cha. Agreed. And if I find him what you describe, all my happiness in him must have an end. [^Exit. Miss Haed. And if you don't find him what I describe 1 fear my happiness must never have a beginning. [Ejceunt. Scene changes to the lacJc of the Garden. Enter Hastings. Hast. What an idiot am T, to wait here for a fellow, who probably takes a delight in mortifying me. He never intended to be punctual, and I '11 wait no longer. What do I see ! It is he ! and perhaps with news of my Constance. Enter Tony, looted and spattered. Hast. My honest 'squire! I now find you a man of your word. This looks like friendship. Tony. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend you have in the world, if you knew but all. This riding by night, by-the-by, is cursedly tiresome. It lias shook me worse than the basket of a stage-coach. Hast. But how ? where did you leave your fellow-travellers ? Are they in safety ? Are they housed ? Tony. Five and twenty miles in two hours and a half is no such bad driv- ing. The poor beasts have smoked for it: rabbet me, but I 'd rather ride forty miles after a fox than ten with such varment. Hast. Well, but where have you left tlie ladies ? I die with impatience. Tony. Left them ! Why where should I leave them but where I found them ? 156 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Hast. This is a riddle. Tony. Riddle me this then. What's that goes round the housej and round the house, and never touches the house ? Hast. I 'm still astray. Tony. Why, that's it, mon. I have led them astray. By jingo, there's not a pond or a slough within five miles of the place but they can tell the taste of. Hast. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I understand j you took them in a round, while they supposed themselves gomg forward, and so you have at last brought them home again. Ton?. You shall hear. I first took them down Featherbed-lane, where we stuck fast in the mud — I then rattled them crack over the stones of Up-and- down Hill — I then introduced them to the gibbet on Heavy-tree Heath, and from that with a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at tlie bottom of the garden. Hast. But no accident, I hope. Tony. No, no. Only mother is confoundedly frightened. She thinks her- self forty miles off. She 's sick of the journey, and the cattle can scarce crawl. So if your own horses be ready, you may whip off with cousin, and 1 '11 be bound that no soul here can budge a foot to follow you. Hast. My dear friend, how can I be grateful ! Tony. Ay, now it 's dear friend, noble 'squire. Just now, it was all idiot, cub, and run me through the guts. Damn your way of fighting, I say. After we take a knock in this part of the country, we kiss and be friends. But if you had run me through the guts, then I should be dead, and you might go kiss the hangman. Hast. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten to relieve Miss Neville j if you keep the old lady employed, I promise to take care of the young one. \_Exit Hastings. Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. Vanish. She 's got from the pond, and draggled up to the waist like a mermaid. Enter Mrs. Hardcastli:. Mrs. Haed. Oh, Tony, I 'm killed. Shook. Battered to death. I shall never survive it. That last jolt that laid us against the quickset hedge has done my business. Tony. Alack, mamma, it was all your own fault. You would be for running away by night, without knowing one inch of the way. Mrs. Haed. I wish we were at home again. I never met so many accidents in so short a journey. Drench' d in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our way. — Whereabouts do you think we are, Tony 9 Tony. By my guess we should come upon Crackskull common, about forty miles from home. Mrs. Haed. O lud ! O lud ! Tlie most notorious spot in all the country. We only want a robbery to make a complete night on 't. Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma, don't be afraid. Two of the five that kept here are hanged, and the other three may not find us. Don't be afraid. Is that a man that's galloping behind us ? No j it 's only a tree. Don't bo afraid. Mrs. Haed. The fright will certainly kill me. Tony. Do you see any thing like a black hat moving behind the thicket ? Mrs. Haed. O, death ! Tony. No, it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, mamma; don't be afraid. Mrs. Haed. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man coming towards us. Alx! I m SVLVQ on 't. If he perceives us, we are imdone.- SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 157 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 damn'd ill-looking fellow. Mrs. Hard. G-ood Heaven defend us ! He approaches. Tony. Do you hide j'^ourself in that thicket, and leave me to manage him. If there be any danger I '11 cough and cry hem. When I cough be sure to keep close. [_Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind a tree in the hack Scene. Enter Haedcastle. Hahd. I 'm mistaken, or I heard voices of people in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you ! I did not expect you so soon back. Are your mother and her cliarge 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 mucli, 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 j I should be glad to know from whence it came. Tony. It was I, Sir, talking to myself, Sir. I was saying that forty miles in four hours was very good going. Hem. As to be sui'e it was. Hem. I have got a sort of cold by being out in the air. We '11 go in, if you please. Hem. Hard. But if you talk'd to yourself, you did not answer yom'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 'U lay down my life for the truth — liem — I '11 tell you all, Sir. \_Detaininff him. Hard. I tell you, I will not be detained. I insist on seeing. It's in vain to expect I '11 believe you, Mrs. Hard. {Running fo^noard from behind.) O lud! he'U murder my poor boy, my darling. Here, good gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my money, my life, but spare that young gentleman, spare my child, if you have any mercy. Hard. My wife ! as I 'm a Christian. From whence can she come ? or what does she mean ? Mrs. Hard. {Kneeling.) Take compassion on us, good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, our watches, all we have, but spare our lives. We will never bring you to justice, indeed we won't, good Mr. Highwayman. Hard, I believe the woman 's out of her senses. What, Dorothy, don't you know me ? Mrd. Hard. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive! My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could have expected to meet you here, in this frightfvd 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, niy dear ? Mrs. Hard. Yes, I shall remember the horsepond as long as I live ; I have caught my death in it. {To Tony.) And is it to you, you graceless varlet, I owe all this ? I '11 teach you to abuse your mother, I will. Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have spoil'd me, and so you may take the fruits on't. 158 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Mrs. IIaed. I '11 spoil you, I will. [Follows Mm off the stage. [Exit. Haed. 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 tlie reach of her malignity. Miss Nev. I find it impossible. My spu'its are so sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that I am unable to face any new danger. Two or three years patience will at last crown us with happiness. Hast. Such a tedious delay is worse than inconstancy. Let us fly, my charmer. Let us date our happiness from this very moment. Perish fortune ! Love and content will increase what we possess beyond a monarch's revenue. Let me prevail ! Miss Nev. No, Mr. Hastings ; no. Prudence once more comes to my relief, and I will obey its dictates. In the moment of passion fortune may be despised, but it ever produces a lasting repentance. I 'm resolved to apply to Mr. Hardcastle's compassion and justice for redress. Hast. But though he had the will, he has not the power to relieve you. Miss Nev. But he has influence, and upon that I am resolved to rely. Hast. I have no hopes. But since you persist, I must reluctantly obey you [Exeunt. Scene changes. Enter Sir Chaeles and Miss HaedcASTLE. Sir Cha. What a situation am I in ! If what you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If what ho says be true, I shall then lose one, that, of all others, I most wish'd for a daughter. Miss Hard. I am proud of your approbation, and to shew I merit it, if you place yourselves as I directed, you shall hear his explicit declaration. But he comes. Sir Cha. I '11 to your father, and keep him to the appointment. [Exit Su' Charles. Enter Mahlow. Mae. Though prcpar'd 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 oivn natural manner.) I believe these sufferings cannot be very gi'eat. Sir, which you can so easily remove. A day or two longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by shewing the little value of what you now think proper to regret. Mae. {Aside.) This girl every moment improves upon me. {To her.) It must not be. Madam. I have already trifled too long with my heart. My very pride begins to submit to my passion. The disparity of education and fortune, the anger of a parent, and the contempt of my equals, begin to lose their weight ; and nothing can restore me to myself, but this painful effort of resolution. Miss Haed. Then go. Sir. I '11 urge nothing more to detain you. Though my family be as good as hers you came down to visit, and my education, I hope, not inferior, what are these advantages without equal affluence ? I must remain contented with the slight approbation of imputed merit ; I must have only the mockery of your addresses, while all your serious aims are fixed on fortune, Enter Haedcastle and Sir CHAftLES/rom behind. Sir Cha. Here, behind this screen. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. I5d Hard. Ay, ay, make no noise. I '11 engage my Kate covers him with con- fusion at last. Mae. 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 pictm'e, and gives it stronger expression. What at first seemed rustic plainness, now appears refined simplicity. What seem'd forward assu- rance, now strikes me as the result of courageous innocence and conscious virtue. Sir Cha. What can it mean ? He amazes me ! Hard. I told you how it would be. Hush ! Mae. 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 Haed. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, cannot detain you. Do you think I could suffer a connexion in which there is the smallest room for repentance ? Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a transient passion, to load you with confusion ? Do you think I could ever relish that happiness, which was acquired by lessening yours ? Mae. 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 Haed. Sir, I must intreat you'll desist. As our acquaintance began, 60 let it end, in indifference. I might have given an hour or two to levity ; but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do yoii think I could ever submit to a connexion, where I must appear mercenary and you imprudent ? Do you think I could ever catch at the confident addresses of a secure admirer ? Mae. {Kneeling) Does this look like security? Does this look like con- fidence? No, Madam, every moment that shews me your merit, only serves to increase my diffidence and confusion. Here let me continue Sir Cha. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how hast thou deceived me ! Is this your indifference, your uninteresting conversation? Haed. Your cold contempt; your formal interview! What have you to say now ? Mae. That I 'm all amazement ! Wliat can it mean ? Haed. It means that you can say and unsay things at pleastu'e. 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. Mae. Daughter ! — This lady your daughter ! Haed. Yes, Sir, my only daughter. My Kate j whose else should she be ? Mae. Oh, the devil ! Miss Haed. Yes, Sir, that very identical tall, squinting lady you were pleased to take me for, {Courtesy ing,) she that you addressed as tlie mild, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, forward, agreeable Battle of the Ladies' club. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Mae. Zounds ! there 's no bearing this ; it's worse than death! Miss Haed. In which of your characters, Sir, will you give us leave to address you? As the faltering gentleman, with looks on the ground, that speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy ; or the loud confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morning ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! Mae. O, curse on my noisy head. I never attempted to be impudent yet, that I was not taken down. I must be gone. 160 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITtt. Hat?d. Bj the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not. Sir, I tell you. I know she '11 forgiye you. Won't you forgive him, Kate ? We '11 all forgive you. Take courage, man. {.They retire, she tormenting him to the back scene. Enter Mrs. HaedcASTLE, ToNY. Mrs. Hatid. So, so, they 're gone off. Let them go, I care not. Haed. Who gone ? Mrs. Haed. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr. Hastings, from town. He who came down with our modest visitor here. Sir Cha. Who ? my honest George Hastings ? As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice. Haed. Then, by the hand of my body, I 'm proud of the connexion. Mrs. Haed. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not taken her for- tune ; that remains in this family to console us for her loss. Haed. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary ? Mrs. Haed. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. Haed. But you know, if your son, when of age, refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune is then at her own disposal. Mrs. Haed. Ay, but he 's not of age, and she has not thought proper to wait for his refusal. Enter HASTiKas and Miss Neville. Mrs. Haed. (Aside.) What, return'd so soon! I begin not to like it. Hast, {To Ilardcastle.) 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 connexion. Mrs. Haed. Pshaw, pshaw, this is all but the whining cud of a modern novel. Haed. 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 ofier you? Tony. What signifies my refusing ? You know I can't refuse her till I 'm of age, father. Haed. 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. Tout. Of age ! Am I of age, father ? Haed. Above three months. Tony. Then you'll see the first use I '11 make of my liberty. {Taking Miss Neville's hand.) Witness all men by these presents, that I, Anthony Lump- kin, esquire, of blank place, refuse you, Constautia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So Constance Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again. Sir Cha. O brave 'squire ! Hast. My worthy friend ! Mrs. Haed. My undutiful offspring 1 Mae. Joy, my dear George ! I give you joy sincerely. And could I pre- vail upon my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest man alive, if you would return me the favoui*. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 161 IIast. {To Miss Hardcastle.) Come, Madam, yoii are now di'iven to the very last scene of all yom' contrivances. I know you like him, I 'm sure lie loves you, and you must and shall have him. Haed. {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 mis- tress, my wish is, that you may never be mistaken in the wife. [Exeunt omnes. EPILOGUE, SPOKEN BY MES. BUlEilEY, IN TUE CnAEACTEE OF MISS HAEPCASTLE. Well, having stoop'd to conquer with success, And gain'd a husband without aid from dress : Still as a bar-maid, I could wish it too, As I have conquer'd him to conquer you : And let me say, for all yoiu* resolution, That pretty bar-maids have done execution. Our hfe is all a play, compos' d to please, "We have our exits and our entrances." The first act shews the simple country maid, Harmless and young, of everything afraid ; Blushes when liir'd, and with unmeaning action, *' I hopes as how to give you satisfaction," Her second act displays a livelier scene — Th' unblushing bar-maid of a country-inn, ^Vho whisks about the house, at market caters, Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs. On 'squires and cits she there displays her arts, And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts — And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, E'en common councilmen forget to eat. ' The fom'th act shews her wedded to the 'squire, And madam now begins to hold it higher j Pretends to taste, at operas cries caro, And quits her Nancy Dawson, for Che Faro : Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside : Ogles and leers with artificial skUl, Till having lost in age the power to kill, J She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille. / Such, through our lives the eventful history — j The fifth and last act still remains for me. Tlie bar-maid now for your protection prays, Turns female Barrister, and pleads for Bays. 'Stlooue^' TO BE SPOKEN IN TUE CHAEAOTEE OE TONY LUMPKIN, BY J. CBADOCK, ESQ. , Well — now all's ended — and my comrades gone. Pray what becomes of mother's nouly son ? * This came too late to bo Bpoken. 11 1C2 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. A hopeful blade ! — in town I '11 fix my station, » And try to make a bluster in the nation ; As for my cousin ISTeville, I renounce her ; Off — in a crack — I '11 carry big Bett Bouncer. Wliy should not I in the great world appear ? I soon shall have a thousand pounds a year ! No matter what a man may here inherit, In London — 'gad, they've some regard to spirit. I see the horses prancing up the streets. And big Bett Bouncer bobs to all she meets ; Then hoiks to jigs and pastimes ev'iy night— Not to the plays — they say it a'n't polite j To Sadler's-Wells perhaps, or operas go, And once by chance, to the roratorio. Thus here and there, for ever up and down. We '11 set the fashions too to half the town ; And then at auctions — money ne'er regard, Buy pictiires like the great, ten x)omids a yard : Zounds, we shall make these London gentry say, We know what 's damned genteel as well as they. AN ORATORIO. THE PERSONS. First Jeioish Prophet. I First Chaldean Priest. Second Jewish Prophet. 1 Second Chaldean Priest^ Jsraelitish Woman. \ Chaldean Woman. Chorus of Youths and Virgins. Scene— r^e Banks of the Piver Euphrates near Balylon, ACT I. PiEST Prophet. EIICITATIYE. Ye captive tribes, that hourly work and weep Where flows Euphrates mm'muring to the deep, Suspend your woes awhile, the task suspend, And turn to G-od, your father and your friend. Insulted, chaui'd, and all the world our foe, Our God alone is all we boast below. AIE. FlEST Peo. Our God is all we boast below, To him we turn our eyes ; And every added weight of woe Shall make om* homage rise. Second Peo. And though no temple richly dresfc, Nor sacrifice are here ; We '11 make his temple in our breast, And offer up a tear. [The first Stanza repeated hy the Choeus, ISEAELITISH WOMAN. EECITATIVE. That strain once more ; 'it bids remembrance rise, And brings m^ long-lost country to mine eyes. ORATORIO. 163 Ye iields of Sharon, drest in flowery pride, Ye plains where Kedron rolls its glassy tide, Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown' d. Ye Grilead groves, that fling perfumes around, How sweet those groves, that plain how wondrous fair, How doubly sweet when Heaven was with us there ! AIE. O Memory, thou fond deceiver, Still importunate and vain ; To former joys recurring ever. And turning all the past to pain. Hence intruder most distressing, Seek the happy and the free : The wretch who wants each other blessing, Ever wants a friend in thee. Second Peophet. recitative. Yet why complain ? What though by bonds confin'd, Should bonds repress the vigour of the mind ? Have we not cause for triumph, when we see Ourselves alone from idol worship free ? Are not this very morn those feasts begun Wliere prostrate error hails the rising sun ? Do not oxu' tyrant lords this day ordain For superstitious rites and mirth profane ? And should we mom^n ? Should coward virtue fly, When vauntmg folly lifts her head on liigh ? No ; rather let us triumph still the more, And as our fortune suiks, our spirits soar. AIE. The triumphs that on vice attend Shall ever in confusion end ; The good man sufiers but to gain, And every virtue springs from pain : As aromatic plants bestow No spicy fragrance while they grow ; But crush' d, or trodden to the ground, Diffuse their balmy sweets aroimd. FiEST Peophet. EECITATIVE. But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near. The sound of bfirbarous pleasure strike mine ear j 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 Peiests attended. FlEST PeIEST. AIE. Come on, my companions, the triumph display. Let rapture the minutes employ. The smi calls us out on this festival day, And our monarch partakes in the joy. 164 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Second Peiest. Like the sun, our great monarcli all rapture supplie3j Both similar blessings bestow ; The sun with his splendour illumines the skies, And our monarch enhvens below. AIE. Chaldean Woman. Haste, ye Sjorightly sons of pleasure, Love presents the fairest treasui'e, I^eave all other joys for me. A Chaldean Attendant. Or rather, love's dehghts despising. Haste to raptures ever rising, Wine shall bless the brave and free. PiEST Peiest. Wine and beauty thus inviting. Each to different joys exciting, Whither shall my choice incline ? Second Peiest. I '11 waste no longer thought in choosing, But, neither this nor that refusing, I '11 make them both together mine. FiEST Peiest. EECITATJTE. Bat whence, when joy should brighten o'er the land, This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band ? Ye sons of Judah, why the lute imstrung? Or why those harps on yonder willows hung ? Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along, Q'he day demands it ; si^g us Sion's song. Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir. For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre ? AIE. Every moment as it flows Some pecuHar pleasure owes. Come then, providently wise, Seize the debtor ere it flies. Second Peiest. 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 Peophet. eecitative. Chain'd as we are, the scorn of all mankind, To want, to toil, and eveiy ill consign'd. Is this a time to bid us raise the strain, Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain ? Ko, 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 mii'th ! ORATORIO. 165 Second Peiest. Rebellious slaves! if soft persuasion fail, IMore formidable terrors shall prevail. First Peophet. Why, let them come, one good remains to cheer — "Wo fear the Lord, and scorn all other fear. [^Exeunt CuALDElNS. Choeijs oe Israelites. Can chains or tortui-es bend the mind On God's supporting breast reclin'd ? Starid fast, and let om' tyrants see That fortitude is victory. [Exeunt. ACT II. Israelites and Chaldeans, as before. First Prophet. AIR. O peace of mind, angelic guest. Thou soft companion of the breast, ]3ispense thy balmy store ! Wing all our thoughts to reach the sties, Till earth, receding from our eyes, Shall vanish as we soar. First Priest, recitative. No more. Too long has justice been delay'd. The king's commands must fully be obeyed ; Compliance with his will your peace secures, Praise but oiu' gods, and every good is yours. But if, I'cbcUious to his high command, You spurn the favours offer'd from his hand, Think, timely think, what terrors are behind ; Eeflect, nor tempt to 'rage the royal mind. AIR. Fierce is the tempest howling Along the furrow'd main, And fierce the whirlwind rolhng 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. IsRAELiTisn Woman. RECITATIVE. Ah me ! Wliat angry terrors roimd us gi'ow, How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten'd blow! Ye prophets, skill'd in Heaven's eternal truth. Forgive my sex's fears, forgive my youth ! Ah ! let us one, one little hoiu* obey ; To-morrow's tears may wash the stain away. _ 166 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. AIE. Fatigued ■with life, yet loth to part, On hope the wretch rehes : And every blow that sinks the heart Bids the deluder rise. Hope, hke the taper's gleamy light, Adorns the wretch's way ; And still, as darker grows the night, Emits a brighter ray. Second Peiest. eecitatiye. Wliy 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 suppHes. Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre. The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire, Chaxdean Woman-. AIB. See the ruddy morning smiling, Hear the grove to bliss beguiling ; Zephyi's through the woodland playing, Streams along the valley straying. FiEST Peiest. While these a constant revel keep. Shall reason only teach to weep ? Hence, intruder ! we '11 pursue Natm'e, a better guide than you. Second Peiest. eecitatiye. But hold ! see foremost of the captive choir, The master prophet grasps his full-ton'd lyre. Mark where he sits with executing art. Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart ; 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. FiEST Peophet. AIE. From north, from south, from east, from west, Conspiring nations come ; Tremble, thou vice-polluted breast ; Blasphemers, aU be dumb. The tempest gathers all around. On Babylon it lies ; Down with her ! down, down to the ground She sinks, she groans, she dies. Second Peophet, Down with her. Lord, to lick the dust, Before yon settiag sun ; Serve her as she hatli served the just ! 'Tis fix'd— Tt shaU be done. ORATORIO. IB^ FiEST Peiest. KECITATIYE. !No more ! wlien slaves thus insolent presiunc, The king himself shall judge, and fix their doom. Unthinking wretches ! hare not you, and all, Beheld our power in Zedekiah's fall ? To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes ; See where dethron'd your captive monarch lies, Depriv'd of sight, and rankUng in his chain 5 See where he mourns his friends and children slain. Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind More ponderous chains, and dungeons more confin'd. Choeijs of all. Arise, all potent ruler, rise. And vindicate thy people's cause ; Till every tongue in every land Shall offer up unfeign'd applause. [_Exeunt. ACT III. !FiEST Peiest. EECITATIVE. Yes, my companions. Heaven's decrees are pass'd, And our fix'd empire shall for ever last : In vain the madd'ning prophet threatens woe. In vain rebelhon aims her secret blow ; Still shall our name and growing power be spread, And still our justice crush the traitor's head. AIB. Coeval with inan Our empire began, And never shall fall Till ruin shakes all. When ruin shakes all, Then shall Babylon fall. Second Peophet. eecitative. 'lis thus the proud triumphant rear the head, A little while and all their power is fled. But, ha ! what means yon sadly plaintive train. That onward slowly bends along the plain ? And now, behold, to yonder bank they bear A pallid corse, and rest the body there. Alas ! too well mine eyes indignant trace The last remains of Judah's royal race. Pall'n is our King, and all our fears are o'er, Unhappy Zedekiah is no more. AIE. Ye wretches who by fortune's hate In want and sorrow groan. Come ponder his severer fate, And learn to bless your own. 168 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Fib ST Peophet. You vain wliom youth and pleasure guide, Awhile the bliss suspend ; Like yours, his life began in pride, Like his, your hves shall end. FiEST Peophet. EECITATIYE. Behold his wretched corse with soitow worn, His squalid limbs by ponderous fetters torn ; Those eyeless orbs that shock with ghastly glare. Those unbecoming rags, that matted hair ! And shall not heaven for this avenge the foe, Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low ? How long, how long. Almighty Grod of all, Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall ! ISEAELITISH "WOMAN. AIE. As panting flies the hunted hind, Where bi'ooks refreshing stray ; And rivers through the valley wind, That stop the hunter's way. Thus we, O Lord, ahke distrest. For streams of mercy long ; Streams which cheosteriors, to satisfy theu' hunger, insisted with great justice on having the first cut for himself. Yet, after all, I cannot be angry with any who liave taken it into their lieads to think that whatever I write is worth reprinting, particularly when I consider how great a majority will think it scarcely worth reading. Trifling and superficial are terms of reproach that are easily objected, and that carry an air of penetration in the observer. These faults have been objected to the folloTJvang Essays ; and it must be owned in some measure that the charge is true. However, I could have made them more metaphysical had I thought fit, but I would ask whether in a short essay it is not necessary to be super- ficial ? Before we have prepared to enter into the depths of a subject in the usual forms, we have arrived at the bottom of our scanty page, and thus lose the honours of a victory by too tedious a preparation for the combat. There is another fault in this collection of trifles, which I fear will not be so easily pardoned. It will be alleged that the humour of them (if any be found) is stale and hackneyed. This may be true enough as matters now stand ; but I may with great truth assert, that the humour was new when I wrote it. Since that time indeed many of the topics which were first started here, have been hunted down, and many of the thoughts blown upon. In fact, these Essays were considered as quietly laid in the grave of oblivion ; and our modern compilers, like sextons and executioners, think it their undoubted right to pillage the dead. However, whatever right I have to complain of the public, they can as yet have no just reason to complain of me. If I have written dull Essays, they have hitherto treated them as dull essays. Thus far we are at least upon par ; and until they think fit to make mo their humble debtor by praise, I am resolved not to lose a single inch of my self-importance. Instead, therefore, oi ESSAYS. m attemptiug to establish a credit amongst them, it will perhaps be wiser to apply to some more distant correspondent, and as my drafts are in some danger of being protested at home, it may not be imprudent upon this occasion to draw my bills upon Posterity. Mr. Posterity. Sir, nine hundred and ninety- nine years after sight hereof, pay the bearer, or order, a thousand pounds' worth of praise, free from all deductions whatsoever, it being a commodity that will then be very serviceable to him, and place it to the accompt of, &c. ESSAY I. I EEMEMBER to liave read in some philosopher (I believe in Tom Brown's works) that, let a man's character, sentiments, or complexion, be what they will, he can find company in London to match them. If he be splenetic, he may every day meet companions on the seats in St. James's Park, with whose groans he may mix his own, and pathetically talk of the weather. If he be passionate, he may vent his rage among the old orators at Slaughter's coffee- house, and damn the nation because it keeps him from starving. If he be phlegmatic, he may sit in silence at the hum-drum club in Ivy-lane ; and if actually mad, he may find very good company in Moorfields, either at Bedlam or the Foundery, ready to cultivate a nearer acquaintance. But, although such as have a knowledge of the town may easily class them- selves with tempers congenial to their OAvn, a countryman who comes to live in London finds nothing more difficult. With regard to myself, none ever tried with more assiduity, or came off with such indifferent success. I spent a whole season in the search, during which time my name has been inrolled in societies, lodges, convocations, and meetings without number. To some I was introduced by a friend, to others invited by an advertisement ; to these I in- troduced myself, and to those I changed my name to gain admittance. In short, no coquette was ever more sohcitotis to match her ribbons to her com- plexion, than I to suit my club to my temper, for I was too obstinate to bring my temper to conform to it. The first club I entered upon coming to town, was that of the Clioice Spirits. The name was entirely suited to my taste ; I was a lover of mirth, good-humour, and even sometimes of fun, from my childliood. As no other passport was requisite but the payment of two shillings at tho door, I introduced myself without farther ceremony to the mepabers, who were already assembled, and had for some time begun upon business. The Q-rand, with a mallet in his hand, presided at the head of the table. I could not avoid, upon my entrance, making use of all my skill in physiognomy, in order to discover that superiority of genius in men who had taken a title so superior to the rest of mankind. I expected to see the lines of every face marked with strong thinking ; but though I had some skill in this science, I could for my life discover nothing but a pert simper, fat, or profound stupidity. My speculations were soon interrupted by the G-rand, who had knocked down Mr. Spriggins for a song. I was upon this whispered by one of the company who sat next me, that I should now see something touched off to a nicety, for Mr. Spriggins was going to give us Mad Tom in all its glory. Mr. Spriggins endeavovired to excuse himself ; for, as he was to act a madman and a king, it was impossible to go through the part properly without a crown and chains. His excuses were over-ruled by a great majority, and with much vo- ciferation. The president ordered up the jack-chain, and instead of a crown, our performer covered his brows with an inverted Jordan. After he had rattled his chain, and shook his head, to the great dehght of the whole company, he began his song. As I have heard few young fellows offer to sing in company that did not expose themselves, it was no great disappointment to me to find 172 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Mr. Spriggins among the number ; however, not to seem an odd fish, I rose from my seat in raptm'e, cried oat, bravo! encore! and slapped the table as lovid as any of the rest. The gentleman -who sat next me seemed highly pleased with my taste and the ardour of my approbation ; and whispering told me that I liad sufTered an immense loss : for had I come a few minutes sooner, I might have heard Gee ho Dobbin sung in a tip-top manner by the pimple-nosed spirit at the presi- dent's right elbow : but he was evaporated before I came. As I was expressing my uneasiness at this disappointment, I found the attention of the company employed upon a fat figure, who, with a voice more rough than the Staffordshire giant's, was giving us the Softly Sweet in Lydian Measure of Alexander's Feast. After a short pause of admiration, to this suc- ceeded a Welsh dialogue with the humours of Teague and TaiFy : after that came on Old Jackson, with a story between every stanza : next was sung the Dust-cart, and then Solomon's Song. The glass began now to circulate pretty freely ; those who were silent when sober, would now be heard in their turn ; every man had his song, and lie saw no reason why he should not be heard as well as any of the rest : one begged to be heard while he gave Death and the Lady in high taste ; another sung to a plate which he kept trmidling on the edges ; nothing was now heard but singing ; voice rose above voice, and the whole became one universal shout, when the landlord came to acquaint tlie company that the reckoning was drank out. Rabelais calls the moments in which a reckoning is mentioned, the most melancholy of om' lives : never was so much noise so quickly quelled, as by this short but pathetic oration of oiu* landlord : drank out ! was echoed in a tone of discontent round the table : drank out abeady ! that was very odd ! that so much punch could be drank out already : impossible ! The landlord, however, seeming resolved not to retreat from his first assurances, the company was dissolved, and a president chosen for the night ensuing. A friend of mine, to whom I was complaining some time after of the enter- tainment I have been describing, proposed to bring me to the club that he frequented ; which he fancied would suit the gravity of my temper exactly. '' We have at the Muzzy Club," says he, "no riotous mirth nor awkward rib- aldry ; no confusion or bawling; all is conducted with wisdom and decency: besides, some of our members are worth forty thousand pounds ; men of prudence and foresight every one of them : these are the ]3roper acquaintance, and to such I will to-night introduce you." I was charmed at the proposal : to be acquainted with men worth forty thousand pounds, and to talk wisdom the whole night, were offers that tlircAV me into raptvu'e. At seven o'clock I was accordingly introduced by my friend, not indeed to the company, for though I made my best bow, they seemed insensible of my approach, but to the table at which they were sitting. Upon my entering the room, I could not avoid feeling a secret veneration from the solemnity of the scene before me ; the membei's kept a profound silence, each with a pipe in his mouth and a pewter pot in his hand, and with faces that might easily be con- strued into absolute wisdom. Happy society, thought I to myself, where the members think before they speak, deliver nothing rashly, but convey their thoughts to each other pregnant with meaning, and matured by reflection. In this pleasing speculation I continued a full half hour, expecting each moment that somebody would begin to open his mouth ; every time the pipe was laid do^ra, I expected it was to speak ; but it was only to spit. At length, resolving to break the charm myself, and overcome their extreme diffidence (for to this I imputed their silence), I rubbed my hands, and, looking as mse as possible, observed that the nights began to grow a little coolish at this time ESSAYS. 173 of the year. This, as it was directed to none of the company in particular, none thought himself obliged to answer ; wherefore I continued still to rub my hands and look wise. My next effort was addressed to a gentleman Avho sat next me ; to whom I observed that the beer was extremely good : my neighbour made no reply, but by a large puff of tobacco-smoke, I now began to be imeasy in this dumb society, till one of them a little | relieved me by observing, that bread had not risen these three weeks : " Ay," j says another, still keeping the pipe in his mouth, '* that puts me in mind of a j pleasant story about that — hem — very well ; you must know — but, before I begin — Sir, my service to you — where was 1?" My next club goes by the name of the Hannonical Society ; probably from that love of order and friendship which every person commends in institutions of this nature. The landlord was himself foimder. The money spent is four pence each ; and they sometimes whip for a double reckoning. To this club few recommendations are requisite, except the introductory four pence and my landlord's good word, which, as he gains by it, he never refuses. We all here talked and behaved as everybody else usually does on his club- night ; we discussed the topic of the day, drank each other's healths, snuffed the candles with our fingers, and filled our pipes from the same plate of tobacco. The company saluted each other in the common manner. Mr. Bellows-mender hoped Mr. Curry-comb-maker had not caught cold gomg home, the last club-night ; and he returned the compliment by hoping that joiuig Master Bellows-mender had got well again of the chin-cough. Doctor Twist told us a story of a parliament-man, with whom he was intimately acquainted ; .while the bug-man, at the same time, was telling a better story of a noble lord with whom he could do any thing. A gentleman in a black wig and leatlaer breeches at tlie other end of the table was engaged in a long narrative of the Ghost in Cock-lane : he had read it in the papers of the day, and was telling it to some that sat next him, who could not read. Near him Mr. Dibbins was disputing on the old subject of religion with a Jew pedlar, over the table, while the president vainly knocked, down Mr. Leathersides for a song. Besides the combinations of these voices, which I could hear altogether, and which formed an upper part to the concert, there were several others playing iinder-parts by themselves, and endeavouring to fasten on some luckless neigh- bour's ear, who was himself bent upon the same design against some other. We have often heard of the speech of a corporation, and tliis induced me to transcribe a speech of this club, taken in short hand, word for word, as it was spoken by every member of the company. It may be necessary to observe that the man who told of the G-host had the loudest voice, and the longest story to tell, so that liis continuing narrative filled every chasm in the conversation. *' So, Sir, d'ye perceive me, the ghost giving three loud raps at the bed-post — Says my lord to me, my dear Smokeum, you know there is no man upon the face of the eartli for whom I have so high — A damnable false heretical opinion of all sound doctrine and good learning ; for I '11 tell it aloud, and spare not that — Silence for a song ; Mr. Leathersides for a song — ' As I was a walkmg upon the highway, I .met a young damsel' — Then what brings you here? says the parson to the ghost — Sanconiathon, Manetho, and Berosus — The whole way from Islington-turnpike to Dog-house-bar — Dam — As for Abel Drugger, Sir, he's damn'd low in it : my 'prentice boy has more of the gentle man than he — For murder will out one time or another ; and none but a ghost, you know, gentlemen, can — Damme if I don't 5 for my friend, whom you know, gentlemen, and who is a parliament-man, a man of consequence, a dear honest creature, to be sure ; we were laughing last night at — J)eath and damnation upon all liis posterity by simply barely tasting — Sour grajjes, as the fox said 17i THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. once when he could not reach them ; and I '11, 1 'li tell you a story about that that will make you bui'st your sides with laughing : A fox once — Will nobody listen to the song — ' As I was a walking upon the highway, I met a young damsel both buxom and gay ' — No ghost, gentlemen, can be murdered ; nor did I eyer hear but of one ghost killed in all my life, and that was stabbed in the belly with a — My blood and soul if I don't — Mr. BeUows -mender, I have the honour of drinking yom* very good health — Blast me if I do — dam — blood — bugs — fire — whizz — blid — tit— rat — trip" The rest all riot, nonsense, and rapid confusion. Were I to be angry at men for being fools, I could here find ample room for declamation ; but, alas ! I have been a fool myself ; and why should I be angry with them for being something so natm-al to every child of humanity ? Fatigued with this society, I was introduced the following night to a club of fashion. On taking my place, I found the conversation sufficiently easy, and tolerably good-natured j for my Lord and Sir Paul were not yet arrived. I now thought myself completely fitted, and resolving to seek no farther, determined to take up my residence here for the winter ; while my temper began to open insensibly to the cheerfulness I saw diffused on every face in the room : but the delusion soon vanished, when the waiter came to apprise us that his Lordsliip and Sir Paul were just arrived. From this moment aU our fehcity was at an end ; our new guests bustled into the room, and took their seats at the head of the table. Adieu now, all confidence ; every creatm'e strove who should most recommend himself to our members of distinction. Each seemed quite regardless of pleasing any but our new guests ; and what before wore the appearance of friendship, was now turned into rivahy. Yet I could not observe that amidst all this flattery and obsequious atten- tion our great men took any notice of the rest of the company. Theu* whole discourse was addressed to each other. Sh' Paiil told his Lordship a long story of Moravia the Jew ; and his Lordship gave Sir Paul a very long account of his new method of managing silk-worms ; he led him, and consequently the rest of the company, tlu'ough all the stages of feeding, sunning, and hatching ; with an episode on mulberry-trees, a digression upon grass seeds, and a long paren- thesis about his new postilion. In this manner we travelled on, wishing every story to be the last \ but all in vain : " Hills over hills, and Alps on Alps arose." The last club, in which I was iurolled a member, was a society of moral philosophers, as they called themselves, who assembled twice a week, in order to shew the absurdity of the present mode of religion, and establish a new one in its stead. I found the members very warmly disputing when I an-ived, not indeed about rehgion or ethics, but about who had neglected to lay down his preh- minary six pence upon entering the room. The President swore that he had laid his own down, and so swore all the company. During this contest I had an opportunity of observing the laws, and also the members of the society. The president, who had been, as I was told, lately a bankrupt, was a tall pale figure, with a long black wig ; the next to him was dressed in a large white wig and a black cravat ; a third by the brown- ness of his complexion seemed a native of Jamaica ; and a fourth by his hue appeared to be a blacksmith. But their rules will give the most just idea of their learning and principles. I. We being a laudable society of moral philosophers, intends to dispute twice a week about religion and priestcraft. Leaving beliind us old wives* ESSAYS. 175 tales, and following good learning and sound sense : and if so be, tliat any other persons has a mind to be of the society, they shall be entitled so to do, upon paying the sum of three shilliags, to be spent by the company in punch. II. That no member get drunk before nine of the clock, upon pain of for- feiting three pence, to be spent by the company in pimch. III. That as members are sometimes apt to go away without paying, every person shall pay six pence upon his entering the room ; and all disputes shall be settled by a majority ; and all fines shall be paid in punch. IV. That sixpence shall be every night given to the president, in order to buy books of learning for the good of the society ; the president has already put himself to a good deal of expense in buying books for the club ; particularly, the works of Tully, Socrates, and Cicero, which he will soon read to the society. V. All them who brings a new argument against religion, and who being a philosopher, and a man of learning, as the rest of us is, shall be admitted to the freedom of the society, upon paying six pence only, to be spent in punch. VI. Whenever we are to have an extraordinary meeting, it shall be adver- tised by some outlandish name in the newspapers. Satjndees Mac Wild, President, Anthony Blewit, Vice-President, his ^ mark. William Tuepin, Secretary. ESSAY II. We essayists, who are allowed but one subject at a time, are by no means so fortunate as the writers of magazmes, who write upon several. If a magaziner be dull upon the Spanish war, he soon has us up again with the Ghost in Cock- lane ; if the reader begins to doze upon that, he is quickly roused by an East- ern tale J tales prepare us for poetry, and poetry for the meteorological his- tory of the weather. It is the life and soul of a magazine never to be long dull upon one subject ; and the reader, hke the sailor's horse, has at least the comfortable refreshment of having the spur often 'changed. As I see no reason why they should carry off all the rewards of genius, I have some thoughts for the future of making this essay a magazine in minia- ture : I shall hop from subject to subject, and, if properly encouraged, I in- tend in time to adorn my feuille volant with pictm-es. But to begin in the usual form with A MODEST ADDEESS TO THE PrBLIC. The public has been so often imposed upon by the unperforming promises of others, that it is with the utmost modesty we assm'e them of our inviolable design of giving the very best collection that ever astonished society. The pubHc we honour and regard, and therefore to instruct and entertain them is our highest ambition, with labours calculated as well for the head as the heart. If four extraordinary pages of letter-press be any recommendation of our wit, we may at least boast the honour of vindicating om' own abihties. To say more in favour of the Infernal Magazine, would be unworthy the public ; to say less, would be injurious to ourselves. As we have no interested motives for this undertaking, being a society of gentlemen of distinction, we disdain to eat or write like hirelings ; we are all gentlemen resolved to sell our sixpenny magazine merely for our own amusement. Be careful to ask for the Infernal Magazine. DEDICATION TO THAT MOST INGENIOUS OE ALL PATEONS THE TEIPOLINB AMBASSADOE. May it please your Excellency, As your taste in the fine arts is universally allowed and admired, permit the 176 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. nuthors of the Infernal Magazine to lay the following sheets humbly at your Excellency's toe ; and should our laboiirs ever hare the happiness of one day adorning the courts of Fez, we doubt not that the influence wherewith we are honoured, shall be ever retained with the most warm ardour by, May it please your Excellency, your most devoted humble servants, The Authors of the Infeenal Magazine. A SPEECH SPOKEN BY THE INDIGEKT PHILOSOPHEE, TO PEESTJADE HIS CLUB AT CATEATON TO DECLAEE WAE AGAINST SPAIN. My honest friends and brother politicians ; I perceive that the intended war with Spain makes many of you uneasy. Yesterday, as we were told, the stocks rose, and you were glad ; to-day they fall, and you are again miserable. But, my dear friends, what is the rising or the falling of the stocks to us, who have no money ? Let Nathan Ben Fimk, the Dutch Jew, be glad or sorry for this ; but my good Mr. Bellows-mender, what is all this to you or me ? You must mend broken bellows, and I wi-ite bad prose, as long as we live, whether wo hke a Spanish war or not. Believe me, my honest friends, whatever you may talk of liberty and yoiu* own reason, both that liberty and reason are con- ditionally resigned by every poor man in every society: and, as we are born to work, so others are born to watch over us while we are working. In the name of common-sense then, my good friends, let the great keep watch over us, and let us mind our business, and perhaias we may at last get money ourselves, and set beggars at work in our tui'u. I have a Latin sentence that is worth ita weight in gold, and which I shall beg leave to translate for your instruction. An author called Lily's Grammar, finely observes, that " ^s in prsesenti per- fectum format." that is, " Eeady money makes a perfect man." Let us then get ready money ; and let them that will spend theit's by going to war with Spain. EITLES POE BEUATIOTJE; DEAWN UP BY THE INDIGENT PHILOSOPHEE. If you be a rich man, you may enter the room with three loud hems, march deliberately up to the chitmiey, and turn your back to the fire. If you be a poor man, 1 would advise you to shrink into the room as fast as you can, and place yourself as usual upon a corner of a chair in a remote corner. When you are desu*ed to sing in company, I wouldadvise you to refuse; for it is a thousand to one but that you torment us with affectation or a bad voice. If you be young, and live with an old man, I would advise you not to like gravy ; I was disinherited myself for liking gravy. Don't laugh much in public ; the spectators that are not as merry as you, will hate you, either because they envy your happiness, or fancy themselves the subject of your mirth. EULES FOE EAISING THE DEVIL. TEANSLATED PE03I THE LATIN OF DANCEUS DE SOETIAEIIS, A WEITEE CONTEMPOEAEY WITH CALVIN, AND ONE OP THE EEFOEilEES OF OITE CHHECH. The person who desires to raise the Devil, is to sacrifice a dog, a cat, and a hen, all of his own property, to Beelzebub. He is to swear an eternal obe- dience, and then to receive a mark in some unseen place, either under the eye- lid, or in the roof of the mouth, inflicted by the devil himself. Upon this he has power given him over three spirits ; one for earth ; another for air, and a third for the sea. Upon certain times the devil holds an assembly of magi- cians, in which each is to give an account of what evil he has done, and what he wishes to do. At this assembly ho appears in the shape of an old man, or oft-en like a goat with large horns. They upon this occasion renew their vows of obedience; and then form a grand dance in honour of tlieir false deity. The devil instructs them in every method of injuring mankind, in gathering JsssjYS. iii poisons, and of riding upon occasion tlirough the air. He shews them the whole method, upon examination, of giving cyasive answers ; his spirits hare power to assume the form of angels of hght, and there is but one method of detecting them ; viz. to ask them in proper form, what method is the most certain to propagate the faith oyer all the world ? To this they are not per- mitted by the Superior Power to make a false reply, nor are they willing to giye the true one, wherefore they continue silent, and are thus detected. ESSAY III. Wheee Tauris Hfts its head aboye the storm, and presents nothing to the sight of the distant traveller but a prospect of nodding rocks, falling torrents, and all the variety of tremendous Nature ; on the bleak bosom of this frightful mountain, secluded from society, and detesting the ways of men, lived Asem the Man-hater. Asem had spent his youth with men ; had shared in their amusements ; and had been taught to love his fellow creatm'es with the most ardent affection ; but from the tenderness of his disposition he exhausted all his fortune in re- Hcviug the w^ants of the distressed. The petitioner never sued in vain ; the weary traveller never passed his door ; he only desisted from doing good when he had no longer the x^ower of relieving. From a fortune thus spent in benevolence he expected a gi-ateful return from those he had formerly relieved ; and made his application with confidence of redress : the xmgrateful world soon grew weai'y of his importunity ; for pity ia but a short-lived passion. He soon therefore began to view mankind in a very different light from that in which he had before beheld them ; he perceived a thovisand vices he had never before suspected to exist : wherever he turned, ingratitude, dissimulation, and treachery, contributed to increase his detesta- tion of them. Resolved, therefore, to continue no longer in a world which he hated, and which repaid his detestation with contempt, he retired to this re- gion of sterility, in order to brood over his resentment in solitude, and con- verse with the only honest heart he knew, namely with his own. A cave was his only shelter from the inclemency of the weather ; fruits, gathered with difficulty from the mountain's side, his only food ; and his drink was fetched with danger and toil from the headlong torrent. In this manner he lived, sequestered from society, passing the hours in meditation, and some- times exulting that he was able to live independently of his fellow-creatures. At the foot of the mountain an extensive lake displayed its glassy bosom ; reflecting on its broad surface the impending hoiTors of the mountain. To this capacious mirror he would sometimes descend, and reclining on its steep banks, cast an eager look on the smooth expanse that lay before hmi. " How beautiful," he often cried, " is Nature'." how lovely even ui her wildest scenes! IIoAv finely contrasted is the level plain that lies beneath me, with yon awfid pile that hides its tremendous head in clouds ! Bu.t the beauty of these scenes is no way comparable with their utihty ; hence an himdred rivers are supplied, which distribute health and verdure to the various countries through which they flow. Every part of the universe is beautiful, just, and wise, but man : vile man is a solecism in natm'e ; the only monster in the creation. Tempests and whirlwiads have their use ; but vicious migrateful man is a blot in the fair page of universal beauty. Why was I bom of that detested species, whose vices are ahnost a reproach to the wisdom of the divine Creator? Were men entirely free from vice, all would be uniformity, harmony, and order. A world of moral rectitude should be the result of a perfect moral agent. Why, why then, O Alia! must I be thus confined in darkness, doubt, and despair .p" Just as he uttered the word Despair, he was going to plunge into the lake 12 178 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. beneath him, at once to satisfy his doubts, and put a period to his anxiety j when he perceived a most majestic being walking on the surface of the water, and approaching the bank on which he stood. So unexpected an object at once checked his purpose ; he stopped, contemplated, and fancied he saw something awful and dirine in his aspect. "Son of Adam," cried the Grenius, " stop thy rash purpose ; the Father of the faithful has seen thy justice, thy integrity, thy miseries, and hath sent me to afford and administer relief. Grire me thine hand, and follow without trembling wherever I shall lead ; in me behold the Grenius of Conviction, kept by the Grreat Prophet to tm-n from their errors those who go astray, not from curiosity, but a rectitude of intention. Tollow me and be wise." Asem immediately descended upon the lake, and his guide conducted him along the surface of the water ; till coming near the centre of the lake, they both began to sink ; the waters closed over their heads ; they descended seve- ral hundred fathoms, till Asem, just ready to give up his Hfe as inevitably lost, found himself with his celestial guide in another world, at the bottom of the waters, where human foot had never trod before. His astonishment was be- yond description, when he saw a sun hke that he had left, a serene sky over his head, and blooming verdure under his feet. " I plainly perceive your amazement," said the GTenius; "but suspend it for a while. This world was formed by Alia, at the request, and under the in- spection, of our great Prophet : who once entertained the same doubts which fflQed your mind when I found you, and from the consequences of which you were so lately rescued. The rational inhabitants of this world are formed agreeable to your own ideas ; they are absolutely without vice. In other re- spects it resembles yom' earth, but differs from it in being wholly inhabited by men who never do wrong. If you find this world more agreeable than that you so lately left, you have free j)ermission to spend the remainder of your days in it ; but permit me for some time to attend you, that I may silence your doubts, and make you better acquainted with your company and yoiu' new habitation !" "A world without vice! Eational beings without immorality !" cried Asem in a rapture ; " I thank thee, O Alia, who hast at length heard my petitions ; this, this indeed will produce happiness, ecstacy, and ease. O for an immor- tality to spend it among men who are incapable of ingratitude, injustice, fraud, violence, and a thousand other crimes, that render society miserable !" " Cease thine acclamations," replied the Grenias. " Look around thee ; re- flect on every object and action before us, and communicate to me the result of thiae observations. Lead wherever you think proper, I shall be your attendant aiid instructor." Asem and his companion travelled on in silence for some time, the former being entirely lost in astonishment ; but at last, recovering his former serenity, he could not help observing, that the face of the country bore a near resemblance to that he had left, except that this subterranean world BtiU s mod to retain its primaeval wildness. " Here," cried Asem, " I perceive annuals of prey, and others that seem only designed for their subsistence ; it is the very same in the world over our heads. But had I been permitted to instruct our Prophet, I would have re- moved tliis defect, and formed no voracious or destructive animal^ which only prey on the other parts of the creation " " Your tenderness for inferior animals is, I find, remarkable," said the Grenius smiling. " But with regard to meaner creatures this world exactly resembles the other, and indeed for obvious reasons ; for the earth can support a more considerable number of animals, by their thus becoming food for each other, than if they had lived entirely on her vegetable productions. So that animals of different natures sssjYs. m thus formed, instead of lessening tlieir multitude, subsist in the greatest number jpossible. But let us hasten on to the inhabited country before us, and see what that offers for instruction." They soon gained the utmost verge of the forest, and entered the country inhabited by men without rice : and Asem anticipated in idea the rational delight he hoped to experience in sucli an innocent society. But they had scarcely left the confines of the wood, when they beheld one of the inhabitants flying with hasty steps, and terror in his countenance, from an army of squirrels that closely pursued him. " Heavens ! " cried Asem, " why does he fly? What can he fear from animals so contemptible?" He had scarcely spoken when he perceived two dogs pursuing another of the hiunan species, Avho with equal terror and haste attempted to avoid them. "This," cried Asem to his guide, " is truly surprising ; nor can I conceive the reason for so strange an action." "Every species of animals," replied the Genius, *' has of late grown very powerful in this country ; for the inhabitants at first thinking it unjust to use either fraud or force in destroying them, they have insensibly increased, and noAV frequently ravage their harmless frontiers." " But they shoidd have been destroyed," cried Asem ; " you see the consequence of such neglect." " Where is then that tenderness you so lately expressed for subor- dinate animals ?" replied the Grenius, smiling ; " you seem to have forgot that branch of justice." " I must acknowledge my mistake," returned Asem : "I am now convinced that we must bo guilty of tyi*anny and injustice to the brute creation, if we would enjoy the world ourselves. But let us no longer observe the duty of man to these irrational creatm*e3, but survey their connexions with one another." As they walked farther up the country, the more he was surprised to see no vestiges of handsome houses, no cit'ies, nor any mark of elegant design. His conductor, perceiving his surprise, observed, that the inhabitants of this new world were perfectly content with their ancient simplicity ; each had an house, which, though homely, was sufficient to lodge liis httle family ; they were too good to build houses, which could only increase their own pride, and the envy of the spectator ; what they built was for convenience, and not for show. "At least, then," said Asem, "they have neither architects, painters, nor statuaries, in their society ; but these are idle arts, and may be spared. How- ever, before I spend much more time, you should have my thanks for intro- ducing me into the society of some of tlieir wisest men : there is scarcely any pleasure to me so equal to a refined conversation ; there is nothing of which I am so much enamoured as wisdom." "Wisdom!" replied his instructoi', " how ridiculous ! We have no wisdom here, for we have no occasion for it; true wisdom is only a knowledge of our own duty, and the duty of others to us ; but of what use is such wisdom here ? each intuitively performs what is right in himself, and expects the same from others. If by wisdom you should mean vain curiosity, and empty speculation, as such pleasures have their oi'igin in vanity, luxury, or avarice, we are too good to pursue them." " All this may be right," says Asem ; " but methinks I observe a solitary disposition prevail among the people ; each family keeps sepai'ately within their own precincts, without society or without intercourse." "That indeed is true," replied the other ; " here is no established society ; nor shoiild there be any : ail societies are made either tln-ough fear or friendship ; the people we arc among are too good to fear each other ; and there are no motives to private friendship, where all are equally meritorious." " Well then," said the sceptic, *' as I am to spend my time here, if I am to have neither the polite arts, nor wisdom, nor friendship, in such a world, I should be glad at least of an easy companion, who may tell me his thoughts, and to whom I may communicate 12—2 180 Tnn wokKs of oliver goldsmith. mine." "And to wliat purpose shall either do tliis ?" says tlie Q-eniusj " flattery or curiosity are vicious motives, and never allowed of here j and •wisdom is out of the question." " Still however," said Asem, " the inhabitants must be happy ; each is con- tented with his own possessions, nor avariciously endeavours to heap up more than is necessary for his own subsistence : each has therefore leisure for pitying those that stand in need of his compassion," He had scarcely spoken wlien his cars were assaulted with the lamentations of a wretch who eat by the way-side, and in the most deplorable distress seemed gently to murmur at his own misery. Asem immediately ran to liis reHef, and found him in the last stage of a consumption. " Strange," cried the son of Adam, " that men wlio are free from vice should thus suffer so much misery without relief!" " Be not surprised," said the vrretch who was dying ; " would it not be the utmost injustice for beings, who have only just sufficient to support themselves, and are content with a bare subsistence, to take it from their own mouths to put it into mine ? They never are possessed of a single meal more than is necessary ; and what is barely necessary cannot be dispensed with." " They should have been supplied with more than is necessary," cried Asem ; " and yet I contradict my own opinion but a moment before : all is doubt, per- plexity, and confusion. Even the want of ingratitude is no virtue here, since they never received a favom'. They have however another excellence yet behind ; the love of their country is still, I hope, one of their darling virtues." "Peace, Asem!" replied the G-uardian, with a countenance not less severe than beautiful, '' nor forfeit all thy pretensions to wisdom ; the same selfish motives, by which we prefer our own interest to that of others, induce us to regard our country preferably to that of another. Nothing less than universal benevolence is free from vice, and that, you see, is practised here." "Strange !" cries the disappointed pilgrim, in an agony of distress ; " what sort of a world am I now introduced to ? There is scarcely a single virtue, but that of temperance, which they practise ; and in that they are in no way superior to the very brute creation. There is scarcely an amusement which they enjoy : fortitude, Hberality, friendship, wisdom, con- versation, and love of coimtry, all are virtues entirely unknown here ; thus it seems that to be unacquainted with ■ vice is not to know virtue. Take me, O my Grcnius, back to that very world which I have despised ; a world which has Alia for its contriver is much more wisely formed than that which has been projected by Mahomet. Ingratitude, contempt, and hatred, I can now suffer, for perhaps I have deserved them. Wlien I arraigned the wisdom of Providence, I only showed my owii ignorance ; henceforth let me keep from vice myself, and pity it in others." He had scarcely ended, when the Genius, assuming an air of terrible com- placency, called all liis thunders around him, and vanished in a whuiwind, Asem, astonished at the terror of the scene, looked for his imaginary world ; when, casting his eyes around, he perceived himself in the very situation, and in the very place, where he first began to repine and despair ; his right foot had been just advanced to take the fatal plunge, nor had it been yet with- drawn : so instantly did Providence strike the series of truths just imprinted on his soul. He now departed from the water-side in tranquillity, and leaviug his horrid mansion, travelled to Segcstan, his native city ; where he diligently applied himself to commerce, and put in practice that wisdom he had learned in solitude. The frugahty of a few years soon produced opulence ; the number of his domestics increased ; his friends came to him from every part of tlio city, nor did he receive them with disdain : and a youth of misery was con- jduded with an old age of elegance, affluence, and ease. ESSJYS. 181 ESSAY lY. It is allowed on all hands, that our English divines receive a more liberal education, and improve that education by frequent study, more than any others of this reverend profession in Europe. In general also it may be observed, that a greater degree of gentility is affixed to the character of a student in England than elsewhere ; by which means our clergy have an opportunity of seeing better company while young, and of sooner wearing oflf those prejudices which they arc apt to imbibe even in the best regulated imiversities, and whiclv may be justly termed the vulgar errors of the wise. Yet with all these advantages it is very obvious, that the clergy are no where so little thought of by the populace, as here ; and though our divines are foremost with respect to abilities, yet they are found last in the effects of their ministry : the vulgar in general appearing no way impressed with a sense of reHgious duty. I am not for whining at the depravity of the times, or for endeavouring to paint a prospect more gloomy than in nature ; but certain it is, no person who has travelled will contradict mo when I aver that the lower orders of mankind in other countries testify on every occasion the pro- foundest awe of religion j while in England they are scarcely awakened into a sense of its duties, even in circumstances of the greatest distress. This dissolute and fearless conduct foreigners are apt to attribute to chmate and constitution ; may not the vulgar being pretty much neglected in our exhortations from the pulpit, be a conspiring cause ? Our divines seldom stoop to their mean capacities ; and they who want instruction most, find least in our religious assemblies. Whatever may become of the higher orders of mankind, who are generally possessed of collateral motives to virtue, the vulgar should be particularly regarded, whose behaviour in civil life is totally hinged upon their hopes and fears. Those who constitute the basis of the great fabric of society, should be particularly regarded : for in policy, as in architecture, ruin is most fatal when it begins from the bottom. Men of real sense and understanding prefer a prudent mediocrity to a pre- carious popularity ; and, fearing to outdo their duty, leave it half done. Their discourses from the pulpit are generally dry, methodical, and un- affecting ; delivered with the most insipid calmness ; insomuch that, should the peaceful preacher lift his head over the cushion, wliich alone he seems to address, he might discover his audience, instead of being awakened to remorse, actually sleeping over his methodical and laboured composition. This method of preaching is, however, by some called an address to reason, and not to the passions ; this is styled the making of converts from conviction : but such are indifferently acquainted with human nature, who are not sensible that men seldom reason about their debaucheries till they are committed ; reason is but a weak antagonist when headlong passion dictates ; in all such cases we should arm one passion against another ; it is with the human mind as in natm'c, from the mixture of two opposites the result is most frequently neu.tral tranquillity. Those who attempt to reason us out of our follies, begin at the wrong end, since the attempt natui^ally presupposes us capable of reason ; but to be made capable of this is one great point of the cure. There are but few talents requisite to become a popular preacher, for the people are easily pleased, if they perceive any endeavours in the orator to please them ; the meanest qualifications will work this effect, if the preacher sincerely sets about it. Perhaps little, indeed very little more is required, than sincerity and assurance ; and a becoming sincerity is always certain of producing a becoming assurance. '^ Si vis me flere, dolendum est primum ipsi tibi," is so trite a quotation, that it almost demands an apology to repeat 182 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. it ; yet, though all allow the justice of the remark, how few do we find put it in practice ! Our orators, with the most faulty bashfuhiess, seem impressed rather with an awe of their audience than with a just respect for the truths they are about to deliver ; they, of all professions, seem the most bashful, who have the greatest right to gloi-y in their commission. The French preachers generally assume all that dignity which becomes men who are ambassadors from Christ : the English divines, like erroneous envoys, seem more solicitous not to offend the court to which they are sent, than to drive home the interests of their employer. The bishop of Massillon, in the first sermon he ever preaclied, found the whole audience, upon his getting into the pulpit, in a disposition no way favourable to his intentions ; tlieir nods, whispers, or drowsy behaviour, showed him that there was no great profit to be expected from liis sowing in a soil so improper ; however, lie soon changed the disposition of his audience by his manner of beginning : " If," says he, " a cause, the most important that coidd be conceived, were to be tried at the bar before qualified judges ; if this cause interested oui'sclves iu particular : if the eyes of the whole kingdom were fixed upon the event ; if the most eminent counsel were employed on both sides ; and if we liad heard from our infancy of this yet vmdetermined trial ; would you not all sit with due attention, and warm expectation, to the pleadings on each side ? \Yoidd not all your hopes and fears be hinged upon the final decision ? And yet, let me tell you, you have this moment a cause of much greater im- portance before you ; a cause, where not one nation, but all the world, ai'e spectators ; tried not before a fallible tribunal, but the awful throne of Heaven, where not your temporal and transitory interests are the subject of debate, but your etei'nal happiness or misery, where the cause is still unde- tei'mined ; but perhaps, the very moment I am speaking may fix the irre- vocable decree that shall last for ever; and yet, notwithstanding all this, you can hardly sit with patience to hear the tidings of your own salvation ; I plead the cause of Heaven, and yet I am scarcely attended to," &c. The style, the abruptness of a beginning like this, in tlie closet would appear absurd ; but in the pulpit it is attended with the most lasting impressions : that style which in the closet might justly be called flimsy, seems the true mode of eloquence here. I never read a fine composition under the title of a sermon, that I do not think the avithor has miscalled his piece ; for the talents to be used in writing well, entirely dificr from those of speaking well. The qualifications for speaking, as has been already observed, are easily acquired ; they are accomphshments which may be taken up by every candidate who will be at the pains of stooping. Impressed with a sense of the truths he is about to deliver, a preacher disregards the applause or the contempt of his audience, and he insensibly assiunes a just and manly sincerity. With this talent alone we see what crowds are drawn around enthusiasts, even destitute of common sense ; what numbers converted to Christianity. Folly may sometimes set an example for wisdom to practise ; and oiir regular divines may borrow instruc- tion from even methodists who go their circuits and preach prizes among the populace. Even Whitfield may be placed as a model to some of our yovmg divines ; let them join to tlieir own good sense his earne&t manner of delivery. It will be perhaps objected, that by confining the excellencies of a preacher to proper assurance, earnestness, and openness of style, I make the quah- fications too trifling for estimation : there will be something called oratory brought up on this occasion ; action, attitude, grace, elocution, may be repeated as absolutely necessary to complete the character ; but let us not be deceived ; common-aense is seldom swayed by fine tones, musical periods, just attitudes, or the display of a white handkerchief ; oratorial behaviour, except in very ^e hands indeed, generally siuks into awkward and paltry affectation. ESSAYS. 183 It must be obseryed, however, tliat these rules are calculated only for liim who would instruct the vulgar, who stand in most need of instruction ; to address philosophers, and to obtain the character of a polite preacher among the poHte — a much more useless, though more sought for character — requires a different method of proceeding. All I shall observe on this head is, to intreat the polemic divine, in his controversy with the Deists, to act rather offensively than to defend ; to push home the grounds of his belief, and the impracticability of theu's, rather than to spend time in solving the objections of every opponent. " It is ten to one," says a late writer on the art of war, " but that the assailant who attacks the enemy in his trenches, is always victorious." Yet, upon the whole, our clergy might employ themselves more to the benefit of society, by declining all controversy, than by exhibiting even the profoundest skill in polemic disputes ; ' their contests with each other often turn on speculative trifles ; and their disputes with the Deists are almost at an end, since they can have no more than victory, and that they are already pos- sessed of, as their antagonists have been driven into a confession of the neces- sity of revelation, or an open avowal of atheism. To continue the dispute longer would only endanger it ; the sceptic is ever expert at puzzling a debate which he finds himself unable to continue ; " and, like an Olympic boxer, generally fights best when undermost." ESSAY V. Thr improvements we make in mental acquirements only render us eSbh day more sensible of the defects of our constitution ; with this in view, therefore, let us often recur to the amusements of youth ; endeavour to forget age and wisdom, and, as far as innocence goes, be as much a boy as the best of them. Let idle declaimers mom'u over the degeneracy of the age ; but in my opinion every age is the same. This I am sure of, that man in every season is a poor fretful being, witli no other means to escape the calamities of the times but by endeavouring to forget them ; for if he attempts to resist, he is certainly undone. If I feel poverty and pain, I am not so hardy as to quan-el with the executioner, even while vmder correction : I find myself no way dis- posed to make fine speeches, while I am making wry faces. In a word, let ma drink when the fit is on, to make me insensible ; and drink when it is over, for joy that I feel pain no longer. The character of old Falstafi", even with all his faiilts, gives me more conso- lation than the most studied efforts of wisdom : I here behold an agreeable old fellow, forgetting age, and shewing me the way to be young at sixty-five. Sure I am well able to be as merry, though not so comical as he. — Is it not in my power to have, though not so much wit, at least as much vivacity ? — Age, care, wisdom, reflection, be gone! — I give you to the winds. Let's have t'other bottle : here 's to the memory of Shakspeare, Falstaff, and all the meny men of Eastcheap. Such were the reflections that naturally arose while I sat at the Boar's Head Tavern, still kept at Eastcheap. Here, by a pleasant fire, in the very room where old Sir John Falstaff cracked his jokes, in the very chair which was sometimes honoured by Prince Henry, and sometimes polluted by his immoral merry companions, I sat and ruminated' on the follies of youth ; wished to be young again ; but was resolved to make the best of Ufe while it lasted, and now and then compared past and present times together. I considered myself as the only living representative of the old knight, and transported my imagination back to the times when the prince and he gave life to the revel, and made even 184. THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. i . — .^ i debauchery not disgusting. The room also conspired to throw my reflections ; back into antiquity: the oak floor, the G-othic windows, and the ponderous chimney-piece, had long withstood the tooth of time ; the watchman had gone twelve; my companions had all stolen ofi'; and none now remained with ma I but the landlord. From him I could have wished to know the history of a ; tavern that had such a long succession of customers : I could not help thinking ■ that an accoimt of this kind would be a pleasing contrast of the manners of different ages ; but my landlord could give me no information. He continued to doze and sot, and tell a tedious story, as most other landlords usually do ; and, though he said nothing, yet was never silent : one good joke followed another good joke ; and the best joke of all was generally begun towards the end of a bottle. I found at last, however, his wine and his conversation operate by degrees : he insensibly began to alter his appearance. His cravat i seemed quilled into a ruff, and his breeches swelled out into a fardingalc. I I now fancied him changing sexes ; and as my eyes began to close in slumber, I imagined my fat landlord actually converted into as fat a landlady. How- ever, sleep made but few changes in my situation : the tavern, the apartment, i and the table, continued as before ; nothing suffered mutation but my host, : who was fairly altered into a gentlewoman, whom I knew to be Dame Quickly, mistress of this tavern in the days of Sir John ; and the liquor we were drinking, which seemed converted into sack and sugar. " My dear Mrs. Quickly," cried I, (for I knew her perfectly well at first , sight) " I am heartily glad to see you. How have you left Falstaff", Pistol, and I the rest of our friends below stairs ? Brave and hearty, I hope ? " In good sooth, '^•ephed she, he did deserve to live for ever; but he maketh foul work on't where he hath flitted. Queen Proserpine and he have quarrelled for his attempting a rape upon her divinity ; and were it not that she still had bowels ' of compassion, it more than seems probable he might have been now sprawling in Tartarus. ! I now found that spirits still preserve the frailties of the flesh ; and that, according to the laws of criticism and dreaming, ghosts have been known to be j guilty of even more than platonic affection ; wherefore, as I found her too j much moved on such a topic to proceed, I was resolved to change the subject, ; and, desiring she would pledge me in a l)umper, observed with a sigh, that our j sack was nothing now to what it was in former days : " Ah, Mrs, Quickly, those I were merry times when you drew sack for Prince Hemy : men were twice as I strong, and twice as wise, and much braver, and ten thousand times more j charitable, than now. Those were the tunes ! The battle of Agincourt was i a victory indeed ! Ever since that we have only been degenerating ; and I j have lived to see the day when drinking is no longer fashionable ; when men I wear clean shirts, and women shew their necks and arms : all are degen- I erated, Mrs. Quickly ; and we shall probably, in another century, be frittered I away into beaux or monkeys. Had you been on earth to see what I have j seen, it would congeal all the blood in yom* body (your soul, I mean). Wliy, I our very nobility now have the intolerable arrogance, in spite of what is every day remonstrated from the press ; our very nobility, I say, have the assiirance to frequent assemblies, and presume to be as merry as the vulgar. See, my very friends have scarcely manhood enough to sit to it till eleven ; and I only am left to make a night on't. Pr'ythee do me the favoiu- to console me a little for their absence -by the story of your own adventure, or the history of the tavern where we are now sitting : I fancy the narrative may have something singular." Observe this apartment, interrupted my companion ; of neat device and exceUent workmanship. — In this room I have lived, child, woman, and ghost, £SSJYS. 185 more than three hundred years : I am ordered by Pluto to keep an annual register of eyery transaction that passeth here ; and I have whilom compiled three hundred tomes, which eftsoons may be submitted to thy regards. "JN'one of your whiloms or eftsoons's, Mrs. Quickly, if you please," I i-eplied: I know you can talk every whit as weU as I can ; for, as you have lived here so long, it is but natural to suppose you should learn the conversation of the company. Believe me, dame, at best, you have neither too much sense, nor too much language to spare ; so give me both as well as you can ; but first my service to you ; old ^vomen should water their clay a little now and then j and now to your story." The story of my own adventures, replied the vision, is but short and unsatisfactory ; for believe me, Mr. Rigmarole, believe me, a woman with a bu.tt of sack at her elbow, is never long-lived. Sir Jolm's death afflicted me to such a degree, that I sincerely believe, to drown sorrow, I di-ank more liquor myself than I drew for my customei'S : my grief was sincere, and the sack was excellent. The prior of a neighboiu'ing convent (for our priors then had as much power as a Middlesex justice now) he, I say, it was who gave me a licence for keeping a disorderly house ; upon conditions I should never make hard bargains with the clergy, that he shoidd have a bottle of sack every morning, and the liberty of confessing which' of my girls he thought proper in private every night. I had continued for several years to pay this tribute ; and he, it must be confessed, continued as rigorously to exact it. I gi^ew old insensibly ; my customers continued, however, to compliment my looks while I was by, but I could hear them say I was wearing when my back was turned. The prior however still was constant, and so were half his convent :' but one fatal morning he missed, the usual beverage ; for I had incautiously drank over-night the last bottle myself "What will you have on't ? — The very next day Doll Tearsheei and I were sent to the house of correction, and accused of keeping a low bawdy-house. In short, wo were so well purified there with stripes, mortification, and penance, that avo were afterwards utterly unfit for worldly conversation : though sack would have killed me, had I stuck to it ; yet I soon died for want of a drop of soinethiug comfortable, and fairly left my body to the care of the beadle. Such is my own history ; buc that of the tavern, where I have ever since been stationed, affords greater variety. In the history of this, which is one of the oldest in London, you may view the diff'erent manners, pleasures, and follies, of men at different periods. You will find mankind neither better nor worse now than formerly ; the vices of an uncivilized people are generally more detestable, though not so frequent, as those in polite society. It is the same luxu.ry, which formerly stuffed your alderman with plum-porridge, and now crams him with turtle. It is the same low ambition, that formerly induced a courtier to give up his religion to please Ms king, and now persuades him to give up his conscience to please his minister. It is the same vanity, that formerly stained our lady's cheeks and necks with woad, and now paints them with carmine. Your ancient Briton foi'merly powdered his hair with red earth, like brick-dust, in order to appear frightful : your modern Briton cuts his hair on the crown, and plasters it with hog's-lard and flour ; and this to make him look killing. It is the same vanity, the same foUy, and the same vice, only appearing different as viewed through the glass of fashion. In a word, all mankind are a — ■ " Sure the woman is dreaming," interrupted I. " None of your reflections, Mrs. Quickly, if you love me ; they only give me the spleen. TeU me your history at once. I love stories, but hate reasoning." If you please, then, Sir, returned my companion, I '11 read you an abstract, •which I made of the three hundred volumes I mentioned just now. 186 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. My body was no sooner laid in the dust, tlian the prior and several of his convent came to purify the tavern from the pollutions with which they said I had filled it. Masses were said in every room, reliques were exposed upon every piece of furniture, and the whole house washed with a deluge of holy- water. My habitation was soon converted into a monastery ; instead of cus- tomers now applying for sack and sugar, my rooms were crowded with images, reliques, saints, whores, and friars. Instead of being a scene of occasional debauchery, it was now filled with continual lewdness. The prior led the fashion, and the whole convent imitated his pious example. Matrons came hither to confess their sins, and to commit new. Virgins came hither who' seldom went virgins away. Nor was this a convent peculiarly wicked ; every convent at that period was equally fond of pleasure, and gave a boundless loose to appetite. The laws allowed it ; each priest had a right to a favourite com- panion, and a power of discarding her as often as he pleased. The laity grumbled, quarrelled with their wives and daughters, hated their confessors, and maintamed them in opulence and ease. These, these were happy times, Mr. Rigmarole; these were times of piety, bravery, and simplicity! "Not so very happy, neither, good Madam ; pretty much like the present : those that labour starve ; and those that do nothing wear fine clothes and live in luxury." In this manner the fathers lived for some years without molestation j they transgressed, confessed themselves to each other, and were forgiven. One evening, however, oiir prior keeping a lady of distinction somewhat too long at confession, her husband unexpectedly came upon them, and testified all the indignation which was natural upon such an occasion. The prior assiired the gentleman that it was the devil who put it into his heart ; and the lady was very certain, that she was under the influence of magic, or she could never have behaved in so unfaithful a manner. The husband, however, was not to be put off by such evasions, but summoned both before the tribunal of justice. His proofs were flagrant, and he expected large damages. Such indeed he had a right to expect, were the tribunals of those days constituted in the same manner as they are now. The cause of the priest was to be tried before an assembly of priests ; and a layman was to expect redress only from their im- partiality and candour. Wliat plea then do you think the prior made to obviate this accusation ? He denied the fact, and challenged the plaintifi* to try the merits of their cause by single combat. It was a little hard, you may be sure, upon the poor gentleman, not only to be made a cuckold, but to be obliged to fight a duel into the bargain ; yet such was the ju.stice of the times. The prior threw down his glove, and the injured husband was obliged to take it up, in token of his accepting the challenge. Upon this the priest supplied his champion, for it was not lawful for the clergy to fight ; and the defendant and plaintiif, according to custom, were piit in prison ; both ordered to fast and pray, every method being previously used to induce both to a confession of the truth. After a month's imprisonment, the hair of each was cut, the bodies anointed with oil, the field of battle appointed and guarded by soldiers, while his majesty presided over the whole in person. Both the champions were sworn not to seek victory either by fraud or magic. They prayed and confessed upon their knees ; and after these ceremonies the rest was left to the courage and conduct of the combatants. As the champion whom the prior had pitched upon had fought six or eight times upon similar occasions, it was no way extraordinary to find him victorious in the present combat. In short, the husband was discomfited ; he was taken from the field of battle, stripped to his shirt, and after one of his legs had been cut ofi", as justice ordained in such cases, he was hanged as a terror to future ofienders. These, these were the times, Mr. Eigmarole ; you see how much more just, and wise, and valiant. ESSAYS. 18^ our ancestors were than us. " I rather fancy, Madam, that the times then were pretty much like our own ; where a multiplicity of laws gives a judge as much, power as a want of law ; since he is eyer sure to find among the number some to countenance his partiality." Our convent, victorious over their enemies, now gave a loose to every de- monstration of joy. The lady became a nun, the prior was made a bishop, and tliree WickUffites were burned in the illiiminations and fire-works that were made on the present occasion. Our convent now began to enjoy a very high degree of reputation. There was not one in London that had the cha- racter of hating heretics so much as ours. Ladies of the first distinction choso from our convent their confessors ; in short, it flourished, and might have flourished to this hom', but for a fatal accident which terminated in its over- tlirow. The lady whom the prior had placed in a nunnery, and whom he con- tinvied to visit for some time with great punctuality, began at last to perceive that she was quite forsaken. Secluded from conversation, as usual, she now entertained the visions of a devotee ; found herself strangely disturbed ; but hesitated in determining, whether she was possessed by an angel or a daemon. Slie was not long in suspense ; for upon vomitting a large quantity of crooked pins, and finding the palms of her hands turned outwards, she quickly con- cluded that she was possessed by the devil. She soon lost entirely the use of speech ; and, when she seemed to speak, every body that was present perceived tliat her voice was not her own, but tliat of the devil within her. In short, she was bewitched ; and all the difliculty lay in determining who Could it be that bewitched her. The nuns and the monks all demanded the magician's name, but the devil made no reply ; for he knew they had no authority to ask questions. By the rules of witchcraft, when an evil spirit has taken posses- sion, he may refuse to answer any questions asked him, unless they are put by a bishop, and to these he is obliged to reply. A bishop therefore was sent for, and now the whole secret came out : the devil reluctantly owned that he was ^ servant of the prior ; that by his command he resided in his present habita- tion ; and that without his command he was resolved to keep in possession. The bishop was an able exorcist ; he drove the devil out by force of mystical anns ; the prior was arraigned for witchcraft ; the witnesses were strong and numerous against him, not less than fourteen persons being by, who heard the devil talk Latin. There was no resisting such a cloud of witnesses j the prior was condemned ; and he who had assisted at so many burnings was burned himself in turn. These were times, Mr. Eigraarole ; the people of those times were not infidels, as now, but sincere believers ! " Equally faulty with our- selves ; they believed what the devil was pleased to tell them j and we seem resolved at last to believe neither God nor devil." After such a stain upon the convent, it was not to be supposed it could sub- sist any longer ; the fathers were ordered to decamp, and the house was once again converted into a tavern. The king conferred it on one of his cast mis- tresses ; she was constituted landlady by royal authority ; and as the tavern was in the neighbourhood of the com't, and the mistress a very polite woman, it began to have more business than ever, and sometimes took not less than four shillings a day. But perhaps you are desirous of knowing what were the peculiar qiTalifica- tions of a woman of fashion at that period ; and in a description of the pre- sent landlady, you will have a tolerable idea of all the rest. This lady was the daughter of a nobleman, and received such an education in the country as be- came her quality, beauty, and great expectations. She could make shifts and hose for herself and all the servants of the family, when she was twelve years old. She knew the names of the four and twenty letters, so that it was im- 188 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH, possible to bewitch lier ; and tins was a greater piece of learning than any lady in the whole country could pretend to. She was always up early, and saw breakfast served in the great hall by six o'clock. At this scene of festi- vity she generally improved good-humour, by teUing her dreams, relating stories of spirits, several of wliich she herself had seen ; and one of which she was reported to have killed with a black-hafted knife. Hence she usually went to make pastry in the larder, and here slie was followed by her sweet-hearts, who were much helped on in conversation by struggling with her for kisses. About ten miss generally went to play at hot-cockles and blindman's buff in the parlour ; and when the yoimg folks (for they seldom played at hot-cockles wlien groAvn old) Avere tired of such amusements, the gentlemen entertained miss with the history of their greyhounds, bear-baitings, and victories at cud- gel-playing. If the weather was fine, they ran at the ring, shot at butts ; while miss held in her hand a ribbon, with which she adorned the conqiiei'or. Her mental quaUfications were exactly fitted to her external accomplishments. Be- fore she was fifteen she could tell the story of Jack the Griant Killer, could name every mountain that was inhabited by fairies, knew a witch at first siglit, and could repeat four Latin prayers without a prompter. Her dress was per fectly fashionable ; her arms and her hair were completely covered : a mon strous ruff was put round her neck ; so that her head seemed like that of John the Baptist placed in a charger. In short, when completely equipped, hei appearance was so very modest, that she discovered little more than her nose. These were the times, Mr. Kigmarole ; when every lady that had a good nose might set up for a beauty ; when every woman that could tell stories, might be cried up for a wit. " I am as much displeased at those dresses which con- ceal too much, as at those which discover too much : I am equally an enemy to a female dunce or a female pedant." You may be sure that miss chose a husband with qualifications resembling her own ; she pitched upon a courtier, equally remarkable for hunting and drinking, who had given several proofs of his great virility among the daugh- ters of his tenants and domestics. They fell in love at first sight (for such was the gallantry of the times), were married, came to court, and madam appeared with superior quahfications. The king was struck with her beauty. All pro- perty was at the king's command ; the husband was obliged to resign all pre- tensions in his wife to the sovereign, whom Grod had anointed to commit adultery where he thought proper. The king loved her for some time ; but at length repenting of his misdeeds, and instigated by his father confessor, from a principle of conscience removed her from his levee to the bar of this tavern, and took a new mistress in her stead. Let it not surprise you to be- hold the mistress of a king degi'aded to so humble an ofiice. As the ladies had no mental accomplishments, a good face was enough to raise them to tiie royal couch ; and she avIio was this day a royal mistress, might the next, when lier beauty palled upon enjoyment, be doomed to infamy and want. Under the care of this lady the tavern grew into great reputation ; the courtiers had not yet learned to game, but they paid it oflt" by di'inking ; drunk- enness is ever the vice of a barbarous, and gaming of a luxm'ious age. They had not sucli frequent entertainments as tlie moderns have, but were more expensive and more luxurious in those they had. All their fooleries were more elaborate, and more admired by the great and the vulgar than now. A courtier has been knoAvn to spend liis vrhole fortmie at a single feast, a king to mort- gage his dominions to furnish out the frippery of a tournament. There were certain days appointed for riot and debauchery, and to be sober at such timea was reputed a crime. Kings themselves set the example ; and I have seen monarchs in this room drunk before tlie entertainment was half concluded. £ssjys. 189 These -were the times, Sii*, when kings kept mistresses, and got drmik in pub- Ho ; they were too plain and simple in those happj times to hide their rices, and act the hypocrite, as now. " Lord ! Mrs. Quickly," interrupting her, " I expected to have heard a story, and here you are going to tell me I know not what of times and vices ; pr'ythee let me entreat thee once more to waive re- flections, and give thy history without deviation." No lady upon earth, continued my visionary correspondent, knew how to put off her damaged wine or women with more art than she. When these grew flat, or those paltry, it was but changing the names ; the wine became excellent, and the girls agreeable. She was also possessed of the engaging leer, tlie cliuck under the chin, winked at a double -entendre, could nick the opportunity of calling for something comfortable, and perfectly vmdcrstood the discreet moments when to withdraw. The gallants of these times pretty much resembled the bloods of ours ; they were fond of pleasure, but quite ignorant of the art of refining upon it ; thus a court-bawd of those times resembled the common low-Hved harridan of a modern bagnio. Witness, ye powers of debauchery, how often I have been present at the various appearances of drunkenness, riot, guHt, and brutality ! A tavena is the true pictui-e of hmnan infirmity : in history we find only one side of the age exhibited to cm' view ; but in the accounts of a tavern we see every age equally absurd and equally vicious. Upon tliis lady's decease the tavern was successively occupied by adven- turers, bullies, pimps, and gamesters. Towards the conclusion of the reign of Henry YII. gaming was more univei:sally practised in England than even now. Kings themselves have been known to play off at Primero, not only all the money and jewels they could part with, but the very images in churches. The last Henry played away, in this very room, not only the four gi-eat bells of St. Paul's cathedral, but the fine image of St. Paul, which stood upon the top of the spire, to Sir Miles Partridge, who took them down the next day, and sold them by auction. Have you then any cause to regret being born in the times you now live ? or do you still believe that liuman nature continues to run on declining every age ? If we observe the actions of the busy part of mankind, your ancestors will be found infinitely more gross, servile, and even dishonest, than you. If, forsaking history, we only trace them in tlicu' hours of amuse- ment and dissipation, we shall find them more sensual, more cnthely devoted to pleasure, and infinitely more selfish. The last hostess of note I find upon record was Jane Eouse. She was born among the lower ranks of the people ; and by frugality and extreme complai- sance contrived to acquire a moderate fortune : this she might have enjoyed for many years, had she not unfortunately quaiTclled with one of her neigh- bours, a woman who was in high repute for sanctity through the whole parish. In the times of which I speak two women seldom quarrelled, that one did not accuse the other of witchcraft, and she who first contrived to vomit crooked pins was sure to come off victorious. The scandal of a modern tea-table differs widely from the scandal of former times : the fascination of a lady's eyes at present is regarded as a compliment ; but if a lady formerly should be accused of having witchcraft in her eyes, it were much better both for her soul and body that she had no eyes at all. In short, Jane Rouse was accused of witchcraft ; and though she made the best defence she could, it was all to no purpose j she was taken from her own bar to the bar of the Old Bailey, condemned, and executed accordingly. These were times indeed ! when even women could not scold in safety. Since her time the tavern underwent several revolutions, according to the spirit of the times, or the disposition of the reigning monarch. It was this 190 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITS. day a bi-othel, and tlie next a conrenticle for enthusiasts. It was one year noted for harbouring whigs, and the next infamous for a retreat to tories. Some years ago it was in high vogue, but at present it seems declining. This only may be remarked in general, that whenever taverns flourish most, the times are then most extravagant and luxm'ious. "Lord! Mrs. Quickly," interrupted I, " you have really deceived me ; I expected a romance, and here you have been this half hour giving me only a description of the spirit of the times : if you have nothing but tedious remarks to communicate, seek some other hearer. I am determined to hearken only to stories." I had scarcely concluded, when my eyes and ears seemed open to my land- lord, who had been all this while giving me an account of the repairs he had made in the house ; and was now got into the story of the cracked glass in the dining-room. ESSAY VI. I AM fond of amusement in whatever company it is to be found ; and wit, though dressed in rags, is ever pleasing to me. I went some days ago to take a walk in St. James's Park, about the hour in which company leave it to go to dinner. There were but few in the walks, and those who stayed seemed by their looks rather more willing to forget that they had an appetite than gain one. I sat down on one of the benches, at the other end of which was seated a man in very shabby clothes. We conti]3ued to groan, to hem, and to cough, as usual upon such occasions; and at last ventured upon conversation. " I beg pardon, Sir," cried I, " but I think I have seen you before ; your face is familiar to me." " Yes, Sir," re- plied he, " I have a good famiUar face, as my friends tell me. I am as well known in every town in England as the dromedary, or live crocodile. You must understand, Sir, that I have been these sixteen years Merry Andrew to a puppet-shoAV : last Bartholomew Fair my master and I quai'reUed, beat each other, and parted ; he to sell his piTppets to the pincushion-makers in Kose- mary-lane, and I to starve in St. James's Park." " I am sorry. Sir, that a person of your appearance should labour under any difficulties." — " O Sir," returned he, " my appearance is very much at your service ; but, though I cannot boast of eating much, yet there are few that are merrier : if I had twenty thousand a year I should be very merry ; and, thank the Fates, though not worth a groat, I am very merry still. If I have three pence in my pocket, I never refuse to be my three halfpence ; and if I have no money, I never scorn to be treated by any that are kind enough to pay my reckoning. Wliat think you, Sir, of a steak and a tankard ? You shall treat me now ; and I will treat you again when I find you in the Park in love with eating, and without money to X)ay for a dinner." As I never refuse a small expense for the sake of a merry companion, we instantly adjom'ned to a neighbouring alehouse, and in a few moments had a frothing tankard and a smoking steak spread on the table before us. It is im- possible to express liow much the sight of such good cheer improved my com- panion's vivacity. " I like this dinner, Sir," says he, " for tlu'ce reasons : first because I am naturally fond of beef ; secondly, because I am hungry ; and, thirdly and lastly, because I get it for nothing : no meat eats so sweet as that for which, we do not pay." He therefore now fcU-to, and Iris appetite seemed to correspond with his in- clination. After dinner was over, he observed that the steak was tough ; "and yet, Sir," returns he, "bad as it was, it seemed a rump-steak to me. O tlie delights of poverty and a good appetite ! We beggars are the very foimdlings of nature : the rich she treats like an arrant etep-mother ; they are pleased ESSAYS. 191 with notliing ; cut a steak from what part you will, and it is insupportablj» tough ; dress it up with pickles, and eyen pickles cannot procure them an ap- petite. But the whole creation is filled with good things for the beggar ; Cal- rert's butt out-tastes Champagne, and Sedgeley's home-brewed excels Tokay. Joy, joy, my blood, though our estates lie no where, we have fortunes wherever we go. If an inundation sweeps away half the grounds of Cornwall, I am content ; I have no lauds there : if the stocks sink, that gives me no imeasi- ness ; I am no Jew." The fellow's vivacity, joined to his poverty, I own, raised my curiosity to know something of his life and circumstances ; and I intreated that he would indulge my desu'e. " That I will. Sir," said he, " and welcome ; only let us drink to prevent our sleeping : let us have another tank- ard while we are awake : let us have another tankard ; for, ah, how charming a tankard looks when full ! " You must know, then, that I am very well descended ; my ancestors have made some noise in the world ; for my mother cried oysters, and my father beat a drum : I am told wo have even had some trimipeters in our family. Many a nobleman cannot shew so respectful a genealogy : but that is neither here nor there ; as 1 was their only child, my father designed to breed me up to his own employment, which was that of a drummer to a puppet-show. Thus the whole employment of my younger years was that of interpreter to Punch and King Solomon in all his glory. But though my father was very fond of instructing me in beating all the marches and points of war, I made no very great progress, because I naturally had no ear for music ; so at the age of fifteen I went and listed for a soldier. As I had ever hated beating a drum so I soon found that I disliked carrying a musket also ; neither the one trade nor the other were to my tasle, for I Avas by nature fond of being a gentle- man : besides, I was obhged to obey my captain ; he has his will, I have mine, and you have yours : now I very reasonably concluded, that it was much morn comfortable for a man to obey his own will than another's. " The hfe of a soldier soon therefore gave me the spleen ; I asked leave to quit the service ; but as I was tall and strong, my captain thanked me for my kind intention, and said, because he had a regard for me, we should not part. I wrote to my father a very dismal penitent letter, and desired that he would raise money to pay for my discharge ; but the good man was as fond of drink- ing as I was (Sir, my service to you), and those who are fond of drinking never pay for other people's discharges : in short, he never answered my letter. Wliat could be done ? If I have not money, said I to myself, to pay for my discharge I must find an eqiiivalent some other way : and that must be by running away. I deserted, and that answered mj pm'pose every bit as well as if I had bought my discharge. "Well, I was now fairly rid of my military employment; I sold my soldier's clothes, bought worse, and, in order not to be overtaken, took the most unfre- quented roads possible. One evening as I was entering a village, I perceived a man, whom I afterwards found to be the curate of the parish, thrown from his horse in a miry road, and almost smothered in the mud. He desired my assistance ; I gave it, and drew him out with some difficulty. He thanked me for my trouble, and was going off; but I followed him home, for I loved always to have a man thank me at his own door. The curate asked an hundred ques- tions ; and whose son I was ; from whence I came ; and whether I would be faitli ful ? I answered him greatly to his satisfaction ; and gave myself one of the best characters in the world for sobriety, (Sir, I have the honour of drinking your health), discretion, and fidelity. To make a long story short, he wanted a servant, and hired me. With him I lived but two months ; we did not much like each other ; I was fond of eating, and he gave me but little to eat : 192 THE WORKS OJF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. \ I loved a pretty girl, and the old woman, my fellow-servant, was ill-natm'ed, ! and ugly. As they eudcavom-cd to starve me between them, I made a pious I resolution to prevent their committing mm-der : I stole the eggs as soon as I they were laid ; I emptied every unfinished bottle that I cotdd lay my hands i on ; whatever eatable came in my way was sure to disappear : in short, they found I would not do ; so I was discharged one morning, and paid tlu-ee shillings and sixpence for two months wages. *' While my money was getting ready, I employed myself in making pre- parations for my departure; tAvo hens were hatching in an out-house, I went and took the eggs from habit, and not to separate the parents from the children I lodged hens and all in my knapsack. After this piece of frugality, I retvu-ned. to receive my money, and v\ith my knapsack on my back, and a staff in my hand, I bade adieu with tears in my eyes to my old benefactor. I had not got far from the house when I heard beliind mo the cry of Stop thief! but this only increased my dispatch : it would have been foolish to stop^ as I knew the voice could not be levelled at me. But hold, I think I passed those tAvo months at the curate's without drinking. Come, the tunes are dry, and may this be my poison if ever I sjpent two more pious, stupid months in all . my life ! " Well, after travelling some days, whom should I light uj^on, but a com- pany of strolling players ! The moment I saw them at a distance my heart warmed to them ; I had a sort of natiu-allove for every thing of the vagabond order : they were employed in settling their baggage, which had been over- turned in a narrow way ; I offered my assistance, which they accepted ; and we soon became so well acquainted that they took me as a servant. This was a paradise to me ; they sung, danced, di'ank, eat, and travelled, all at the same time. By the blood of the Mirabels ! I thought I had never lived till then ; I grew as meriy as a grig, and laughed at every word that was spoken. They liked me as much as I liked them ; I was a very good figure, as you see ; aiid, thovigh I was poor, I was not modest. " I love a stragghng life above all things in the world ; sometimes good, sometimes bad ; to be warm to-day, and cold to-morrow ; to eat when one can get it, and drink when (the tankard is out) it stands before me. We arrived that evening at Tenterden, and took a large room at the G-reyhound ; where we resolved to exhibit Eomeo and Juliet, with the funeral procession, the grave and the garden scene. Eomeo was to be performed by a gentleman from the Theatre-Eoyal in Drury-lane ; Juliet, by a lady who had never ap- peared on any stage before ; and I was to snufi" the candles : all excellent in our way. We had figures enough, but the difficulty was to dress them. The same coat that served Eomeo, tm'ned with the blue Hning outwards, served for his fi'iend Mercutio : a large piece of crape sufiiced at once for Juhet's pet- ticoat and pall : a pestle and mortar, from a neighboviring apothecary's, an- swered all the purposes of a bell ; and oiu* landlord's own family wrapped in white sheets, served to fill up the procession. In short, there were but three figures among us that might be said to be dressed with any propriety : I mean the nurse, the starved apothecary, and myself. Our performance gave univer- sal satisfaction : the whole audience were enchanted with om' powers. " There is one rule by which a strolhng-player may be ever secm'C of suc- cess ; that is, in our theatrical way of expressing it, to make a great deal of the character. To speak and act as in common life, is not playing, nor is it what people come to see : natural speaking, like sweet wine, runs ghbly over the palate, and scarcely leaves any taste behind it ; but being high in a part res'embliug vinegar, which grates upon the taste, and one feels it wliile ho is drinking. To please in town or country, the way is to cry, wring, cringe into ESSAYS. 193 attitudes, mark the emphasis, slap the pockets, and labour like one in the fall- ing sickness : that is the way to work for applause ; that is the way to gairL it. " As we received much reputation for our skill on this first exhibition, it was but natural for me to ascribe part of the success to myself ; I snuffed the 'andles, and let me tell you, that without a candle-snuffer, the piece would lose half its embelUshments. In this manner we continued a fortnight, and drew tolerable houses ; but the evening before our intended departure, we gave out oxiY very best piece, in which all our strength was to be exerted. "We had great expectations from this, and even doubled our prices, when behold one of the principal actors fell ill of a violent fever. This was a stroke like thunder to our little company : they were resolved to go in a body, to scold the man for falUng sick at so inconvenient a time, and that too of a disorder that threatened to be expensive ; I seized the moment, and offered to act the part myself in his stead. The case was desperate : they accepted my offer ; and I accordingly sat down with the part in my hand and a tankard before me (Sir, yom* health), and studied the character, which was to be rehearsed the next day, and played soon after. " I found my memory excessively helped by drinking : I learned my part with astonishing rapidity, and bade adieu to snuffing candles ever after. I found that Nature had designed me for more noble employments, and I was resolved to take her when in the humour. We got together in order to re- hearse ; and I informed my companions, masters now no longer, of the sur- prising change I felt within me. Let the sick man, said I, be under no un- easiness to get well again : I '11 fill his place to universal satisfaction ; ho may even die if he thinks proper : I '11 engage that he shall never be missed. I rehearsed before them, strutted, ranted, and received applause. They soon gave out that a new actor of eminence was to appear, and immediately all the genteel places were bespoke. Before I ascended the stage, however, I con- cluded within myself, that as I brought money to the house, I ought to have my share in the profits. G-entlemen, said I, addressing our company, I don't pretend to direct you ; far be it from me to treat you with so much ingrati- tude : you have published my name in the bills with the utmost good-natui'e 5 and as affairs stand, cannot act without me : so gentlemen, to shew you my gratitude, I expect to be paid for my acting as much as any of you, otherwise I declare off; I '11 brandish my sniiffers, and clip candles as usual. This was a very disagreeable pi'oposal, but they found that it was impossible to refuse it ; it was irresistible, it was adamant : they consented, and I went on in king Bajazet ; my frowning brows, bound with a stocking stuffed into a turban, while on my captiv'd arms I brandished a jack-chain. Natm-e seemed to have fitted me for the part ; I was tall, and had a loud voice ; my very entrance excited universal applause ; I looked round on the audience with a smile, and made a most low and graceful bow, for that is the rule among us. As it was a very passionate part, I invigorated my spmts with three full glasses (the tankard is almost out) of brandy. By Alia ! it is almost inconceivable how I went through it ; Tamerlane was but a fool to me ; though he was sometimes loud enough too, yet I was still louder than he : but then, besides, I had atti- tudes in abundance : in general I kept my arms folded up thus, upon the pit of my stomach ; it is the way at Drury-lane, and has always a fine effect The tankard would sink to the bottom before I could get through the whole of my merits : in short, I came off like a prodigy ; and such was my success, that I could ravish the lauiels even from a sirloin of beef. The principal gentle- men and ladies of the town came to me, after the play was over, to compli- ment me upon my success ; one praised my voice, another my person, upon my word says the squire's lady, he will make one of the finest actors in 13 194 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Europe ; I say it, and I think I am something of a judge. Praise in tlie beginning is agreeable enough, and we receive it as a favour ; but when it comes in great quantities, we regard it only as a debt, which nothing but our merit could extort : instead of thanking them, I internally applauded myself. We were desired to give our piece a second time : we obeyed ; and I ^vas ap- plauded even more than before. " At last we left the town, in order to be at a horse-race at some distance from thence. I shall never think of Tenterden without tears of gratitude and respect. The ladies and gentlemen there, take my word for it, are very good judges of plays and actors. Come let us drink their healths, if you please. Sir. We quitted the town, I say j and there was a wide difference between my coming in and going out : I entered the town a candle -snuffer, and I quitted it an hero! Such is the world; little to-day, and great to- morrow. I could say a gi'eat deal more upon that subject, something truly sublime upon the ups and downs of fortune ; but it would give us both the spleen, and so I shall pass it over. *' The races were ended before we arrived at the next town, which was no small disappointment to om' company ; however, we were resolved to take all we could get. I played capital characters there too, and came off with my usual brilliancy. I sincerely believe I should have been the fh'st actor of Europe had my growing merit been properly cultivated ; but there came an imkindly frost which nipped me in the bud, and levelled me once more down to the common standard of humanity. I played Sir Harry Wildair ,• all the country ladies were charmed : if I but drew out my snuff-box, the whole house was in a roar of rapture ; when I exercised my cudgel, I thought they would have fallen into convulsions. " There was here a lady who had received an education of nine months in London; and this gave her pretensions to taste, which rendered her the indis- putable mistress of the ceremonies wherever she came. She was informed of my merits ; everybody praised me ; yet she refused at first going to see me perform : she could not conceive, she said, anything but stuff from a stroller ; talked something in praise of Grarrick, and amazed the ladies with her skill in enunciations, tones, and cadences ; she was at last however prevailed upon to go ; and it was privately intimated to me what a judge was to be present at my next exhibition : however, no way intimidated, I came on in Su* Harry, one hand stuck in my breeches, and the other in my bosom, as usual at Drury- lane ; but instead of looking at me, I perceived the whole audience had then- eyes turned upon the lady who had been nine months in Londoia ; from her they expected the decision which was to secure the general's truncheon in my hand, or sink me down into a theatrical letter-carrier. I opened my snuff-box, took snuff; the lady was solemn, and so were the rest : I broke my cudgel on alderman Smuggler's back ; still gloomy, melancholy all, the lady groaned and shrugged her shoulders : I attempted by laughing myself, to excite at least a smile ; but the devil a cheek cotdd I perceive wrinkled into sympathy : I found it would not do : all my good-humour now became forced ; my laughter was converted into hysteric grinning ; and wliile I pretended spirits, my eye showed the agony of my heart : in short, the lady came with an intention to be displeased, and displeased she was ; my fame expired ; I am here and — (the tankard is no more) !" ESSAY Til. When Catharina Alexowna was made empress of Russia, the women trere in an actual state of bondage, but she undertook to introduce mixed assemblies, ESSAYS. 195 as in otlier parts of Europe : she altered the women's dress by substituting the fashions of England ; instead of furs, she brought in the use of taffeta and damask ; and cornets and commodes instead of caps of sable. The women now found themselves no longer shut up in separate apartments, but saw com- pany, visited each other, and were present at every entertainment. But as the laws to this effect were directed to a savage people, it is amusing enough, the manner in which the ordinances ran. Assemblies were quite un- known among them ; the czarina was satisfied with introducing them, for she found it impossible to render them polite. An ordinance was therefore pub- lished according to their notions of breeding, which, as it is a curiosity, and has never before been printed that we know of, we shallgive our readers. " I. The person at whose house the assembly is to be kept, shall signify the same by liauging out a biU, or by giving some other public notice, by way of advertisement, to persons of both sexes. " II. The assembly shall not be open sooner than four or five o'clock in the afternoon, nor continue longer than ten at night. " III. The master of the house shall not be obliged to meet Ids guests, or conduct them out, or keep them company ; but thoxigh he is exempt from all tliis, he is to find them chairs, candles, liquors, and all other necessaries that company may ask for : he is likewise to provide them with cards, dice, and every necessary for gaming. " IV. There shall be no fixed hour for coming or going away ; it is enough for a person to appear in the assembly. "V. Every one shall be free to sit, walk, or game as he pleases ; nor shall any one go about to hinder him, or take exceptions at what he does, upon pain of emptying the great eagle (a pint-boAvl full of brandy) : it shall likewise be sufii- cient, at entering or retiring, to salute the company. " VI. Persons of distinction, noblemen, superior officers, merchants, and tradesmen of note, head-workmen, especially carpenters, and persons em- ployed in chancery, are to have liberty to enter the assembHes ; as hkcwiso their wives and children. " VII. A particular place shall be assigned the footmen, except those of t]ie house, that there may be room enough in the apartments designed for the assembly. " VIII. ]S"o ladies arc to get drunk upon any pretence whatsoever ; nor shall gentlemen be drunk before nine. " IX. Ladies who ]olay at forfeitures, questions and commands, &c., shall not be riotous 5 no gentleman shall attempt to force a kiss, and no person sliall offer to strike a woman in the assembly, under pain of future exclusion." Such are the statutes upon this occasion, which in their very appearance carry an air of ridicule and satire. But politeness must enter every country by degrees ; and these rides resemble the breeding of a clown, awkward but ESSAY VIII. SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY THE OEDINAEY OF NEWGATE. Man is a most fraU. being, incapable of directing his steps, unacquainted with what is to happen in this life j and perhaps no man is a more manifest instance of the truth of this maxim, than Mr. The. Gibber, just now gone out of the world. Such a variety of turns of fortune, yet such a persevering uni- formity of conduct, appears in all that happened in his short span, that the whole may be looked upon as one regidar confusion ; every action of his life was matter of wonder and surprise, and his death was an astonishment. This gentleman was born of creditable parents, who gave him a Yorj good 13—2 196 THE rrORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMlTti. cducatiou, and a great deal of good learning, so that he could read and writ© before lie was sixteen. However, lie early discovered an inclination to follow lewd courses ; he refused to take the advice of his parents, and pursued the bent of his inclination ; he played at cards on Sundays, called himself a gen- tleman ; fell out with his mother and laimdress ; and even in these early days his father Avas frequently heard to observe, that young The. — would be hanged. As he advanced in years, he grew more fond of pleasure ; would eat an ortolan for dinner, though he begged the guinea that bought it; and was once known to give three poxmds for a plate of green peas, which he had collected over-night as charity for a friend in distress ; he ran into debt with everybody that would trust him, and none could build a sconce better than he ; so that, at last, liis creditors swore with one accord that The. — would be hanged. But as getting into debt, by a man who had no visible means but impudence for subsistence, is a thing that every reader is not acquainted with, I must explain that point a little, and that to his satisfaction. There are three ways of gcttuig into debt ; first, by pushing a face ; as, thus : " You, Mr. Lutestring, send me home six yards of that paduasoy, damme ; — but, liarkee, don't think I ever intend to pay you for it, damme." At tliis the mercer laughs heartily ; cuts off the paduasoy, and sends it home; nor is ho, till too late, surprised to find the gentleman had said nothing but truth, and kept his word. The second method of running into debt is called fineering; which is getting goods made up in such a fasliion as to be unfit for every other piu*- cliaser ; and if the tradesman refuses to give them credit, then threaten to leave them upon his hands. But the third and best method is called, " Being the good customer." The gentleman first buys some trifle, and pays for it in ready-money ; he comes a few days after with nothing about him but bank bills and buys, we will suppose, a six-penny tweezer-case ; the bills are too great to be changed, so he promises to return punctually the day after and pay for what he has bought. In this promise he is punctual, and this is repeated for eight or ten times, till his face is well known, and he has got at last the character of a good customer ; by this means he gets credit for something considerable, and then never pays for it. In all this the young man, who is the unhappy subject of our present re- flections, was very expert ; and could face, fineer, and bring custom to a shop with any man in England : none of his companions could exceed him in this ; and his very companions at last said that The. — would be hanged. As he grew old, he grew never the better ; he loved ortolans and green peas as before ; he drank gravy-soup when he could get it, and always thought his oysters tasted best when he got them for nothing, or, which was just the same, when he bought them upon tick : thus the old man kept up the vices of the youth, and what he wanted in power, he made up by incHiiation j so that all the world thought that old The. — would be hanged. And now, reader, I have brought him to his last scene : a scene where perhaps my duty should have obliged mc to assist. You expect, perhaps, his i dying words, and the tender farewell he took of his wife and children ; you I expect an account of his coffin and white gloves, his pious ejaculations, and the x^apei's he left behind him. In this I cannot indulge your cm'iosity ; for, ' oh ! the mysteries of Pate, The. was drowned ! I " Eeader," as Hervey saitli, " pause and loonder j and ponder and pause j who knows what thy own end may be ?" i I .^ , _____...^ ESSAYS. 197 ESSAY IX. I TAKE tlie liberty to communicate to the public a few loose thoughts upon a subject, wliich, though often handled, has not yet in my opinion been fully discussed : I mean National Concord, or Unanimity, which in this kingdom has been generally considered as a bare possibility, that existed no where but in speculation. Such an union is perhaps neither to be expected nor wished for in a country, whose liberty depends rather upon the genius of the people, than upon any precavitions which they have taken in a constitutional way for the guard and preservation of this inestimable blessing. There is a very honest gentleman with whom I have been acquainted these thirty years, during which there has not been one speech uttered against the ministry in parliament, nor struggle at an election for a burgess to serve in the House of Commons, nor a pamphlet published in opposition to any measure of the administi*ation, nor even a private censvu'e passed in his hearing upon the misconduct of any person concerned in public affairs, but he is immediately alarmed, and loudly exclaims against such factious doings in order to set the people by the ears together at such a delicate juncture. " At any other time (says he) such opposition might not be improper, and I don't question the facts that are alleged ; but at this crisis, Sir, to inflame the nation ! — the man deserves to be pimished as a traitor to his country." In a word, according to this gentleman's opinion, the nation has been in a violent crisis at any time these thirty years ; and were it possible for him to live another century, he would never find any period, at which a man might with safety impugn the infallibility of a minister. The case is no more than this : my honest friend has invested his whole fortune in the Stocks, on Government security, and trembles at every whiff of popular discontent. Were every British subject of the same tame and timid disposition, Magna Charta (to use the coarse phrase of Oliver Cromwell) would be no morp regarded by an ambitious prince than Magna F — ta, and the liberties of England expire without a groan. Opposition, wlien restrained within due bounds, is the salubrious gale that ventilates the opinions of the people, which might otherwise stagnate into the most abject submission. It may be said to purify the atmosphere of politics ; to dispel the gross vapours raised by the influence of ministerial artifice and corruption, until the consti- tution, like a mighty rock, stands full disclosed to the view of every indi- vidual who dwells within the shade of its protection. Even when tliis gale blows with augmented violence, it generally tends to the advantage of the commonwealth : it awakes the apprehension, and consequently arouses all the faculties of the pilot at the helm, who redoubles his vigilance and caution, exerts his utmost skill, and becoming acquainted with the natvire of the navi- gation, in a little time learns to suit his canvas to the roughness of the sea, and the trim of the vessel. Without these intervening storms of opposition to exercise his faculties he would become enervate, negligent, and presump- tuous ; and in the wantonness of his power, trusting to some deceitful calm, perhaps hazard a step that would wreck the constitution. Yet there is a measure in all things. A moderate frost will fertilize the glebe with nitrous particles, and destroy the eggs of pernicious insects that prey upon the infancy of the year : but if this frost increases in severity and duration, it will chill the seeds, and even freeze up the roots of vegetables ; it will check the bloom, nip the buds, and blast all the promise of the spring. The vernal breeze that drives the fogs before it, that brushes the cobwebs from the boughs, that fans the air and fosters vegetation, if augmented to a tempest, will strip the leaves, overthrow the tree, and desolate the garden. The auspicious gale before which the trim vessel ploughs tlie bosom of the sea, wliile the mariiici's tiro 198 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. kept alert in duty and in spirits, if converted to a hiu'ricane, overwlielnis the crew with terror and confusion. The sails are rent, the cordage cracked, the masts give way ; the master eyes the havock with mute despair, and the vessel founders in the storm. Opposition, when confined within its proper channel, sweeps away those beds of soil and banks of sand which corruptive power had gathered; but when it overflows its banks, and deluges the plain, its course is marked by ruin and devastation. The opposition necessary in a free state, like that of G-reat Britain, is not at all incompatible with that national concord, whicli ought to unite the people on all emergencies in which the general safety is at stake. It is the jealousy of patriotism, not the rancour of party ; the warmth of candoiu", not the virulence of hate ; a transient dispute among friends, not an implacable feud that admits of no reconciliation. The history of all ages teems with the fatal effects of internal discord ; and were history and tradition annihilated, common sense would plainly point out the mischiefs that must arise from want of harmony and national union. Every school-boy can liave recoiu'se to the fable of the rods, which, wlien Txnited in a bundle, no strength could bend ; but when separated into single twigs, a cliild could break with ease. ESSAY X. I HAVE spent the greater part of my life in making observations on men and things, and in projecting schemes for the advantage of my coimtry ; and though my labours met with an ungrateful return, I will still persist in my endeavoui's for its service, like that venerable, unshaken, and neglected pa- triot, Mr. Jacob Henriquez, who, though of the Hebrew nation, hath exhibited a shining example of Christian fortitu.de and perseverance.* And here my conscience urges me to confess, that the hint upon which the following pro- posals are built, was taken from an advertisement of the said patriot Henri- quez, in which he gave the public to understand, that Heaveji liad indulged liim with " seven blessed daughters." Blessed they are, no doubt, on account of their own and their father's virtues ; but more blessed may they be, if the scheme I offer should be adopted by the legislature. The proportion which the number of females born in these kingdoms bears to the male children, is, I think, supposed to be as thirteen to fourteen : but as women are not so subject as the other sex to accidents and intemperance, in numbering adidts we shall find the balance on the female side. If, in cal- culating the numbers of the people, we take in the multitudes that emigrate to the Plantations, whence they never retui'n, those that die at sea, and make their exit at Tyburn, together with the consumption of the present war by sea and land in the Atlantic, Mediterranean, in the Grerman and Indian Oceans, in Old France, New Erance, North America, the Leeward Islands, Grermany, Africa, and Asia, we may fairly state the loss of men during the war at one hundred thousand. If this be the case, there must be a supei'plus of tlie other sex amounting to the same number, and this superplus will consist cf women able to bear arms ; as I take it for granted, that all those wlio are fit to bear cliildren are likewise fit to bear arms. Now as we have seen the na- tion governed by old women, I hope to- make it appear that it may be de- fended by young women ; and surely this scheme will not be rejected as unnecessary at such a juncture,! when our armies in the fovir quarters of tlie * A man •well known at this period (1762) as well as during many preceding years, for the numerous schemes he was daily offering to various Ministers for the purpose of raising money by loans, paying off the national incumbrances, &c., &c., none of which, however, were ever known to have received the smallest notice. ■f- lu the year 1762. ESSAYS. 199 globe are in want of recruiis ; wlien we find ourselves entangled in a new war with Spain, on the eve of a I'upture in Italy, and indeed in a fair way of being obliged to make head against all the great potentates of Europe. But, before I vmfold my design, it may be necessary to obviate, from experi- ence as well as argument, the objections which may be made to the delicate frame and tender disposition of the female sex, rendering them incapable of the toils, and insuperably averse to the horrors of war. All the world has heard of the nation of Amazons, who inhabited the banks of the river Ther- modoon, in Cappadocia ; who expelled their men by force of arms, defended themselves by their own prowess, managed the reins of government, prose- cuted the operations in war, and held the other sex in the utmost contempt. We are informed by Homer, that Penthesilca, queen of the Amazons, acted as auxiliary to Priam, and fell valiantly fighting in his cause before the walls of Troy. Quintus Curtius tells us, that Thalestris brought one hundred armed Amazons in a present to Alexander the Great. Diodorus Siculus expressly says, there was a nation of female warriors in Africa who fought against the Libyan Hercules. We read in the Yoyages of Columbus, that one of the Carib- bee Islands was possessed by a tribe of female warriors, who kept all the neighbouring Indians in awe ; but we need not go farther than our own age and country to prove, that the spirit and constitution of the fair sex are equal to the dangers and fatigues of war. Every novice who has read the authentic and important History of the Pirates, is well acquainted witli the exploits of two heroines, caUed Mary Read and Anne Bonny. I myself have had the honour to drink with Anne Gassier, alias Mother Wade, who had distinguished herself among the Buccaneers of America, and in her old age kept a punch- house in Port Royal of Jamaica. I have likewise conversed with Moll Davis, wlio had served as a di'agoon in all Queen Anne's wars, and was admitted on the pension of Chelsea. The late war with Spain, and even the present, hath pro- duced instances of females enlisting both in the land and sea service, and be- having with remarkablfe bravery in the disguise of the other sex. And who has not heard of the celebrated Jenny Cameron, and some other enterprising ladies of North Britain, who attended a certain adventurer in all his expedi- tions, and headed their respective clans in a military character? That strength of body is often equal to the courage of mind implanted in the fait sex, will not be denied by those who have seen the watcrwomen of Plymouth ; the female drudges of Ireland, Wales, and Scotland ; the fish-women of Bil- lingsgate ; the weeders, podders, and hoppers, who swarm in the fields ; and the hunters who swagger in the streets of London : not to mention the inde- fatigable trulls who follow the camp, and keep up with the line of march, though loaded with bantlings and other baggage. There is scarcely a street in this metropolis without one or more vii-agoes, who discipline their husbands, and domineer over the whole neighboiu-hood. Many months are not elapsed since I was witness to a pitched battle between two athletic females, who fought with equal skill and fury imtil one of them gave out, after having sustained seven falls on the hard stones. They were both stripped to the under-petticoat ; their breasts were carefully swathed with handkerchiefs, and as no vestiges of features were to be seen in either when I came up, I imagined the combatants were of the other sex, until a by- stander assured me of the contrar^^, giving me to understand that the con- queror had lain-in about five weeks of twin-bastards, begot by her second, who was an Irish chairman. When I see the avenues of the Strand beset every night with troops of fierce Amazons, who, with dreadful imprecations, stop and beat and plunder passengers, I cannot lielp wishing that such martial talents were conTerted to the benefit of the public ; and that those who are 200 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. so loaded witli temporal fire, and so little afraid of eternal fire, sliould, in- stead of ruining the souls and bodies of their fellow-citizens, be put in a way of turning their destructive qualities against the enemies of the nation. Having thus demonstrated that the fair sex are not deficient in strength and resolution, I wovdd humbly propose, that as there is an excess on their side in quantity to the amount of one hundred thousand, part of that number may be employed in recruiting the army, as well as in raising tliirty new Amazonian regiments, to be commanded by females, and serve in regimentals adapted to their sex. The Amazons of old appeared with the left breast bare, an open jacket and trowsers, that descended no farther than the knee j the right breast was destroyed, that it might not impede them in bending the bow, or darting the javelin ; but there is no occasion for this cruel excision in the present discipline, as we have seen instances of Women who handle the musket, without finding any inconvenience from that protuberance. As the sex love gaiety, they may be clothed in vests of pink satin, and open drawers of the same, with buskins on their feet and legs, their hair tied be- hind and floating on their shoulders, and their hats adorned with white feathers : they may be armed with light carbines and long bayonets, without the incumbrance of swords or shoulder-belts. I make no doubt but many young ladies of figure and fashion wiU undertake to raise companies at their own expense, provided they like their colonels ; but I must insist iipon it, if this scheme should be embraced, that Mr. Henriquez's seven blessed daughters may be provided with commissions, as the project is in some measure owing to the hints of that venerable patriot. I moreover give it as my opinion, that Mrs. Kitty Fisher* shall have the command of a battalion, and the nomina- tion of her own ofiicers, provided she will wari'ant them all sound, and be con- tent to wear proper badges of distinction. A female brigade, properly disciplined and accoutred, would not, I am per- suaded, be afraid to charge a nvimerous body of the enemy, over whom they would have a manifest advantage ; for if the barbarous Scythians were ashamed to fight with the Amazons who invaded them, surely the French, who pique themselves on their sensibility and devotion to the fair sex, would not act upon the ofiensive against a band of female warriors, arrayed in all the charms of youth and beauty. ESSAY XL As I am one of that sauntering tribe of mortals, who spend the greatest part of their time in taverns, coffee-houses, and other places of public resort, I have thereby an opportimity of observing an infinite variety of characters, whicli, to a person of a contemplative turn, is a much higher entertainment than a view of all the curiosities of art or natm-e. In one of these my late rambles, I accidentally fell into the company of half a dozen gentlemen, who were en- gaged in a warm dispute aboiit some political affair ; the decision of which, as they were equally divided in their sentiments, they thought proper to refer to me, which naturally drew me in for a share of the conversation. Amongst a multiplicity of other topics, we took occasion to talk of the dif- ferent characters of the several nations of Europe ; when one of the gentle- men, cocking his hat, and assuming such an air of importance as if he had possessed all the merit of the English nation in his own person, declared that the Dutch were a parcel of avaricious wretches ; the French a set of flattering sycophants ; that the Grermans were drunken sots and beastly gluttons ; and the Spaniards proud, haughty, and surly tyrants ; but that in bravery, gene« *■ A cele'brated courtezan of that time. ESSAYS. 201 rosity, clemency, and in every other yirtue, the English excelled all the rest of the world. This very learned and judicious remark was received with a general smile of approbation by all the company — all, I mean, but your humble servant ; who, endeavouring to keep my gravity as well as I could, and reclining my head upon my arm, continued for some time in a posture of affected thoughtfulness, as if I had been musing on something else, and did not seem to attend to the subject of conversation ; hoping by these means to avoid the disagreeable ne- cessity of explaining myself, and thereby depriving the gentleman of his ima- ginary happiness. But my pseudo-patriot had no mind to let me escape so easily. Not satisfied that his opinion should pass without contradiction, he was determined to have it ratified by the suffrage of every one in the company : for which pm'pose, addj'essing himself to me with an air of inexpressible confidence, he asked me if I was not of the same way of thinking. As I am never forward in giv- ing my opinion, especially when I have reason to believe that it will not be agreeable ; so, when I am obliged to give it, I always hold it for a maxim to speak my real sentiments. I therefore told him, that, for my own part, I should not have ventured to talk in such a peremptory strain, unless I had made the tour of Europe, and examined the manners of these several nations with great care and accuracy ; that perhaps a more impartial judge would not Gcruple to affirm, that the Dutch were more frugal and industrious, the French more temperate and polite, the Germans more hardy and patient of labour and fatigue, and the Spaniards more stayed and sedate, than the EngHsh ; who, though, undoubtedly brave and generous, were at the same time rasli, headstrong, and impetuous : too apt to be elated with prosperity, and to des- pond in adversity. I could easily perceive, that all the company began to regard me with a jealous eye before I had finished my answer, which I liad no sooner done than the patriotic gentleman observed, with a contemptuous sneer, that he was greatly surprised how some people could have the conscience to live in a country wliich they did not love, and to enjoy the protection of a government to which in their hearts they were inveterate enemies. Finding that by this modest declaration of my sentiments I had forfeited the good opinion of my companions, and given them occasion to call my political principles in ques- tion, and well knowing that it was in vain to argue with men who were so very full of themselves, I threw down my reckoning, and retired to my own lodgings, reflecting on the absiuxl and ridiculous nature of national prejudice and prepossession. Among all the famous sayings of antiquity, there is none that does greater honour to the author, or affords greater pleasure to the reader (at least if he be a person of generous and benevolent heart), than that of the philosopher, who, being asked what " countryman he was," replied that he was " a citizen of the world." How few are there to be found in modem times who can say the same, or whose conduct is consistent with such a profession ! We are now become so much Englishmen, Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Spaniards, or Ger- mans, that we are no longer citizens of the world ; so much the natives of one particular spot, or members of one petty society, that we no longer consider ourselves as the general inhabitants of the globe, or members of that grand society which comprehends the whole human kind. Did these prejudices prevail only among the meanest and lowest of the' people, perhaps they might be excused, as they have few, if any, opportuni- ties of correcting them by reading, travelling, or conversing with foreigners ; but the misfortune is, that they infect the miuds, and influence the conduct, 202 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. even of our gentlemen : of those, I mean, who have every title to this appel- lation but an exemption from prejudice, which however in mj opinion ought | to be regarded as the characteristical mark of a gentleman ; for let a man's birth be ever so high, his station ever so exalted, or his fortime ever so largo, yet if he is not free from national and other prejudices, I should make bolcl to tell him, that he had a low and vulgar mind, and had no just claim to the character of a gentleman. And in fact you will always find, that those arc most apt to boast of national merit, who have httle or no merit of their own to depend on ; than which to be sure nothing is more natm'al : the slender vine twists around the sturdy oak for no other reason in the world, but because it has not strength sufficient to support itself. I Should it be alleged in defence of national prejudice, that it is the natm'al | and necessary growth of love to our country, and that therefore the former [ cannot be destroyed without hurting the latter, I answer, that this is a gross i fallacy and delusion. Tliat it is the growth of love to our country, I will al- I low ; but that it is the natural and necessary growth of it, I absolutely deny. I Sujperstition and enthusiasm too are the growth of religion ; but wlio ever took it in his head to affirm, that they are the necessary growth of tliis noble principle ? They are, if you will, the bastard sprouts of this heavenly plant, but not its natural and genuine branches, and may safely enough be lopt off without doing any harm to the parent stock : nay, perhaps, till once they are lopt off, this goodly tree can never flourish in perfect health and vigour. Is it not very possible that I may love my o^vn coimtry, without hating the natives of other covmtries ? that I may exert the most heroic bravery, the most j midaunted resolution, in defending its laws and liberty, without despising all the rest of the world as cowards and poltroons 9 Most certainly it is ; and if it were not — But w^liat need I suppose what is absolutely impossible ? — But I if it were not, I must own, I should prefer the title of the ancient philosopher, | viz., a Citizen of the World, to that of an Englishman, a Frenchman, an Euro- } pean, or to any other appellation whatever. I ESSAY XII. Amidst the frivolous pursuits and pernicious dissipations of the present age, a respect for the qualities of the understanding still prevails to such a degree that almost every individual pretends to have a Taste for the Belles Lettres. The spruce prentice sets up for a critic, and the puny beau piques himself upon being a connoisseur. Without assigning causes for this universal presumption we shall proceed to observe, that if it was attended with no other inconve- nience than that of exposing the pretender to the ridicule of those few who can sift his pretensions, it might be tmnecessary to undeceive the public, or to endeavour at the reformation of innocent folly, productive of no evil to the commonwealth. But in reality this folly is productive of manifold evils to the community. If the reputation of taste can be acquired, without the least assistance of literature, by reading modern poems, and seeing modern plays, what person will deny himself the pleasure of such an easy qualification ? Hence the youth of both sexes are debauched to diversion, and seduced from much more profitable occupations into idle endeavours after literary fame ; and a superficial false Taste, founded on ignorance and conceit, takes posses- sion of the public. The acquisition of learning, the study of nature, is neg- lected as superfluous labour : and the best faculties of the mind remain unex- ercised, and indeed imopened, by the power of thoiight and reflection. False Taste will not only diffuse itself through all oxvc amusements, but even in- ESSAYS. • 203 fluence our moral and political conduct : for what is false Taste, but want of perception to discern propriety and distinguish beauty ? It has been often alleged, that Taste is a natural talent, as independent of Art as strong eyes, or a delicate sense of smelling : and without aU doubt, the principal ingredient in the composition of Taste is a natural sensibility, without wliich it cannot exist ; but it differs from the senses in this particular, that they are finished by Nature ; whereas Taste cannot be brought to per- fection without proper cultivation : for Taste pretends to judge not only of IS^ature, but also of Art ; and that judgment is founded upon observation and comparison. What Horace has said of Grenius is still more applicable to Taste : Natura fieret laiidabile carmen, an arte, Qucesitum est. Ego nee studium sine divite vena, isec rude quid prosit video ingenium : alterius sic Altera poscit opem res, & conjurat aviici. IIOR. Art. Poet. 'Tis long disputed whether poets claim Fi'om Art or Nature their best right to fame ; But Arty if not enrich'd by Nature's vein, And a rude Genius of uncultur'd strain, Are useless both ; but when in friendship join'd, A mutual succour in each other find. Francis. We have seen Genhis shine without the help of j4rt, but Taste must be culti- vated by Art, before it will produce agreeable fruit. This, however, we must still inculcate with Quintillian, that study, precept, and observation, will nought avail, without the assistance of Nature : Illud tamen imprimis iestandum est, nihil prcecqita atque artes valere, nisi adjuvante naturd. Yet even though Nature has done her part, by implanting the seeds of Taste, great pains must be taken, and great skill exerted, in raising them to a proper pitch of vegetation. The judicious tutor must gradually and tenderly unfold the mental faculties of the youth committed to his charge. He must cherish liis delicate perception ; store his mind with proper ideas ; point out the different channels of observation ; teach him to compare objects ; to establish the limits of right and wrong, of truth and falseliood ; to distinguish beauty from tinsel, and grace from affectation ; in a word, to strengthen and improve by culture, experience, and instruction, those natural powers of feeling and sagacity, which constitute the faculty called Taste, and enable the pro ' fessor to enjoy the delights of the Belles Lettres, We cannot agree in opinion with those who imagine that Nature has been equally favourable to all men, in conferring upon them a fundamental capa- city, which may be improved to all the refinement of Taste and Criticism. Every day's experience convinces us of the contrary. Of two youths edu- cated under the same preceptor, instructed with the same care, and cultivated Avith the same assidviity, one shall not only comprehend, but even anticipate, the lessons of his master, by dint of natural discernment ; while the other toils in vain to imbibe the least tincture of instruction. Such, indeed, is the distinction between Grenius and Stupidity, which every man lias an oppor- tunity of seeing among his friends and acquaintance. Not that we ought to' hastily to decide xipon the natural capacities of children, before we have maturely considered the peculiarity of disposition, and the bias by which Genius may be strangely warped from the common path of education. A youth incapable of retaining one rule of grammar, or of acquiring the least knowledge of the classics, may nevertheless make great progress in mathe- matics ; nay, he may have a strong genius for the mathematics, without being able to comprehend a a demonstration of Euclid ; because liis mind conceives 204 ■ THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. in a peculiar manner, and is so intent upon contemplating tlie object in one particular point of view, that it cannot perceive it in any other. We have known an instance of a boy, who, while ' his master complained that he had not capacity to comprehend the properties of a right-angled triangle, had actually, in private, by the power of his geniiis, formed a mathematical system of his own, discovered a series of curious theorems, and even applied his deductions to practical machines of surprising construction. Besides, in the education of youth, we ought to remember, that some capacities are like the pyra prcecocia ; they soon blow, and soon attain to all that degree of maturity which they are capable of acquiring ; while on the other hand, there are geniuses of slow growth, that are late in bursting the bud, and long in ripening. Yet the first shall yield a faint blossom and insipid fruit ; whereas the produce of the other shall be distinguished and admired for its well-con- cocted juice and exquisite flavom*. We have know^i a boy of five years of age surprise everybody by playing on the violin in such a manner as seemed to promise a prodigy in music. He had all the assistance that art could afford ; by the age of ten his genius was at the cLKfiij ; yet, after that period, notwithstanding the most intense application, he never gave the least signs of improvement. At six he was admired as a miracle of music ; at six-and- twenty he was neglected as an ordinary fiddler. The celebrated Dean Swift was a remarkable instance in the other extreme. He was long considered as an incorrigible dunce, and did not obtain his degi'ee at the University but ea^ speciali gratia ; yet, when his powers began to unfold, he signallized himself by a very remarkable superiority of genius. When a youth, therefore, appears dull of apprehension, and seems to derive no advantage from study and in- struction, the tutor must exercise his sagacity in discovering whether the soil be absolutely barren, or sown with seed repugnant to its nature, or of such a quality as requires repeated culture and length of time to set its juices in fermentation. These observations, however, relate to Capacity in general, which we ought carefidly to distinguish from Taste. Capacity implies the powerof retaining what is received; taste is the power of relishiag or rejecting whatever is offered for the entertainment of the imagination. A man may have capacity to acquire what is called Learning and Philosophy : but he must have also sensibiHty before he feels those emotions, with which Taste receives the impressions of beauty. Natural Taste is apt to be seduced and debauched by vicious precept and bad example. There is a dangerous tinsel in false Taste, by which the unwary mind and yovnig imagination are often fascinated. Nothing has been so often explained, and yet so little understood, as simplicity in A^Titing. Simplicity in this acceptation has a larger signification than either the airXoov of the G-reeks, or the simplew of the Latins ; for it implies beauty. It is the airXoov Koi y)Svv of Demetrius Phalereus, the simplex munditiis of Horace, and ex- pressed by one word, naivete in the French language. It is in fact no otlier than beautiful natm-e, without affectation or extraneous ornament. In sta- tuary, it is the Yenus of Medicis ; in architecture, the Pantheon. It would be an endless task to enumerate all the instances of this natural simplicity, that occm' in poetry and painting, among the ancients and modems. We shall only mention two examples of it, the beauty of whicli consists in the pathetic. Anaxagoras, the philosopher and preceptor of Pericles, being told that both his sons were dead, laid his hand upon his heart, and after a short pause con- soled himself with areflection couched in three words, ii^tiv 6vT]Tsg ytyivvrjuu^g, " I knew they were mortal." The other instance we select from the tragedy of Macbeth. The gallant Macduff, being informed that his wife and children were murdered by order of the tyrant, pulls his hat over his eyes, and his intenift] MSSJYS. agony bui'sts out iuto an exclamation of four words, the most expressite perhaps that ever were uttered : " He has no cliildreu." This is the energetic language of simple Natm'e, ^\hich has now grown into disrepute. By the present mode of education we are forcibly warped from the bias of nature, and all simplicity in manners is rejected. We are taught to disguise and dis- tort our sentiments, until the faculty of thinking is diverted into an unnatural channel ; and we not only relinquish and forget, but also become incapable of our original dispositions. We are totally changed into creatiu'cs of art and affectation. Our perception is abused, and eyen our senses are perverted. Our minds lose their native force and flavovir. The imagination, sweated by artificial fire, produces nought but vapid bloom. The genius, instead of grow- ing like a vigorous tree, extending its branches on every side, and bearing deli- cious fruit, resembles a stunted yew tortured into some wretched form, project- ing no shade, displaying no flower, diffusing no fragi-ance, yielding no fruit, and aflbrding nothing but a barren conceit for the amusement of the idle spectator. Thus debauched from Nature, how can ye relish her genuine productions ? As well might a man distinguish objects through a prism, that presents nothing but a variety of colom-s to the eye ; or a maid pining in the green sickness prefer a biscuit to a cinder. It has been often alleged that the passions can never be wholly deposited ; and that by appealing to these, a good writer will always be able to force himself into the hearts of his readers : but even the strongest passions are weakened, nay sometimes totally extin- guished, by mutual opposition, dissipation, and acquired insensibility. How often at the theatre is the tear of sympathy and the biu*st of laughter repressed by a ridiculous species of pride, refusing approbation to tlie author and actor, and renoimcmg society with the audience ! This seeming insensibility is not owing to any original defect. Nature has stretched the string, though it has long ceased to vibrate. It may have been displaced and distracted by the violence of pride ; it may have lost its tone through long disuse ; or be so twisted or overstrained, as to produce the most jarring discords. If so little regard is paid to Natvire when she knocks so powerfully at the breast, she must be altogether neglected and despised in her calmer mood of serene tranquillity, when nothing appears to recommend her but simplicity, propriety, and innocence. A person must have delicate feelings that can taste the celebrated repartee in Terence : Homo siun ; nihil, humani a me alienum puto : "I am a man; therefore think I have an interest in everything that concerns humanity." A clear blue sky, spangled with stars, will prove an insipid object to eyes accustomed to the glare of torches and tapers, gilding and glitter — eyes that will turn with disgust from the green mantle of the spring so gorgeously adorned with buds and foliage, flowers and blossoms, to contemplate a gaudy silken robe, striped and intersected with unfriendly tints, that fritter the masses of light and distract the vision, pinked into the most fantastic forms, flounced and fiu'belowed, and fringed with all the littleness of art unknown to elegance. Those ears, that are ofiended by the notes of the tlirush, the blackbird, and the nightingale, will be regaled and ravished by the squeaking fiddle touched by a musician, who has no other genius than that which lies in his fingers ; they will oven be entertained with the rattling of coaches, and the alarming knock, by wliich the doors of fasliionable people are so loudly distinguished. The sense of smelling, that delights in the scent of excrementitious animal jui^'os, such as musk, civet, and urinous salts, will loath the fragrance of new- mown h-iy, the sweet-briar, the honey-suckle, and the rose. The organs, that are gratified with the taste of sickly veal bled into a palsy, crammed fowls, and dropsical brawn, peas without substance, peaches without taste, and pine- 206 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. apples without liavovu', will certainly nauseate the natire, genuine, and salu ' tary taste of Welsh beef, Banstead mutton, and barn-door fowls, whose juices are concocted by a natural digestion, and whoso flesh is consolidated by free air and exercise. In such a total peryersion of the senses, the ideas must be misrepresented ; the powers of the imagination disordered, and th.e judgment of consequence unsound. The disease is attended with a false appetite, wliicli the natural food of the mind will not satisfy. It will prefer Orid to Tibullus, and the rant of Lee to the tenderness of Otway. The soul sinks into a kind of sleepy ideotism ; and is diverted by toys and baubles, which can only be pleasing to the most superficial cmiosity. It is enlivened by a quick suc- cession of trivial objects, that glisten and dance before the eye ; and, like an infant, is kept awake and inspirited by the sound of a rattle. It must not only be dazzled and aroused, but also cheated, InuTied, and perplexed by the artifice of deception, business, intricacy, and intrigue ; a kind of low juggle, which may be termed the legerdemain of G-enius. In this state of depravity the mind cannot enjoy nor indeed distinguish the charms of natural and moral beauty and decorum. The ingenuous blush of native innocence, the plain language of ancient faith and sincerity, the cheerful resignation to the will of Heaven, the mutual affection of the Charities, the voluntary respect paid to superior dignity or station, the virtue of beneficence, extended even to the brute creation, nay the very crimson glow of health, and swelling lines of beauty, are despised, detested, scorned, and ridiculed, as ignorance, rudeness, rusticity, and superstition. Thus we see how moral and natural Ijeauty are connected ; and of what importance it is even to the formation of Taste, that the manners should be severely super- intended. This is a task which ought to take the lead of science ; for we will venture to say, that Virtue is the foundation of Taste : or rather, that Virtue and Taste are built upon the same foundation of sensibility, and cannot be disjouicd without offering violence to both. But virtue must be informed, and Taste- instructed, otherwise they will both remain imperfect and ineffectual : Qui didicit patriee quid debeat, et quid amicis, Quo sit amore parens, quo f rater amandus, et Jiospes, Quod sit Conscripti, quodjudicis officlum, quce Partes iri bellum missi ducis ; ille profecto Beddere personcB scit convenientia cuique. The Critic, who with nice discernment knows What to his country and his friends'he owes; How various Nature warms tlie human breast, To love the parent, brother, friend, or guest ; AV^hat the great functions of our judges are Of Senators, and Generals sent to war; He can distinguish, with unerring art, The strokes peculiar to each different part, Hok. Thus we see Taste is composed of Nature improved by Art j of Feeling tutored by Instrviction. ESSAY XIII. Having- explained what we conceive to be True Taste, and in some measure accounted for the prevalence of Vitiated Taste we should proceed to point out the most effectual manner, in which a natural capacity may be improved into a delicacy of judgment, and an intimate acquaintance with the BeUes Lettres. We shall take it for granted that proper means have been used to form the manners, and attach the mind to Virtue. The heart cultivated by precept, and warmed by example, improves in sensibility, which is the foundation of Taste. By distinguishing the influence and scope of morality, and cherishing the ideas of benevolence, it acquires a habit of sympathy, which tenderly feels ESSAYS, 20^ responsive, like the vibration of unisons, every touch of moral beauty. Hence it is that a man of a social heart, entendered by the practice of virtue, is awakened to the most pathetic emotions by every uncommon instance of gene- rosity, compassion, and greatness of soul. Is there any man so dead to senli- incnt, so lost to Immanity, as to read unmoved the generous behaviour of the Eomans to the States of G-reece, as it is recounted by Livy, or embellished by Thomson in his Poem of Liberty ? Speaking of G-reece in the decline of her power, when her freedom no longer existed, he says : As at her Isthmian games, a fading pomp ! Her full assembled youtli innumerous swarm'd On a tribunal rais'd Flaminius* sat; A victor he from the deep phalanx pierc'd Of iron-coated Macedou, and back The Grecian Tyrant to his bounds repell'd. In the high tlioughtless gaiety of game, While sport alone their unambitious hearts Tossess'd ; the sudden trumpet sounding hoarse, Bade silence o'er the bright assembly reign. Then thus a herald— "To the states of Greece The Roman People, unconfiu'd, restore Their countries, cities, liberties, and laws ; Taxes remit, and garrisons withdraw." Tiio crowd, astonish'd half, and half inform'd, Star'd dubious round, some queslion'd, some exclaim'd (Like one who dreaming, between hope and fear, Is lost in anxious joy) " Be that again — Be that again proclaim'd distinct and loud I" Loud and distinct it was again proclaim'd; And still as midnight in the rural shade, When the gale slumbers, they the words devourd. Awhile severe amazement held them mute. Then bursting broad, the boundless shout to heav'u From many a thousand hearts ecstatic sprung ! On ev'ry hand rebellow'd to them joy; The swelling sea, the rocks and vocal hills- Like Bacchanals they flew, Each other straining in a strict embrace, Nor strain'd a slave ; and loud acclaims, 'till night, Round the Proconsul's tent repeated rung. To one acquainted with the G-enius of Greece, the character and disposition of that polished people, admired for science, renowned for an unextinguishable love of freedom, nothing can be more afTecting than this instance of generous magnanimity of the Koman people, in restoring them unasked to the full frui- tion of those liberties, which they had so unfortunately lost. The mind of sensibility is equally struck by the generous confidence of Alexander, who drinks without hesitation the potion presented by his physi- cian Philip, even after he had received intimation that poison was contained in the cup ; a noble and pathetic scene ! which hath acquired new dignity and expression under the inimitable pencil of a Le Sueur. Humanity is melted into tears of tender admiration, by the deportment of Henry TV. of France, while his rebellious subjects compelled him to form the blockade of his capital. In chastising his enemies he could not but remember they were his people ; and knowing they were reduced to the extremity of famine, he generously connived at the methods practised to supply them with provision. Chancing one day to meet two peasants, who had been detected in these practices, as they were led to execution, they implored his clemency, declaring in the sight of Heaven, they had no other way to procure subsistence for their wives and children. He pardoned them on the spot, and givrag them aU the money that was in liis purse, " Henry of Bearne is poor (said he) ; liad he more money to afford, you should have it — go home to your families in peace j and remember ♦ His real name was Quintus Flaminius. 208 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. your duty to Q-dd, and your allegiance to your Sorereign." Innumerable ox- araples of the same kind may be selected from history, both ancient and modern, the study of which we would therefore strenuously recommend. Historical knowledge indeed becomes necessary on many other accounts, Avhich in its place we will explain ; but as the formation of the heart is of the first consequence, and should precede the cultivation of the understanding, such striking instances of superior virtue ought to be culled for the perusal of the young pupil, who will read them with eagerness, and revolye them with pleasure. Thus the young mind becomes enamoured of moral beauty, and the passions are listed on the side of humanity. Meanwhile knowledge of a dif- ferent species will go hand in hand with the advances of moraHty, and the xmderstanding be gradvially extended. Virtue and sentiment reciprocally as- sist each other, and both conduce to the improvement of perception. While the scholar's chief attention is employed in learning the Latin and Greek lan- guages, and this is generally the task of childhood and early youth, it is even then the business of the preceptor to give his mind a turn for observation, to direct his powers of discernment, to point out the distinguishmg marks of character, and dwell upon the charms of moral and intellectual beauty, as they may chance to occm' in the Classics that are used for his instruction. In read- ing Cornelius Nepos, and Plutarch's Lives, even with a view to gi'ammatical improvement only, he will insensibly imbibe and learn to compare ideas of greater importance. He will become enamoured of virtue and patriotism, and acquire a detestation for vice, cruelty, and coiTuption. The perusal of the Roman story in the works of Florus, Sallust, Livy, and Tacitus, will irresist- ibly engage his attention, expand liis conception, cherish his memory, exercise liis judgment, and warm him with a noble spirit of emulation. Ho will con- template with love and admiration the disinterested candom* of Aristides, sur- namcd the Just, whom the guilty cabals of his rival Themistocles exiled from his ungrateful country by a sentence of Ostracism. He wiU be sm'prised to leai'n, that one of his fellow-citizens, an ilUterate artizan, bribed by his enemies, chancing to meet him in the street without knowing his person, desired he would write Aristides on his shell (which was the method those plebeians used to vote against dehnquents,) when the innocent patriot wrote his own name without complaint or expostvilation. He will with equal astonishment applaud the inflexible integrity of Fabricius, who preferred the poverty of innocence to all the pomp of alHuence, with which Pyrrhus endeavoured to seduce him from the arms of his country. He will approve with transport the noble gene- rosity of his soul in rejecting the proposal of that prince's physician, who offered to take him off by poison ; and in sending the caitiff boimd to his sovereign, whom he would have so basely and cruelly betrayed. In reading the ancient authors, even for the purposes of school education, the tmformed taste will begin to relish the irresistible energy, greatness, and sublimity of Homer ; the serene majesty, the melody, and pathos of Virgil ; the tenderness of Sappho and Tibullus ; the elegance and propriety of Terence; the grace, vivacity, satire, and sentiment of Horace. Nothing will more conduce to the improvement of the scholar in his know- ledge of the languages, as well as in taste and morality, than his being obUged to translate choice parts and passages of the most approved Classics, both poetry and prose, especially the latter ; such as the oration of Demosthenes and Isocrates, the Treatise of Longinus on the Sublime, the Commentaries of Caesar, the Epistles of Cicero and the younger Pliny, and the two celebrated speeches in the Catilinarian conspiracy by Sallust. By this practice he will become more intimate with the beauties of the Avriting and the idioms of the language from which he translates j at the same time it will form his style, ESSAYS. 209 and, hj exercising; his talent of expression, make him a more perfect master of his mother tongue. Cicero tells us, that in translating two orations, which the most celebrated orators of G-reece pronounced against each other, he per- formed this task not as a servile interpreter, but as an orator, preserving the sentiments, forms, and figures of the original, but adapting the expression to the taste and manners of the Eomans : — " In quihus non verbum 2iro verho necesse Jiabui reddere, sed genus omnium verborum vimque servavi ;" "in which I did not think it was necessary to translate literally word for word, but I pre- served the natural and full scope of the whole." Of the same opinion was Horace, who says in his Art of Poetry, Nee verbum verba curahis reddere Jidua Interpres Nor -word for word translate with paiufal care. Nevertheless, in taking the liberty here granted we are apt to run into the other extreme, and substitute equivalent thoughts and phrases, till hardly any features of the original remain. Tlie metaphors of figures, especially in poeti-y, ought to be as religiously preserved as the images of painting, which we can- not alter or exchange without destroying, or injm'ing at least, the character and style of the original. In this manner the preceptor will sow the seeds of that taste, which will soon germinate, rise, blossom, and produce perfect fruit by dint of future care and cultivation. In order to restrain the luxuriancy of the young imagina- tion, which is apt to run riot, to enlarge the stock of ideas, exercise the reason, and ripen the judgment, the pupil must be engaged in the severer study of Science. He must learn Greometry, which Plato recommends for strengthen- ing the mind, and enabling it to think with precision. He must be made ac- quainted with Geography and Chronology, and trace Philosophy through all her branches. Without Geography and Chronology he will not be able to ac- quire a distinct idea of History ; nor judge of the propriety of many interest- ing scenes, and a thousand allusions, that present themselves in the Avorks of G^enius. Nothing opens the mind so much as the researches of Philosophy ; they inspire us with sublime conceptions of the Creator, and subject, as it were, all nature to otu' command. These bestow that liberal turn of thinking, and in a great measure contribute to that universality in learning, by which a man of taste ought to be eminently distinguished. But History is the inex- haustible source from which he will derive his most useful knowledge respect- ing the progress of the human mind, the constitution of government, the rise and decline of empires, the revolution of arts, the variety of character, and the vicissitudes of fortune. The knowledge of History enables the Poet not only to paint characters, but also to describe magnificent and interesting scenes of battle and adventure. Not that the Poet or Painter ought to be restrained to the letter of historical trvith. History represents what has really happened in Nature : the other arts exhibit what might have happened, with such exaggeration of circum- stance and feature, as may bo deemed an improvement on Nature : but this exaggeration must not be carried beyond the bounds of probability ; and these, generally speaking, the knowledge of History will ascertain. It would be extremely difficult, if not impossible, to find a man actually existing, whose proportions should answer to those of the Greek statue distinguished by the name of the Apollo of Belvedere ; or to produce a woman similar in proportion of parts to the other celebrated piece called the Yenus de Medicis ; therefore it may be truly affirmed, that they are not conformable to the real standard of nature : nevertheless every artist will own that they are the very archetypes of grace, elegance, and symmetry j and every judging eye must behola them 14 210 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. with admiration, as improvements on the lines and lineaments of nattire. The truth is, the sculptor or statuary composed the various proportions in nature from a great number of different subjects, every individual of which he found imperfect or defective in some one particular, though beautiful in all the rest 5 and from these observations, corroborated by taste and judgment, he formed an ideal pattern, according to which his idea was modelled, and produced in exe- cution. Every body knows the story of Zeuxis, the famous painter of Heraelea, who, according to Phny, invented the chiaro oscuro, or disposition of light and shade, among the ancients, and excelled all liis contemporaries in the chromatique, or art of colouring. This great artist being employed to draw a perfect beauty in the character of Helen, to be placed in the temple of Juno, culled out five of the most beautiful damsels the city could produce, and selecting what was excellent in each, combined them in one picture according to the predisposi- tion of his fancy, so that it shone forth an amazing model of perfection,* In like manner every man of genius, regulated by ti-ue taste, entertains in his imagination an ideal beauty, conceived and cultivated as an improvement upon nature : and this we refer to the article of invention. It is the business of Art to imitate Nature, but not with a servile pencil ; and to choose those attitudes and dispositions only, w'hich are beautifid and engaging. With this view we must avoid all disagreeable prospects of Nature, which excite the ideas of abhorrence and disgust. Tor example, a painter would not find his account in exhibiting the resemblance of a dead carcase half consumed by vermin, or of swine wallowing in ordure, or of a beggar lousing himself on a dunghill, though these scenes should be painted never so na- tm'aUy, and all the world must aUoAV that the scenes were taken from Nature 5 because the merit of the imitation would be greatly overbalanced by the vile choice of the artist. There are nevertheless many scenes of horror which please in the representation, from a certain interesting greatness, which we shall endeavour to explain when we come to consider the sublime. Were we to judge every production by the rigorous rules of Nature, we should reject the Iliad of Homer, the ^neid of Yirgil, and every celebrated tragedy of antiquity and the present times, because there is no such thing in Nature as an Hector or Tumus talking in hexameter, or an Othello in blank verso : we should condemn the Herciiles of Sophocles, and the Miser of Mo- liere, because we never knew a hero so strong as the one, or a wretch so sordid as the other. But if we consider Poetry as an elevation of natural dialogue, as a delightful vehicle for conveying the noblest sentiments of heroism and patriot vu'tue, to regale the sense with the sounds of musical expression, while the fancy is ravished with enchanting images, and the heart warmed to rapture and ecstacy, we must allow that Poetry is a perfection to which Nature would gladly aspire ; and that though it surpasses, it does not deviate from her, provided the characters are marked with propriety and sustained with genius. Characters, therefore, both in Poetry and Painting, may be a little overcharged or exaggerated without offering violence to Nature ; nay, they must be exaggerated in order to be striking, and to preserve the idea of imita- tion, whence the reader and spectator derive in many instances their chief de- light. If we meet a common acquaintance in the street, we see him without emotion ; but should we chance to spy his portrait well executed, we are struck with pleasing admiration. In this case the pleasiire arises entirely fi'om * Prsebete igitur mihi qnseso, inquit, ex istis virginibus formosissimas, diim pingo id quod poUicitus sum vobis, ut mutum in Bimulacrum ex animali exemi)]o Veritas tiansferatur. — llle autera quinque delegit. — Neque euim putavit omnia, quae qn£Ereret ad venustatem^ uno in coi"pore se reperire posse ; ideo quod nihil simplici in geuere omnibus ex partibus perfec- tum natara expolivit. Cic. Lib. 2. de Inv. cap. 1. ESSAYS. 211 the imitation. We every day lioar unmoTed the natives of Ireland find Scot- land speaking their own dialects ; but should an Englishman mimic either, we are apt to burst out into a loud laugh of applause, being surprised and tickled by the imitation alone ; though at the same time, we cannot but allow that the imitation is imperfect. We are more affected by reading Shakespeare's description of Dover Cliff, and Otway's pictm-e of the Old Hag, than we should be were we actually placed on the summit of the one, or met in reality with such a beldame as the other ; because in reading these descriptions we refer to our own experience, and perceive with surprise the justness of the imita lions. But if it is so close as to be mistaken for Nature, the pleasure tlien will cease because the fiif^ujaii;, or imitation, no longer appears. Aristotle says, that all Poetry and Music is imitation,* whether epic, tragic, or comic, whether vocal or instrumental, from the pipe or the lyre. He ob- serves, that in man there is a propensity to imitate even from his infancy ; that the first perceptions of the mind are acquired by imitation ; and seems to think that the pleasure derived from imitation is the gratification of an appe- tite implanted by Natui'o. We should rather think the pleasure it gives arises from the mind's contemplating that excellency of Art, which tlius rivals Na- ture, and seems to vie wdth her in creating such a striking resemblance of her works. Thus the Arts may be justly termed imitative, even in the article of invention 5 for in forming a character, contriving an incident, and describing a scene, he must still keep Nature in view, and refer every particular of his invention to her standard : otherwise his production will be destitute of truth and probability, without which the beauties of imitation cannot subsist. It will be a monster of incongruity, such as Horace alludes to in the beginning of his Epistle to the Pisos : JIumano capili cei-vicem pictor equinam Jungere si velit, et varias inducers plumas Undique collatis membris, ut turpiter atrum Desinat inpiscem, mulier formosa supeine ; iSpectatum admissi risum teneatis, amid ? Suppose a painter to a lumian head Should join a horse's neck, and wildly spread The various plumage of the feather'd kind O'er limbs of different beasts absurdly join'd; Or if he gave to view a beauteous maid Above the waist with every charm array'd ; Should a foul fish her lower parts unfold, Would you not laugh such pictures to behold ? The magazine of Nature supplies all those images which compose the most beautiful imitations. This the artist examines occasionally, as he would con- sult a collection of masterly sketches ; and selecting particulars for his purpose, mingles the ideas with a kind of enthusiasm, or to Otlov, which is that gift of Heaven we call Grenius, and finally produces such a whole, as commands admiration and applause. ESSAY XIV. TiTE study of Polite Literature is generally supposed to include all tlie Liberal Arts of Poetry, Painting, Sculpture, Music, Eloquence, and Architecture. All these are founded on imitation ; and all of them mutually assist and illustrate each other.. But as Painting, Sculptiu'c, Music, and Arahitecture, cannot be perfectly attained without long practice of manual operation, we shall distin- * ^Enonoiia 5r] Kal h Tr\n(fhia xai // 8L(;vpafx/3owoinriK>j, Kai T^? aiiXririKrii rj nXeiaTtj Kai KiOapiaTtKris naaat rvyx^vovatv ovaai fxifxt}^ ely to avvoXov. 212 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. gxiish them from Poetry and Eloquence, wliich depend entirely on the facul- ties of the mind : and on these last, as on the Arts which immediately consti- tute the Belles Lettres, employ our attention in the present inquiry : or, if it shoidd run to a greater length than we propose, it shall be confined to Poetry alone : a subject that comprehends in its full extent the province of Taste, or what is called Polite Literature ; and differs essentially from Eloquence, both in its end and origin. Poetry sprang from ease, and was consecrated to pleas iu*e ; whereas Elo- quence arose from necessity, and aims at conviction. When we say Poetry sprang from ease, perhaps we ought to except that species of it, which owed its rise to inspiration and enthusiasm, and properly belonged to the culture of Keligion. In the first ages of mankmd, and even in the original state of Na- ture, the unlettered mind must have heen. struck with sublime conceptions, with admiration and awe, by those great phsenomena, wliich, though every day repeated, can never be viewed without internal emotion. Those would break forth in exclamations expressive of the passion produced, whether sur- prise or gratitude, terror or exultation. The rising, the apparent course, the setting, and seeming renovation of the sun ; the revolution of light and dark- ness ; the splendour, change, and circuit of the moon, and the canopy of Heaven bespangled with stars, must have produced expressions of wonder and adoration. " O glorious luminary ! great eye of the world ! source of that light which guides my steps ! of that heat which warms me when chilled with cold ! of that influence which cheers the face of Nature ! whither dost thou retire every evening with the shades ? Whence dost thou spring every morn- ing with renovated lustre, and never-fading glory ? Art not thou the ruler, the creator, the God, of all that I behold ? I adore thee, as thy child, thy slave, thy suppliant ! I crave thy protection, and the continuance of thy good- ness ! Leave me not to perish with cold, or to wander solitary in utter dark- ness I Eetum, return, after thy wonted absence : drive before thee the gloomy clouds, that would obscure the face of Nature. The birds begin to warble, and every animal is filled with gladness at thy approach : even the trees, the herbs, and the flowers, seem to rejoice with fresher beauties, and send forth a grateful incense to thy power, whence their origin is derived !" A number of individuals, inspired with the same ideas, would join in these orisons, which would be accompanied with corresponding gesticulations of the body. They woidd be improved by practice, and grow regular from repetition. The sounds and gestui-es would naturally fall into measured cadence. Thus the song and dance will be produced ; and a system of worship being formed, the Muse would be consecrated to the purposes of Religion. Hence those forms of thanksgiving, and litanies of supplication, with which the religious rites of all nations, even the most barbarous, are at this day cele- brated in every quarter of the known world. Indeed this is a circumstance, in which all nations surprisingly agree, how much soever they may differ in every other article of laws, customs, manners, and reHgion. The ancient Egyptians celebrated the festivals of their god Apis with hymns and dances. The superstition of the G-reeks, partly derived from the Egyptians, abounded with poetical ceremonies, such as choruses and hymns, sung and danced at their apotheoses, sacrifices, games, and divinations. The Romans had their carmen seculare, and Salian priests, who on certain festivals sung and danced through the streets of Rome. The Israehtes were famous for this kind of ex- ultation : " And Miriam, the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand, and all the women went out after her, with timbrels and witli dances, and Miriam answered them, Sing ye to the Lord, &e." — " And David danced before the Lord with all his might." — The psalms composed by this ESSAYS. 213 monarch, the Songs of Deborah and Isaiah, are farther confirmations of what we hare adTancect. From the Phoenicians the GrrceL'S borrowed the cursed Orthyan song, when they sacrificed their children to Diana. The Poetry of the Bards constituted great part of the religious ceremonies among the Gauls and Britons ; and the carousals of the Goths were religious institutions, celebrated with songs of triumph. The Mahometan deryise dances to the sound of the flute, and whirls himself round until he grows giddy, and falls into a trance. The Ma- rabous compose hymns in praise of Allah. The Chinese celebrate their grand festivals with processions of idols, songs, and instrumental music. The Tar- tars, Samoiedes, Laplanders, Negroes, even the Cafircs called Hottentots, solemnize their worship (such as it is) with songs and dancing ; so that we may venture to say. Poetry is the universal vehicle in which all nations have expressed their most sublime conceptions. Poetry was in all appearance previous to any concerted plan of worship, and to every established sjstem of legislation. When certain individuals, by dint of superior prowess or understanding, had acquired the veneration of their fellow savages, and erected themselves into divinities on the ignorance and superstition of mankind ; then mythology took place, and such a swarm of deities arose, as produced a religion replete with the most shocking absurdi- ties. Those, whom their superior talents had deified, were found to be still actuated by the most brutal passions of human nature ; and in all probability their votaries were glad to find such examples, to countenance their own vicious inclinations. Thus fornication, incest, rape, and even bestiality, were sanctified by the amours of Jupiter, Pan, Mars, Venus, and Apollo. Theft ■\\.^is patronized by Mercury ; drunkenness by Bacchus ; and cruelty by Diana. The same heroes and legislators, those who delivered their country, founded cities, established societies, invented useful arts, or contributed in any emi- nent degree to the security and happiness of their fellow creatures, were inspired by the same lusts and appetites whicli domineered among the inferior classes of mankind ; therefore every vice incident to human nature was cele- brated in the worship of one or other of these divinities : and every infinnity consecrated by public feast and solemn sacrifice. In these institutions the Poet bore a principal share. It was his genius that contrived the plan, that executed the form of worship, and recorded in verse the origin and adventures of their gods and demi-gods. Hence the impurities and horrors of certain rites ; the groves of Paphos and Baal Peor ; the orgies of Bacchus ; the hu- man sacrifices to Molocli and Diana. Hence the theogony of Hesiod ; the theology of Homer ; and those innumerable maxims scattered througli the ancient Poets, inviting mankind to gratify their sensual appetites, in imitation of the gods, who were certainly the best judges of happiness. It is well known, that Plato expelled Homer from his commonwealth, on account of the infamous characters by which he has distinguished his deities, as well as for some depraved sentiments which he found diffused through the course of the Iliad and Odyssey. Cicero enters into the spirit of Plato, and exclaims, in his first book " De Natura Deorum," Nee multo ahsurdiora sunt ea, quae, poe- tarum vocibusfusa, ipsa suavitate nocuerunt : qui, et ira inflammatos, et libidine furentes, induxerunt Deos,feceruntque ut eoruni hella^pugnas, prcdia^vulnera videremiis : odia prceterea, dissidia, discordias, ortus, interitus, querelas, lamenta- iiones, effusas, in omni intemperantid libidines, adidteria, vincula, cum Jiumano genere concubitus, mortalesque eoc immortali procreatos. " Nor are those things mucli more absurd which, flowing from the Poet's tongue, have done mischief even by the sweetness of his expression. The Poets have introduced gods in- flamed with anger and enraged with lust ; and even produced before om* eyes 214 THE WORKS OF OUVJER GOLDSMtTff. their v.'ars, their wrangling, their duels, and their wounds. They hare exposed besides, their antipathies, animosities, and dissentions ; their origin and death ; their complaints and lamentations ; their appetites, indulged to all manner of excess, their adulteries, their fetters, their amorous commerce with the human species ; and from immortal parents derived a mortal offspring." As the festivals of the gods necessarily produced good cheer, which often carried to riot and debauchery, mirth of consequence prevailed ; and this was always attended with buffoonery. Taunts and jokes, and raillery and repartee would necessarily cnsvxe : and individuals woidd contend for the victory in wit and genius. These contests would in time be reduced to some regulations, for the entertainment of the people thus assembled ; and some jjrize would be decreed to him who was judged to excel his rivals. The candidates for fame and profit, being thus stimidatcd, would task their talents, and naturally recommend these alternate recriminations to the audience, by clothing them with a kind of poetical measm'e, which should bear a near resemblance to prose. Thus as the solemn service of the day was composed in the most sub- lime species of Poetry, such as the ode or hymn, the subsequent altercation was carried on in Iambics, and gave rise to Satire. We are told by the Stagi- rite, that the highest species of Poetry was employed in celebrating gi-eat actions, but the humbler sort used in this kind of contention ;* and that in the ages of antiquity there were some bards that professed Heroics, and some that pretended to Iambics only. Oi /xev tipo'iKwv, 01 3e Idju/Jwv notrirat. To these rude beginnings we not only owe the birbh of Satire, but likewise the origin of Dx'amatic Poetry. Tragedy hei'self, which afterwards attained to such a dignity as to rival the Epic Muse, was at first no other than a tritil of Crambo, or Iambics, between two peasants, and a goat was the prize, as Horace calls it, vile certamen oh Mr cum ; "a mean contest for a he -goat." Hence the name rpayc^jSia, signifying the goat-song, from rpayog, hircus, and tl>di], carmen. Carmine qui tragico vilem certavit 6b hircum, Mox etinm agrestes satyros nudavit, et asper Incolumi gravitate jocum tentavit, eo quod lllecebris erat et grata novitate morandus Spectator, functusque sacris et potus et exlex. HoR. The tragic bard, a goat his liumble prize, Bade satyrs naked and uncouth arise : His Muse severe, secure, and undismay'd. The rustic joke in solemn strain convey'd; For novelty alone he knew could charm A lawless crowd, with wine and feasting warm. Satire, then, was originally a clownish dialogue in loose Iambics, so called because the actors were disguised like satyrs, wlio not only recited the praises of Bacchus, or some other deity, but interspersed their hymns with sarcastic jokes and altercation. Of this kind is the Cyclop of Euripides, in which Ulysses is the principal actor. The Eomans also had their AtellancB, or interludes of the same nature, so called from the city of Atella, where they were first acted ; but these were highly polished in comparison of the oi'iginal entertainment, which was altogether rude and innocent. Indeed, the Cycloji itself, though composed by the accomplished Euripides, abounds with such impurity, as ought not to appear on the stage of any civilized nation. It is very remarkable that the AtellancB, which were in effect tragi-comedies, grew into such esteem among the Eomans, that the performers in these pieces enjoyed several privileges, which were refused to the ordinary actors. They * Oi fiev^ap (refxvorepoifTas KaXits h/xifxovvTO Trptlfei? o'l dt evTe7\i(Tjepoi,ius Tuif ^avXav, wp&Tov Xoyon notoZviei, £:SSJYS. 215 were not obliged to unmask, like the other players, when their action was dis- agi'ccablo to the audience. They were admitted into the army, and enjoyed the privileges of free citizens, without incurring that disgrace, which was affixed to the characters of other actors.* The poet Laberius, who was of equestrian order, being pressed by Julius Ccesar to act a part in his own per- formance, complied with, great reluctance, and complained of the dishonour he had incurred in his prologue, preserved by Macrobius, which is one of the most elegant morsels of antiquity. Tragedy and Comedy flowed from the same fountain, though their streams were soon divided. The same entertainment which, under the name of Tragedy, was rudely exhibited by clowns, for the prize of a goat, near somo rural altar of Bacchus, assumed the appellation of Comedy when it was trans- ferred into cities, and represented with a little more decorum in a cart or waggon that strolled from street to street, as the name K(i)H({jdia implies, being derived from kojiiij a street, and ^/j'^j) a poem. To this origin Horace alludes in these lines : Dicilur el plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis, Qucecanerent ajerentquc peruncti facibus ova. Thespis, inventor of Dramatic art, Convey'd his vagrant actors in a cart ; High o'er the crowd the mimic tribe appear'd, And play'd and sung, witlijees of wine, besmear'd. Thespis is called the inventor of the Dramatic art, because he raised the subject from clowoiish altercation to the character and exploits of some hero : he improved the language and versification, and reheved the Chorus by the dialogue of two actors. This was the first advance towards that consummation of Genius and Art, which constitutes what is now called a perfect Tragedy. The next great improver was .^schylus, of whom the same critic says, Post hunc personce pallecque repertor honestcs Mschylus, et modicis instravit pulpita tignis ; Et docuit magnumque loqui, nitique cothurno. Then ^schylus a decent vizard us'd ; Built a low stage ; the flowing robe diffus'd. In language more sublime two actors rage, And in the graceful buskin tread the stage. The dialogue which Thespis introduced was called the Episode, because it ;\^as an addition to the former subject, namely the praises of Bacchus ; so tliat now Tragedy consisted of two distinct parts, independent of each other ; the old Recitative, which was the Chorus, sung in honour of the gods ; and "the Episode, which tmnied upon the adventures of some hero. This Episode being fovmd very agreeable to the people, ^schylus, who lived about half a centmy after Thespis, still improved the drama, united the chorus to the Episode so as to make them both parts or members of one fable, multiplied the actors, contrived the stage, and introduced the decorations of the theatre ; so that Sophocles, who succeeded ^schylus, had but one step to surmount, in order to bring the drama to perfection. Thus Tragedy was gradually detached from its original institution, which was entirely religious. The priests of Bacchus loudly complained of this innovation by means of the Episode, which was foreign to the intention of the Chorus ; and hence arose the proverb of Nihil ad Dionysium, " nothing to the purpose." Plutarch himself mentions the Episode as a perversion of Tragedy from the honour of the gods to the passions of men ; but notwithstanduig all opposition, the new Tragedy suc- ceeded to admu'ation j because it was found the most pleasing vehicle of cou- ♦ Cnm artem ludicram, scenamque totam probro ducerent, genus id hominum non modo houoie civium reliquorum carerc, sed etiam tribu moveri notatione censoria volnerunt, Cic. apud S.Aitg. de Civii. Dt^i, 216 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. veying moral trutlis, of meliorating tlie heart, and extending tlie interests of humanity. Comedy, according to Aristotle, is the younger sister of Tragedy. As tlie first originally turned upon the praises of the gods, the latter dwelt on the follies and vices of mankind. Such, we mean, was the scope of that species of poetry which acquired the name of Comedy, in contradiction to the Tragic Muse : for in the beginning they were the same. The foundation upon which Comedy was built, we liave already explained to be the practice of satirical repartee or altercation, in which individuals exposed the follies and frailties of each other on public occasions of worship and festivity. The first regular plan of Comedy is said to have been the Margites of Homer, exposing the idleness and folly of a worthless character ; but of this performance we have no remains. That division which is termed the Ancient Comedy, belongs to the labours of Eupolis, Cratinus, and Aristophanes, who were contemporaries, and flom'ished at Athens about four hundred and thirty years before the Christian tevo.. Such was the licence of the Muse at this period, that, far from lashing vice in general characters she boldly exhibited the exact portrait of every individual, who had rendered himself remarkable or notorious by his crimes, folly, or debauchery. She assumed every circum- stance of his external ap]Dearance, his very attire, air, manner, and even liis I name : according to the observation of Horace, quoi'um Comcedia prisca virorum est : I Siquis erat dignus descrihi,quodmalus,aut fur, I Quod mcBchusforet, aut cicarius, aut alioqui I Famosus, multa cum libertate notabant. The Comic Poets, in its earliest age, ! Who form'd the manners of the Grecian stage — [■ Was there a villain who might jnstly claim I A better right of being damn'd to fame, I Hake, cut-tliroat, thief, whatever was his crime, I They boldly stigmatiz'd the wretch iu rhime. Eupolis is said to have satirized Aicibiades in this manner, and to have fallen I a sacrifice to the resentment of that powerful Athenian : but others say he I was drowned iu the Hellespont, dvu'ing a war against the Lacedemonians ; j and that in consequence of this accident the Athenians passed a decree, that no Poet should over bear arms. The Comedies of Cratinus are recommended by Quintilian for their elo- quence ; and Plutai'ch teUs us, that even Pericles himself coidd not escape the censure of this Poet. Aristophanes, of whom there are eleven Comedies still extant, enjoyed such j a pre-eminence of reputation, that the Athenians by a public decree honoured I him with a croAvn made of a consecrated olive-tree, which grew in the citadel, I for his care and success in detecting and exposing the vices of those who go- j vcrned the commonwealth. Yet this Poet, Avhether impelled by mere wanton- ness of genius, or actuated by malice and envy, could not refrain from employ- ing the shafts of his ridicule against Socrates, the most venerable character of Pagan antiquity. In the Comedy of The Clouds, this virtuous Philosopher Avas exhibited on the stage under his own name, in a cloak exactly resembling that which Socrates wore, in a mask modelled from liis features, disputing publicly on the nature of right and wrong. This was undoubtedly an instance of the most flagrant licentiousness : and what renders it the more extraor- dinary, the audience received it with great applause, even while Socrates him- self sat publicly in the theatre. The truth is, the Athenians were so fond of ridicule, that they relished it even when employed against the gods them- £:SSAYS. 217 selvefi, some of whose characters were very roughly handled by Aristophanes and his riyals in reputation. We might here draw a parallel between the inhabitants of Athens and the natires of England, in point of constitution, genius, and disposition. Athens was a free state like England, that piqued itself upon the influence of the democracy. Like England, its wealth and strength depended upon its maritime power ; and it generally acted as umpire in the disputes that arose among its neighbom's. The people of Athens, like those of England, were remarkably ingenious, and made great progress in the Arts and Sciences. They excelled in Poetry, History, Philosophy, Mechanics, and Manufactures ; they were acute, discerning, disputatious, fickle, wavering, rash, and com- bustible, and, above all other nations in Europe, addicted to ridicule j a cha- racter Avhicli the English inherit in a very remarkable degree. If we may judge from the writings of Aristophanes, his chief aim was to gratify the spleen and excite the mirth of his audience ; of an audience too, that would seem to have been iminformed by Taste, and altogether ignorant of decorum ; for his pieces are replete with the most extravagant absurdities, virulent slander, impiety, impm'itics, and low buffoonery. The Comic liluse, not contented with being allowed to make free with the gods and philosophers, apphed her scourge so severely to the magistrates of the commonwealth, that it was thought proper to restrain her within bounds by a law, enacting, that no person should be stigmatized under his real name ; and thus the Chorus was silenced. In order to elude the penalty of this law, and gratify the taste of the people, the Poets began to substitute fictitious names, under which they exhibited particular characters in such lively colours, that the resemblance could not possibly be mistaken or overlooked. This practice gave rise to what is called the Middle Comedrj, which was but of short duration : for the legis- lature, perceiving that the first law had not removed the grievance against which it was provided, issued a second ordinance, forbidding, under severe penalties, any real or family occurrences to be represented. This restriction was the immediate cause of improving Comedy into a general mirror, held forth to reflect the vai'ious follies and foibles incident to human nature ; a species of writing called the New Comedy, introduced by Diphilus and Menander, of whose works nothing but a few fragments remain. ESSAY xy. HavincI- communicated our sentiments touching the origin of Poetry, by tracing Tragedy and Comedy to their common source, we shall now en- deavour to point out the criteria, by which Poetry is distinguished from every other species of writing. In common with other arts, such as Statuary arid Painting, it comprehends imitation, invention, composition, and enthusiasm. Imitation is indeed the basis of all the liberal arts : invention and enthusiasm constitute Genius, in whatever manner it may be displayed. Eloquence of all sorts admits of Enthusiasm. Tully says, an orator should be vehemens ut procella, excitatus ut iorrens, incensus ut falmen ; tonat, fuhjurat, et rapidis \ Eloquentia fluctibus cuneta, proruit et proturhat. " Violent as a tempest, im- j petuous as a torrent, and glowing intense Hke the red bolt of heaven, he j thunders, lightens, overthrows and bears down all before him, by the irre- ■ eistible tide of Eloquence." This is the mem divinior atque os magna sona- furum of Horace. This is the talent, 3Icum qui pectus inaniter aiiglt, Irritat, mulcet, falsis ierroribus ttnplet, Ut magus. 218 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. With passions not my own who fires my heart ; "Wlio with unreal terrors fills my breast, As with a magic influence possess'd. We are told, that Michael Angelo Buonaroti used to work at his statues in a fit of enthusiasm, during which he made the fragments of the stone fly about hun with surprising violence. The celebrated LuUy being one day blamed for setting nothing to music but the languid verses of Quinault, was animated with the reproach, and running in a fit of enthusiasm to his harpsichord, sung in recitative and accompanied four pathetic lines from the Iphigenia of Racine with such expression, as filled the hearers with astonishment and horror. Though versification be one of the criteria that distinguish Poetry from. Prose, yet it is not the sole mark of distinction. Were the Histories of Poly- bius and Livy simply turned into verse, they would not become Poems ; be- cause they would be destitute of those figures, embellishments, and flights of imagination, wliich display the Poet's Art and Invention. On the other hand, we have many productions that justly lay claim to the title of Poetiy, with- out having the advantage of versification ; witness the Psalms of David, the Song of Solomon, with many beautiful hymns, descriptions, and rhapsodies, to be found in diiFerent parts of the Old Testament ; some of them the imme- diate production of Divine inspiration : witness the Celtic fragments which have lately appeared in the EngHsh language, and are certainly replete with poeti- cal merit. But though good versification alone will not constitute Poetry, bad versification alone will certainly degrade and render disgustful the sublimest sentiments and finest flowers of imagination. This humihatiug power of bad verse appears in many translations of the ancient poets ; in Ogilby's Homer, Trapp's Virgn, and frequently in Creech's Horace. This last indeed is not wholly devoid of spirit, but it seldom rises above mediocrity ; and, as Horace says, Mediocribus esse poetis Non homines, non Di, non coneessire columnce. But God and man and letter'd post denies That Poets ever are of middling size. How is that beautiful Ode, beginning with " Justum et tenacem propositi vi7'um," chilled and tamed by the following translation : He who by principle is sway'd, In truth and justice still the same, Is neither of the crowd afraid, Tho' civil broils the state inflame; Nor to a haughty tyrant's frown will stoop, Nor to a raging storm, when all tlie winds are up. Should Nature with convulsions shake, Struck with the fiery bolts of Jove, The final doom and dreadful crack Cannot his constant courage move. That long Alexandi-ine — " Nor to a raging storm, wlien all the winds are up," is drawling, feeble, swoln with a pleonasm or tautology, as well as deficient in the rhyme ; and as for " the dreadful crack" in the next stanza, instead of ex- citing terror it conveys a low and ludicrous idea. How much more elegant and energetic is tliis paraphrase of the same Ode, inserted in one of the volumes of Himie's History of England. The man whose mind, on virtue bent, Pursues some greatly good intent With undiverted aim, Serene beholds tho angry crowd ; Nor can their clamours fierce and loud His stubborn honour tame. Nor the proud tyrant's fiercest threat, Nor storms that from their dark retreat ESSAYS. 219 The lawless surges wake , Nor Jove's dread bolt that shakes the pole, The firmer purpose of his soul With all its power can shake. Should Nature's frame in ruins fall, And Chaos o'er the sinking ball Resume primaeval sway. His courage Chance and Fate defies, Nor feels the wreck of earth and skies Obstruct its destin'd way. If Poetry exists independent of versification, it will naturally be asked, how tlien is it to be distinguished ? Undoubtedly by its own peculiar expression : it has a language of its own, which speaks so feelingly to the heart, and so pleasingly to tlie imagination, that its meaning cannot possibly be misunder- stood by any person of delicate sensations. It is a species of painting with words, in which the figures are happily conceived, ingeniously arranged, affect- ingly expressed, and recommended with all the warmth and harmony of colour- ing : it consists of imagery, description, metaphors, similies, and sentiments, adapted with propriety to the subject, so contrived and executed as to sooth the ear, surprise and delight the fancy, amend and melt the heart, elevate the mind, and please the understanding. According to Flaccus Aut prodesse volunt, out delectare poetce ; Aut simul etjucunda et idonea diccre vitce. Poets would profit or delight mankind, And with tli' amusing shew th' instructive join'd, Omns tulit punctv.m, qui miscuit utile dulci, Lectorem delectando, pariterque monendo. Profit and pleasure mingled thus with art To sooth the fancy and improve the heart. — Tropes and figures are likewise liberally used in Elietoric ; and some of the most celebrated orators have owned themselves much indebted to the Poets. Theoplirastus expressly recommends the Poets for this purpose. From their sovu'ce the spirit and energy, the pathetic, the sublime, and the beautiful, are derived.* But these figures must be more sparingly used in Ehetoric than in Poetry, and even then mingled with argumentation, and a detail of facts alto- gether different from poetical narration. The Poet, instead of simply relating the incident, strikes off a glowing picture of the scene, and exhibits it in the most lively colours to the eye of the imagination. " It is reported that Homer Avas blind (says Tully, in his Tusculan Questions), yet his Poetry is no other than Painting. What country, what climate, what ideas, battles, commotions, and contests of men, as well as of wild beasts, has he not painted in such a manner as to bi'ing before our eyes those very scenes, which he himself could not behold !"t We cannot therefore subscribe to the opinions of some inge- nious critics, who have blamed Mr. Pope for deviating in some instances from the simplicity of Homer, in his translation of the Iliad and Odyssey. For example, the Grrecian bard says simply, the sun rose ; and his Translator gives us a beautiful picture of the sun rising. Homer mentions a person who played upon the lyre ; the Translator sets him before us warbling to the silver strings. If this be a deviation, it is at the same time an improvement. Homer himself, as Cicero observes above, is full of this kind of painting, and particularly fond of description, even in situations where the action seems to require haste. Neptune observing from Samothraee the discomfiture of the Grecians before Troy, flies to their assistance, and might have been wafted tliither in half a * Namque ab his (scilicet poetis) et in rebus spiritus, et In verbis sublimitas, et in affectl bus raotus omnis, et in perr->nis decor petitur. Quintilian, I. x. t Quse regio, quae ora, quae species forma;, quaj pugna, qui motns hominum, qui feraruni; noil ita expictua est, ut qute ipse nou viderit, nos ut videremus, efTecerit I 220 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. line : but the bard describes him, first, descending tlie mountain on -wliicli lie sat ; secondly, striding towards his palace at iEgse, and yoking his horses ; thirdly, he describes him putting on his armom* ; and lastly, ascending his car, and driving along the surface of the sea. Far from being disgusted by these delays, we are delighted with the particulars of the description. Nothing can be more sublime than the circumstance of the mountain's trembling beneatli the footsteps of an immortal : Tpt/xe 6' ol/pea fxanpii Kai i/,\»j Wocraiv hit' Ixdavdroiai \1oatihy de OaXdaaa SucfTaro. JN'either is there a word of the wondering waters : we therefore think the lines might be tluis altered to advantage : Tliey knew and own'd the monarch of the main; The sea subsiding spreads a level plain; The curling waves before his coursers fly : The parting surface leaves his brazen axle dry. Besides the metaphors, similes, and allusions of Poetry, there is' an infinite variety of tropes, or tui'ns of expi-ession, occasionally disseminated through works of Grcnius, which serve to animate the whole, and distinguish the glow- ing eff'usions of real inspiration fi'om the cold efforts of mere science. These tropes consist of a certain happy choice and arrangement of words, by which ideas are artfully disclosed in a great variety of attitudes ; of epithets, and compound epithets ; of sounds collected in order to echo the sense conveyed ; of apostrophes ; and above all, the enchanting use of the prosopopoeia, which is a kind of magic, by which the Poet gives life and motion to every inanimate part of Natm-e. Homer, describing the va'ath of Agamemnon, in the fii'st book of the Iliad, strikes off a glowing image in two words : oaae 6' ol nvpl XajunreTOvvTi tf'KTMV. —And from his eye-balls /as^et^ tJie living fire. This indeed is a figure, which has been copied by Vu^gil, and almost all the Poets of every age — oculis micat acribus ignis — ignescunt ira3 : auris dolor as- sibus ardet. Milton describing Satan in Hell, says, With head uplift above the wave, and eye That sparUing blaz'd! — — He spake : and to confirm his words out flew Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs Of mighty cherubims. The sudden blase Far round illumined Hell — There are certain words in every language particularly adapted to the poeti- cal expression ; some from the image or idea they convey to the imagination ; and some from the effect they have upon the ear. The first are tridy yi^-wra- ESSAYS. 221 twei the others may be called emphatical. — Eollin obseryes, that Virgil has upon many occasions poetized (if we may be allowed the expression) a whole sentence by means of the same word, which is pendere. Ite mecB, felix quojidam pecus, ite capellce, Non ego vos posthac, viridi, projectus in antro, Dumosa pendere procul de rupe videbo. At ease recliu'd beneath the verdant shade, No more shall I behold my happy flock Aloft hang browzing ou the tufted rock. Here the word jyew(?ere wonderfully improves the landscape, and renders the whole passage beavitifully pictm-esque. The same figurative verb we meet with in many different parts of the ^neid. Hi summo influctu pendent, his unda dehiscenfl Terram inter Jluctus aperit. These on the mountain billow hung ; to those The yawning waves the yellow sand disclose. In this instance, the -wovdiS, pendent and dehiscens, Jiung and yawning, are equally poetical. Addison seems to have had this passage in his eye, when ho wrote his Hymn, which is inserted in the Spectator : — For though in dreadful worlds we hung. High on the broken wave. And in another piece of a like nature, in the same collection : Thy Providence my life sustain'd And all my wants redress'd, When in the silent womb I lay, And hung upon the breast. Shakespeare, in his admired description of Dover cliff, uses the same ex- pression : —half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade ! Nothing can be more beautiful than the following picture, in which Milton has introduced the same expressive tint : —he, on his side Leaning half rais'd, with looks of cordial love Hung over her enamour'd. We shall give one example more from Virgil, to shew in what a variety of scenes it may appear with propriety and effect. In describing the progress of Dido's passion for ./Eneas, the Poet says, Hiacos iterum demens audire lalores Exposcit, pendetque iterum narrantis ah ore The woes of Troy once more she begg'd to hear; Once more the mournful tale employ'd his tongue, While in fond rapture on his lips she hung. The reader will perceive in all these instances that no other word could be bubstituted with equal energy ; indeed no other word could be used without degrading the sense, and defacing the image. There are many other verbs of poetical import fetched from Nature, and from Art, which the Poet uses to advantage both in a Uteral and metaphori- cal sense ; and these have been always translated for the same purpose from one language to another ; such as quasso, concutio, cio, suscito, lenio, scevio, mano, fluo, ardeo, tnico, aro, to shake, to wake, to rouse, to sooth, to rage, to flow, to shine or blaze, to plough. — Qviassantia tectum limina — JEneas, casu concussus acerbo — jEre ciere viros, Martemque accendere cantu — Mneas acuit 223 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Martem et se suseitat ira — Impium Icnito elamorem. Lenibant curas — Ne sffivi magne saccrdos — Sudor ad imos manabat solos — Suspensceque diu lacTirymat fluxere j5er or a — Juvenali ardebat amore — Micat cereusensis— Nullum maris tsquor arandum. It will be unnecessary to insert examples of tlie same nature from the English poets. The words we term emphatical, are such as by their sound express the sense they are intended to convey ; and with these the G-reek abounds, above all other languages, not only from its natural copiousness, flexibility, and signiil- cance, but also from the variety of its dialects, which enables a writer to vai-y his terminations occasionally as the nature of the subject requires, without oifending the most delicate ear, or incurring the iiuputation of adopting vulgar provincial expressions. Every smatterer in Greek can repeat Bf) 6' uKtuiv napu dXva ito'Kvv. Here the sound of the word 'EKXay^av admirably expresses the clanking of armour j as the third line after this surprisingly imitates the twanging of a bow. Aeivi] 5e nXayp] ^ei/er' apyvpeoio ^loio. In shrill-ton'd murmurs sung the twanging bow. Many beauties of the same kind are scattered through Homer, Pindar, and Theocritus, such as the fSofifStixTa ntXiaaa, susurrans apicula ; the liSv \l/i9vi)i(rfxa, dulcem susurrum ; and the [xeXiaderai, for the sighing of the pine. The Latin language teems with sounds adapted to every situation, and the English is not destitute of thia significant energy. We have the cooing turtle, the sighing reed, the warbling rivulet, the sliding stream, the whispering breeze, the glance, the gleam, the flash, the bickering flame, the dashing wave, the gushing spring, the howling blast, the rattliny storm, the pattering shower, the crimp earth, the mouldering tower, the twanging bow-string, the clanging arms, the clanking chains, the twinkling stars, the tinkling chords, the trickling drops, the twittering swallow, the cawing rook, the screeching owl, and a thou- sand other words and epithets wonderfully suited to the sense they imjjly. Among the select passages of poetry which yve shall insert by way of illus- tration, the reader will find instances of all the different ti'opes and figures which the best authors have adopted in the variety of their poetical works, aa ■well as of the apostrophe, abrupt transition, repetition, and prosopopoeia. ESSAYS. 223 In the meantime it will be necessary still furtliei' to analyse those principles ■which constitute the essence of poetical merit ; to display those delightful parterres, that teem with the fairest flowers of imagination, and distinguish between the gaudy oiFspring of a cold insipid fancy, and the glowing progeny, diffusing sweets, produced and invigorated by the sun of Genius. ESSAY XYI. Of all the implements of Poetry the metaphor is the most generally and suc- cessfully used, and indeed may be termed the Muse's caduceus, by the power of which she enchants all nature. The metaphor is a shorter simile, or rather a kind of magical coat, by which the same idea assumes a thousand different appearances. Thus the word plough, which originally belongs to agriculture, being metaphorically used, represents the motion of a shi^J at sea, and the effects of old age upon the human countenance — — Plough'd the bosom of the deep— And time had plough'd his venerable front. Almost every verb, noun substantive, or term of art in any language, may be in this manner applied to a variety of subjects with admirable effect ; but the danger is in sowing metaphors too thick, so as to distract the imagination of the reader, and incur the imputation of deserting Nature, in order to hunt after conceits. Every day produces poems of all kinds so inflated with meta- phor, that they may be compared to the gaudy bubbles blown up from a solu- tion of soap. Longinus is of opinion, that a midtitude of metaphors is never excusable, except in those cases when the passions are roused, and like a winter torrent rush down impetuous, sweeping them with collective force along. He brings an instance of the following quotation from Demosthenes. " Men, (says he) profligates, miscreants, and flatterers, who having severally preyed upon the bowels of their country, at length betrayed her liberty, first to Philip, and now again to Alexander ; who, placing the chief felicity of life in the indulgence of infamous lusts and appetites, overturned in the dust that freedom and independence wliich was the chief aim and end of all our worthy ancestors — ,"* Aristotle and Theophrastus seem to think it is rather too bold and hazardous to use metaphors so freely, without interposing some mitigating plirase j such as, " if I may be allowed the expression," or some equivalent excuse. At the same time Longinus finds fault with Plato for hazarding some metaphors, which indeed appear to be equally affected and extravagant, when he says, " the government of a state should not resemble a bowl of hot fermenting wine, but a cool and moderate beverage, chastised ly the sober deity" — a me- taphor that signifies nothing more than " mixed or lowered with water." De- metrius Phalereus justly observes, that though a judicious use of metaphors wonderfully raises, sublimes, and adorns oratory or elocution ; yet they should seem to flow naturally from the subject ; and too great a redundancy of them inflates the discourse to a mere rhapsody. The same observation wiU hold in Poetry ; and the more liberal or sparing use of them will depend in a great measure on the nature of the subject. Passion itself is very figurative, and often bursts out into metaphors ; but in touching the pathos, the poet must be perfectly well acquainted with the emotions of the himian soul, and carefully distinguish between those meta- "AvOpcoTToi, (ptiai, fxtapoi, Kal iiXucrropev, Kai KoXaKcr, tj/cpwriipjacr/^ei/ot T«f JaiiTWi' enacroL iraTpidat, ri]v ekevOepiav irponenwKoT^;, nporepov >t>i\in7iu), vvv d' 'AAcffJi/^py, rfl jaarpl /jLC- Tp» vTCf Kai TOii alflrx'ffTOjf rrjv evbaiiJ.oviav, ri]v d' eXevOepiov, Kal to nr]6evix ^x^'" ^effTOTitr ttiirSv, ci TOtf irpOT€pois"E\\nt]Topi piovri KaO' vfiiov. — " Then I did not yield to Python the orator, when he oveifiowed you with a tide of eloquence." Cicero is stiU more liberal in the use of them : he ran- sacks all nature, and pom's forth a redundancy of figures, even with a lavish hand. Even the chaste Xenophon, who generally illustrates his subject by way of simile, sometimes ventures to produce an expressive metaphor, such as part of the phalanx fluctuated in the march : and indeed nothing can be more significant than this word e^sKvixrjvf, to represent a body of men stag- gered, and on the point of giving way. Armstrong has used the word^we- tuate with admirable efiicacy, in his pliilosophical poem intituled the Art of Preserving Health. ! when the growlinpf winds contend, and all The sounding fove^t fluctuates in the storm, To sink in warm repose, and hear the din Howl o'er the steady battlements Tiie yyovd fluctuate on this occasion not only exhibits an idea of struggling, but also echoes to the sense like the eclipi^tv Se fiaxv of Homer; which, by- the-by, it is impossible to render into EngUsh : for the verb ^piaaio signifies not only to stand erect like prickles, as a grove of lances, but also to make a noise like the crashing of armour, the hissing of javelins, and the splinters of spears. Over and above an excess of figvu'es, a young author is apt to run into a confusion of mixed metaphors, which leave the sense disjointed, and distract the imagination : Shakespeare himself is often guilty of these irregularities. The Sohloquy in Hamlet, which we have so often heard extolled in terms of admiration, is, in om' opinion, a heap of absurdities, whether we consider the situation, the sentiment, the argumentation, or the poetry. Hamlet is in- formed by the Grhost, that his father was murdered, and therefore he is tempted to murder himseK, even after he had promised to take vengeance on ESSAYS. 225 the usurper, and expi'essed tlie utmost eagerness to achieve this enterprise. It does not appear that he had the least reason to wish for death ; but eveiy mo- tive, whicli may be supposed to influence the mind of a young prince, con- curred to render life desirable — revenge towards the usurper ; love for the fair Ophelia; and the ambition of reigning. Besides, when he had an opportu- nity of dying without being accessory to Ms own death ; when he had nothing to do but, in obedience to his uncle's command, to allow himself to be conveyed quietly to England, where he was sure of su.ffering death ; instead of amusing himself with meditations on mortality, he very wisely consulted the means of self-preservation, tm'ned the tables upon his attendants, and returned to Dcii- mark. But granting him to have been reduced to the lowest state of despond- ence, s^irrounded with nothing but horror and despair, sick of this life, and eager to tempt futurity, we shall see how far he argues like a philosopher. In order to support this general charge against an author so imiversaUy held in veneration, whose very errors have helped to sanctify his cliaracter among the multitude, we wiU descend to particulars, and analyse this famous Soliloquy. Hamlet, having assumed the disguise of madness, as a cloak under which he might the more effectually revenge his father's death upon the miu-derer and usurper, appears alone upon the stage in a pensive and melancholy atti- tude, and communes with himself in these words : To be, or not to be ? That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer Tlie slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Or to take arms against a sea of troubles. And by opposing, end them ?— To die— to sleep- No more ; and by a sleep, to say, we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir too ; 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. — To die— to sleep- To sleep ! perchance to dream ; ay, there's tlio rub — For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, Wlien we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of ofiice, and the spurns That patient merit of th' imworthy takes. When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin ? Who would fardles bear, To groan and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death ^ (That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne ^ No traveller returns) puzzles the will; And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of. Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn away, And lose the name of action. We have already observed tliat there is not any apparent circumstance in the fate or situation of Hamlet, that should prompt him to harbour one thought of self-murder ; and therefore these expressions of despair imply rai. impropriety in point of character. But supposing his condition was truly desperate, and he saw no possibility of repose but in the uncertain harbour of death, let us see in what manner he argues on that subject. The question is, " To be, or not to be ;" to die by my own hand, or live and suffer the miseries of life. He proceeds to explain the alternative in these terms, " Whether 'tis 22G THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. nobler in the mind to suffer, or endure the frowns of fortune, or to take anna, and by opposing, end them." Here he deviates from his first proposition, and death is no longer the question. The only doubt is, whether he will stoop to misfortune, or exert his faevdties in order to siu'mount it. This surely is the obvious meaning, and indeed the only meaning that can be implied in these words, Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing, end them. He now drops this idea, and reverts to his reasoning on death, in the course of which lie owns himself deterred from suicide by the thoughts of what may follow death -, the dread of something after deatli, (That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne No traveller returns). Tliis might be a good argument in a Heathen or Pagan, and such indeed Hamlet really was j but Shakespeare has already represented him as a good Catholic, who must have been acquainted with the truths of revealed religion, and says expressly in this very iJlay, had not the Everlasting fix'd His canon 'gainst self-murder. Moreover, he had just been conversing with his father's spirit piping hot from purgatory, wliich we presume is not within the bourne of tliis world. The dread of what may happen after death (says he) Makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of. This declaration at least implies some knowledge of tlie other world, and expressly asserts, that there must be ills in that world, though what kind of ills they are, we do not know. The argument therefore may be reduced to tliis iemma : this world abounds with ills which I feel : the other world abounds with ills, the nature of which I do not know: therefore, I will rather bear tliose ills I have,' "than fly to others which I know not of:" a deduction amounting to a certainty, with respect to the only circumstance that could create a doubt, namely, whether in death he should rest from his misery ; and if he was certain there were evils in the next world, as well as in tliis, he had no room to reason at all about the matter. What alone could justify his think- ing on this subject, would have been the hope of flying from the ills of this world, without encountering any others in the next. Nor is Hamlet more accurate in the following reflection : Thus conscience does make cowards of us all. A bad conscience will make us cowards ; but a good conscience will make us brave. It does not appear that anything lay heavy on his conscience ; and from the premises we cannot help inferring, that conscience in this case was entirely out of the question. Hamlet was deterred from suicide by a fidl con- viction, that in flying from one sea of troubles which he did know, he should fall into another which he did not know. His whole chain of reasoning therefore seems inconsistent and incongruous. " I am doubtful whether I should Uve, or do violence upon my own life : for I know not whether it is more honourable to bear misfortime patiently, than to exert myself in opposing misfortime, and by opposing, end it." Let us tlirow it into the form of a syllogism, it will stand thus : " I am oppressed with ills : I know not whether it is more honourable to bear those ills patiently, or to end them by taking arms against them : ergo, I am doubtful whether I ESSAYS. 227 should slay myself or live. To die is no more than to sleep ; and to sai/ that by a sleep we end the heart-ache," &c. " 'tis a consummation devoutly to bo wish'd." Now to say it was of no consequence unless it had been true. " I am afraid of the dreams that may happen in that sleep of death : and I choose rather to bear those ills I have in this life, than fly to other ills in that undis- covered country, from whose bourne no traveller ever returns. I have ills that are almost insupportable in this life. I know not Avhat is in the next, because it is an undiscovered country; ergo, I'd rather bear those ills I have, tliau fly to others which I know not of." Here the conclusion is by no means warranted bj' the premises. " I am sore afilicted in this life ; but I wiU rather bear the afllictions of this life, than plunge myself in the afllictions of another life : ergo, conscience makes cowards of us all." But this conclusion would justify the logician in saying, negatur consequens ; for it is entirely detached both from the major and minor proposition. This Soliloquy is not less exceptionable in the propriety of expression, than in the chain of argumentation. — "To die — to sleep — no more," contains an ambiguity, which all the art of punctuation cannot remove ; for it may signify that " to die" is to sleep no more ; or the expression " no more" may be con- sidered as an abrupt apostrophe in thinking, as if he meant to say — " no more of that reflection." "Ay, there's the rub" — is a vulgarism beneath the dignity of Hamlet's cha- racter, and the words that follow leave the sense imperfect ; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. Not the dreams that might come, but the fear of what dreams might come, occasioned the pause or hesitation. Respect in the same line may be allowed to pass for consideration : but Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, according to the invariable acceptation of the words wrong and contumely, can signify nothing but the Avrongs sustained by the oppressor, and the contumely or abuse thrown upon the proud man ; though it is plain that Shakespeare used them in a; difierent sense : neither is the word ^um a substantive j yet as such he has inserted it in these lines : The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th' unworthy takes. If we consider the metaphors of the Soliloquy, we shall find them jumbled together in a strange confusion. If the metaphors were reduced to painting, we should find it a very difficult task, if not altogether impracticable, to represent with any propriety outrage- ous Fortime using her slings and arrows, between which indeed there is no sort of analogy in Natm-e. Neither can any figaire be more ridiculously absm-d than that of a man taking arms against a sea ; exclusive of the incongruous medley of slings, arrows, and seas, justled within the compass of one reflectioa. What follows is a strange rhapsody of broken images of sleeping, dreaming, and shifting off a coil, which last conveys no idea that can be represented on canvas. A man may be exhibited shuffling off his garments or his chains ; but how he should shuffle off a coil, which is another term for noise and tumult, we cannot comprehend. Then we have " long-lived Calamity," and " Time armed with whips and scorns ;" and *' patient Merit spurned at by Unworthi- ness ;" and " Misery with a bare bodkin going to make his own quietus," which at best is but a mean met:.,j)hor. These are followed by figures "sweat- ing under fardles of burdens," " puzzled with doubts," " shaking with fears," and " flying from evils." Finally, we see " Resolution sicklied o'er with pale 228 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. thought," a conception like that of representing health by sickness ; and a " current of pith turned away so as to lose the name of action," which is both an error in fancy, and a solecism in sense. In a word this Soliloquy may be compared to the xEgri somnia, and the Tabula, ctijus vance fingentur species. But while we censure the chaos of broken, incongruous metaphors, we ought also to caution the young Poet against the opposite extreme of pui'suing a metaphor, until the spirit is quite exhausted in a succession of cold con- ceits ; such as we see in the following letter, said to be sent by Tamer- lane to the Turkish emperor Bajazet. "Wliere is the monarch that dares oppose our arms ? Where is the potentate who doth not glory in being niunbered among our vassals ? As for thee, descended from a Turco-man mariner, since the vessel of thy unbounded ambition hath been wrecked in the gulf of thy self-love, it would be proper that thou shouldest furl the sails of thy temerity, and cast the anclior of repentance in the port of sincerity and justice, which is the harbour of safety : lest the tempest of our vengeance make thee perish in the sea of that punishment thou hast deserved." But if these laboured conceits are ridiculous in j)oetry, they are still more inexcusable in prose : such as we find them frequently occur in Strada's Bel- lum Belgicum. Vix descender at a pratoria navi Caesar ; cumfceda illico exorta inportu tempesias, classem hnpetu disJecU, prcetoriam hausit ; quasi non vecturam amplius Ccesarem Ccesarisque fortunam. " Caesar had scarcely set his feet on shore, when a terrible tempest arising, sliattered the fleet even in the harbour, and sent to the bottom the Praetorian ship, as if he resolved it should no longer cany Caesar and his fortunes." Yet this is modest in comparison of the following flowers : Alii, pulsis, e tormenfo caienis disceipti sectique, dimidiato corpore pugnabant sibi superstites, ac peremptce partis ultores. " Others dissevered and cut in twain by chain- shot, fought with one half of their bodies that remained, in revenge of the other half that was slain." Homer, Horace, and even the chaste Virgil is not free from conceits. The latter siDcaking of a man's hand cut off in battle, says. Te decisa suum, Laride, dextera qucerit : Semianimesque micant digiti, ferrumque retradant: thus enduing the amputated hand with sense and volition. Thig to be sm-e, is a violent figm-e, and hath been justly condemned by some accurate critics, but we think they are too severe in extending the same censiu'e to some other pas- sages in the most admu'cd authors. Virgil, in hia Sixth Eclogue says, Omnia qua, Phcebo quondam meditante, leatus Audiit JEurotas, jussitque ediscere lauros, Ille canit. Whate'ei- wlien Phcebiif? Wess'd the Arcadian plain, Enrotas heard, and taught his bays the strain, The senior sung — And Pope has copied the conceit in his Pastorals. Thames heard the numbers as he flow'd along, And bade his willows learn the mourning song, Vida thus begins his first Eclogue, Dicite, vos musce, ctjuvenum memorate querelas ; Dicite : nam motas ipsas ad carmina cautes, Et requiesse suos perhibent vaga flumina cursus. Say heav'nly rnuse, their youtliful frays rehearse; Begin, ye daughters of immortal verse ; Exulting rocks have own'd the power of song, And rivers listen'd as they flow'd along— ESSAYS. lliicmo adopts the same bold figure in liis Phaedra : Lefiot qui Vapporia recule epouvanU: The wave that bore him, backwards shrunk appall'd. Even Milton has indulged himself in the same license of expression — —As when to them who sail Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past Mozarabic, off at sea north-east winds blow Sabsean odour from the spicy shore Of Araby the blest; with such delay Well pleas'd they slack their course, and many a league Cheer'd with the grateful smell, old ocean smiles. Shakspeare says, I've seen Th' ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and foam. To be exalted with the threat'niug clouds. And indeed more correct writers, both ancient and modern, abound vrith the same kind of figure, which is reconciled to propriety, and even invested with beauty, by the efficacy of the ^jrosopopoeia, wliich personifies the object. Thus, when Virgil says Enipeus heard the songs of Apollo, he raises up, as by enchantment, the idea of a river-god crowned with sedges, his head raised above the stream, and in his countenance the expression of pleased attention. By tlie same magic we see, in the couplet quoted from Pope's Pastorals, old father Thames leaning upon his urn, and listening to the Poet's strain. Thus in the regions of Poetry, all Nature, even the passions and afiectioiis of the mind, may be personified into picturesque figm-es for the entertainment of the reader. Ocean smiles or frowns, as the sea is calm or tempestuous ; a Triton rules on every angry billow : every mountain has its Nymph ; evcjry stream its Naiad ; every tree its Hamadryad ; and every art its G-enius. Wo cannot therefore assent to those who censure Thomson as licentious for using the following figure : O vale of bliss ! O softly swelling hills I Oil which the power of cultivation lies. And joys to see the wonders of his toil. We cannot conceive a more beautiful image than that of the Gronius of Agriculture distinguished by the implements of his art, imbrowned with labour, glowing with health, crowned with a garland of foliage, flowers, and fruit, lying stretched at his ease on the brow of a gentle swelling hill, and contemplating with pleasure the happy effects of his own industry. Neither can we join issue against Shakspeare for this comparison, which hath likewise incurred the censure of the Critics : The noble sister of Poplicola, The moon of Rome ; chaste as the icicle> That 's curdled by tlie frost from purest snow And hangs on Diau's temple— This is no more than illustrating a quality of the mind, by comparing it with a sensible object. If there is no impropriety in saying «uch a man is true as steel, fh'm as a rock, inflexible as an oak, unsteady as the ocean j or in describ- ing a disposition cold as ice, or fickle as the wind ; and these expressions are justified by constant practice ; we shall hazard an assertion, that the com- parison of a chaste woman to an icicle is proper and picturesque, as it obtains only in the circumstances of cold and purity : but that the addition of its being curdled from the purest snow, and hanging on the temple of Diana, the patroness of Yirginity, heightens the whole into a most beautiful simile, that gives a very respectable and amiable idea of the character in question. 230 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. The Simile is no more than an extended metaphor, introduced to illus- trate and beautify the subject: it ought to be apt, striking, properly pursued, and adorned with all the graces of poetical melody. But a simile of this kind ought never to proceed from the mouth of a person under any great agitation of spirit : such as a tragic character oyerwhelmed with gTief, distracted by contending cares, or agonising in the pangs of death. The language of pas- sion will not admit simile, which is always the result of study and delibera- tion. We will not allow a hero the pririlege of a dying swan, Avhich is said to chant its approaching fate in the most melodious strain ; and therefore nothing can be more ridiculously unnatvu-al, than the representation of a lover dying upon the stage with a labom-ed simile in liis mouth. The orientals, whose language was extremely figurative, have been very careless in the choice of their similes : provided the resemblance obtained in one circumstance, they minded not whether they disagreed with the subject in every other respect. Many instances of this defect in congruity may be culled from the most sublime parts of Scriptui-e. Homer has been blamed for the bad choice of his similes on some parti- cular occasions. He compares Ajax to an ass in the Iliad, and Ulysses to a steak broiling on the coals in the Odyssey. His admirers have endeavoured to excuse him, by reminding us of the simplicity of the age in which he wrote, but they have not been able to prove that any ideas of dignity or importance were even, in those days, affixed to the character of an ass, or the quality of a beef-collop ; therefore they were very improper illustrations for any situation, in which a hero ought to be represented. Yirgil has degraded the wife of king Latinus by comparing her, when she was actuated by the fm*y, to a top which the boys lash for diversion. This doubtless is a low image, though in other respects the comparison is not desti- tute of propriety ; but he is much more justly censured for the following simile, which has no sort of reference to the subject. Speaking of Turnus, he says, — - — medio dux agmine Turnus Vertitur arma tenans, et toto vertice supra eat. Ceu septem surgens sedatis omnibus altus Per taciturn Ganges: aut pin;jui flumine Nilus Cum refiuit campis, etjam st condidit alveo. But Turnus, chief amidst the warrior train, In armour tow'rs the tallest on the plain. The Ganges thus by seven rich streams supply'd, A mighty mass devolves in silent pride. Thus Nilus pours from his prolific urn, When from the fields o'erflowed his vagrant streams return. These, no doubt, are majestic images ; but they bear no sort of resemblance to an hero glittering in armour at the head of his forces. Horace has been ridiculed by some shrewd critics for this comparison, wliich however, we think, is more defensible than the foi'mer. Addressing himself to Munatius Plancus, he says : Albus ut ohscuro deterget nuhila ccelo Scepe Notus, neque parturit inibres Perpetuos: sic tu sapiens finire memento /Pristitiam, vitceque labores Molli, Plance, mero, • As Notus often, when the welkin low'rs, Sweeps off the clouds, nor teems perpetual show'rfl, So let tliy wisdom, free from anxious strife, In mellow wine dissolve the cares of life. DUXKIN. ESSAYS. 231 The analogy, it must be confessed, is not very sticking : but nevertheless it is not altogether void of propriety. The poet reasons thus : as the South-wind, though generally attended with rain, is often known to dispel the clouds, and render the weather serene, so do you, though generally on the rack of thought, remember to relax sometimes, and drown yoiu' cares in wine. As the South- wind is not always moist, so you ought not always to be dry. A few instances of inaccuracy or mediocrity can never derogate from the superlative merit of Homer and Virgil, whose poems are the great magazines, replete with every species of beauty and magnificence, particularly aboimding with similes, which astonish, delight, and transport the reader. Every simile ought not only to be well adapted to the subject, but also to include every excellence of description, and to be coloured with the warmest tints of poetry. Nothing can be more happUy hit off than the following in the Georgics, to which the jToet compares Orpheus lamenting his lost Eurydice : — Qualis populed mcerens Philomela sub umbrd Amissos queritur fcBtus, quos durus arator, Observans nido implumes detraxit ; at ilia Flet noctem, ramoque sedens miserabile carmen Integrat, et mastis late loca questibus implet. So Philomela, from th' umbrageous wood In strains melodious mourns her tender brood, Snatch'd from the nest by some rude ploiighman'd hand, On some lone bough the warbler takes her stand ; The live-long night she mourns the cruel wrong; And hill and dala resound the plaintive song. Here we not only find the most scrupulous propriety, and the happiest choice, in comparing the Thracian bard to Philomel the poet of the grove j but also tlie most beautiful desci'iption, containing a fine touch of the pathos, in which last particular indeed Virgil, in om' opinion, excels all other poets, whether ancient or modern. One would imagine that nature had exhausted itself, in order to embellish (he Poems of Homer, Virgil, and Milton, with similes and metaphors. The first of these veiy often uses the comparison of the wind, the whirlwind, the hail, the torrent, to express the rapidity of his combatants : but when he comes to describe the velocity of the immortal horses, that drew the chariot of Juno, he raises liis ideas to the subject, and, as Longinus observes, measures every leap by the whole breadth of the horizon. "Offffov 3' »)6poe<5ej uvJ/p idev cxpOaXjULoTo-LV , "Hfievov ev oKoittf], \evai.iari Kvpcai Eiipwv rj '4\a]feveTri'; fxeya Xufxa KvXivdcov. Wc know that sucli a contention of contrary blasts 'could not possibly exist in Nature ; for eren in liurricanes the -winds blow alternately from diiferent points of the compass. Nevertheless Yii'gil adopts the description, and adds to its extrayagance. Incubuere mari, totumque h sedibus imis Una Eurusque Notusque ruunt, crelerque proceclis Africus, Here the winds not only blow together, but they turn the whole body of the ocean topsy-turyy. — East, West, and South engage with furious sweep, And from its lowest bed upturn the foaming deep. The Iforth wind, however, is still more mischievous. Stridens aquilone procella Velum adversa ferit, fluctusque ad sidera toUit. Tlie sail then Boreas rends with hideous cry, And whirls the madd'ning billows to the sky. The motion of the sea between Scylla and Charybdis is still more mag- nified ; and ^tna is exhibited as throwing out volumes of flame, which brush the stars.* Such expressions as these are not intended as a real repre- sentation of the thing specified : they are designed to strike the reader's imagination : but they generally serve as marks of the author's sinking under his own ideas, who, apprehensive of injuring the greatness of his own con- ception, is hurried into excess and extravagance. Quintilian allows the use of Hyperbole, when words are wanting to express anything in its just strength or due energy : then, he says, it is better to exceed in expression, than fall short of the conception : but he Ukewise ob- serves, that there is no figm'e or form of speech so apt to rmi into fustian . Nee alia magis via in KOKo^JiXiav itur. If the chaste Yirgil has thus trespassed vipon poetical probability, what can wo expect from Lucan but hyperboles even more ridiculously extravagant ? He represents the winds in contest, the sea in suspense, doubting to which it sliall give v/ay. He afiirms that its motion would have been so violent as to jiroduce a second deluge, had not Jupiter kept it under by the clouds ; and as to the ship diiring this dreadful uproar, the sails touch the clouds, while the keel strikes the ground. Nubila tanguntur velis, et terra carina. This image of dashing water at the stars, Sir Richard Blackmore has pro- duced in colours truly ridiculous. Describing spouting whales in his Prince Arthur, he makes the following comparison : Like some prodigious water-engine made To play on heav'n, if fire should heav'n invade. The great fault in all these instances is a deviation from propriety, owing to the erroneous judgment of the writer, who, endeavomdng to captivate the admiration with novelty, very often shocks the understanding with extra- vagance. Of this nature is the whole description of the Cyclops, both in the Odyssey of Homer and in the -iEneid of Virgil. It must be owned, however, tliat the Latin Poet with all his merit is more apt than his great original to dazzle us with false fire, and practise upon the imagination with gay conceits, * Speaking of the first, lie says, Tollimur in caelum curvato gurgite, et ijdem SuMuctd ad manes imos descendimus undd. Of the other, Attollitque glolos flammarum, et sidera lavilit. 234 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH that will not bear the critic's examination. There is not in any of Itomcr's works now subsisting such an example of tlie false sublime, as Virgil's de- scription of the thunder-bolts forging under the hammers of the Cyclops. Tres inibris torti radios, tres nubis aquosce Addiderant, rutili tres ignis et alitis Austri. Tliree rays of written rain, of fire three more, Of winged southern winds, and cloudy store,-, ^ As many parts, the dreadful mixture frame. DRTDEy. This is altogether a fantastic piece of aiFectation, of which we can form no sensible image, and serves to chill the fancy, rather than wann the admira- tion of a judgmg reader. Extravagant Hyperbole is a weed that grows m great plenty through the works of our admired Shakspeare. In the following description, which hath been much celebrated, one sees he has had an eye to Vii'gil's thunder-bolts. O then I see Queen Mab hath been witli you. She is the fancy's midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies, Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep ; Her waggon spokes made of long spinner's legs ; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers : The traces, of the smallest spider's web; The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams, &c. Even in describing fantastic beings, there is a propriety to be observed ; but surely nothing can be more revolting to common sense, than this numbering of the moon-beams among the other implements of Queen Mab's harness, which, though extremely slender and dimmutive, are nevertheless objects of the touch, and may be conceived capable of use. The Ode and Satii'c admit of the boldest Hyperboles : such exaggerations suit the impetuous wainnth of the one ; and in the otlier have a good effect in exposing folly and exciting hoiTor agamst vice. They may be likewise sue* cessfully used in Comedy, for moving and managing the powers of ridicule. ESSAY XYIIL Yerse is an harmonious arrangement of long and short syllables, adapted to different kinds of poetry ; and owes its origin entirely to the measured cadence, or music, which was used when the first songs or hymns were recited. This music, divided into different parts, required a regular retmTi of the same measure, and thus every strophe, antistrophe, stanza, contained the same number of feet. To know what constituted the different kinds of rhythmical feet among the ancients, with respect to the number and quantity of their syllables, we have nothing to do but to considt those who have written on gi'ammar and prosody : it is the business of a schoolmaster, rather than the accomplishment of a Man of Taste. Yarious essays have been made in different countries to compare the cha- racters of ancient and modern versification, and to point out the difference beyond any possibility of mistake. But they have made distinctions, where in fact there was no diff^'cnce, and left the criterion unobserved. They have transferred the name of rhyme to a regular repetition of the same sound at the end of the line, and set up this vile monotony as the characteristic of modern verse, in contradistinction to the feet of the ancients, which they pretend the Poetry of modern languages will not admit. Khyme, from the G^reek work 'VvQjxog, is nothing else but number, which vms essential to the ancient, as well as to the modern, versification. As to ESSAYS. 28S the jingle of Bimilar sounds, tliougli it was neyer used by the ancients in any regular return in the middle, or at the end of the line, and was by no means deemed essential to the versification, yet they did not reject it as a blemish, where it occurred without the appearance of constraint. We meet with it often in the epithets of Homer, — Apyvptoio Bioio — Ava^ Ax'^pwr Aya/ifjuj/wi/— almost the whole first Ode of Anacreon is what we call rhyme. The following line of Yirgil has been admired for the similitude of sound in the first two words : — Ore Areilmsa, tuo Siculii? confunditur iindis. Eythmus, or number, is certainly essential to verse, whether in the dead or living languages s and the real difference between the two is this : the number in ancient verso relates to the feet, and in modern Poetry to the syllables ; for to assert that modem Poetry has no feet, is a ridiculous absurdity. The feet, that principally enter into the composition of G-reek and Latin verses, are either of two or three syllables : those of two syllables are either both long, as the spondee ; or both short, as the pyrrhic ; or one short and the other long, as the iambic : or one long, and the other short, as the trochee. Those of three syllables are the dactyl, of one long and two short syllables ; the ana- pest, of two short and one long ; the tribrachium, of three short ; and the molossus, of tliree long. From the different combinations of these feet, restricted to certain numbers, the ancients formed their different kinds of verses, such as the hexameter or heroic, distinguished by six-feeb dactyls and spondees, the fifth being always a dactyl, and the la^t a spondee : C. y. 12 3 4 5 6 Princijn-is ohs-ta, se-ro medi-cina pa-ratur. The pentameter of five feet, dactyls and spondees, or of six, reckoning two caesuras, 12 3 4 5 6 Cum mala per Ion-gas invalu-ere mo-ras. They had likewise tlio iambic of three sorts, the dimeter, the trimeter, and the tetrameter, and all the different kinds of lyric verse specified in the odes of Sappho, AlcsDus, Anacreon, and Horace. Each of these was distinguished by the number, as well as by the species, of their feet ; so that they were doubly restricted. Now all the feet of the ancient poetry are still foimd in the versi- fication of living languages ; for as cadence was regulated by the ear, it was impossible for a man to write melodious verse without naturally falling into the use of ancient feet, though perhaps he neither knows their measure nor denomination. Thus Spenser, Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, Pope, and all our Poets, abound with dactyls, spondees, trochees, anapests, &c., which they use indiscriminately in all kinds of composition, whether Tragic, Epic, Pastoral, or Ode, having in this particular greatly the advantage of the ancients, who were resti'ieted to particular kinds of feet in particular kinds of verse. If we then are confined with the fetters of what is called rhyme, they were re- stricted to particular sioecies of feet ; so that the advantages and disadvantages are pretty equally balanced : but indeed the English are more free in this par- ticular than any other modem nation. They not only use Blank-verse in Tragedy and the Epic, but even in Lyiie Poetry. Milton's translation of Horace's Ode to Pyrrha is universally known, and generally admired, in our opinion much above its merit. There is an Ode extant without Ehyme ad- dressed to Evening by the late Mr. Collins much more beautiful ; and Mr. Warton with some others has happily succeeded in divers occasional pieces, 236 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. that are free of tliis restraint : but tlie number in all of tliese depends upot! llie sjilables, and not upon tlie feet, wliicli are unlimited. It is generally supposed that tlie genius of the English language will not admit of Grreek or Latin measure :, but this, we apprehend, is a mistake owing to the prejudiee of edueation. It is impossible that the same measure, com- posed of the same times, should hare a good effect upon the ear in one lan- guage, and a bad effect in another. The truth is, we hare been accustomed from our infancy to the numbers of English Poetry, and the very sound and signification of the words dispose the ear to receive them in a certain manner : so that its disappointment must be attended with a disagi'eeable sensation. In imbibing the first rudiments of education, we acquire, as it were, another ear for the numbers of Greek and Latin Poetry, and this being reserved en- tirely for the sounds and significations of the words that constitute those dead languages, will not easily accommodate itself to the sounds of our verna- cular tongue, though conveyed in the same time and measure. In a word, Latin and Grreek have annexed to them the ideas of the ancient measm^e, from which they are not easily disjomed. Biit we will venture to say, this difficulty miglit be surmounted by an effort of attention and a little practice ; and in that case we should in time be as well pleased with English as witli Latin hexameters. Sir Philip Sidney is said to have miscarried in his essays ; bvit his miscar- riage was no more than that of failing in an attempt to introduce a new fashion. The failure was not owing to any defect or imperfection in the scheme, but to the want of taste, to the irresolution and ignorance of the public. Without aU doubt the ancient measm'e, so different from that of mo- dern Poetry; must have appeared remarkably uncouth to people in general, who were ignorant of the classics ; and nothing but the countenance and per- severance of the learned could reconcile them to the alteration. We have seen several late specimens of English hexameters and sapphics, so happily composed that by attaching tliem to the idea of ancient measui'e, we found them in all respects as melodious and agreeable to the ear as the works of Yirgil and Aiiacreon, or Horace. Though the number of syllables distinguishes the nature of the English verse from that of the Grreek and Latin, it constitutes neither harmony, grace, nor expression. These must depend upon the choice of words, the seat of the accent, the pause, and the cadence. The accent, or tone, is understood to be an elevation or sinking of the voice in reciting : the pause is a rest, that divides tlie verse into two parts, each of them called an hemistich. The pause and accent in English poetry vary occasionally, according to the meaning of the words ; so that the hemistich does not always consist of an equal number of syllables ; and this variety is agreeable, as it prevents a dull repetition of regular stops, like those in the Ereneh versification, every line of wliich is divided by a pause exactly in the middle. The cadence comprehends that poetical style, which animates every line, that propriety, which gives strength and expression, that numerosity, which renders the verse smooth, flowing, and harmonious, that siguificancy, which marks the passions, and in many cases makes the sound an echo to the sense. The Greek and Latin languages, in being copious and ductile, are susceptible of a vast variety of cadences, which the living languages will not admit ; and of these a reader of any ear will ESSAY XIX. A SCHOOL in the Polite Arts properly signifies that succession of Artists which hfts learned the priuciples of the art from some eminent master, eitlier by I ESSAYS. 237 hearing his lessons, or studying his works, and consequently who imitate his manner either througli design or from habit. Musicians seem agreed in making only three principal schools in music ; namely, the school of Pergolese in Italy, of Lully in France, and of Handel in England ; though some are for making Kameau the founder of a new school, different from those of the former, as he is the inrentor of beauties pecuharly his own. Without all doubt Pergolese' s music deserves the first rank ; though excel- ling neither in variety of movements, number of parts, nor unexpected flights, yet he is universally allowed to be the musical Raphael of Italy. This great master's principal art consisted in knowing how to excite om* passions by sounds, which seem frequently opposite to the passion they would express : by slow solemn sounds he is sometimes known to throw us into all the rage of battle : and even by faster movements he excites melancholy in every heart, tliat sounds are capable of affecting. This is a talent which seems born with the artist. We are unable to tell why such sounds affect us : they seem no way imitative of the passion they would express, but operate upon us by an inexpressible sympathy ; the original of which is as inscrutable as the secret springs of life itself. To this excellence he adds another, in which he is su- perior to every other artist of the profession, the happy transition from one passion to another. No di'amatic poet better knows to prepare liis incidents than he : the audience are pleased in those intervals of passion with the deli- cate, the simple harmony, if I may so express it, in which the parts are all thrown into fugues, or often are barely unison. His melodies also, where no passion is expressed, give equal pleasure from this delicate simplicity ; and I need only instance that song in the Serva Padrona, wliich begins Lo conosco a quegV occeli, as one of the finest instances of excellence in the duo. The Italian artists in general have followed his manner, yet seem fond of embelhshing the dehcate simplicity of the original. Their style in music seems somewhat to resemble that of Seneca in writing, where there arc some beaiitiful starts of thought j but the whole is filled with studied elegance and unaffecting affectation. Lully in France first attempted the improvement of their music, which in general resembled that of our old solemn chaunts in churches. It is worthy of remark in general, that the mitsic of every country is solemn in proportion as the inhabitants are meny ; or, in other words, the merriest, sprightliest nations are remarked for having the slowest mvisic ; and those whose character it is to be melancholy, are pleased with the most brisk and airy movements. Thus in France, Poland, Ireland, and Switzerland, the national music is slow, ancholy, and solemn ; in Italy, England, Spain, and Germany, it is faster, proportionably as the people are grave. LviUy only changed a bad manner, which he found, for a bad one of his own. His drowsy i^ieces are played still to the most sprightly audience that can be conceived ; and even though Ea- meau, who is at once a musician and a philosopher, has shewn both by precept and example, what improvements French music may still admit of, yet his countrymen seem little convinced by his reasonings ; and the Pont-neuf taste, as it is called, still prevails in their best performances. The Enghsh school was first planned by Purcell ; he attempted to unite the Italian manner, that prevailed in his time, with the ancient Celtic carol and the Scotch ballad, which probably had also its origin in Italy ; for some of the best Scotch ballads, " The Broom of Cowdenknows" for instance, are still ascribed to David Eizzio. But be that as it will, his manner was something peciiUar to the Enghsh ; and he might have continued as head of the English school, had not his merits been entirely eclipsed by Handel. Handel, though originally a G-erman, yet adopted the English manner : he had long laboured 238 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. to please hj Italian composition, but witliout success ; and though liis English Oratorios are accounted inimitable, yet hia Italian Operas are fallen into oblivion. Pergolese excelled in passionate simplicity ; Lully was remarkable for creating a new species of mvisic, where all is elegant, but nothing passionate or sublime ; Handel's true characteristic is sublimity : lie has employed all the variety of sounds and parts in all liis pieces : the performances of the rest may be pleasing, though executed by few performers ; his require the full band. The attention is awakened, the soul is roused up at his pieces ; but distinct passion is seldom expressed. In this particular he has seldom found success : he has been obHged, in order to express passion, to imitate words by sovinds, which though it gives the pleasure which imitation always produces, yet it fails of exciting those lasting affections which it is in the power of sounds to produce. In a word, no man ever understood harmony so well as he j but in melody he has been exceeded by several. [The following Objections to the preceding Essay having been addressed to Dr. Smollett (as EniTOii of the Buitish Maqaztne, in whicli it first appeared), that gentleman^ with equal candour and politeness, communicated the MS. to Dr. Goldsmith, who returned hia An- swers to the Objector in tlie Notes annexed. — Edit. Permit me to object against some things advanced in the paper on the subject of The Diffeeent Schools oe Musick. The author of this article seems too hasty in degrading the harmonious* Purcell from the head of the English School, to erect in his room a foreigner (Handel), who has not yet formed any school.f The gentleman, when he comes to communicate his thoughts upon the different Schools of Painting, may as well place Eubens at the head of the English painters, because he left some monuments of his art in Eng- land.J lie says that Handel, though originally a German (as most certainly * Had the Objector said melodious Purcell, it liad testified at least a greater acquaintance with music, and Purcell's peculiar excellence. Purcell in melody is frequently great: his song made in his last sickness, called Rosy Bowers, is a fine instance of this; but in liar, mouy he is far sliort of the meanest of our modern composers, his fullest harmonies being exceedingly simple. His opera of Prince Arthur, tlie words of which were Dryden's, is reclconed liis finest piece. But what is that, in point of harmony, to what we every day hear from modern ma'sters? In short, with respect to genius, tiircell had a fine one: he greatly improved an art but little known in England before his time : for tliis he deserves our applause ; but tlie present prevailing taste in music is very differeut from what he left it, and who was the improver since his time we shall see by-and-by. t Handel may be said as justly as any man, not Pergolese excepted, to have founded a new School of Music. When he first came into England, his music was entirely Italian : he composed for the Opera ; and though even then his pieces were liked, yet did they not meet with universal approbation. In those he has too servilely imitated the modern vitiated Italian taste, by placing wliat foreigners call the point d'orr/ue too closely and injudiciously. But in his Oratorios he is perfectly an original genius. In these, by steering between the manners of Italy and England, he has struck out new liarraonies, and formed a species of music dif- ferent from all others. He has left some excellent and eminent scholars, particularly Wor- gan and Smith, who compose nearly in his manner; a manner as different from Purcell's as from that of modern Italy. Consequently Handel may be placed at the head of the English school. X The Objector will not have Handel's school to be called an English school, because he was a German. Handel in a great measure found in ICngland those essential differences, Avhich characterize his music: we have already shewn that he had them not upon his arri- val. Had Rubens come over to England but moderately skilled in his art; had he learned here all his excellency in colouring and correctness of designing ; had he left several scholars excellent in his manner behind him ; I should not scruple to call the school erected by him, the English school of Painting. Not the country in which a man is born, but his peculiar style, either in painting or in music — that constitutes him of this or that school. Thus Champagne, who painted in the manner of the French school, is always placed among the painters of that school, though he was born in Flanders, and should consequently, by the Objector's rule, be placed among the Flemish painters. Kneller is placed in tlie German school, and Ostade in tlie Dutch, though born in the same city. Primatice, who may be truly said to have founded the Roman school, was born in Bologna ; though, if his country was to determine his school, he should have been placed in the Lombard. There might several other instances be produced ; but these, it is hoped, will be suifteient to prove that Handel, though a German, may be placed at the hea ^ asserts, that Comedy will not admit of tragic distress : Le Comique, ennerrd des soupirs et des pleurs, Ifadmet point dans sesvers de tragiques douleurs, Nor is this rule without the strongest foundation in natm'e, as the distresses of the mean by no means affect us so strongly as the calamities of the great. When Tragedy exhibits to us some great man fallen from his height, and strug- gUng with want and adversity, we feel his situation in the same manner as we suppose he himself must feel, and ovix pity is increased in proportion to the height from which he fell. On the contrary, we do not so strongly sympathise with one born in humbler circumstances, and encoimtcring accidental distress : so that while we melt for Behsarius, we scarcely give halfpence to the beggar, who accosts us in the street. The one has our pity, the other our contempt. Distress therefore is the proper object of Tragedy, since the great excite our ^ ^ X^ity by their fall ; but not equally so of Comedy, since the actors employed in ,^ it are originally so mean, that they sink but little by their fall. Since tlie first origin of the stage. Tragedy and Comedy have run in distinct channels, and never till of late encroached upon the provinces of each other. Terence, who seems to have made the nearest approaches, always judiciously stops short before he comes to the downright pathetic ; and yet he is even re- proached by Caesar for wanting the Vis Comica. AU the other comic writers of antiquity aim only at rendering folly or vice ridiculous, but never exalt their characters into buskined pomp, or make what Yoltau'c humom'ously calls a Tradesman^ s Tragedy. Yet notwithstanding this weight of authority, and the universal practice of former ages, a new species of dx-amatic composition has been introduced under tlie name of Sentimental Comedy, in which the virtues of private life are ei- *1773. in- 2 24'i THE WORKS Of OLIVER GOLDSMITIL hibited, rather than the vices exposed ; and the distresses rather than the faults of mankind make our interest in the piece. These comedies have had of late gi'eat success, perhaps from their novelty, and also from their flattering every man in his favourite foible. In these plays almost all the characters are good, and exceedingly generous ; they are lavish enough of their tin money on the stage : and though they want humour, have abundance of sentiment and feeling. If they happen to have faults or foibles, the spectator is taught not only to pardon, but to applaud them, in consideration of the good- ness of their hearts ; so that folly, instead of being ridiculed, is com- mended, and the Comedy aims at touching our passions without the power of being truly pathetic. In this manner we are likely to lose one great source of entertainment on the stage ; for while the comic poet is invading the province of the tragic muse, he leaves her lovely sister quite neglected. Of this however he is no way solicitous, as he measures his fame by his profits. But it will be said, that the theatre is foi*med to amuse mankind, and that it matters little, if this end be answered, by what means it is obtained. If mankind find delight in weeping at Comedy, it would be cruel to abridge tlieni in that or any other innocent pleasure. If those pieces are denied the name of Comedies, yet call them by any other name, and if they are delightful, they are good. Their success, it will be said, is a mark of their merit, and it is only abridging our happiness to deny us an inlet to amusement. These objections however are rather specious than solid. It is true, that amusement is a great object of the theatre ; and it will be allowed, that these sentimental pieces do often amuse us : but the question is whether the true Comedy would not amuse us more ? The question is whether a character sup- ported throu.ghout a piece with its ridicule, still attending, would not give us more delight than this species of bastard Tragedy, which only is applauded because it is new. A friend of mine, who was sitting unmoved at one of these sentimental pieces, was asked how he could be so indifferent. "Why, truly," says he, "as the hero is but a tradesman, it is indifferent to me whether he be turned out >^ of his counting-house on Fish-Street Hill, since he will still have enough left 'to open shop in St. Q-iles's." The other objection is as ill- grounded ; for though we should give these pieces another name, it will not mend then' efiicacy. It will continue a kind of mulish production, with all the defects of its opposite parents, and marked with sterility. If we are permitted to make Comedy weep, wo have an equal right to make Tragedy laugh, and to set down in blank verse the jests and re- partees of all the attendants in a funeral procession. But there is one argument in favom* of Sentimental Comedy wliich wiU keep it on the stage, in spite of all that can be said against it. It is of aU others the most easily written. Those abilities that can hammer out a novel, are fully sufficient for the production of a sentimental comedy. It is only sufficient to raise the characters a little ; to deck out the hero with a riband, or give the heroine a title : then to put an insipid dialogue, without character or humom*, into their mouths, give them mighty good hearts, very fine clothes, furnish a new set of scenes, make a pathetic scene or two, with a sprinkling of tender melancholy conversation through the whole ; and there is no doubt but all tlie ladies will cry and all the gentlemen applaud. Humour at present seem to be departing from the stage, and it wiU soon happen that our comic players will have nothing left for it but a fine coat and a song. It depends upon the audience whether they will actually di-ive those poor merry creatiu-es from the stage, or sit at a play as gloomy as at the taber- naclo. It ia not easy to recover an art when once lost ; and it wiU be but a ESSAYS. 245 just punishment, that when, by our being too fastidious, we hare banished humour from the stage, we should om'selves be deprived of the art of laughing, ESSAY XXIII. As I see you are fond of gallantry, and seem willing to set young people to- gether as soon as you can, I cannot help lending my assistance to your endea- vours, as I am greatly concerned in the attempt. You must know. Sir, that I am landlady of one of the most noted inns on the road to Scotland, and hare seldom less than eight or ten couples a-week, who go down rapturous lovers, and retm'n man and wife. If there be in this world an agreeable situation, it must be that in which a young couple find themselves when just let loose from confinement, and whirl- ing olf to the Land of Promise. When the post-chaise is driving ofi", and the blinds are drawn up, sm'e nothing can equal it. And yet I do not know liow, what with the fears of being pm'sued, or the wishes for greater happiness, not one of my customers but seems gloomy and out of temper. The gentlemen are all sullen, and the ladies discontented. But if it be so going down, how is it with them coming back? Having been for a fortnight together, they are then mighty good company to be sure. It is then the young lady's indiscretion stares her in the face, and the gentleman hhnself finds that much is to be done before the money comes in. For my own part. Sir, I was married in the usual way ; all my friends were at tlie wedding ; I was conducted with great ceremony from the table to the bed ; and I do not find that it any ways diminished my happiness with my liusband, while, poor man, he continued with me. For my part I am entirely for doing things in the old family way ; I hate your new-fashioned manners, and never loved an outlandish marriage in my hfe. As I have had nmnbers call at my house, you may be sure, I was not idle in inquiring who they were, and how they did in the world after they left me. I cannot say that I ever heard much good come of them ; and of an history of twenty-five, that I noted down in my ledger, I do not know a single couple that would not have been full as happy if they had gone the plain way to work, and asked the consent of then* parents. To convince you of it, I will mention the names of a few, and refer the rest to some fitter opportunity. Imprimis, Miss Jenny Hastings went down to Scotland with a tailor, who to be sure for a tailor was a very agreeable sort of a man. But I do not know how, he did not take proper measure of the young lady's disposition: they quar- relled at my house on their return ; so she left him for a cornet of dragoons, and he went back to his shop-board. Miss Eachel Eunfort went off with a grenadier. They spent all their money going down : so that he carried her down in a post-chaise, and coming back she helped to carry his knapsack. Miss Eacket went down with her lover in their own phaeton ; but upon their return, being very fond of driving, she would be every now and then for hold- ing the whip. This bred a dispute ; and before they were a fortnight to- gether, she felt that he could exercise the whip on somebody else besides the horses. Miss Meekly, though all compliance to the wiU of her lover, could never re- concile him to tlie change of his situation. It seems, he married her suppos- ing she had a large fortune ; but being deceived in their expectations, they parted : and they now keep separate garrets in Eosemary-lane. The next couple, of whom I liave any account, actually lived together in great harmony and uncloying kindness for no less than a month ; bxit tlic lady, 246 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. wlio was a little in years, having parted with her fortune to her dearest life, he left her to make love to that better part of her which he valued more. The next pair consisted of an Irish fortune-hunter, and one of the pretti- est modestest ladies that ever my eyes beheld. As he was a well-looking gen- tleman all drest in lace, and as she seemed very fond of him, I thought they were blest for life. Yet I was quickly mistaken. The lady was no better than a common woman of the town, and he was no better than a sharper ; so they agreed upon a mutual divorce : he now dresses at the York Ball, and she is in keeping by the member for our borough in pai*liament. In this manner, we see that aU those marriages, in which there is interest on one side and disobedience on the other, are not likely to promise a long harvest of delights. If our fortune -hunting gentlemen would but speak out, the young lady, instead of a lover, would often find a sneaking rogue, that only wanted the lady's purse, and not her heart. For my own part, I never saw any thing but design and falsehood in every one of them : and my bloocl has boiled in my veins when I saw a young fellow of twenty kneeling at the feet of a twenty thousand pounder, professing his passion, while he was taking aim at lier money. I do not deny but there may be love in a Scotch marriage, but it is generally all on one side. Of all the sincere admirers I ever knew, a man of my acquaintance, who however did not run away with his mistress to Scotland, was the most so. An old exciseman of our town, who, as you may guess, was not very rich, liad a daughter, who, as yon shall see, was not very handsome. It ^va3 the opinion of every body, tliat this young woman would not soon be married, as slic wanted two main articles, beauty and fortune. But for all this a very well- looking man that happened to be travelling those parts, came and asked the exciseman for his daughter in marriage. The exciseman, willing to deal openly by him, asked if ho had seen the girl : " for," says he, " she is humpbacked." "*Yery well," cried the stranger, " that will do for me." " Aye," says the exciseman, "but my daughter is as brown as a berry." " So much the better," cried the stranger ; "such skins wear well." " But she is bandy-legg'd," says the exciseman, " No matter," cries the other; "her petticoats will hide that defect." "But then she is very poor, and wants an eye." "Your description dehghts me," cries the stranger : "I have been looking out for one of her make ; for I keep an exhibition of wild beasts, and intend to shew her off for a chimpanzee." ESSAY XXIY. Mankind have ever been prone to expatiate in the praise of human nature. ITie dignity of man is a subject that has always been the favourite theme of humanity ; they have declaimed with that ostentation, which usually accom- panies such as are sure of having a partial audience ; they liave obtained vic- tories, because there were none to oppose. Yet from all I have ever read or seen, men appear moi'e apt to err by having too high, than by having too de- spicable, an opinion of their nature; and by attempting to exalt their original place in the creation, depress their real value in society. The most ignorant nations have always been found to think most highly oi themselves. The Deity has ever been thought peculiarly concerned in their glory and preservation ; to have fought their battles, and inspired their teach- ers : their wizards are said to be familiar with heaven ; and every hero has a guard of angels as well as men to attend him. When the Portuguese fii-st canie among the wretched inhabitants of the coast of Africa, these savage nations roftdily allowed the strangers more skill in navigation and war ; yet still con- ESSAYS. 247 1 sidered them at best but as useful servants, brought to tlieir coast by their guardiau serpent to supply them with luxuries they could haye lived without. Though they could grant the Portuguese more riches, they could never allow them to have such a king as their Tottimondelem, who wore a bracelet of shells round liis neck, and whose legs were covered with ivory. In this manner examine a savage in the history of his country and prede- cessors ; you ever find his warriors able to conquer armies, and his sages ac- quainted with move than possible knowledge : human nature is to him an un- known country ; he thinks it capable of great things, because he is ignorant of its boundaries ; whatever can be conceived to be done he allows to be pos- sible, and whatever is possible he conjectures must have been done. He never nieasm*.es the actions and powers of others by what himself is able to perform, nor makes a proper estimate of the greatness of his fellows, by bringing it to the standard of his OAvn capacity. He is satisfied to be one of a country where mighty things have been ; and imagines the fancied power of others reflects a lusti*e on himself. Thus by degrees he loses the idea of his own in- significance in a confused notion of the extraordinary powers of humanity, and is wilHng to grant extraordinary gifts to eveiy pretender because unacquainted with their claims. This is the reason why demi-gods and heroes have ever been erected in times or countries of ignorance and barbarity ; they addressed a people, who had liigh opinions of human nature, because they were ignorant how far it could extend ; they addressed a people, who were willing to allow that men should be gods, because they were yet imperfectly acquainted with God and with man. These impostors knew, that all men are naturally fond of seeing something very great made from the little materials of humanity ; that igno- rant nations are not more proud of building a tower to reach heaven, or a pyramid to last for ages, than of raising up a demi-god of their own country and creation. The same pride that erects a colossus or a pyramid, instals a god or an hero : but though the adoring savage can raise his colossus to the clouds, lie can exalt the hero not one inch above the standard of humanity ; incapable therefore of exalting the idol, he debases himself, and falls prostrate before him. Wlien man has thus acquired an erroneous idea of the dignity of his species, he and the gods become perfectly intimate ; men are but angels, angels are but men, nay, but sci'vants that stand in waiting to execute hiunan commands, llie Persians, for instance, thus address their propliet Haly. " I salute thee, glorious Creator, of whom the sun is but the shadow. Master-piece of the Lord of human creatures, Q-reat star of Justice and Eeligion. The sea is not rich and liberal, but by the gifts of thy munificent hands. The angel trea- surer of heaven reaps his harvest in the fertile gardens of the purity of thy nature. The primum mobile would never dart the ball of the sun through the trunk of heaven, were it not to serve the morning out of the extreme love she has for thee. The angel, Grabriel; messenger of truth, every day kisses the groundsel of thy gate. Were there a place more exalted than the most liigh tlirone of Ood, I would affirm it to be thy place, O master of the faithful! Gabriel, with all his art and knowledge, is but a mere scholar to thee." Thus, my friend, men think proper to treat angels ; but if indeed there be such an order of beings, with what degree of satirical contempt must they listen to llie songs of the little mortals thus flattering each other! thus to see creatures, Aviser indeed than the monkey, and more active than the oyster, claiming to lliemselves a mastery of heaven! Minims, the tenants of an atom, thus arro- gating a partnership in the creation of universal nature ! Surely Heaven is kind that launches no thunder at those guilty heads : but it is kind, and ro' 248 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. gai'ds their follies with pity, nor will destroy creatures that it loved into being. But whatever success this practice of making demi-gods might have been attended with in barbarous nations, I do not know that any man became a god in a country where the inhabitants were refined. Such countries gene- rally have too close an inspection into human weakness, to think it invested with celestial power. They sometimes indeed admit the gods of strangers, or of their ancestors, who had their existence in times of obscurity ; their weak- ness being forgotten, wliile nothing but their power and their miracles were remembered. The Chinese, for instance, never had a god of their own country, the idols, which the vulgar worship at this day, were brought from the bar- barous nations around them. The Eoman Emperors, who pretended to divi- nity, were generally taught by a poignard that they were mortal ; and Alex- ander, though he passed among barbarous countries for a real god, eould never persuade his polite countrymen into a similitude of thinking. The Lacedsemonians shrewdly complied with his commands by the following sarcastic edict : — Et kXi^av^^og PsXsrai tlvai Qibg, Qtog iaru). THE LIFE OE DR. PARNELL. The life of a scholar seldom abounds with adventure. His fame is acquu'ed in solitude. And the liistorian, who only views him at a distance, must be content with a dry detail of actions by which he is scarcely distinguished from the rest of mankind. But we are fond of talking of those who have given us pleasure, not that we have anything important to say, but because the subject is pleasing. Thomas Paenell, D.D., was descended from an ancient family, that had for some centuries been settled at Congleton in Cheshire. His. father Thomas Parnell, who had been attached to the commonwealth party, upon the restora- tion went over to Ireland ; thither he carried a large personal fortune, wliieh he laid out in lands in that kingdom. The estates he purchased there, as also that of which he was possessed in Cheshire, descended to our poet, who was his eldest son, and still remain in the family. Thus want, which has com- pelled many of our greatest men into the sei'vice of the Muses, had no in- fluence upon Parnell ; he was a poet by inchnation. He was bom in Dublin, in the year 1679, and received the first rudiments of his education at the school of Dr. Jones in that city. Surprising things are told us of the greatness of his memory at that early period : as of his being able to repeat by heart forty lines of any book at the first reading ; of his getting the third book of the Hiad in one night's time, which was given in order to confine him for some days. These stories, whicli are told of almost every celebrated wit, may perhaps be true. But for my own part, I never found any of those prodigies of parts, although I have known enow that were desirous, among the ignorant, of being thought so. There is one presumption, however, of the early maturity of his under- standing. He was admitted a member of the College of Dublin, at the age of thirteen, which is -much sooner than usual, as at that university they are a great deal stricter in their examination for entrance, than either at Oxford or Cambridge. His progress through the college com'se of study was probably max'ked with but little splendour ; his imagination might have been too warm to reUsh the cold logic of Burgersdicius, or the dreary subtleties of Smigle-. LIFE OF DR. PARNELL. 249 sias ; but it is certain, that as a classical scholar few could equal him. His own compositions show this : and the deference which the most eminent men of liis time paid him upon that head, put it beyond a doubt. He took the degree of Master of Arts the 9th of July, 1700 ; and in the same year he was ordained a deacon, by William bishop of Derry, having a dispensation from the primate, as being under twenty-three years of age. He was admitted into priest's orders about three years after, by William Archbishop of Dublin ; and on the 9th of February, 1705, he was collated by Su* George Ashe, Bishop of Clogher, to the Archdeaconry of Clogher. About that time also he maiTicd Miss Anne Minchin, a young lady of great merit and beauty, by whom he had two sons, who died young, and one daughter, who is still living. His wife died some time before him ; and her death is said to have made so great an impression on his spirits, that it served to hasten his own. On the 31st of May, 1716, he was presented, by his friend and patron, Archbishop King, to the vicarage of Finglass, a benefice worth about four hundred pounds a year, in the diocese of Dublin ; but he lived to enjoy his preferment a very short time. He died at Chester, in July, I7l7, on his way to Ireland, and was buried in Trinity Church in that town, without any monument to mark the place of his interment. As he died without male issue, his estate devolved to his only nephew, Sir John Pamell, Baronet, whose father was younger brother to the archdeacon, and one of the justices of the King's Bench in Ireland. Such is the very unpoetical detail of the life of a poet. Some dates, and some few facts scarcely more interesting than those that make the ornaments of a country tomb-stone, are all that remain of one, whose labours now begin to excite universal cm-iosity. A poet, while living, is seldom an object suffi- ciently great to attract much attention ; his real merits are known but to a few, and these are generally sparing in their praises. When his fame is in- creased by time, it is then too late to investigate the peculiarities of his dispo- sition ; the dews of the morning are past, and we vainly try to continue the chase by the meridian splendour. There is scarcely any man but might be made the subject of a very in- teresting and amusing history, if the writer, besides a thorough acquaintance with the character he draws, were able to make those nice distinctions which separate it from all others. The strongest minds have usually the most striking peculiarities, aud would consequently afford the richest materials : but in the present instance, from not knowing Doctor Parnell, his peculiarities are gone to the grave with him : and we are obliged to take his character from such as knew but little of him, or who, perhaps, could have given very little information if they had known more. Parnell, by what I have been able to collect from my father and uncle, who knew him, was the most capable man in the world to make the happiness of those he conversed with, and the least able to secure his own. He wanted that evenness of disposition which bears disappointment with phlegm, and joy with indifference. He was ever much elated or dex)ressed ; and his whole life spent in agony or rapture. But the turbulence of these passions only affected himself, and never those about him : he knew the ridicule of his own character, and very effectually raised the mirth of his companions, as well at his vexations as at his triumphs. How much his company was desired, appears from the extensiveness of his connections, and the number of his friends. Even before he made any figure in the literary world, his friendship was sought by persons of every rank and party. The wits at that time differed a good deal from those, who are most eminent for their understanding at present. It would now be thought a very indifferent sign of a wi-iter's good sense to disclaim his private friends fo? 250 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. happening to be of a different party in politics : but it was then otherwise, the whig wits held the tory wits in great contempt, and these retahated in their turn. At the head of one party were Addison, Steele, and Congrere ; at that of the other. Pope, Swift, and Arbuthnot. Pamell was a friend to both sides, and with a HberaHty becoming a scholar, scorned all those trilling distinctions, that are noisy for the time, and ridiculous to posterity. Nor did he emancipate himself from these without some opposition from home. Having been the son of a commonwealth's man, his tory connections on this side of the water gave his friends in Ireland great offence ; they were much enraged to see liim keep company with Pope, and Swift, and Gay ; they blamed his undistinguishing taste, and wondered what pleasure he could find in the conversation of men who approved the treaty of Utrecht, and disliked the Duke of Marlborough. His conversation is said to have been extremely pleasing, but in what its peculiar excellence consisted, is now unkno\\'n The letters which were written to him by his friends, are full of com- pliments upon his talents as a companion, and his good-nature as a man. I have several of them now before me.' Pope was particularly fond of his company, and seems to regret his absence more than any of the rest. A letter from him follows thus : " Deae Sie, London, July 29. " I wish it were not as ungenerous as vain to complain too much of a man that forgets me, but I coidd expostulate with you a whole day upon your in- human silence : I call it inhuman ; nor would you think it less, if you were truly sensible of the uneasiness it gives me. Did I know you so ill as to think you proud, I would be much less concerned than I am able to be, when I know one of the best-natured men alive neglects me : and if you know me so ill as to think amiss of me, with regard to my friendship for you, you really do not deserve half the trouble you occasion me. I need not tell you, that both Mr, Gray and myself have written several letters in vain ; and that we were constantly inquiring of all who have seen Ireland, if they saw you, and that (forgotten as we are) we are every day remembering you in our most agreeable hours. All this is true ; as that we are sincerely lovers of you, and deplorcrs of your absence, and that we form no wish more ardently than that which brings you over to us, and places you in yotu* old scat between us. We have lately had some distant hopes of the Dean's design to revisit Eng- land ; will not you accompany him ? or is England to lose everything that has any charms for us, and must we pray for banishment as a benediction ? — I have once been witness of some, I hope all, of yom' splenetic hours: come, and be a comforter in your turn to me in mine. I am in such an unsettled state, that I can't tell if I shall ever see you, unless it be this year ; whether I do or not, be ever assured, you have as large a share of my thoughts and good wishes as any man, and as great a portion of gratitude in my heart as would enrich a monarch, could he know where to find it. I shall not die without testifying something of this nature, and leaving to the world a memorial of tlie friendship that has been so great a pleasure and pride to me. It would be like writing my own epitaph, to acquaint you with what I have lost since I saw you, what I have done, what I have thought, where I have lived, and where I now repose in obsciu-ity. My friend Jervas, the bearer of this, will inform you of all particrJars concerning me ; and Mr. Ford is charged with a thousand loves, and a thousand complaints, and a thousand commissions to you on my part. They will both tax you with the neglect of some promises which were too agreeable to us aU to be forgot ; if you care for any of us, tell them so, and wi'ite so to me. I can say no more, but that I love you, and am, in spite of the longest neglect of happiness, " Dear sir, your most faithful affectionate friend, and servant, A. Pope. LIFE OF DR. PARNELL. 251 " G-ay is In Devonshire, and from tlience he goes to Bath. My father and mother never fail to commemorate you." Among the number of his most intimate friends was Lord Oxford, whom Pope has so finely complimented upon the delicacy of his choice : For him thou oft hast bid tlie world attend. Fond to forget the statesman in the friend : For Swift and him despised the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great ; Dextrous the craving, fawning crowd to quit, And pleas'd to 'scape from flattery to wit. Pope himself was not only excessively fond of his company, but under seve- ral literary obligations to him for his assistance in the translation of Homer. Gay was obliged to him upon another account; for, being always poor, he was not above receiving from Parnell the copy-money which the latter got for Ills writings. Several of their letters, now before me, are proofs of this ; and as they have never appeared before, it is probable the reader will be much better pleased with theu' idle effusions, than with any thing I can hammer out for his amusement. '' Binfield, near Oaki/iffham, Tuesday. " Deae Sm, " I BELIEVE the hurry you were in hindered your giving me a word by the last post, so that I am yet to learn whether you got well to town, or continue so there ? I very much fear both for your health and yom* quiet : and no man living can be more truly concerned in any thing that touches either than myself. I would comfort myself, however, with hoping that your business may not be imsuccessful for your sake : and that at least it may soon be put into other proper hands. For my own, I beg earnestly of you to retun to us as soon as possible. You know how very much I want you ; and that, how- ever yoiu' business may depend upon any other, my business depends entirely upon you ; and yet still I hope you will find your man, even though I lose you the mean while. At this tune, the more I love you, the more I can spare you ; which alone will, I dare say, be a reason to you to let me have you back the sooner. The minute I lost you, Eustathius with nine hundi'ed pages, and nine thousand contractions of the Greek characters, arose to view I Spon- danus, with all his auxiliaries, in number a thousand pages (value three shillings), and Dacier's three volumes, Barnes's two, Valterie's three, Cuperas, half in Greek, Leo Allatius, three parts in G-reek, Scaliger, Macrobius, and (worse than them all) Aulus G-ellus ! all these rushed upon my soul at once, and whelmed me under a fit of the headache. I cursed them all religiously, damn'd my best friends among the rest, and even blasphemed Homer himself. Dear Sir, not only as you are a friend and a good-natured man, but as you are a Christian and a divine, come back speedily, and prevent the increase of my sins ; for, at the rate I have begun to rave, I shall not only damn all the poets and commentators who have gone before me, but be damn'd myself by all who come after me. To be serious ; you have not only left me to the last degTcc impatient for your return, who at all times should have been so (thoiigh never so much as since I knew you in best health here), but you have wrought several miracles upon our family; you have made old people fond of a young and gay person, and inveterate papists of a clergyman of the Church of England ; even Nurse herself is in danger of being in love in her old age, and (for all I know) would even marry Dennis for your sake, because he is your man, and loves his master. In sliort come down forthwith, or give me good reasons for delaying, though but for a day or two, by the next post. If I find them just, I will come up to you, though you know how precious my time is at present j 252 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. mj hours were never worth so mucli money before ; but perhaps yoa are not sensible of this, who give away your own works. You are a generous author j I a hackney scribbler : you a Grecian, ard bred at a University ; I a poor Englishman, of my own educating : you a reverend parson, I a wag : in short, you are Dr. Parnelle (with an e at the end of your name,) and I " Your most obhged and affectionate friend and faithful servant, " A. Pope. " My hearty service to the Dean, Dr. Arbuthnot, Mr. Ford, and the true genuine shepherd, J. Gray, of Devon. I expect him down with you." We may easily perceive by this, that ParneU was not a little necessary to Pope in "condvicting his translation ; however, he has worded it so am- biguously, that it is impossible to bring the charge directly against him. But he is much more explicit, when he mentions his friend Gray's obhgations in another letter, which he takes no pains to conceal. " Deae Sir, " I WRITE to you with the same warmth, the same zeal of good-will and friendship with which I used to converse with you two years ago, and can't think myself absent, when I feel you so much at my heart j the picture of you, which Jervas brought me over, is infinitely less lively a representation than that I carry about with me, and which rises to my mind whenever I think of you. I have many an agreeable reverie through those woods and downs where we once rambled together ; my head is sometimes at the Bath, and sometimes at Letcomb, where the Dean makes a great part of my ima- ginary entertainment, this being the cheapest way of treating me ; I hope he will not be displeased at this manner of paying my respects to him, instead of following my friend Jervas's example, which, to say the truth, I have as much inclination to do as I want ability. I have been ever since December last in greater variety of business than any such men as you (that is, divines and philosophers) can possibly imagine a reasonable creature capable of. Gay's play, among the rest, has cost much time and long suffering, to stem a tide of malice and party, that certain aiTthors have raised against it : the best revenge upon such fellows is now in my hands, I mean your Zoilus, which really transcends the expectation I had conceived of it. I have put it into the press, beginning with the poem Betrachom : for you seem, by the first paragraph of the dedication to it, to design to prefix the name of some particular person. I beg therefore to know for whom you intend it, that the publication may not be delayed on this account, and this as soon as is possible. Inform me also upon what terms I am to deal with the bookseller, and whether you design the copy-money for Gay, as you formerly talked, what number of books you would have yourself, &c. I scarce see anything to be altered in this whole piece ; in the poems you sent I Avill take the liberty you allow me : the stoi'y of Pandora, and the Eclogue upon Health, are two of the most beautiful things I ever read. I do not say this to the prejudice of the rest, but as I have read these oftcnor. Let me know how far my commission is to extend, and be confident of my punctual performance of whatever you enjoin. I must add a paragraph on this occasion in regard to Mr. Ward, whose verses have been a great pleasure to me ; I will contrive they shall be so to the world, whenever I can find a proper opportunity of publishing them. " I shall very soon print an entire collection of my own madi'igals, which I look upon as making my last will and testament, since in it I shall give all I ever intend to give (which I'll beg your's and the Dean's acceptance of). You must look on me no more a poet, but a plain commoner, who lives upon his own, and fears and flatters no man. I hope before I die to discharge the LIFE OF DR. PARNELL. 2l3 debt I owe to Homer, and get upon the whole just fame enough to serre for an annuity for my own time, though I leave nothing to posterity. " I beg our correspondence may be more frequent than it has been of late. I am sure my esteem and lore for you never more deserved it from you, or more prompted it from you. I desired our friend Jervas (in the greatest hurry of my business) to say a great deal in my name, both to yourself and the Dean, and must once more repeat the assurances to you both, of an un- changing friendship and unalterable esteem. " I am, dear Sir, most entirely, " Yoiu' affectionate, faithful, obliged friend and servant, " A. Pope." From these letters to Parnell, we may conclude, as far as their testimony can go, that he was an agreeable, a generous, and a sincere man. Indeed, he took care that his friends shoidd always see him to the best advantage ; for, when he found liis fits of spleen and uneasmess, which sometimes lasted for weeks together, returning, he retm*ned with all expedition to the remote parts of Ireland, and there made out a gloomy kind of satisfaction, in giving hideous descriptions of the solitude to which he retired. It is said of a famous painter, that, being confined in prison for debt, his whole delight consisted in cbawing the faces of his creditors in caricatura. It was just so with PamcU. From many of his unpublished pieces which I have seen, and from others that have appeared, it would seem, that scarcely a bog in his neiglibourhood was left without reproach, and scarcely a mountain reared its head unsung. " I can easily," says Pope, in one of his letters, in answer to a dreary descrip- tion of Parnell's, " I can easily unage to my thoughts the solitary hours of yom' eremitical life in the mountains, from some parallel to it in my own re- tirement at Binfield :" and in another place, " We are both miserably enough situated, G-od knows ; but of the two evils, I think the solitudes of the South are to be preferred to the deserts of the West." In this manner Pope answered liji^n in the tone of his own complaints ; and these descriptions of the imagined distress of his situation served to give him a temporary relief : they threw off the blame from liimself, and laid upon fortune and accident a wi'ctchedness of his own creating. But though this method of quarrelling in his poems with his situation served to relieve himself, yet it was not easily endm'cd by the gentlemen of the neighbourhood, who did not care to confess themselves his fellow-sufferers. He received many mortifications upon that account among them ; for, being naturally fond of company, he could not endure to be without even theirs, which, however, among his EngHsh friends he pretended to despise. In fact, his conduct in this ]Darticular was rather splenetic than wise ; he had either lost the art to engage, or did not employ his skill in securing those more per- manent, though more humble connexions, and sacrificed, for a month or two in England, a whole year's happiness by his country fire-side at home. However, what he permitted the world to see of his life was elegant and splendid ; his fortune (for a poet) was very considerable, and it may easily be supposed he hved to the very extent of it. The fact is, his expenses were greater than his income, and his successor found the estate somewhat impaired at his decease. As soon as ever he had collected in his annual revenvTCs, he immediately set out for England, to enjoy the company of his dearest friends, and laugh at the more prudent world that were minding business and gaining money. The friends to whom, during the latter part of his life, he was chiefly attached, were Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, Jervas, and Gray. Among these he was particularly happy, his mind was entu-ely at ease, and gave a^ loose to overy harmless folly that came uppermost. Indeed, it was a society, in which, 254 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. of all others, a -svise man miglit be most foolish without incurring auy danger. or contempt. Perhaps the reader v/ill be pleased to see a letter to him from a part of this junto, as there is something striking eren in the levities of genius. It comes from Gray, Jervas, Arbuthnot, and Pope, assembled at a chop- house near the Exchange, and is as follows : " My Dear Sir, " I was last summer in Devonshire, and am this winter at Mrs. Bonyer's. In the summer I wrote a poem, and in the winter I have pubhshed it ; which I have sent to you by Dr. Elwood. In the summer I ate two dishes of toad- stools of my own gathering, instead of mushrooms ; and in the winter I have been sick with wine, as I am at this time, blessed be God for it, as I must bless God for all things. In the summer I spoke truth to damsels ; in the winter I told lies to ladies : Now you know where I have been, and what I have done. I shall tell you what I intend to do the ensuing summer ; I pro- pose to do the same thing I did last, which was to meet you in any part of England you would appoint : don't let me have two disappointments. I have longed to hear from you, and to that intent I teased you with three or fom* letters ; but, having no answer, I feared both yours and my letters might have miscarried. I hope my performance will please the Dean, whom I often wished for, and to whom I woidd have often wrote, but for the same reasons I neglected writing to you. I hope I need not tell you how I love you, and how glad I shall be to hear fi'om you ; which, next to the seeing you, woidd be the greatest satisfaction to your most affectionate friend and humble servant, '' J. G." " Dear Mr. Archdeacon, ." Though my proportion of this epistle should be but a sketch in ininia- ture, yet I take up half this page, having paid my club with the good company both for our dinner of chops and for this paper. The poets will give you lively descriptions in their way ; I shall only acquaint you with that which is directly my province. I have just set the last hand to a couplet, for so I may call two nymphs in one piece. They are Pope's favourites : and, though few, you will guess must have cost me more pains than any nymphs can be Avorth. He has been so um*easonable as to expect that I should have made them as beautiful upon canvas, as he has done upon paper. If this same Mr. P — should omit to write for the dear Frogs, and the Pervigilium, I must entreat you not to let me languish for them, as I have done ever since they crossed the seas : remember by what neglects, &c., we missed them when we lost you, and therefore I have not yet forgiven any of those triflers that let them escape and run those hazards. I am going on the old rate, and want you and the Dean prodigiously, and am in hopes of making you a visit this summer, and of hearing from you both now yo\i are together. Eortesciie, I am sure, will be concerned that he is not in Cornhill, to set his hand to these presents, not only as a witness, but as a " Serviteur tres hiimUe, " C. Jervas." " It is so great an honour to a poor Scotchman to be remembered at this time a-day, especially by an inhabitant of the Glacialis lerne, that I take it very thankfully, and have, with my good friends, remembered you at our table in the chop-house in Exchange-Alley. There wanted nothing to complete our happiness but your company, and om* dear friend the Dean's. I am sure the whole entertainment would have been to his relish. Gay has got so much money by his Art of "Walking the Streets, that he is ready to set up his equipage : he ia just going to the Bank, to negotiate some exchange bilia. LIFE OF DR. PARNELL. 2g6 Mr. Pope delays liis second rolume of his Homer till the martial spirit of the rebels is quite quelled, it being judged that the first part did some harm that way. Our love again and again to the dear Dean. Fuimus torys^ I can say no more. " Aebuthnot." " When a man is conscious that he does no good himself, the next thing is to cause others to do some. I may claim some merit this way, in hastening this testimonial from your friends above writing ; their love to you indeed wants no spm', their ink wants no pen, their pen wants no hand, their hand wants no heart, and so forth, (after the manner of Eabelais, which is betwixt some meaning and no meaning) ; and yet it may be said, when present thought and opportimity is wanting, their pens want ink, their hands want pens, their hearts want hands, &c., till time, place, and conveniency, concur to set them vrriting, as at present, a sociable meeting, a good dinner, warm fii'e, and an easy situation do, to the joint labour and pleasure of this epistle. " Wherein if I should say nothing I should say much (much being in- cluded in my love), though my love be such, that, if I shoidd say much, I should yet say nothing, it being (as Cowley says) equally impossible either to conceal or to express it. " If I were to tell you the thing I wish above all things, it is to see you again ; the next is to see here jowv treatise of Zoilus, with the Batrachomuo- machia, and the Pervigilium Veneris, both which poems are master-pieces in several kinds ; and I question not the prose is as excellent in its sort, as the Essay on Homer. Nothing can be more glorious to that great author, than that the same hand that raised his best statue, and decked it with its old laurels, should also hang up the scare-crow of his miserable critic, and gibbet up the carcase of Zoilus, to the terror of the witlings of posterity. More, and much more, upon this and a thousand other subjects, will be the matter of my next letter, wherein I must open all the friend to you. At this time I must be content with telling you, I am faithfully your most affectionate and humble servant, " A. Pope." If we regard this letter with a critical eye, we must find it indifferent enough ; if we consider it as a mere effusion of friendship, in which every writer contended in affection, it will appear much to the honour of those who wrote it. To be mindful of an absent friend in the hoiu-s of mii-th and feasting, when his company is least wanted, shows no slight degree of sincerity. Yet probably there was still another motive for writing thus to him in conjunction. The above-named, together with Swift and Parnell, had some time before formed themselves into a society, called the Scriiblerus ''Club, and I should suppose they commemorated him thus, as being an absent member. It is past a doubt that they wrote many things in conjunction, and Gray usually held the pen. And yet I do not remember any productions which were the joint effort of this society, as doing it honoiu*. There is something feeble and quaint in all their attempts, as if company repressed thought, ancl genius wanted solitude for its boldest and happiest exertions. Of those pro- ductions in which Parnell had a principal share^ that of the Origin of the Sciences from the Monkies in Ethiopia, is particularly mentioned by Pope himself, in some manuscript anecdotes which he Itjft behind him. The Life of Homer also, prefixed to the translation of the IHad, is written by Parnell, and corrected by Pope ; and, as that great poet assures us in the same place, this correction was not effected without great labour. " It is still stiff," says he, " and was written still stiffer : as it is, I verily think it cost me more pains 25G THE jroiiKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITiL in the correcting, than the writing it would hare done." All this maybe easily credited ; for ererything of Parnell's that has appeared in prose, is written in a yery awkward inelegant manner. It is true, his productions teem with imagination, and show great learning, but they Avant that ease and sweetness for which his poetry is so much adniu-ed : and the language is also shamefully incorrect. Yet, though all this miist be allowed, Pope should hare taken care not to leave his errors upon record against liim, or put it in the power of enry to tax his friend with faults, that do not appear in what he has left to the world. A poet has a right to expect the same secrecy in his friend as in his confessor ; the sins he discovers are not divulged for punishment, but pardon. Indeed, Pope is almost inexcusable in this instance, as what he seems to con- demn in one place, he very much applauds in another. In one of the letters from him to Pamell, above-mentioned, he treats the Life of Homer with much greater respect, and seems to say, that the prose is excellent in its kind. It must be confessed, however, that lie ia by no means inconsistent ; what he says in both places may very easily be reconciled to truth; but who can defend his candour and his sincerity ? It would be hard, however, to suppose that there was no real friendship between these great men. The benevolence of Parnell's disposition remains unimpeached ; and Pope, though subject to starts of passion and envy, yet never missed an opportunity of being truly serviceable to him. The com- merce between them was carried on to the common interest of both. When Pope had a Miscellany to publish, he appHed to Parnell for poetical assistance, and the latter as implicitly submitted to him for correction. Thus they mutually advanced each other's interest or fame, and grew stronger by con- junction. Nor was Pope the only person to whom Parnell had recourse for assistance. Wc learn from Swift's letters to Stella, tliat he submitted his pieces to all liis friends, and readily adopted their alterations. Swift, among the number, was very usefid. to him in that particular ; and care has been taken that the world should not remain ignoi'ant of the obligation. But in the connection of wits, interest has generally very little share ; they have only pleasure in view, and can seldom find it but among each other. The Scribbierus Club, when the members were in town, were seldom asunder, and they often made excursions together into the countiy, and generally on foot. Swift was usually the butt of the company, and if a trick was played, he was always the sufferer. The whole party once agreed to walk down to the house of Lord B , who is still living, and whose seat is about twelve miles from town. As every one agreed to make the best of his way. Swift, who was remarkable for walking, soon left the rest behind him, fully resolved, iipon his arrival, to choose the very best bed for himself, for that was his custom. In the mean time Parnell was determined to prevent his intentions, and taking horse, arrived at Lord B 's by another way, long before Jiim. Having apprised his lordship of Swift's design, it was resolved at any rate to keep him out of the house j but how to effect this was the question. Swift never had the small-pox, and was very much afraid of catching it : as soon tliorefore as he appeared stridmg along at some distance from the house, one of his loi'dship's servants was dispatched, to inform him, that the small-pox was then making great ravages in the family, but that there was a summer- house with a field-bed at his service at the end of the garden. Tliere the disappointed Dean was obhged to retire, and take a cold supper that was sent out to him, while the rest were feasting within. However, at last they took compassion on him ; and, upon his promising never to choose the best bed again, they permitted him to make one of the company. There is something satisfactory in these aecomits of the follies of the wise ; LIFE OF DR. PARNELL. 257 they give a natural air to the picture, and reconcile us to our o-wn. There have been few poetical societies more talked of, or productive of a greater variety of whimsical conceits, than this of the Scribblerus Club ; but how long it lasted I cannot exactly determine. The whole of PameU's poetical existence was not of more than eight or ten years' continuance : his first excm'sions to England began about the year 1706, and he died in the year 1718 : so that it it probable the club began with him, and his death ended the connection. Indeed, the festivity of his conversation, the benevolence of his heart, and the generosity of his temper, were qualities that might serve to cement any society, and that could hardly be replaced when he was taken away. Diu'ing the two or three last years of his life, he was more fond of company than ever, and could scarcely bear to be alone. The death of his wife, it is said, was a loss to him that he was unable to support or recover. Trom that time he could never venture to com't the Muse in solitude, where he was sure to find the image of her who first inspired his attempts. He began therefore to throw himself into every company, and to seek from wine, if not relief, at least insensibility. Those helps that sorrow first called for assistance, habit soon rendered necessaiy, and he died before his fortieth year, in some measure a martyr to conjugal fidelity. Thus, in a space of a very few years, Pamell attained a share of fame, equal to what most of his contemporaries were a long life in acquiring. He is only to be considered as a poet ; and the vmiversal esteem in which his poems are l^eld, and the reiterated pleasure they give in the perusal, are a sufiicient test of their merit. Ho appears to me to be the last of that great school that had modelled itself upon the ancients, and taught English poetry to re- semble what the generality of mankind have allowed to excel. A studious and correct observer of antiquity, he set himself to consider Nature with the lights it lent him ; and he found that the more aid he borrowed from the one, the more delightfully he resembled the other. To copy Nature is a task the most bungling workman is able to execute ; to select such parts as contribute to delight, is reserved only for those whom accident has blessed with un- common talents, or such as have read the ancients with indefatigable industry. ParneU is ever happy in the selection of his images, and scrupulously careful in the choice of his subjects. His productions bear no resemblance to those tawdry things, which it has for some time been the fashion to admire ; in writing which the poet sits down without any plan, and heaps up splendid images without any selection ; where the reader grows dizzy with praise and admi- ration, and yet soon grows weary, he can scarcely tell why. Our poet, on the contrary, gives out his beauties with a more sparing hand ; he is still carrying his reader forward, and just gives him refreshment sufficient to support him to his journey's end. At the end of his course the reader regrets that his way has been so short, he wonders that it gave him so little trouble, and so resolves to go the journey over again. His poetical language is not less correct than his subjects are pleasing. He found it at that period, in which it was brought to its highest pitch of re- finement; and ever since his time it lias been gradually debasing. It is indeed amazing, after what has been done by Dryden, Addison, and Pope, to improve and harmonize our native tongue, that their successors should have taken so nmch paias to involve it into pristine barbarity. These misguided innovators have not been eontent with restoring antiquated words and phrases, but have indulged themselves in the most licentious transpositions, and the harshest constructions, vainly imagining, that the more their writings are unlike prose, the more they resemble poetry. They have adopted a lan- guage of their own, and call iipon mankind for admiration. All those who 17 258 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. do not understand them are silent, and those who make out their meaning are willing to praise, to show they understand. From these follies and affec- tations the poems of Parnell are entirely free ; he has considered the language of poetry as the language of life, and conveys the warmest thoughts in the simplest expression. Parnell has written several poems besides those published by Pope, and some of them have been made public with very little credit to his reputation. There are still many more that have not yet seen the light, in the possession of Sir John Parnell his nephew, who, from that laudable zeal which he has for his uncle's reputation, will probably be slow in pubHshing what he may even suspect will do it injury. Of those, wliich are usually inserted in his works, some are indifferent, and some moderately good, bvit the greater part are excellent. A slight stricture on the most striking shall conclude this ac- coimt, wliich I have already drawn out to a disproportionate length. Hesiod, or the Eise of Woman, is a very fine illustration of an hint from Hesiod. It was one of his earliest productions, and first appeared in a mis- cellany pubHshed by Tonson. Of the tlu'ee songs that foUow, two of them were written upon the lady he afterwards married ; they were the genuine dictates of his passion, but are not excellent in their kind. The Anacreontic beginning with " Wlien Spring came on with fresh de- light," is taken from a French poet, whose name I forget, and, as far as I am able to judge of the Trench language, is better than the original. The Ana- creontic that follows, " G-ay Bacchus," &c. is also a translation of a Latin poem by Aurelius Augurellus, an Itahan poet, beginning with, Invitat olim Bacchus ad canam siios, Comum, Jocum, Ciqndinem. Parnell, when he translated it, applied the characters to some of his friends, and as it was written for their entertainment, it probably gave them more pleasure than it has given the pubhc in the perusal. It seems to have more spirit than the original ; but it is extraordinary that it was published as an ori- ginal and not as a translation. Pope should have acknowledged it, as he knew. The Fairy Tale is incontestably one of the finest pieces in any language. The old dialect is not perfectly well preserved, but this is a very slight defect, where all the rest is so excellent. The Pervigilium Veneris (which, by-the-by, does not belong to Catullus) is very well versified, and in general all Parnell's translations are excellent. The Battle of the Frogs and Mice, which follows, is done as well as the svib- ject would admit j bat there is a defect in the translation, which sinks it below the original, and which it was impossible to remedy : I mean the names of the combatants, which in the Grreek bear a ridiculous allusion to their natures, have no force to the English reader. A bacon' eater was a good name for a mouse, and Ptemotractas in G-reek was a very good sounding word, that con- veyed that meaning. Puff-cheek would sound odiously as a> name for a frog, and yet Physignathos does admirably well in the original. The letter to Mr. Pope is one of the finest compHments that ever was paid to any poet : the description of his situation at the end of it is very fine, but far from being true. That part of it where he deplores his being far from wit and learning, as being far from Pope, gave particular offence to his friends at home. Mr. Coote, a gentleman in his ueighbom'hood, who thought that he himself had wit, was very much displeased with Parneir for casting liis eyes so far off for a learned friend, when he could so conveniently be supplied at home. The translation of a part of the Eape of the Lock into monkish verse serves to show what a master Parnell was of the Latin ; a copy of verses made in this LIFE OF DR. PARNELL. 259 manner, is one of tlie most difficult trifles that can possibly be imagined. I am assured that it was written upon the following occasion. Before the Kape of tlie Lock was yet completed, Pope was reading it to his fi-iend Swift, who sat very attentively, while Parnell, who happened to be in the house, went in and out without seeming to take any notice. However he was very diligently em- ployed in listening, and was able, from the strength of his memory, to bring away the whole description of the Toilet pretty exactly. This he versified in the manner now published in his works ; and the next day, when Pope was reading his poem to some friends, Parnell insisted that he had stolen that part of the description from an old monkish manuscript. An old paper with the Latin verses was soon brought forth, and it was not till after some time that Pope was delivered from the confusion which it at first produced. The Book -worm is another unacknowledged translation from a Latin poem by Beza. It was the fashion with the wits of the last age, to conceal the places whence they took their hints or their subjects. A trifling acknowledg- ment would have made that lawful prize, which may now be considered as plunder. The Night Piece on Death deserves every praise ; and I should suppose, with very little amendment, might be made to sm'pass all those night-pieces aiid chm-ch-yard scenes that have since appeared. But the poem of Parnell's best known, and on which his best reputation is grounded, is the Hermit. Pope, speaking of this in those manuscript anecdotes already quoted, says. That the poem is very good. The story, continues he, was written originally in Spanish, whence probably Howell had translated it into prose, and inserted it in one of Ms letters. Addison liked the scheme, and loas not disinclined to come into it. However this may be. Dr. Henry Moore, in his Dialogues, has the very same story ; and I have been informed by some, that it is originally of Arabian invention. With respect to the prose works of Pai'uell, I have mentioned them already : his fame is too well grounded for any defects in them to shake it. I will only add, that the Life of Zoilus was written at the request of his friends, and de- signed as a satire upon Dennis and Theobald, with whom his club had long been at variance. I shall end this account with a letter to him from Pope and Gray, in which they endeavour to hasten liim to finish that production. " Deae Sir, London, March 18. " I MUST own I have long owed you a letter, but you must own, you iiave owed me one a good deal longer. Besides, I have but two people in the whole kingdom of Ireland to take care of ; the Dean and yovx : but you have several Avho complain of your neglect in England. Mr. Gay complains, Mr. Harcourt complains, Mr. Jervas complains. Dr. Arbuthnot complains, my Lord complains ; I complain. (Take notice of this figure of iteration, when you make your next sermon.) Some say, you are in deep discontent at the new turn of afiairs ; others, that you are so much in the archbishop's good graces, that you will not correspond with any that have seen tlie last ministry. Some affirm, you have quarrelled with Pope (whose friends they observe daily fall from him on account of his satirical and comical disposition) ; others, that you are insinuating yoiu'- sclf into the opinion of the ingenious Mr. What-do-ye-call-him. Some think you are preparing your sermons for the press, and others that you will trans- form them into essays and moral discourses. But the only excuse, that I will allow, is your attention to the Life of Zoilus. The Frogs already seem to croak for tlieir transportation to England, and are sensible how much that Doctor is cursed and hated, who introduced their species into your nation ; therefore, as you dread the wrath of St. Patrick, send them liither, and rid the kingdom of those pernicious and loquacious animals. 17—2 260 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. " I haye at length received your poem out of Mr. Addison's hands, which shall be sent as soon as you order it, and in -what manner you shall appoint. I shall in the mean time give Mr. Tooke a packet for you consisting of divers merry pieces. Mr. Gay's new farce, Mr. Burnet's letter to Mr. Pope, Mr. Pope's Temple of Fame, Mr. Thomas Burnet's Grrumbler on Mr. Gay, and the bishop of Ailsbury's Elegy, \NTitten either by Mr. Caiy or some other hand. " Mr. Pope is reading a letter, and in the mean time I make use of the pen to testify my imeasiness in not hearing from you. I find success, even in the most trivial things, raises the indignation of Scribblers : for I, for my Wliat- d'-ye-caU-it, could neither escape the fiuy of Mr. Burnet, or the German Doctor ; then where will rage end, Avhen Ilomer is to be ti-anslated ? Let Zoilus hasten to your friend's assistance, and envious criticism shall be no more. I am in hopes that we may order our afiairs so as to meet this summer at the Bath ; for Mr. Pope and myself have thoughts of taking a trip thither, You shall preach, and we will write lampoons ; for it is esteemed as great an lionour to leave the Bath, for fear of a broken head, as for a Terrse Pilius of Ox- ford to be expelled. I have no place at court ; therefore, that I may not entirely be without one every wliere, shew that I have a place in your remembrance. " Your most affectionate, faithful servants, " A. PoPEj and J. Gat. " Ilomer will be published in three weeks." I cannot finish this trifle, without returning my sincerest acknowledgements to Sir John Parnell, for the generous assistance he was x)leased to give me, in furnishing me with many materials, wlien he heard I was about writing the life of his uncle: as also to Mr. and Mrs. Hayes, relations of our poet; and to my very good friend Mr. Stevens, who, being an ornament to letters himself, is very ready to assist all the attempts of others. THE LIFE OE LORD BOLINGBROKE. There are some characters that seem formed by Nature to take delight in struggling with opposition, and whose most agreeable hours are passed in storms of their own creating. The subject of the present sketcli was, perhaps, of all others, the most indefatigable in raising himself enemies, to shew his power in subduing them ; and was not less employed in improving his supe- rior talents, than in finding objects on wliich to exercise their activity. His life was spent in a continual conflict of pohtics, and as if that was too short for the combat, he has left his memoiy as a subject of lasting contention. It is, indeed, no easy matter to preserve an acknowledged impartiality, in talkmg of a man so differently regarded, on account of his political, as well as his religious principles. Those, whom his politics may please, will be sure to condemn him for his religion ; and on the contrary, those most strongly attached to his theological opinions, are the most likely to decry his politics. On whatever side he is regarded, he is sure to have opposers j and this was perhaps what he most desired, having from nature a mind better pleased with the struggle than the victory. Henry St. John, Lord Yiscount Boliugbroke, was bom in the year 1672, at Battersea in Surrey, at a seat that had been in the possession of his ancestors for ages before. His family was of the first rank, equally conspicuous for its antiquity, dignity, and large possessions. It is found to trace its originiti as high as Adam de Port, Baron of Basing in Hampshire, before the conquest j LIFE OF LORD BOLINGBEOKE. 261 ' and in a succession of ages, to liare produced -warriors, patriots, and states- men, some of whom were conspicuous for their loyalty, and others for their defending tlie rights of the people. His grandfather, Sir Walter St. John, of Uattersea, marrying one of the daughters of lord chief justice St. John, who, as all know, was strongly attached to the republican party ; Henry, the sub- ject of the present memoir, was brought up in his family, and consequently imbibed the first principles of his education amongst the dissenters. At that time, Daniel Burgess, a fanatic of a very peculiar kind, being at once possessed of zeal and humour, and as well known for the archness of his conceits as the furious obstinacy of his principles, was confessor in the presbyterian way to liis grandmother, and was appointed to direct oiu* author's first studies. Nothing is so apt to disgust a feeling mind as mistaken zeal ; and perhaps the absurdity of the first lectures he received might have given him that contempt for all religions, which he might have justly conceived against one. Indeed, no task can be more mortifying than what he was condemned to undergo : "I was obliged," says he, in one place, " while yet a boy, to read over the commentaries of Dr. Manton, whose pride it was to have made an hundred and nineteen sermons on the hundred and nineteenth psalm." Dr. Manton and his sermons were not likely to prevail much on one, who was, perhaps, the most sharp-sighted in the world at discovering the absurdities of others, how- ever he might have been guilty of establishing many of his own. But these dreaiy institutions were of no very long continuance : as soon as it was fit to t^ke liim out of the hands of the women, he was sent to Eton school, aud removed thence to Christ-cluu'ch college in Oxford. His genius and un- derstanding were seen and admired in both these seminaries, but his love of })leasure had so much the ascendancy, that he seemed contented rather with the consciousness of liis own great powers, than their exertion. However, his friends, and those who knew him most intimately, were thoroughly sensible of the extent of his mind ; and when he left the university, he was considered as one who had the fairest opportunity of making a shining figm'e in active life. Nature seemed not less kind to him in her external embellishments, than in adorning his mind. With the graces of an handsome person, and a face in which dignity was happily blended with sweetness, he had a manner of nddress that was very engaging. His vivacity was always awake, his appre- licnsion was quick, his wit refined, and his memory amazing : his subtlety in thinking and reasoning was profound, and all these talents were adorn(?d Avith an elocution that was irresistible. To the assemblage of so many gifts from natm-c, it was expected that art woiild soon give her finishing hand ; and that a youth, begun in excellence, would soon an"ive at perfection : but such is the perverseness of human nature, that an age which should have been employed in the acquisition of knowledge was dissipated in jjleasure, and instead of aiming to excel in praiseworthy pursuits, Bolingbroke seemed more ambitious of being thought the greatest rake about town. This period miglit have been compared to that of fermenta- 1 ion in liquors, which grow muddy before they brighten ; but it must also be confessed, that those liquors which never ferment are seldom clear.* In this state of disorder he was not without his lucid intervals ; and even while he was noted for keeping Miss Gumley, the most expensive prostitute in the kingdom, and bearing the greatest quantity of wine without intoxication, he * Our author appears foud of this figure, for we find it introduced into his Essay on Polite Literature. Tlie propriety, however, botli of tlie simile, and of the position it endea- vours to illustrate, is ably examined in a periodical work, entitled the Philanthrope, pub- In London in the year 1797. 262 The works of OLIVER GOLBSMlTIL. eren then despised his paltry ambitiou. " The love of study," says he, " and desire of knowledge, were what I felt all my life ; and though my genius, unlike the daemon of Socrates, whispered so softly, that very often I heard him not in the hurry of these passions with which I was transported, yet some calmer hours there were, and in them I hearkened to him." These sacred admonitions were indeed very few, since his excesses are remembered to this vei'y day. I have spoken to an old man, who assured me that he saw him and one of his companions run naked through the Park, in a fit of in- toxication ; but then it was a time when pubUc decency might be transgressed with less danger than at present. During this period, as all his attachments were to pleasure, so his studios only seemed to lean that way. His first attempts were in poetry, in which he discovers more wit than taste, more labour than harmony in his versification. We have a copy of his verses prefixed to Dryden's Virgil, complimenting the poet and praising his translation. We have another not so well known, pre- fixed to a French work pubhshed in Holland by the Chevalier de St. Hyacinth, intituled, Le Chef d'Oeuvre d'un Inconnu. This performance is a humourous piece of criticism upon a miserable old ballad ; and Bolingbroke's compliment, though written in English, is printed in Grreek characters, so that at the first glance it may deceive the eye, and be mistaken for real Greek, There are two or three things more of his composition, which have appeared since his death, but which do honour neither to his parts nor memory. In this mad career of pleasure he continued for some time ; but at length in 1700, when he arrived at the twenty-eighth year of his age, he began to dislike his method of living, and to find that sensual pleasure alone was not sufficient to make the happiness of a reasonable creature. He therefore made his first efibrt to break from his state of infatuation, by marrying the daughter and coheiress of Sir Henry Winchescomb, a descendant from the famous Jack of Newbury, who though but a clothier in the reign of Henry VIII., was able to entertain the king and all his retinue in the most splendid manner. This lady was possessed of a fortune exceeding forty thousand pounds, and was not deficient in mental accomplishments ; but whether he was not yet fully satiated with his former pleasures, or whether her temper was not conformable to his own, it is certain they were far from living happily together. After cohabiting for some time together, they parted by mutual consent, both equally displeased ; he complaining of the obstinacy of her temper, she of the shamelessness of his infidcHty. A great part of her fortune some time after, upon his attainder, was given her back ; but as her family estates were settled upon him, he enjoyed them after her death, upon the reversal of his attainder. Having taken a resolution to quit the allurements of pleasure for the stronger attractions of ambition, soon after his mai'riage he procured a seat in the House of Commons, being elected for the borough of Wotton-Basset in Wiltshire, liis father having served several times for the same place. Be- sides his natural endowments and his large fortune, he had other very consi- derable advantages that gave him weight in the Senate, and seconded his views of preferment. His grandfather. Sir Walter St. John, was still alive : and that gentleman's interest was so great in his own county of Wilts, that he represented it in two Parhaments in a former reign. His father also was then the representative for the same ; and the interest of his wife's family in the House was very extensive. Thus Bolmgbroke took his seat with many accidental helps, but his chief and gi*eat resource lay in his own extensive obilities. At that time the whig and the tory parties were strongly opposed in the LIFE OF LORD BOLINGBEOKK House, and pretty nearly balanced. In the latter years of King "William the tories, who from every motive were opposed to the court, had been gaining popularity, and now began to make a public stand against their competitors. Robert Harley, afterwards Earl of Oxford, a staunch and confirmed tory, was in the year 1700 chosen speaker of the House of Commons, and was con- tinued in the same upon the accession of Queen Anne the year ensuing. Bo- lingbroke had all along been bred up, as was before observed, among the dissenters ; his friends leaned to that persuasion, and all his connexions were in the whig interest. However, either from principle, or from perceiving the tory party to be then gaining ground, while the whigs were declining, he soon changed his connexions, and joined himself to Harley, for whom then he had the greatest esteem ; nor did he bring him his vote alone, but his opinion, which even before the end of his first session he rendered yerj con- siderable, the House perceiving even in so young a speaker the greatest elo- quence, united with the profoundest discernment. The year following he was again chosen anew for the same borough, and persevered in his former attach- ments, by which he gained such an authority and influence in the House that it was thought proper to reward his merit ; and on the 10th of April, 1704, he was appointed secretary at war, and of the marines, his friend Harley having a little before been made secretary of state. The tory party being thus estabHshed in power, it may easily be supposed that every method would be used to depress the whig interest, and to prevent it from rising ; yet so much justice was done even to merit in an enemy, that the Duke of Marlborough, who might be considered as at the head of the opposite party, was suppUed with all the necessaries for carrying on the war in Flanders with vigour ; and it is remarkable, that the gi'eatest events of his campaigns, such as the battles of Blenheim and Ramilies, and several glorious attempts made by the Duke to shorten the war by some decisive action, fell out while Bohngbroke was secretary at war. In fact, he was a sincere admirer of that great general, and avowed it upon all occasions to the last moment of his Hfe : he knew his faults, he admired his virtues, and had the boast of being instrumental in giving lustre to those triumphs, hj which his own power was in a manner overthrown. As the affairs of the nation were then in as fluctuating a state as at present, Harley, after maintaining the lead for above three years, was in his txim obliged to submit to the whigs, who once more became the prevaihng party, and he was compelled to resign the seals. The friendship between him and Bolingbroke seemed at this time to have been sincere and disinterested ; for the latter chose to follow his fortime, and the next day resigned his em- ployments in the administration, following his friend's example, and setting an example at once of integrity and moderation. As an instance of this, when his coadjutors, the tories, were for carrying a violent measure in the House of Commons, in order to bring the Princess Sophia into England, Bolingbroke so artfully opposed it, that it dropped without a debate. For this his modera- tion was praised, but perhaps at the expense of his sagacity. For some time the whigs seemed to have gained a complete triumph ; and upon the election of a new parliament in the year 1708, Bolingbroke was not retui-ned. The interval which followed of above two years, he employed in the severest study ; and this recluse period he ever after used to consider as the most active and serviceable of his whole life. But his retirement was soon interrupted by the prevailing of his party once more ; for the whig par- liament being dissolved in the year 1710, he was again chosen, and Harley being made chancellor, and under-treasurer of the exchequer, the important post of secretary of state was given to our author, in which he discovered a degree of 264 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. genius and assiduity, that iDerliaps IiaTG never been known to be united in one person to the same degree. The English annals scarcely produce a more trying juncture, or that re- quired such yarious abilities to regulate. He -was then placed in a sphere, where he was obliged to conduct the machine of state, struggling with a thousand various calamities ; a desperate enraged party, whose characteristic it has ever been to bear none in power but tliemselves ; a war conducted by an able general, his professed opponent, and whose victories only tended to render him every day more formidable ; a foreign enemy, possessed of endless rescources, and seeming to gather strength from every defeat ; an insidious alHance, that wanted only to gain the advantage of victory, without contri- buting to the expenses of the combat ; a weak declining mistress, that was led by every report, and seemed ready to listen to whatever was said against him ; still more, a gloomy, indolent and suspicious colleague, tliat envied his power, and hated him for liis abilities : these were a part of the difficulties that Bolingbroke had to struggle with in office, and under which he was to conduct the treaty of peace of Utrecht, which was considered as one of the most complicated negociations that history can affiDrd. But nothing seemed too great for his abilities and industry ; he set himself to the undertaking with spirit : he began to pave the way to the intended treaty, by making the people discontented at the continuance of the war ; for this purpose he employed himself in di'awing up accurate computations of the numbers of our own men, and that of foreigners employed in its destructive progress. He even wrote in the Examiners, and other periodical papers of the times, shewing how much of tlie burden rested upon England, and how little was sustained by those who falsely boasted their aUiance. By these means, and after much debate in the House of Commons, the Queen received a petition from Parlia- ment, shewing the hardships the allies had put upon England in carrying on this war, and consequently how necessary it was to apply relief to so ill- judged a connexion. It may be easily supposed that the Dutch, against whom this petition was chiefly levied, did all that was in their power to oppose it ; many of the foreign courts also, with whom we had any transactions, were con- tinually at work to defeat the minister's intentions. Memorial was dehvcted after memorial : the people of England, the parliament, and all Europe, were made acquainted witli the injustice and the dangers of such a proceeding ; however, Bolingbroke went on with steadiness and resolution ; and although the attacks of his enemies at home might have been deemed sufficient to employ his attention, yet he was obliged at the same time that he fmuiished materials to the press in London, to furnish instructions to all our ministers and ambas- sadors abroad, who would do nothing but in pursuance of liis directions. As an orator in the senate he exerted all his eloquence, he stated all the great points that were brought before the house, he answered the objections that were made by the leaders of the opposition ; and all this with such success, that even his enemies, while they opposed his power, acknowledged his abilities. Indeed such were the difficulties he had to encounter, that we find him acknowledging himself some years after, that he never looked back on this great event, passed as it was, without a secret emotion of mind, when he compared the vastness of the undertaking, and the importance of the success, with the means employed to bring it about, and with those which were employed to frustrate his intentions. While he was thus industriously employed, he was not without the rewards that deserved to foUow such abilities, joined to so much assiduity. In Jvily, 1712, he was created Baron St. John, of Lidyard Tregoze in Wiltsliire, and Yi3C0unt Bolingbroke j by the last of which titles he is now generally known.. LIFE OF LORD BOLINGBROKE. 265 and is likely to be talked of by posterity ; lie was also the same year appointed lord lieutenant of the county of Essex. By the titles of Tregoze and Boling- broke he united the honours of the elder and younger branches of his family ; and thus transmitted into one channel the opposing interest of two races, that had been distinguished, one for their loyalty to King Charles I., the other for their attachment to the Parliament that opposed him. It was afterwards hia boast that he steered clear of the extremes for which his ancestors had been distinguished, having kept the spirit of the one, and acknowledged the subor- dination that distingiushed the other. Bolingbroke, being thus raised very near the summit of power, began to perceive more nearly the defects of him who was placed there. He now began to find that Lord Oxford, whose party he had followed, and whose person he had esteemed, was by no means so able or so industrioiis as he supposed him to be. He now began from his heart to renotmce the friendship Avhich he once had for his coadjutor ; he began to imagine him treacherous, ' mean, indolent, and invidious ; he even began to ascribe his own promotion | to Oxford's hatred, and to suppose that he was sent up to the House of j Lords, only to render him contemptible. These suspicions were partly true, ! and partly suggested by Bolingbroke's own ambition ; being sensible of his own superior importance and capacity, he could not bear to see another take i the lead in pubhc aJETairs, when he knew they owed their chief success to his own management. Whatever might have been his motives, whether of con- tempt, hatred or ambition, it is certain an irreconcilable breach began between these two leaders of their party : their mutual hatred was so great, that even j their own common interest, the vigour of their uegociations, and the safety of their friends, were entirely sacrificed to it. It was in vain that Swift, who was | admitted into their coimsels, urged the imreasonable impropriety of their dis- } putes : that, while they were thus at variance within the walls, the enemy were j making irreparable breaches without. Bolingbroke's antipathy was so great, ' that even success would have been hateful to him, if Lord Oxford were to be a partner. He abhorred him to that degree, that he could not bear to be joined with him in any case ; and even some time after, when the lives of both were aimed at, he could not think of concerting measures with him for their mu- tual safety, preferring even death itself to the appearance of a temporary friendship. j Nothing could have been more weak and injudicious than their mutual | animosities at this junctu.re ; and it may be asserted with truth, that men, i who were unable to suppress or conceal their resentments upon such a trying ; occasion, were unfit to take the lead in any measm-es, be their industry or their j abilities ever so gi'cat. In fact their dissensions were soon found to involve i not only them, but their party in utter riiin : their hopes had for some time ! been decHning, the whigs were daily gaining ground, and the Queen's death ; soon after totally destroyed aU their schemes with their power. ! Upon the accession of George I. to the tlu^one, dangers began to threaten the late ministry on every side ; whether they had really intentions of bringing in the Pretender, or wh ether the whigs made it a pretext for destroying them, is uncertain ; but the King very soon began to shew that they were to expect neither favour nor mercy at his hands. Upon his landing at Grreenwicli, when the court came to wait upon him, and Lord Oxford among the number, he studiously avoided taking any notice of him, and testified his resentment by the caresses he bestowed upon the members of the opposite faction. A regency had been some time before appointed to govern the kingdom, j and Addison was made secretary. Bolingbroke still maintained his place of j itate secretary, but subject to the contempt of the great, and the insults of j 266 THE WO RKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. the mean. The first step taken by them to mortify him, was to order all letters and packets directed to the secretary of state to be sent to Mr. Addison ; so tliat Bolingbroke was in fact removed from liis office, that is, the execution of it, in two days after the Queen's death. But this was not the worst, for his mortifications were continually heightened by the daily humiliation of waiting at the door of the apartment where the regency sat, with a bag in his hand, and being all the time, as it were, exposed to the insolence of those, who were tempted by their natural maleyolence, or who expected to make their court to those in power by abusing liim. Upon this sudden tiu'n of fortune, when the seals were taken from him, he went into the country, and having received a message from com't, to be present when the seal was taken from the door of the secretary's office, he excused himself, alleging, that so trifling a ceremony might as well be per- foi'med by one of the under secretaries, but at the same time requested the houom* of kissing the King's hand, to whom he testified the utmost submission. This request however was rejected with disdain ; the King had been taught to regard him as an enemy, and threw himself entirely on the whigs for safety and protection. The new Parliament, mostly composed of whigs, met the I7th of March, and in tlie King's speech from the throne many inflammg hints were given, and many methods of violence chalked out to the two houses. *' The first steps" (says Lord Bolingbroke, speaking on this occasion) "in both were perfectly answerable ; and, to the shame of the peerage be it spoken, I saw at that time several lords concm' to condemn in one general vote all that they had approved in a former parhament by many particular resolutions. Among several bloody resolutions proposed and agitated at this time, the resolution of impeachmg me of high treason was taken, and I took that of leaving England, not in a panic terror, improved by the artifices of the Duke of Marlborough, whom I knew even at that time too well to act by his advice or information in any case, but on such grounds as the proceedings which soon followed sufficiently justified, and such as I have never repented building upon. Those, who blamed it in the first heat, were soon after obliged to change their language : for what other resolution could I take ? The method of i^rosecution designed against me would have put me out of a condition immediately to act for my- self, or to serve those who were less exposed than me, but who were however in danger. On the other hand, how few were there on whose assistance I could depend, or to whom I would even in these circumstances be obliged ? The ferment in the nation was brought up to a considerable height ; but there Avas at that time no reason to expect that it could influence the proceedings in parliament, in favom' of those who should be accused : left to its own move- ment, it was much more j)roper to quicken than slacken the prosecutions ; and who was thereto guide its motions ? The tories, who had been true to one another to the last, were a handful, and no gi'cat vigour could be expected from them : the whimsicals, disappointed of the figm'e which they hoped to make, began indeed to join then- old friends. One of the principal among them, namely, the Earl of Anglesea, was so very good as to confess to me, that if the court had called the servants of the late queen to account, and stopped there, he must have considered himself as a judge, and acted according to his conscience on what should have appeared to him : but that war had been de- clared to the whole tory i^arty, and that now the state of things was altered. This discourse needed no commentary, and proved to me, that I had never orred in the judgment I made of this set of men. Could I then resolve to be obliged to them, or to sufier with Oxford ? As much as I still was heated by the disputes, in which I had been all my life engaged against the whigs, I LtPE OF LORD BOLINGBROKE. 26t would sooner have cliosen to owe my security to their indulgence, than to the assistance of the whimsicals ; but I thought banishment with all her train of evils, preferable to either." Such was the miserable situation to which he was reduced iipon this occa- sion ; of all the number of his fonner flatterers and dependants scarcely was one found remaining. Every hour brougiit fresh reports of his alarming situation, and the dangers which threatened him and his party on all sides. Prior, who had been employed in negociating the treaty of Uti'echt, was come over to Dover, and had promised to reveal all he knew. The Duke of Marl- borough planted his creatures round liis lordship, who artfully endeavoured to increase the danger ; and an impeachment was actually preparing in which he ■was accused of high treason. It argued therefore no great degree of timidity in his lordship, to take the first opportunity to withdraw from danger, and to suffer the first boilings of popular animosity to quench the flame that had been raised against him : accordingly, having made a gallant shew of despis- ing the machinations against him, having appeared in a very unconcerned manner at the play-house in Drury-lane, and having bespoke another play for the night ensuing ; having subscribed to a new opera that was to be acted some time after, and talked of making an elaborate defence, he went off that same night in disguise to Dover, as a servant to Le Yigne, a messenger belong- ing to the French king ; and there one William Morgan, who had been a Cap- tain in GTeneral Hill's regiment of dragoons, hired a vessel, and cari'ied him over to Calais, where the governor attended him in his coach, and carried him to his house with all poss«ible distinction. The news of Lord Bolingbroke's flight was soon known over the whole town; and the next day a letter from him to Lord Lansdowne was handed about in print, to the following effect. " My Lord, " I LEFT the town so abrupt!}', that I had no time to take leave of you or any of my friends. You will excuse me, when you know that I had certain and repeated informations, from some who arc in the secret of affairs, that a resolution was taken, by those who have power to execute it, to pursue me to the scaffold. My blood was to have been the cement of a new alliance, nor could my innocence be any security, after it had once been demanded from abroad, and resolved on at home, that it was necessary to cut me off. Had there been the least reason to hope for a fan* and open trial, after having been already prejudged unheard by the two houses of parliament, I should not have dechned the strictest examination. I challenge the most inveterate of my enemies to produce any one instance of a criminal correspondence, or the least coriaiption of any part of the administration in which I was concerned. If my zeal for the honour and dignity of my royal mistress, and the true in- terest of my country, have any where transported me to let slip a warm or unguarded expression, I hope the most favoiu'able interpretation will be put upon it. It is a comfort that will remain with me in all my misfortunes, that I served her Majesty faithfully and dutifully, in that especially which she had most at heart, relieving her people from a bloody and expensive war, and that I have also been too much an Englishman, to sacrifice the interests of my country to any foreign ally ; and it is for this crime only that I am now driven from thence. You shall hear more at large from me sliortly. "Yours, &c." IS"© sooner was it universally known that he was retired to France, than his flight was construed into a proof of his guilt; and his enemies accordingly sot about driving on his impeachment with redoiibled alacrity. Mr. afterwards 268 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Sir Robert Walpole, who had suffered a good deal by his attachment to the whig interest during the former reign, now undertook to bring in and conduct the charge against him in the House of Commons. His impeacluneut consisted of six articles, •which Walpole read to the house, in substance as follows. First, that whereas the Lord Uolingbroke had assured the Dutch Ministers, tliat the Queen his mistress would make no peace but in concert with them, yet he had sent Mr. Prior to France that same year with proposals for a treaty of peace with that monarch, without the consent of the allies. Secondly, tliat he ad- vised and promoted the making a separate treaty of conyention with France, wliich was signed in September. Thirdly, that he disclosed to M. Mesnager, tlie French minister at London, this convention, which was the preliminary instructions to her Majesty's plenipotentiaries at Utrecht. Fom-thly, that her Majesty's final instructions to her plenipotentiaries were disclosed by him to the Abbot Gualtier, who was an emissary of France. Fifthly, that he dis- closed to the French the manner how Tournay in Flanders might be gained by them. And lastly, that he advised and promoted the yielding up Spain and the West Indies to the Duke of Anjou, then an enemy to her Majesty. These were urged by Walpole with great vehemence, and aggTavated with all the eloquence of which he was master. He challenged any person in behalf of the accused, and asserted, that to vindicate, were in a manner to share his guilt. In this tmiversal consternation of the tory party none was for some time seen to stir ; but at length Grcneral Ross, who had received favours from his lord- ship, boldly stood up, and said, he wondered that no man more capable was found to appear in defence of the accused. However, in attempting to pro- ceed, hp hesitated so mucli that he was obliged to sit down, observing, that he would reserve what he had to, say to another opjDortmiity. It may easily be supposed that the whigs found no great difficulty in passing the vote for his impeachment through the House of Commons. It was brought into that house on the 10th of June, 1715, it was sent up to the House of Lords on the 6th of August ensuing, and in consequence of which he was attainted by them of high treason on the lOlh of September. Nothing could be more vinjust than sucli a sentence ; but justice had been drowned in the spirit of party, Bolingbroke, thus finding all hopes cut off at home, began to think of im- proving his wretched fortune upon the continent. He had left England with a very small fortune, and his attainder totally cut off all resources for the future. In this depressed situation he began to listen to some proposals which were made by the Pretender, wlio was then residing at Barr, in France, and who was desirous of admitting Bolingbroke into his secret councils. A pro- posal of this nature had been made liim shortly after his arrival at Paris, and before his attainder at home ; but, while he had yet any hopes of succeeding in England, he absolutely refused, and made the best applications liis ruined fortune would permit to prevent the extremity of his prosecution.. He had for some time waited for an opportunity of determining himself, even after he fou.nd it vain to think of making his peace at home. He let his Jacobite friends in England know that they had but to command him, and he was ready to venture in their service the little all that remained, as frankly as lie had exposed all that was gone. At length, (says he, talking of himself) these commands came, and were executed in the following manner. The per- son who was sent to me arrived in the beginning of July, 1715, at the place I had retired to in Dauphino. He spoke in the name of all his friends whose authority could influence me ; and he brought word, that Scotland was not only ready to take arms, biit under some sort of dissatisfaction to be withheld from beginning : that in England the people were exasperated against the government to such a degi-ee, that far from wanting to be encoviraged, they LIFE OF LORD BOLINGBROKE. could not be restrained from iusulting it on every occasion ; that the whole | tory party was become avowedly Jacobites ; that many officers of the army j and the majority of the soldiers were well affected to the cause ; that the City | of London was ready to rise, and that the enterprises for seizing of several i places were ripe for execution ; in a word, that most of the principal toiies i were in concert with the Duke of Ormond : for I had pressed particularly to be informed whether. his grace acted alone, or, if not, who were his council ; ' and that the others were so disposed, tliat there remained no doubt of their I joining as soon as the first blow was struck. He added, that my friends were a little surprised to observe that I lay neuter in such a conjuncture. He repre- sented to me the danger I ran of being prevented by people of all sides from having the merit of engaging early in this enterprise j and how unaccountable it would be for a man, impeached and attainted under the present government, to take no share in bringing about a revolution so near at hand and so certain. He intreated that I would defer no longer to join the Chevalier, to advise and assist in carrying on his affairs, and to solicit and negotiate at the Court of France, where my friends imagined that I should not fail to meet a favourable reception, and whence they made no doubt of receiving assistance in a situa- tion of affairs so critical, so unexpected, and so promising. He concluded by giving me a letter from the Pretender, whom he had seen in his way to me, in which I was pressed to repair without loss of time to Comercy : and this instance was grounded on the message which the bearft: of the letter had brought me from England. In the progress of the conversation with the messenger, he related a number of facts, which satisfied me as to the general disposition of the people ; but he gave me little satisfaction as to the measures taken to improve this disposition, for driving the business on with vigour, if it tended to a revolution, or for supporting it to advantage, if it spun into a war. When I questioned him concerning several persons whose disinclination to the government admitted no doubt, and whose names, quality, and expe- rience were very essential to the success of the undertakuig : he owned to mo that they kept a great reserve, and did at most but encourage others to act by general and dark expressions. I received this account and this summons ill in my bed ; yet, important as the matter was, a few minutes served to determine me. The circumstances wanting to form a reasonable inducement to engage did not excuse me ; but the smart of a bill of attainder tingled in every vein, and I looked on my party to be under oppression, and to call for my assistance. Besides which, I considered first that I shovdd be certainly informed, when I conferred with the Chevalier, of many particulars unknown to this gentleman ; for I did not imagine that the English could be so near to take up arms as he represented them to be, on no other foundation than that which he exposed. In this manner having for some time debated with laimself, and taken his resolution, he lost no time in repairing to the Pretender at Comercy, and took the seals of that nominal King, as he had formerly those of his potent mis- tress. But this was a terrible falling off indeed ; and the very first conversa- tion he had with this weak projector gave him the most unfavourable expectations of future success. He talked to me (says his Lordship) like a man who expected every moment to set out for England or Scotland, but who did not very well know for which : and when he entered into the particulars of his affairs, I found that concerning the former he had nothing more cir- cumstantial or positive to go upon, than what I have abeady related. But the Duke of Ormond had been for some time, I cannot say how long, engaged with the Chevalier : he had taken the direction of this whole affair, as far as it related to England, upon himself, and had received a commission for this purpose, which contained the most ample powers that could be given. But 270 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Ktill, however, all was iinsettled, undetermined, and ill-understood. The Duke had asked from France a small body of forces, a sum of money, and a quan- tity of ammunition ; but to the first part of the request he receiyed a flat denial, but was made to hope that some arms and some ammunition might be given. This was but a very gloomy prospect ; yet hope swelled the depressed party so high, that they talked of nothing less than an instant and ready revo- lution. It was their interest to be secret and industrious : but, rendered sanguine by their passions, they made no doubt of subverting a government with which they were angry, and gave as great an alarm, as would have been imprudent at the eve of a general insurrection. Such was the state of things when Bolingbroke arrived to take up his new office at Comercy ; and although he saw the deplorable state of the party with which he was embarked, yet he resolved to give his affairs the best complexion he was able, and set out for Paris, in order to procure from that court the necessary succours for his new master's invasion of England. But his recep- tion and negociations at Paris were still more impromising than those at Comercy ; and nothing but absolute infatuation seemed to dictate every mea- sure taken by the party. He there found a multitude of people at work, and every one doing what seemed good in his own eyes : no sub- ordination, no order, no concert. The Jacobites had wrought one another up to look upon the success of the present designs as infallible ; every meet- ing-house which th^ populace demolished, as he himself says, every httle drunken riot which happened, served to confirm them in these sanguine ex- pectations ; and there was hardly one among them who would lose the air of contributing by his intrigues to the restoration, which he took it for gi'anted would be brought about in a few weeks. Care and hope, says oiir author very humorously, sate on every busy Irish face ; those who could read and write had letters to shew, and those who had not arrived to this pitch of erudition had their secrets to whisper. No sex was excluded from this ministry : Fanny Oglethorpe kept her corner in it ; and Olive Trant, a woman of the same mixed reputation, was the great wheel of this political machine. The ridicu- lous correspondence was carried on with England by people of like importance, and who were busy in sounding the alarm in the ears of an enemy, whom it was their interest to surprise. By these means, as he himself continues to inform us, the government of England was put on its guard, so that before he came to Paris, what was doing had been discovered. The little armament made at Havre de Grace, which furnished the only means to the Pretender of landing on the coast of Britain, and which had exhausted the treasury of St. G-ermain's, was talked of publicly. The Earl of Stair, the English Minister at that city, very soon discovered its destination, and all the particulars of the intended invasion ; the names of the persons from whom supplies came, and who were particularly active in tlie design, were whispered about at tea- tables and coffee-houses. In short, what by the indiscretion of the projectors, what by the private interests and ambitious views of the French, the most private transactions came to light ; and such of the more prudent plotters, who supposed that they had trusted their heads to the keeping of one or two friends, were in reality at the mercy of numbers. " Into such company," ex- claims our noble writer, " was I fallen for my sins," Still, however, he went on, steering in the wide ocean without a compass, till the death of Louis XIV. and the arrival of the Duke of Ormond at Paris rendered all his endea- vours abortive : yet, notwithstanding these unfavoui*able circumstances, he still continued to dispatch several messages and du'cctions for England, to which he received very evasive and ambiguous answers. Among the number of these he drew up a paper at Chaville, in concert with the Duke of Ormond, LIFJi} OF LORD BOLINGBROKE. 211 Marshal Berwick, and De Torcy, which was sent to England just before the death of the King of France, representing that France could not answer the demands of their memorial, and praying directions what to do. A reply to this came to him tlu'ough the French Secretary of State, wherein they de- clared tliemselves unable to say anything till they saw what turn affah-s would take on the death of the King, which had reached their ears. Upon another occasion, a message coming from Scotland to press the Chevalier to hasten their rising, he dispatched a messenger to London to the Earl of Mar, to tell him that the concurrence of England in the insurrection was ardently wished and expected : but, instead of that nobleman's waiting for instructions, he had already gone into the Highlands, and there actually put himself at tbe head of his clans. After this, in concert with the Duke of Ormond, he dispatched one Mr. Hamilton, who got all the papers by heart for fear of a miscarriage, to their friends in England, to inform them that though the Cheyalier was destitute of succoui*, and all reasonable hopes of it, yet he would land, as they pleased, in England or Scotland at a minute's warning ; and tlierefore they might rise immediately after they had sent dispatches to him. To this message Mr. Hamilton returned very soon with an answer given by Lord Lansdowne, in the name of all the persons privy to the secret, that, since aflPairs grew daily worse, and would not mend by delay, the malcontents in England had resolved to declare immediately, and would be ready to join the Duke of Ormond on his landing ; adding, that his person would be as safe in England as in Scotland, and that in every otl>er respect it was better he should land in England ; that they had used their utmost endeavours, and hoped the Western countries would be in a good posture to receive him : and that he should land as near as possible to Plymouth. With these assurances the Duke embarked, though he had heard before of the seizure of many of his most zealous adherents, of the dispersion of many more, and the consternation of all ; so that upon his arrival at Plymouth, finding nothing in readiness, lie returned to Britany. In these circumstances the Pretender himself sent to have a vessel got ready for him at Dunku'k, in which he went to Scotland, leaving Lord BoHngbroke all this while at Paris, to try if by any means some assistance might not be procured, without which all hopes of success were at an end. It was during his negotiation upon this miserable proceeding that he was sent for by Mrs. Trant (a woman who had for some time before ingra- tiated herself with the Eegent of France, by supplying him with mistresses from England), to a little house in the Bois de Boulogne, where she lived with Mademoiselle Chausery, an old superannuated waiting-woman belonging to the Kegent. By these he was acquainted with the measures they had taken for the service of the Duke of Ormond ; although Bolingbroke, who was actually secretary to the negotiation, had never been admitted to a confidence in their secrets. He was tlierefore a little surprised at finding such mean agents em- ployed without his privity, and very soon found them utterly unequal to the task. He quickly therefore withdrew himself from such wretched auxiliaries, and the Eegent himself seemed pleased at his defection. In the meantime the Pretender set sail from Dunkirk for Scotland ; and though Bolingbroke had all along perceived that his cause was hopeless and his projects ill designed ; although he had met with nothing but opposition and disappointment in his sei'vice, yet he considered that this of all others was the time he could not be permitted to relax in the cause. He now therefore neglected no means, forgot no argiiment which his understanding could sug- gest, in applying to the court of France : but his success was not answerable to his industry. The King of France, not able to furnish the Pretender with money himself, had written some time before his death to his grandson, the 273 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. King of Spain, and had. obtained from liim a promise of forty thousand crowns. A small part of this sum had been received by the Queen's Ti'easurer at St. Grermain's, and had been sent to Scotland, or employed to defray the expenses which were daily making on the coast j at the same time Bolingbroke pressed the Spanish ambassador at Paris, and soHcited the minister at the court of Spain. He took care to have a number of officers picked out of the Irish troops which serve in France, gave them their routes, and sent a ship to receive and transport them to Scotland. Still, however, the money came in so slowly, and in such trifling sums, that it turned to little account, and the officers were on their way to the Pretender. At the same time he formed a design of engaging French privateers in the expedition, that were to have carried whatever should be necessary to send to any part of Britain in their first voyage, and then to cruize under the Pretender's commission. He Lad actually agreed for some, and had it in his power to have made the same bar- gain w^th others : Sweden on the one side and Scotland on the other could have afTorded them retreats ; and, if tlie war had been kept up in any part of the mountains, this annament would have been of the utmost advantage. But all liis projects and negotiations failed by the Pretender's precipitate return, who was not above six weeks in his expedition, and flew out of Scotland even before all had been tried in his defence. The expedition being in this manner totally defeated, Bohngbroke now began to think that it was his duty as well as his interest to save the poor remains of the disappointed party. He never had any great opinion of the Pretender's success before he set off ; but when this adventurer had taken the last step which it was in his power to make, our Seci'ctary then resolved to suffer neither him nor the Scotch to be any longer bubbles of their own credu- lity, and of the scandalous artifices of the French com't. In a conversa- tion he had witli the Marshal De Huxelles, he took occasion to declare that lie would not be the instrmnent of amusing the Scotch ; and since he was able to do them on other service, he would at least inform them of what little de- pendence they might place upon assistance from France. He added that he wovild send them vessels, which, with those aheady on the coast of Scotland, might serve to bring off the Pretender, the Earl of Mar, and as many others as possible. The Marshal approved his resolution, and advised him to execute it as the only thing which was left to do ; but m the meantime the Pretender landed at G-raveline, and gave orders to stop all vessels bound on his account to Scotland ; and Bolingbroke saw him the morning after his arrival at St. G-ermain's, and lie received him with open arms. As it was the Secretary's business, as soon as Bohngbroke heard of his return, he went to acquaint the French court with it ; when it was recom- mended to him to advise the Pretender to proceed to Bar with all possible dihgence ; and in this measure Bolingbroke entirely concurred. But the Pretender himself was in no such haste ; he had a mind to stay some time at St. Grermain's, and in the neighbourhood of Paris, and to have a private meet- ing with the Eegent : he accordingly sent Bolingbroke to solicit this meeting, who exerted all his influence in the negotiation. He wrote and spoke to the Marshal De Huxelles, who answered him by word of mouth and by letters, refusing him by both, and assuring him that the Eegent said the things which were asked were puerilities, and swore he would not see him. The secretary, no ways displeased .with liis ill success, returned with this answer to his master, who acquiesced in this determination, and declared he would instantly set out for Lorrain, at the same time assuring Bolingbroke of his firm reliance on hia integrity. However, the Pretender, instead of taking post for Lorrain, as he had LIFE OF LORD BOLINGBROKK 273 promised, went to a little house iu the Bois de Boulogne, where his female ministers resided, and there continued for several days, seeing the Spanish and Swedish ministers, and eren the Regent himself. It might have been in these interviews that he was set against his new secretary, and taught to believe that he had been remiss in his duty and false to his trust : be this as it will, a few days after the Duke of Onnond came to see Bolingbroke, and, having first prepared him for the surprise, put into his hands a note directed to the Duke, and a little scrip of paper directed to the secretary ; they were both in the Pretender's hand-writing, and dated as if written by him on his way to Lorrain : but in this Bolingbroke was not to be deceived, who knew tlie jjlace of his present residence. In one of these papers the Pretender de- clared that he had no farther occasion for the secretary's service : and the other was an order to him to give up the papers m his office ; all which, he observes, might have been contained in a letter- case of a moderate size. He gave the Duke the seals, and some papers which he could readily come at ; but for some others, in which there were several insinuations under the Pre- tender's own hand, reflecting upon the Duke himself, these he took care to convey by a safe hand, since it would have been very improper that the Duke should have seen them. As he thus gave iip without scruple all the papers which remained in his hands, because he was determined never to make use of them, so he declares he took a secret pride in never asking for those of his own which were in the Pretender's hands ; contenting himself with making the Duke understand, how httle need there was to get rid of a man in this manner, who only wanted an opportunity to get rid of the Pretender and his cause. In fact, if we survey the measures taken on the one side, and the abilities of the man on the other, it will not appear any way wonderful that he should be disgusted with a party, who had neither principle to give a foun- dation to their hopes, union to advance them, nor abilities to put them in motion. Bolingbroke, being thus dismissed from the Pretender's service, supposed that he had got rid of the trouble and the ignominy of so mean an employ- ment at the same time ; but he was mistaken: he was no sooner rejected from the office, than articles of impeachment were preferred against him, in the same manner as he had before been impeached in England, though not witli such effectual injmy to his person and fortune. The articles of his impeach- ment by the Pretender were branched out into seven heads, in which he was accused of treachery, incapacity, and neglect. The first was, that he was never to be foimd by those who came to him about business : and if by chance or stratagem they got hold of him, he affected being in an hurry, and by putting them off to another time, still avoided giving them any answer. The second was, that the Earl of Mar complained by six different messengers at different times, before the Chevalier came from Dunkirk, of his being in want of arms and ammunition, and prayed a speedy relief; and though the things demanded were in my lord's power, there was not so much as one pound of powder in any of the ships which by his lordship's directions parted from France. Thirdly, the Pretender himself after his arrival sent General Hamilton to inform him, that his want of arms and ammunition was sucli, that he should be obliged to leave Scotland unless he received speedy relief : yet Lord Bolingbroke amused Mr. Hamilton twelve days together, and did not introduce him to any of the French ministers, though he was referred to them for a particular account of affairs : or so much as communicated his letters to the Queen, or anybody else. Fourthly, the Count de Castel Blanco, had for several months at Havre a considerable quantity of arms and anamu- nition, and did daily ask his lordship's orders how to dispose of them, tut 18 274 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. never got any instructions. Fifthly, the Pretender's friends at the French court had for some time past no very good opinion of his lordship's integrity, and a very bad one of his discretion. Sixthly, at a time when many mer- chants in France would have carried privately any quantity of arms and am- munition into Scotland, his lordship desired a public order for the embark- ation, wliich being a thing not to be granted, is said to have been done in order to urge a denial. Lastly, the Pretender wrote to his lordship by every • occasion after his ariival in Scotland ; and though there were many opportu- nities of writing in retm'n, yet from the time he landed there, to the day he left it, he never received any letter from his lordship. Such were the articles, by a very extraordinary reverse of fortune, preferred against Lord Boling- broke, in less than a year after similar articles were drawn up against him by the opposite party at home. It is not easy to find out what he could have done thus to disoblige all sides ; but he had leai'ned by this time 'to make out happiness from the consciousness of his own designs, and to consider all the rest of mankind as uniting in a faction to oppress vii*tue. But though it was mortifying to be thus rejected on both sides, yet he was not remiss in vindicating hunself from all. Against these articles of impeach- ment, therefore, he di*ew up an elaborate answer, in which he vindicates him- self with great plausibOity. He had long, as he asserts, wished to leave the Pretender's service, but was entirely at a loss how to conduct himself in so difficult a resignation ; but at length, says he, the Pretender and his council disposed of things better for me than I could have done for myself. I had resolved, on liis return from Scotland, to follow him till his residence should be fixed somewhere ; after which having served the tories in this, wliich I looked upon as their last struggle for power, and having continued to act in the Pretender's afiaii's till the end of the term for which I embarked witli him, I should have esteemed myself to be at liberty, and should, in the civilest manner I was able, have taken my leave of him. Had we parted thus, I should have remained in a very strange situation all the rest of my life : on one side, he would have thought that he had a right on any futm-e occasion to call me out of my retreat, the tories would probably have thought the same thing, my resolution was taken to refuse them both, and I foresaw that both woidd con- demn me ; on the other side, the consideration of his having kept measures with me, joined to that of having once openly declared for him, would have created a point of honour, by which I should have been tied down, not only from ever engaging against liim, but also from making my peace at home. The Pretender cut this Grordian knot asunder at one blow : he broke the links of that chain which former engagements had fastened on me, and gave me a right to esteem myself as free from all obligations of keeping measm*es with liim, as I should have continued if I had never engaged in liis interest. It is not to be supposed that one so very delicate to preserve his honom', would previously have basely betrayed Ins employer : a man, conscious of acting so infamous a part, would have undertaken no defence, but let the ac- cusations, which could not materially affect him, blow over, and wait for the calm that was to succeed in tranquillity. He appeals to all the ministers with whom he transacted business, for the integrity of his proceedings at that juncture ; and had he been really guilty, when he opposed the ministry here after his retui'n, they would not have failed to brand and detect his duj)licity. The truth is, that he perhaps was the most disinterested minister at that time in the Pretender's court ; as he had spent great sums of his own money in his service, and never would be obliged to him for a farthing, in which case he believes that he was single. His integi-ity is much less impeachable on this occasion than his ambition j for all the eteps he took may be fairly ascribed LIFE OF LORD BOLINGBROKE. 275 to his displeasure at having the Duke of Ormond and the Earl of Mai* treated more confidentially than himself. It was his aim always to be foremost in every administration, and he could not bear to act as a subaltern in so paltry a court as that of the Pretender. At all periods of his exile he still looked towards home with secret regret ; and had even taken every opportunity to apply to those in power, either to soften his prosecutions, or lessen the number of his enemies at home. In ac- cepting his office under the Pretender he made it a condition to be at hberty to quit the post whenever he should think proper ; and being now disgrace- fully dismissed, he turned his mind entirely towards making his peace in England, and employing all the unfortunate experience he had acquired to undeceive his tory friends, and to promote the union and quiet of his native country. It was not a little favourable to his hopes, that about this time, though miknown to Irim, the Earl of Stair, ambassador to the Erencli court, had received full power to treat with him whilst he was engaged with the Pretender ; but yet had never made him any proposals, which might be con- sidered as the grossest outrage. But when the breach with the Pretender was universally knoAvn, the Earl sent one Monsieur Saludin, a gentleman of Greneva, to Lord Bolingbroke, to communicate to him his Majesty King George's favourable disposition to grant him a pardon, and his own earnest desire to serve him as far as he was able. This was an offer by much too advantageous for Bolingbroke in his wi'etched circumstances to refuse ; he embraced it, as became him to do, with all possible sense of the King's goodness, and of the ambassador's fi'iendship. They had frequent conferences shortly after upon the subject. The turn which the English ministry gave the matter, was to enter into a treaty to reverse his attainder, and to stipidate the conditions on which this act of grace should be granted him ; but this method of negotiation he would by no means submit to ; the notion of a treaty shocked him, and he resolved never to be restored, rather than go that way to work. Accordingly he opened himself withoiit any reserve to Lord Stan*, and told him that he looked upon himself obliged in honom' and con- science to undeceive his friends in England, both as to the state of foreign alfau's, as to the management of the Jacobite interest abroad, and as to the cha- racters of the persons ; in every one of which points he knew them to be most grossly and most dangerou.sly deluded. He observed, that the treatment he had received from the Pretender and his adherents would justify him to the world in doing this ; that if he remained in exile all his life, he might be assured that he would never have more to do with the Jacobite cause ; and that, if he were restored, he would give it an effectual blow, in making that apology which the Pretender had put him imder a necessity of making ; that in doing this he flattered liimself that he should contribute something towards the establishment of the King's government, and to the union of his sub- jects. He added that, if the court thought him sincere in those professions, a treaty with him was unnecessaiy ; and, if they did not believe so, then a treaty would be dangerous to him. The Earl of Stah', who has also con- firmed this acco\mt of Lord Bolingbroke's, in a letter to Mr. Craggs, readily came into his sentiments on this head, and soon after the King approved it upon their representations : he accordingly received a promise of pardon from George I., who, on the 2nd of Jiily, 1716, created his father Baron of Battersea, in the coxmty of Sm'rey, and Viscount St. John. This seemed preparatory to .his own restoration j and, instead of prosecuting any farther ambitious schemes against the government, he rather began to turn his mind to philosophy : and since he could not gratify his ambition to its full extent, he endeavoured to learn the art of despising it. The variety of distressful IS— 2 276 THE WORKS OF OLiVEk GOLDSMITH. erents that had hitherto attended ail his struggles, at last had thrown him into a state of reflection, and this produced, by way of relief, a consolatio philosophica, which he wrote tlie same year, under the title of Reflections upon Exile. In this piece, in which he professes to imitate the manner of Seneca, he with some wit draws his own pictui-e, and represents himself as sufiering persecution for having served his country with abilities and integrity. A state of exile thus incui'red, he very justly shews to be ratlier honourable than dis- tressful ; and indeed there are few men who will deny, that the company of strangers to virtue is better than the company of enemies to it. Besides this philosophical tract, he also wrote this year several letters, in answer to the charges laid upon him by the Pretender and his adherents ; and the following year he drew up a vindication of liis whole conduct with respect to the tories, in the form of a letter to Sir William Windham. Nor was he so entirely devoted to the fatigues of business, but that he gave pleasm'e a share in liis pm-suits. He had never much agreed with the lady lie first married, and after a short cohabitation they separated, and lived ever after asunder. She therefore remained in England upon his going into exile, and by proper application to the throne was allowed a sufiicient maintenance to support her with becoming dignity: however she did not long survive his first disgrace j and, upon liis becoming a widower, he began to think of trying his fortune once more, in a state which Avas at first so tmfavourable. For this purpose he cast his eye on the widoAv of the Marquis of Yillette, a niece to the famous Madam Maintenon j a young lady of great merit and understand- ing, possessed of a very large fortune, but incumbered with a long and troublesome law-suit. In the company of this very sensible woman he passed his time in France, sometimes in the country, and sometimes at the capital, till the year 1723, in which, after the breaking up of the parliament, his Majesty was pleased to grant him a pardon as to his personal safety, but as yet neither restoring him to his family inheritance, his title, nor a seat in parlia- ment. To obtain this favour had been the governing principle of his politics for some years before j and upon the first notice of his good fortmie, he prepared to return to his native country, where however his dearest connexioHs were either dead, or declared themselves suspicious of his former conduct in sup- port of their party. It is observable that Bishop Atterbury, who was banished at this time for a supposed treasonable coi-respondence in favour of the tories, was set on shore at Calais, just when Lord Bohngbroke arrived there on his return to England. So extraordinary a reverse of fortime could not fail of strongly aflecting that good prelate, who observed with some emotion, that he pei'ceived himself to be exchanged : he presently left it to his auditors to ima- gine, whether his country were the loser or the gainer by such, an exchange. Lord Bolingbroke, upon his return to his native country, began to make xery vigorous applications for farther favom's from the crown; his pardon, without the means of support, was but an empty, or perhaps it might be called a distressful, act of kindness, as it brought him back among his former friends, in a state of inferiority his pride could not endure. However, Ids applications were soon after successful: for in about two years after his return, he obtained an act of parliament to restore him to his family inheritance, which amounted to nearly three thousand pounds a year. He was also enabled by the same to pos- se?s any pm-chase he should make of any other estate in the kingdom ; and he accordingly pitched upon a seat of Lord Taukerville's, at iDawley, near Ux- bridge in Middlesex, where he settled with his lady, and laid himself oixt to enjoy the rural pleasm-es in perfection, since the more glorious ones of ambi- tion were denied him. With this resolution lie began to improve his new LIFE OF LORD BOLINGBROKE, 27*^ purchase in a very peculiar style, giving it all the air of a country farm, and adorning even his hall with all the implements of husbandry. We have a Bketch of his way of living in this retreat in a letter of Pope's to Swift, who omits no opportunity of representing his lordship in the most amiable points of view. This letter is dated from Dawley, the country farm above-men- tioned, and begins thus : " I now hold the pen for my Lord Bolingbrolre, who is reading your letter between two haycocks : but his attention is somewhat diverted, by casting his eyes on the clouds, not in the admiration of wliat you say, but for fear of a shoAver. He is pleased with, your placing him in the tri- umvirate between yourself and mej though he says he doubts he shall fare like Lepidus, while one of us runs away with all the power, like Augustus, and another with all the pleasm-e, like Antony. It is upon a foresight of this, that he has fitted vip his farm, and you will agree that this scheme of retreat is not founded upon weak appearances. Upon his return from Bath, he finds all peccant humours are purged out of him ; and his great temperance and eco- nomy are so signal, that the first is fit for my constitution, and the latter would enable you to lay up so much money as to buy a bishoprick in England. As to the retm'u of liis health and vigom", were you here, you might inquire of liis haymakers : but as to his temperance, I can answer that for one whole day we have had notliing for dinner but muttan-broth, beans and bacon, and a barn-door fowl. Now his lordship is run after his cart, I have a moment left to myself to tell yovi, that I overheard him yesterday agree with a painter for two hundred pounds, to paint his country hall with rakes, spades, prongs, &c. and other ornaments, mei'cly to countenance his callmg this place a farm." What Pope here says of his engagements with a painter, was shortly after executed ; the hall was painted accordingly in black crayons only, so that at first view it brought to mind the figures often seen scratched with charcoal, or the smoke of a candle, upon the kitchen walls of farm-houses. The whole how- ever produced a most striking effect, and over the door at the entrance into it was this motto : Satis beatim ruris honoribus. His lordship seemed to be ex- tremely happy in this pursuit of moral tranquillity, and in the exultation of ]iis heart could not fail of communicating his satisfactions to his friend Swift. I am in my own farm says he, and here I shoot strong and tenacious roots ; I have caught hold of the earth, to use a gardener's pln-ase, and neither my enemies nor my friends will find it an easy matter to transplant me again. Tliere is not, x^erhaps, a stronger instance in the world than his lordsliip, that an ambitious mind can never be fairly subdued, but will still seek for those gratifications which retirement can never supply. All this time he was mis- taken in his passion for solitude, and supposed that to be the child of philo- sophy, which was only the effect of spleen : it was in vain that he attempted to take root in the shade of obsciuity j he was originally bred in the glare of public occupation and he secretly once more wished for transplantation. He was only a titular lord, he had not been thoi'oughly restored ; and, as lie was excluded from a scat in the House of Peers, he burned with impatience to play a part in that conspicuous theatre. Impelled by this desire, he could no longer be restrained in obscurity, but once more entered into the bustle of public biisiness, and disavowing aU obligations to the minister, he embarked in the opposition against him, in which he had several powerful coadjutors : but previously, he had taken care to prefer a pe- tition to the House of Commons, desiring to be reinstated in his former emo- luments and capacities. This petition at first occasioned very warm debates ; Walpolo, who pretended to espouse his cause, alleged that it was very right to admit hun to his inheritance ; and when Lord William Pawlet moved for a slfvuse to disfj^ualify liini from sitting in citlicr liousc, Walpoic rcjocted the 278 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GGLDSMITIL motion, secretly satisfied with a resolution wliich had been settled in the cabi- net, that he should never more be admitted into any share of power. To this artful method of evading his pretensions, Bolingbrote was no stranger ; and he was now resolved to shake that power, which thus endeavoured to obstruct the increase of his own : taking therefore his part in the opposition witli Pulteney, while the latter engaged to manage the House of Commons, Boling- broke undertook to enlighten the people : accordingly he soon distinguished himself by a multitude of pieces, written during the latter part of Greorge the First's reign, and likewise the beginning of that which succeeded. These were conceived with great vigour and boldness ; and now, once more engaged in the service of his country, though disarmed, gagged, and almost bound, as he de- clared himself to be, yet he resolved not to abandon his cause, as long as he could depend on the firmness and integrity of those coadjutors, who did not labour under the same disadvantages with himself. His letters in a paper called the Ci'aftsman, were particularly distinguished in this political contest ; and though several of the most expert politicians of the times joined in this paper, his essays were peculiarly relished by the public. However it is the fate of things written to an occasion, seldom to sui'vive that occasion : the Craftsman, though written with great spirit and sharpness, is now almost for- gotten, although when it was published as a weekly paper, it sold much more rapidly than even the Spectator. Besides this work he published several other separate pamphlets, which were afterwards reprinted iu the second edition of his works, and which were very popular in their day. This poUtical warfare continued for ten years, during wliich time he laboured Avith great strength and perseverance, and drew up such a system of politics, as some have supposed to be the most complete now existing. But, as upon all other occasions, he had the mortification once more to see those friends de- rest him, upon wliose assistance he most firmly relied, and all that web of fine-spun speculation actually destroyed at once by the ignorance of some and the perfidy of others. He then declared tliat he was perfectly cured of liis patriotic phrenzy ; he fell out not only with Pulteney for his selfish views, but with his old friends the tories, for abandoning their cause as desperate, aver- 2'ing that the faint and unsteady exercise of parts on one side was a crime but one degree inferior to the iniquitous misapplication of them on the other. But he could not take leave of a controversy in which he had been so many years engaged, without giving a parting blow, in which he seemed to summon lip all his vigour at once, and where, as the poet says, Animam in vulnere posuit. This inimitable piece is intituled, " A Dissertation on Parties," and of all his masterly pieces it is in general esteemed the best. Having finished this, which was received with the utmost avidity, he re- solved to take leave not only of his enemies and friends, but even of his coun- try ; and in this resolution in the year 1736 he once more retired to France, where he looked to his native country with a mixture of anger and pity, and upon his former professing friends with a share of contempt and indignation. I expect little, says he, from the principal actors that tread the stage at pre- sent. They are divided not so much as it seemed, and as they would have it believed, about measures. The true division is about their different ends. Whilst the minister was not hard pushed, nor the prospect of succeeding him near, they appeared to have but one end, the reformation of the govern- ment. The destruction of the minister was pursued only as a preliminary, but of essential and indisputable necessity, to that end : but when his destruc- tion seemed to approach, the object of his succession interposed to the si^ht of many, and the reformation of the government was no longer their poir^t of LIFE OF LOBD BOLINGBROKE. 279 view. They liad divided the skiia, at least in their thought, before they had taken the beast. The common fear of hastening his downfall for others, made them all famt in the chace. It was this, and tliis alone, that sayed him, and put off his evil day. Such were his cooler reflections, after he had laid down his political pen to em: ploy it in a manner that was much more agreeable to his usual professions, and his approaching age. He had long employed the few hours he could spare, on subjects of a more general and important nature to the interests of mankind ; but as he was frequently interrupted by the alarms of party, he made no great pi'oficiency in his design. Still, howerer, he kept it in view; and he makes frequent mention in his letters to Swift, of his intentions to give metaphysics a new and useful turn. I know, says he, in one of these, how little regard you pay to writings of this kind ; but I imagine, that if you can like any, it must be those that strip metaphysics of all their bombast, keep within the siglit of every well-constituted eye, and never bewilder themselves, whilst they pretend to guide the reason of others. Having now arrived at the sixtieth year of his age, and being blessed with a very competent share of fortune, he retm'ned into France, far from the noise find luu'ry of party; for his seat at Dawley was too near to devote the I'est of his life to retirement and study. Upon his going to that country, as it was generally known that disdain, vexation, and disappointment had driven him there, many of his friends as well as his enemies supposed that he was once again gone over to the Pretender. Among the number who entertained this luspicion was Swift, whom Pope in one of his letters very roundly chides for harbouring such an imjust opinion. " You should be cautious," says he, " of censuring any motion or action of Lord Bolingbroke, because you hear it only from a shallow, envious and malicious reporter. "Wiiat you writ to me about him, I find, to my great scandal, repeated in one of yours to another. What- ever you might hint to me, was this for the profane ? The thing, if true, should be concealed ; but it is, I assui-e you, absolutely untrue in every cir- cumstance. He has fixed in a very agreeable retirement, near Fontainbleau, and makes it his whole business vacate litteris.''^ This reproof from Pope was not more friendly than it was true ; Lord Bolingbroke was too well acquainted with the forlorn state of that party, and the folly of its conductors, once more to embavk in their desperate concerns. He now saw that he had gone as far towards reinstating himself in the full possession of his former honours, as the mere dint of parts and application could go, and was at length experimentally convinced, that the decree was ab- solutely irreversible, ancl the door of the House of Lords finally shut against i him. He therefore, at Pope's suggestion, reth-ed merely to be af leisure | from the broils of opposition, for the calmer pleasm'es of philosophy. Thus | the decline of his life, though less brilUant, became more amiable ; and even ! his happiness was imxDroved by age, which had rendered his passions more j moderate, and his wishes more attainable. .But he was far fi-om suffering even in solitude his hours to glide away in torpid inactivity. That active restless disposition still continued to actuate his pm'suits ; and having lost the season for gaining power over his contempo- [ raries, he was now resolved upon acquiring fame from posterity. He had not j been long in his retreat near Fontainbleau, when he began a course of letters j on the study and use of histoiy, for the use of a young nobleman. In these j he does not follow the methods of St. Keal and others who have treated on I this subject, who make history the great fountain of all knowledge ; he very wisely confines its benefits, and supposes them rather to consist in deducing : general maxims from particular facts, than in illustrating maxims by the .appli- j 280 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. cation of liistorical passages. In mentioning ecclesiastical history he gives his opinion very freely upon the subject of the divine original of the sacred books, ■which he supposes to have no such foundation. This new system of thinking, "wliich he had always propagated in conversation, and which he now began to adopt in his more laboured compositions, seemed no way supported either by his acuteness or his learning. He began to reflect seriously on these subjects too late in life, and to suppose those objections very new and unanswerable, which had been already confuted by thousands. " Lord Bolingbroke," says Pope, in one of his letters, "is above trifling; when he writes of any thing in this world, he is more than mortal. If ever he trifles, it must be when he turns divine." In the mean time, as it was evident that a man of his active ambition, in choosing retirement when no longer able to lead in pubhc, must bo liable to ridicule in resuming a resigned philosophical air; in order to obviate the censure, he addressed a letter to Lord Bathm*st, upon the true use of retirement and study ; in which he shews himself still able and willing to undertake the cause of his country, whenever its distresses should require his exertion. I have, says he, renounced neither my country nor my friends : and by friends I mean all those, and those alone, who are such to their country. In their prosperity they shall never hear of me : in their distress always. In that retreat, wherein the remainder of my days shall be spent, I may be of some use to them, since even thence I may advise, exhort, and warn them. Bent upon this pursuit only, and having now exchanged the gay statesmen for the grave philosopher, he shone forth with distinguished lustre. His conversation took a difierent tm*n from what had been usual with him : and as we are assured by Lord On'ery, who knew him, it united the wisdom of Socrates, the dignity and ease of Pliny, and the wit of Horace. Yet still amid his resolutions to turn himself from politics, and to give liimself up entirely to the calls of philosophy, he could not resist embarking once more in the debates of his country : and coming back from Trance, settled at Battersea, an old seat which was his father's, and had been long in the possession of the family. He supposed he saw an impending calamity, and though it was not in his power to remove, he thought it his duty to retard its fall. To redeem or save the nation from perdition, he thought im- possible, since national corruptions were to be pm-ged by national calamities ; but he was resolved to lend his feeble assistance to stem the torrent that was pouring in. With this spirit he wrote that excellent piece, which is intituled, "The Idea of a Patriot King : " in which he describes a monarch uninfluenced by party, leaning to the suggestions neither of wliigs nor tories, but equally the friend and the father of all. Some time after, in the year 1749, after the conclusion of the peace two years before, the measiu-es taken by the administration seemed not to have been repugnant to his notions of pohtical prudence for that juncture ; in that year he wrote his last production, containing reflections on the then state of the nation, principally with regard to her taxes and debts, and on the causes and consequences of them. This undertaking was left imfinishedj for death snatched the pen from the hand of the writer. Having passed the latter part of his life in dignity and splendoiu', his rational faculties improved by reflection, and his ambition kept under by disappointment, his whole aim seemed to have been to leave the stage of life, on which he had acted such various parts, with applause. Ho had long wished to fetch his last breath at Battersea, the place where he was born ; and fortune, that had through life seemed to traverse all his aims, at last indulged him in this. He had long been troubled with a cancer in liis cheek, by wliich excruciating disease he died on the verge of fourscore years of age. He wa* LIFE OF LORD BOLTNGBROKE, 281 consonant witli himself to the last, and those principles which he had all along avowed, he confirmed with his dying breath, having given orders that none of the clergy sliould be permitted to trouble him in his latest moments. His body v^as interred in Battersea chm^cli with those of his ancestors ; and a marble monument erected to his memory, with the Ibllowing excellenb inscription. Here Hes HENEY ST. JOHN, in the Eeign of Queen Amie Secretary of War, Secretary of State, and Viscount Bolingbroke : in the days of King George I. and King Greorge II. something more and better. His attacliment to Queen Anne esposed him to a long and severe Persecution ; he bore it with firmness of Mind ; he passed the latter part of his time at homo, the Enemy of no national Party : the Friend of no Faction. Distinguished (under the cloud of a Proscription, which had not been entirely taken ofT,) by Zeal to maintain the Liberty, and to restore the ancient Prosperity, of Grreat Britain, he died the 12th of December, 1751, aged 79. In this manner lived and died Lord Bolingbroke ; ever active, never de- pressed, ever pursuing fortune, and as constantly disappointed by her. In whatever light Ave view his character, we shall find him an object rather properer for our wonder, than our imitation, more to be feared than esteemed, and gaining our admiration without our love. His ambition ever aimed at the summit of power, and nothing seemed capable of satisfying his immode- rate desires but tJie liberty of governing aU things without a rival. With as much ambition, as great abilities, and more acquired knowledge than Cffisar, he wanted only his courage to be as successful ; but the schemes his head dictated, his heart often refused to execute : and he lost the ability to perform, just when the great occasion called for aU his efforts to engage. The same ambition that prompted him to be a politician, actuated him as a philosopher. His aims were equally great and extensive in both capa- cities : unwilling to submit to any in the one, or any authority in the other, he entered the fields of science with a thorough contempt of all that had been established before him, and seemed willing to think every thing wrong, that he might shew his faculty in the reformation. It might have been better for his quiet as a man, if he had been content to act a subordinate character in the state ; and it had certainly been better for his memory as a writer, if he had aimed at doing less than he attempted. Wisdom in morals, like every other art or science, is an accumidation that numbers have contributed to increase ; and it is not for one single man to pretend, that he can add more to the heap than the thousands that have gone before him. Such innovations more frequently retard than promote knowledge: their maxims are more agreeable to the reader, by having the gloss of novelty to recommend them, than those which are trite, only because they are tru.e. Such men are there- 282 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. fore followed at first -witli avidity, nor is it tiU some time that their disciples begin to find their error. They often, though too late, perceive that they liaro been following a speculative inquiry, while they have been leaving a practical good : and while they have been practising the arts of doubting, they have been losing all firmness of principle, which might tend to establish the recti- tude of their private conduct. As a moralist therefore, Lord Bolingbroke, by having endeavoured at too much, seems to have done nothing : but as a political writer, few can equal and none can exceed him. As he was a prac- tical politician, his writings are less filled with those speculative illusions, which are the result of solitude and seclusion. He wrote them with a cer- tainty of their being opposed, sifted, examined, and reviled ; he therefore took care to build them up of such materials, as could not be easily over- thrown : they prevailed at the times in which they were written, they stiU continue to the admiration of the present age, and will probably last for ever. PREFACE TO DR. BROOKES'S NATURAL HISTORY. Of all tlie studies which have employed the industrious, or amused the idle, perhaps Natural History deserves the preference ; other sciences generally terminate in doubt, or rest in bare speculation ; but here eyery step is marked | with certainty, and while a description of the objects around us teaches to { supply our wants, it satisfies our cm*iosity. The multitude of Nature's productions, however, seems at first to bewilder j the inquirer, rather than excite his attention ; the various wonders of the ' animal, vegetable, or mineral world, seem to exceed all powers of computation, i and the science appears barren from its amazing fertility. But a nearer ac- ' quaintance with this study, by giving method to our researches, points out a | similitude in many objects which at fii'st appeared different ; the mind by degrees rises to consider the things before it in general lights, till at length it finds Nature, in almost every instance, acting with her usual simplicity. Among the nmnber of philosophers, who, undaunted by their supposed variety, have attempted to give a description of the productions of Nature, Aristotle deserves the first place. This great philosopher was fmniished by his pupil Alexander, with all that the then known world could produce to complete his design. By such parts of his work as have escaped the wi'cck of time, it appears that he imderstood Nature more clearly, and in a more com- , prehensive manner, than even the present age, enlightened as it is with so i many later discoveries, can boast. His design appears vast, and his know- [ lodge extensive ; he only considers things in general lights, and leaves every j subject when it becomes too minute or remote to be useful. In his History of Animals, he first describes man, and makes him a standard with which to I compare the deviations in every more imperfect kind that is to follow. But if \ he has excelled in the history of each, he, together with Pliny and Tlieo- I phrastus, has failed in the exactness of their descriptions. There are many | creatm-es described by those naturalists of antiquity, which are so imperfectly j characterized, that it is impossible to tell to what animal now subsisting we j can refer the description. This is an vmpardonable neglect, and alone sufficient to depreciate their merits ; but their credulity, and the mutilations they have suffered by time, have rendered them still less useful, and justify each subse- quent attempt to iniprove what they have left behind. The most laborious, PREFACE TO DR. BROOKES' S NATURAL HISTORY. 283 as well as the most voluminouSj natm-alist among tlie moderns is Alclrovandus. He was furnished -with every requisite for making an extensive body of jSTatural History. He was learned and rich, and, during the course of a long life, indefatigable and accm-ate. But his works are insupportably tedious and disgusting, filled with tinnecessary quotations and unimportant digressions. Whatever learning he had, he was wilhng should be known, and, unwearied himself, he supposed his readers could never tire ; in short, he appears an xiseful assistant to those who would compile a body of Natural History, but is utterly unsuited to such as only wish to read it with profit and delight. Gresner and Jonston, willing to abridge the voluminous productions of Aldro- vandus, have attempted to reduce Natural History into method, but their efforts have been so incomplete as scarcely to deserve mentioning. Their attempts were improved upon some time after by Mr. Eay, whose method we have adopted in the History of Quadrupeds, Birds, and Fishes, which is to follow. No systematical writer has been more happy than he in reducing Natm-al History into a form, at once the shortest, yet most comprehensive. The subsequent attempts of Mr. Klein and Linnreus, it is true, have had tlieir admirers : but as all methods of classing the productions of nature are calculated merely to ease the memory and enhghten the mind, that writer who answers such ends with brevity and perspicuity, is most worthy of regard. And in this respect Mr. Eay undoubtedly remains stiU without a rival ; he was sensible that no accm*ate idea could be formed from a mere distribution of animals in particular classes ; he has therefore ranged them according to their most obvious qualities ; and, content with brevity in his distribution, has em- ployed accuracy only in the particular description of every animal. Tliis in- tentional inaccm-acy only in the general system of Eay, Klein and Linnaius have undertaken to amend ; and thus, by miiltiplying divisions, instead of impressing the mind with distinct ideas, they only serve to confound it, making the language of the science more difficult than even the science itself. All order whatsoever is to be used for the sake of brevity and perspicuity ; we have therefore followed that of Mr. Eay in preference to the rest, whose method of classing animals, though not so accurate, perhaps is yet more ob- vious, and, being shorter, is more easily remembered. In his life-time he published his Synopsis Methodica Q.uadrupedum et Sei-pentini G-eneris ; and after his death there came out a posthtunous work xmder the care of Dr. Der- ]iam, which, as the title-page informs lis, was revised and perfected before his death. Both the one and the otlier have their merits, but as he wrote, cur- rente calamo, for subsistence, they are consequently replete with errors ; and though his manner of treating natural history be preferable to that of all others, yet there was still room for a new work, that might at once retain liis excellences, and supply his deficiencies. As to the natural history of insects, it has not been so long or so great!;,' cultivated as other parts of this science. Our own countryman Moufett is tlie first of any note, that I have met with, wlio has treated this subject with success. However, it was not till lately that it was redu.ced to a regular sys- tem, which might be in a great measure owing to the seeming insignificancy of the animals tliemselves ; even though they were always looked upon as of great use in medicine, and upon that account only have been taken notice of by many medical writers. Thus Dioscorides has treated of their use in physic ; and it must be owned, some of them have been well worth observation on this account. There were not wanting also those who long since had thoughts of reducing this kind of knowledge to a regular form, among whom was Mr. Eay, who was discouraged by the difficulty attending it ; tliis study has been pursued of late, however, 'with diligence and success. Eenunuir and 884 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Swammerdam liave principally distinguished tliemselyes on this account ; and their respective treatises plainly show, that they did not spend their labour in vain. Since their time several authors have published their systems, among whom is Linnaeus, whose method being generally esteemed, I have thought proper to adopt. He has classed them in a very regular manner, though he says but little of the insects themselves. However, I have endeavoured to supply that defect from other parts of his works, and from other authors who have written upon this subject ; by which means, it is hoped, the curiosity of such as delight in these studies will be in some measiu-e satisfied. Such of them as have been more generally admu'ed, have been longest insisted upon, and particularly caterpillars and butterflies, relative to which, perhaps, there is the largest catalogue that has ever appeared in the English language. Mr. Edwards and Mr. Buffon, one in the History of Birds, the other of Quadrupeds, have undoubtedly deserved highly of the public, as far as their labours have extended : but as they have hitherto cultivated but a small part in the wide field of natm*al history, a comprehensive system in this most pleasing science has been liitherto wanting. Nor is it a little surprising, when every other branch of literature has been of late cultivated with so mucli suc- cess among us, how this most interesting department should have been neglected. It has been long obvious that Ai-istotle was incomplete, and Plinj credulous, Aldrovandus too prolix, and Linnaeus too short to afford the propei entertainment ; yet we have had no attempts to supply their defects, or to give an history of Nature at once complete and concise, calculated at once to please and improve. How far the author of the present performance lias obviated the wants of the public in these respects, is left to the world to determine ; this much, however, he may without vanity assert, that whether the system here presented be approved or not, he has left the science in a better state than he found it. He has consulted every author whom he imagined might give him new and authentic information, and ]3ainfully searched thi'ough heaps of lumber to detect falsehood ; so that many parts of the following work have exhausted much labour in the execution, tliough they may discover little to the superfi- cial observer. Nor have I neglected any opportunity that ofiered of conversing upon these subjects with travellers, upon whose judgments and veracity I could rely. Thus comparing accurate narrations with what has been already written, and following either, as the circumstances or credibility of the witness led me to be- lieve. But I have had one advantage over almost all foi'mer naturalists, namely, that of having visited a variety of coim tries myself and examined the pro- ductions of each upon the spot. Whatever America, or the known parts of Africa have produced to excite curiosity, has been carefully observed by me, and compared with the accounts of others. By this I have made some im. provements that will ap^Dcar in their place, and have been less hable to be im- posed upon by the hearsay relations of credulity. A complete, cheap, and commodious body of natm'al history being wanted in our language, it was these advantages which prompted me to this under- taking. Such therefore as choose to range in the delightful fields of Nature, will, I flatter myself, here find a proper guide ; and those who have a design to fm-nish a cabinet will find copious instructions. With one of these volumes in liis hand a spectator may go tlu'ough the largest Museum, the British not excepted, see Nature through all her varieties, and compare her usual opera- tions with those wanton productions, in which she seems to sport with human sagacity. I have been sparing however in the description of the deviations fifom the usual course of production, first, because such aye almost infinity, INTRODUCTION TO A NEW HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 285 and the natural historian, wlio should spend his time in describing deformed nature, would be as absurd as the statuary, who should fix upon a deformed man, from whom to take his model of perfection. But I would not raise expectations in the reader which it may not be in my power to satisfy : he who takes up a book of science must not expect to ac- quire knowledge at the same easy rate that a reader of romance does enter- tainment ; on the contrary, all sciences, and natural history among the rest, hare a language and a manner of treatment peculiar to themselves, and he who attempts to di'css them in borrowed or foreign ornaments, is every whit as uselessly employed as the Grcrman apothecary we are told of, who turned the Avhole dispensatory into verse. It will be sufficient for me, if the following system is found as pleasing as tlie nature of the subject will bear, neither ob- scured by an unnecessary ostentation of science, nor lengthened out by an affected eagerness after needless embelhshment. The description of every object will be found as clear and concise as possible, the design not being to amuse the ear with well-turned periods, or the imagi- nation with borrowed oniamcnts, but to impress the mind with the simplest views of Nature. To answer this end more distinctly, a pictm:e of such ani- mals is given as we are least acquainted with. All that is intended by this is, only to guide the inquirer with more certainty to the object itself, as it is to be found in Natiu'e. I never would advise a student to apply to any science, either anatomy, physic, or natm-al history, by looking on pictures only ; they may serve to direct him moi'e readily to the objects intended, but he must by no means suppose himself possessed of adequate and distinct ideas till he has viewed the things themselves, and not their representations. Copper-plates, therefore, moderately well done, answer the learner's purpose every whit as well as those which cannot be piu'chased but at a vast expense ; they serve to guide us to the archetypes in Nature, and this is all that the finest picture should be permitted to do, for Nature herseK ought always to be examined by the learner before he has done. INTEODUCTION TO A NEW HISTORY OF THE WORLD. INTENDED TO UAYE BEEN PUBLISHED IN TWELYE TOLTJMES OCTATO Br J. Nev^bert, 1764. TO THE PUBLIC. Expeeience every day convinces us that no part of learning affords so much wisdom upon such easy terms as History. Oiu* advances in most other studies are slow and disgusting, acquired with efibrt, and retained with difficulty ; but in a well- written history every step we proceed only serves to increase our ardour : we profit by the experience of others, without sharing their toils or misfortunes ; and in this part of knowledge, m a more particular manner, study is but relaxation. Of all histories, however, that, which is not confined to any particular reign or country, but which extends to the transactions of all mankind, is the most useful and entertaining. As in geography we can have no just idea of tlie situation of one couiitry without knowing that of others, so in history it is in some measui-e necessary to be acquainted with the whole, thoroughly to com- 286 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLBSUITH. prehend a part. A knowledge of universal history is therefore higlily useful, nor is it less entertaining. Tacitus complains, that the transactions of a few reigns could not afford him a sufEcient stock of materials to please or interest the reader ; but here that objection is entirely removed ; an History of the "World presents the most striking events, with the greatest variety. These are a part of the many advantages which universal history has over all others, and which have encouraged so many writers to attempt compiling works of this kind, among the ancients as well as the moderns, — each invited by the manifest utility of the design ; yet many of them faihng through the great and unforeseen difficulties of the undertaking : the barrenness of events in the early periods of history, and their fertility in modern times, equally serving to increase then* embarrassments. In recounting the transactions of remote antiquity, there is such a defect of materials, that the willingness of mankind to supply the chasm, has given birth to falsehood and invited conjec- ture. The farther we look back into those distant periods, all the objects seem to become more obscure, or are totally lost, by a sort of perspective diminution. In this case, therefore, when the eye of truth could no longer discei'n clearly, fancy undertook to form the picture ; and fables were invented where truths were wanting. Tor this reason we have declined enlarging on such disquisitions, not for want of materials, which offered themselves at every step of our progress, but because we thought them not worth discussing. Neither have we encumbered the beginning of our work with the various opinions of the heathen pliilosophers concerning the creation, which may be found in most of om* systems of theology, and belong more properly to the divine than the historian. Sensible how liable we are to redundancy in this first part of our design, it has been our endeavour to unfold ancient history with all possible conciseness ; and solicitous to improve the reader's stock of knowledge, we have been indifferent as to the display of our own. We have not stopped to discuss or confute all the absm'd conjectures men of speculation have thrown in our way. We at first had even determined not to deform the page of truth with the names of those whose labours had only been calcu- lated to encumber it with fiction and vain speculation. However, we have thought proper, upon second thoughts, slightly to mention them and their opinions, quoting the author at the bottom of the page, so that the reader who is curious about such particularities, may know where to have recourse for fuller information. As in the early part of history a want of real facts hath induced many to spin out the little that was known with conjecture, so in the modern part the superfluity of trifling anecdotes was equally apt to introduce confusion. In one case history has been rendered tedious from our want of knowing the truth, in the other from knowing too much of truth not worth our notice. Every year that is added to the age of the world, serves to lengthen the thread of its liistory ; so that to give this branch of learning a just length in the circle of human pm'suits, it is necessary to abridge several of the least important facts. It is true, we often at present see the annals of a single reign, or even the transactions of a single year, occupying folios : but can the writers of such tedious journals ever hope to reach posterity, or do they think that our descendants, whose attention will naturally be turned to their own concerns, can exhaust so much time in the examination of ours ? A plan of general history rendered too extensive, deters us from a study that is perhaps of all others the most useful. By rendering it too laborious : and instead of alluring our curiosity, excites om* despair. Writers are impardonable who convert our amiisement into labour, and divest knowledge of one of its most pleasing allurements. The ancients have represented History under the figure INTRODUCTION TO A NEW HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 28l of a woman, easy, graceful, and inviting ; but we have seen her in our days converted, Hke the virgin of Nabis, into an instrument of tortui*e. How far wo have retrenched these excesses, and steered between the oppo- sites of exuberance and abridgement, the judicious are left to determine. We here offer the public an History of Mankind from the carhest accounts of time to the present age, in twelve volumes, which, upon matvu'e dehberation, ap- peared to us the proper mean. It has been om* endeavour to give every fact its full scope ; but at the same time to retrench all disgusting superfluity, to give every object the due proportion it ought to maintain in the general picture of mankind, without crowding the canvas. We hope, therefore, that the reader will here see the revolutions of empires without confusion, and trace arts and laws from one kingdom to anothei*, without losing his interest in the narrative of their other transactions. To attain these ends with greater cer- tainty of success, we have taken cai-e in some measru*e to banish that late, and we may add, Gothic practice of using a midtiplicity of notes ; a thing as much miknown to the ancient historians as it is disgusting in the moderns. Balzac somewhere calls vain erudition the baggage of antiquity ; might we in tvuTi be permitted to make an apophthegm, we would call notes the baggage of a bad writer. It certainly argues a defect of method, or a want of perspi- cuity, when an author is thus obliged to wi'ite notes upon his own works ; and it may assuredly be said, that whoever undertakes to write a comment upon himself, will for ever remain without a rival his own commentator. We have therefore lopped off such excrescences, though not to any degree of affectation j as sometimes an acknowledged blemisli may be admitted iato works of skill, either to cover a greater defect, or to take a nearer coui'se to beauty. Having mentioned the danger of affectation, it may be proper to observe, that as this of all defects is most apt to insinuate itself into such a work, we have there- fore been upon our guard agaiust it. Innovation in a performance of this nature should by no means be attempted : those names and spellings which have been used in our language for time immemorial ought to continue unal- tered ; for, like states, they acquire a sort of jus diuturnoe possessionis, as the civilians express it, however unjust their original claims might have been. With respect to chronology and geography, the one of which fixes actions to time, while the other assigns them to place, we have followed the most ap- proved methods among the moderns. All that was requisite in this, was to preserve one system of each invariably, and permit such as chose to adopt the plans of others, to rectify our deviations to their own standard. If actions and things are made to preserve their due distances of time and place mutually with respect to each other, it matters little as to the dm-ation of them all with respect to eternity, or their situation with regard to the universe. Thus much we have thought proper to premise concerning a work which, however executed, has cost much labom' and great expense. Had we for our judges the imbiassed and the judicious alone, few words woiild have served, or even silence wordd have been oiu' best address ; but when it is considered that we have laboured for the public, that misceUanous being, at variance within itself, from the differing influence of pride, prejudice, or incapacity ; a public already sated with attempts of this nature, and in a manner unwilling to find out merit till forced upon its notice ; we hope to be pardoned for thus endea- vouring to shew where it is presumed we have had a superiority. An History of the World to the present time, at once satisfactory and succinct, calculated rather for use than curiosity, to be read rather than consulted, seeking applause from the reader's feelings, not from his ignorance of learning, or affectation of being thought learned ; an History that may be pm-chased at an easy expense, yet that omits nothing material, delivered in a style correct, yet familiar, was 288 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMtTH. wanting in our language ; and tliough. sensible of oiu* own insufficiency, this defect we have attempted to supply. Wliatever reception the present age or posterity may give this work, we rest satisfied with our own endeavom-s to deserve a kind one. The completion of our design has for some years taken up all the time we could spare from other occupations, of less importance indeed to the pubUc, but probably more advantageous to ourselves. "We are unwilling therefore to dismiss this subject without observing, that the labour of so great a part of life should at least be examined with candour, and not carelessly confomided in that multiplicity of daily publications which are conceived without effort, are produced without praise, and sink without censure. PEEFACE TO DR. GOLDSMITH'S ROMAN HISTORY. There are some subjects on which a writer must decline all attempts to acquire fame, satisfied with being obscm-ely useful. After such a number of Eoman Histories, in almost all languages, ancient and modern, it would be but imposture to pretend new discoveries, or to expect to offer any thing in a work of this kind, which has not been often anticipated by others. The facts which it relates have been an hundred times repeated, and every occurrence has been so variously considered, that learning can scarcely find a new anecdote, or geniiis give novelty to the old. I hope, therefore, for the reader's indul- gence, if, in the following attempt, it shall appear, that my only aim was to supply a concise, plain, and unaffected narrative of the Else and Decline of a well-known empire. I was contented to make such a book as could not fail of being serviceable, though of all others the most unlikely to promote the reputation of the wi'iter. Instead, therefore, of pressing forward among the ambitious, I only elaun the merit of knowing my own strength, and falhug back among the hindmost ranks, witli conscioiis inferiority. I am not ignorant, however, that it would be no difficult task to pursue the same art by which many duU men, every day, acquire a reputation in History ; such might easily be attained, by fixing on some obscure period to write upon, where much seeming erudition might be displayed, almost unknown, because not worth remembering ; and many maxims in politics might be advanced entirely new, because altogether false. But I have pursued a contrary method, choosing the most noted period in history, and offering no remarks but such as I thought strictly true. The reasons of my choice were, that we had no history of this splendid period in our language, but what was either too voluminous for common use, or too meanly wi'itten to please. Catrou and EouiUe's liistory in six volumes folio, translated into om* language by Bundy, is entirely unsuited to the time and expense mankind usually choose to bestow upon this subject ; Eollin and his continuator Crevier, making neai'ly thu'ty volumes octavo, seem to laboiu' tmder the same imputation ; as likewise Hooke, who has spent three quartos upon the Eepublic alone, the rest of his undertaking remaining unfinished.*^ There only, therefore, remained the history by Echard, in five volumes octavo, whose plan and mine seemed to coincide j and had his execution been equal * Mr. Hooke's three quartos above-mentioned reached only to the end of the Gallic war. A fourth volume to the end of the Republic, was afterwards published in 1771. Dr. Gold- smith's preface was written in 1769. Mr. Hooke's quarto edition has been republished in eleven volumes octavo. PREFACE TO ROMAN HISTORY. 289 to Ills design, it had precluded the present undertaking. But the truth is, it is so poorly written, the facts so crowded, the narration so spiritless, and the characters so indistinctly marked, that the most ardent curiosity must cool in the perusal ; and the noblest transactions that erer warmed the human heart, as described by liira, must cease to interest. I have endeayoured, therefore, in the present work, or rather cornpilation, to obviate the inconveniences arising from the exuberance of the former, as well as from the unpleasantness of the latter. It was supposed, that two volumes might be made to comprise all that was requisite to be known, or pleasing to be read, by such as only examined history to prepare them for more important stiidies. Too much time may bo given even to laudable piu'suits, and there is none more apt than this, to allure the student from the necessary branches of learning, and, if I may so express it, entirely to engi-oss his industry. What is here offered, therefore, may be sufficient for all, except such who make history the peculiar business of their hves ; to such the most tedious narrative will seem but an abridgement, as they measiu'e the merits of a work, rather by the quantity than the quahty of its contents : others, however, who think more soberly, will agree, that in so extensive a field as that of the transactions of Eome, more judgment may be shewn by selecting what is important, than by adding what is obscvu*e. The history of this empire has been extended to six volumes folio ; and I aver, that with very little learning, it might be increased to sixteen more : but what would this be, but to load the subject with unimportant facts, and so to weaken the nai-ration, that like the empire described, it must necessarily sink beneath the weight of its own acquisitions ? But while 1 thus endeavoured to avoid prolixity, it was foimd no easy matter to prevent crowding the facts, and to give every narrative its proper j)lay. In reality, no art can contrive to avoid opposite defects ; he who in- dulges in minute particularities, will be often languid ; and he who studies con- cisenoes, will as frequently be dry and • tmentertaining. As it was my aim to comprise as much as possible in the smallest compass, it is feared the work will often be subject to the latter imputation ; but it was impossible to furaisli the public with a cheap Roman History in two volumes octavo, and at the same time to give all that warmth to the narrative, all those colourings to the description, which works of twenty times the bulk have room to exhibit. I shall be fvilly satisfied, therefore, if it furnishes an interest sufficient to allure the reader to the end ; and this is a claim to which few abridgements can justly make pretensions. To these objections there are some who may add, that I have rejected many of the modern improvements in Eoman History, and that every character is left in full possession of that fame or infamy which it obtained from its contem- poraries, or those who wrote immediately after. I acknowledge the charge, for it appears now too late to re-judge the virtues or the vices of those men, who were but very incompletely known even to their own historians. The Eomans, perhaps, upon many occasions formed wrong ideas of virtue ; but they were by no means so igTiorant or abandoned in general, as not to give to their brightest characters the greatest share of their applause ; and I do not know whether it be fair to try Pagan actions by the standard of Christian morality. But whatever may be my execution of this work, I have very little doubt about the success of the undertaking ; the subject is the noblest that ever em- ployed human attention ; and instead of requiring a -writer's aid, will even support him with its splendour. The Empire of the world, rising from the meanest origin, and growing great by a strict veneration for religion, and an 19 290 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. implicit confidence in its commanders j continually changing the mode, but seldom the spirit of its gorernment ; being a constitution, in which the military power, whether under the name of citizens or soldiers almost always prevailed; adopting all the improvements of other nations with the most indefatigable industry, and submitting to be taught by those whom it after- wards subdued — this is a picture that must affect us, however it be disposed ; these materials must have their value, imder the hand of the meanest ■^^orkman. PEEFACE TO GOLDSMITtrS HISTORY OF ENGLAND, Feom the favom'able reception given to my Abridgement of Eoman History, published some time since, several friends and others whose business leads them to consult the wants of the public, have been induced to siippose that an English History written on the same plan, would be acceptable. It was their opinion that we still wanted a wt)rk of this kind, where the narrative, though very concise, is not totally without interest, and the facts, though crowded, are yet distinctly seen. The business of abridging the works of others has hitherto fallen to the lot of very dtdl men ; and the art of blotting, which an eminent critic calls the most difiicult of all others, has been usually practised by those who fomid themselves unable to -write. Hence our abridgements are generally more tedious than the works from which they iDretend to reheve us ; and they have effectually embarrassed that road which they labom;ed to shorten. As the present compiler starts with such humble competitors, it will scarcely be thought vanity in him if he boasts himself their superior. Of the many abridgements of our own history hitherto published, none seems possessed of any share of merit or reputation ; some have been written in dialogue, or merely in the stiffness of an index, and some to answer the j)urposes of a party. A very small share of taste, therefore, was sufficient to keep the com* piler from the defects of the one, and a very small share of philosophy from the misrepresentations of the other. It is not easy, however, to satisfy the different expectations of mankind in a work of this kuid, calculated for every apprehension, and on which all are consequently capable of forming some judgment. Some may say that it is too long to pass under the denomination of an abridgement ; and others, that it is too dry to be admitted as an history ; it may be objected that reflection is almost entirely banished to make room for facts, and yet that many facts are wholly omitted which might be necessary to be known. It must be confessed that all those objections are partly true 5 for it is impossible in the same work at once to attam contrary advantages. The compiler, who is stinted in room, must often sacrifice interest to brevity : and on the other hand, while he endeavoiu's to amuse, must frequently transgress the limits to which his plan should confine him. Thus aU such as desire only amusement may be dis- gusted with his brevity, and such as seek for information may object to his displacing facts for empty description. To attain the greatest number of advantages with the fewest inconveniences, is all that can be attained in an abridgement, the name of which implies im- perfection. It will be sufficient, therefore, to satisfy the writer's wishes, if the PREFACE TO HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 291 present work be found a plain, unaffected narrative of facts, with just orna- ment enougli to keep attention awake, and with reflection barely sufficient to set the reader upon thinking. Yery moderate abilities were equal to such an undertaking, and it is hoped the performance will satisfy such as take up books to be informed or amused, without much considering who the writer is, or envying any success he may have had in a former compilatton. As the present piiblication is designed for the benefit of those who intend to lay a foundation for futiu^e study, or desire to refresh their memories upon the old, or who think a moderate share of history sufficient for the pui'poscs of life, recourse has been had only to those authors which are best known, and those facts only have been selected which are allowed on all hands to be true. Were an epitome of history the field for displaying erudition, the author could show that he has read many books which others have neglected, and that he also could advance many anecdotes which are at present very little known. But it must be remembered, that all these minute recoveries could be inserted only to the exclusion of more material facts, which it would be unpardonable to omit. He foregoes, therefore, the petty ambition of being thought a reader of forgotten books j his aim being not to add to our present stock of history, but to contract it. The books which have been used in this abridgement are chiefly Eapin, Carte, Smollett, and Hume. They have each their j)eculiar admirers, in pro- portion as the reader is studious of historical antiquities, fond of minute anecdote, a warm partisan, or a dehberate reasoner. Of these I have par- ticularly taken Hmne for my guide, as far as he goes ; and it is but justice to say, that wherever I was obliged to abridge his work, I did it with reluctance, as I scarcely ciit out a single line that did not contain a beauty. But though I must warmly subscribe to the learning, elegance, and depth of Mr. Hume's history, yet I cannot entirely acquiesce in his principles. With regard to religion, he seems desu'ous of playing a double part, of appear- ing to some readers as if he reverenced, and to others as if he ridiculed it. He seems sensible of the political necessity of religion in every state ; but at the same time he would every where insinuate that it owes its authority to no higher an origin. Thus he weakens its influence, while he contends for its utility, and vainly hopes, that while freethinkers shall applaud his scepticism, real beUevers will reverence him for his zeal. In his opinions respecting government, perhaps also he may be sometimes reprehensible : but in a country like ours, where mutual contention con- tributes to the security of the constitution, it will be impossible for an liistorian who attempts' to have any opinion, to satisfy all parties. It is not yet decided in politics, whether the diminution of kingly power in England tends to increase the happiness or the freedom of the people. For my own part, from seeing the bad elFects of the tyranny of the great in those repub- lican states that pretend to be free, I cannot help wishing that our monarchs may still be allowed to enjoy the power of controuling the encroachments of the great at home. A king may easily be restrained from doing wrong, as he is but one man j but if a number of the great are permitted to divide all authority, who can punish them if they abuse it ? Upon tliis principle, therefore, and not from empty notions of divine or hereditary right, some may think I have leaned towards monarchy. But as, in the things I have hitherto written, I have neither allm-ed the vanity of the great by flattery, nor satisfied the malignity of the vulgar by scandal, as I have endeavoiired to get an honest reputatioa by liberal pursuits, it is hoped the reader will admit my impartiality. jLy — a 293 PREFACE TO AN HISTORY OF THE EARTH, AND ANIMATED NATURE. BY DE. GOLDSMITH. Natfral Historr, considered in its utmost extent, comprehends two objects. Eirst, that of discovering, ascertaining, and naming all the various productions of Nature. Secondly, that of describing the properties, manners, and relations, •which they bear to us, and to each other. The first, which is the most difficidt part of tlie science, is systematical, dry, mechanical, and incomplete. The second is more amusing, exhibits new pictures to the imagination, and im- proves oiu' relish for existence, by widening the prospect of Nature around us. Both, however, are necessary to those who would understand this pleasing science in its utmost extent. The first care of every inquirer, no doubt, should be, to see, to visit, and examine every object, before he pretends to inspect its habitudes or its history. From seeing and observing the thing itself, he is most naturally led to speculate upon its uses, its delights, or its inconveniences. Numberless obstructions, however, are foimd in this part of his pursuit, tliat frustrate his diligence and retard his curiosity. The objects in Nature are so many, and even those of the same kind are exhibited in such a variety of forms, that the inquirer finds himself lost in the exuberance before him, and like a man who attempts to coimt the stars unassisted by art, his powers are all distracted in barren superfluity. To remedy this embarrassment artificial systems have been devised, which grouping into masses those parts of Nature more nearly reserabhng each other, refer the inquirer for the name of the single object he desires to know, to some one of those general distributions, where it is to be found by farther examination. If, for instance, a man shoidd in his walks meet with an animal, the name, and consequently the histoiy of which he desires to know, he is taiight by systematic writers of natural history to examine its most obvious qualities, whether a quadruped, a bird, a fish, or an insect. Having determined it, for explanation sake, to be an insect, he examines whether it has wings ; ■ if he finds it possessed of these, he is taught to examine whetlier it has two or four ; if possessed of four, he is taught to observe whether the two upper wings are of a shelly hardness, and serve as cases to those under them ; if he finds the wings composed in this manner, he is then taught to pronounce, that this insect is one of the beetle kind ; of the beetle kind, there are three difierent classes, distinguished from each other by their feelers ; he examines the insect before him, and finds that the feelers are elevated or knobbed at the ends ; of beetles with feelers thus formed, there are ten kinds, and among those, he is taught to look for the precise name of that which is before him. If, for instance, the knob be divided at the ends, and the belly be streaked with white, it is no other than the Dor or the Maybug, an animal, the noxious qualities of which give it a very distinguished rank in the history of the insect creation. In this manner a system of natural history may, in some measure, be compared to a dictionary of words. Both are solely in- tended to explain the names of things ; but with this difference, that in the PREFACE TO AN HISTORY OF THE EARTH. 293 dictionary of worda we are led from the name of the thine: to its definition, whereas in the system of natiu'al history, we are led from the definition to find out the name. Such are the efibrts of writers, who have composed their works with great labour and ingenuity, to direct the learner in his progress tlu'ough Nature, and to infonn him of the name of every animal, plant, or fossil substance, that he happens to meet with ; but it would be only deceiving the reader, to conceal the truthjwhich is, that books alone can never teach him this art in perfection ; and the sohtary student can never succeed. Without a master, and a previous knowledge of many of the objects in Nature, his book will only serve to con- found and disgust him. Few of the individual plants or animals that he may happen to meet with, are in that precise state of health, or that exact period of vegetation, whence their descriptions were taken. Perhaps he meets the plant only with leaves, but the systematic writer has described it in flower. Per- haps he meets the bird before it has moulted its first feathers, while the sys- tematic description was made in the state of full perfection. He thus ranges without an instructor, confused and with sickening cm-iosity, from svibject to subject, till at last he gives up the pm'suit, in the multiplicity of his disap- pointments. Some practice, therefore, much instruction, and diligent reading, are requisite to make a ready and expert natm'ahst, who shall be able, even by the help of a system, to find out the name of every object he meets with. But when this tedious, though requisite part of study is attained, nothing but delight and variety attend the rest of his journey. Wherever he travels, like a man in a country where he has many friends, he meets with nothing but acquaintances and allurements in all stages of liis way. The mere iminformed spectator passes on in gloomy solitude, but the natm'alist, in every plant, in every insect, and every pebble, finds something to entertain his curiosity, and excite his speculation. Hence it appears, that a system may be considered as a dictionary in the study of Nature. The ancients however, who have all written most delightfully on this subject, seem entirely to have rejected those humble and mechanical helps of science. They contented themselves with seizing upon the great outlines of history ; and passing over what was common, as not worth the detail, they only dwelt upon what was new, great and sm*prising, and some- times even warmed the imagination at the expense of truth. Such of the moderns as revived this science in Europe, undertook the task more methodi- cally, though not in a manner so pleasing. Aldrovandus, Q-esner, and Johnson, seemed desirous of uniting the entertaining and rich descriptions of the ancients with the dry and systematic arrangement of which thoy were the first projectors. This attempt, howevei', was extremely imperfect, as the great variety of Natiu-e was, as yet, but very inadequately known. Nevertheless, by attempting to carry on both objects at once ; first, of directing us to the name of tlie things, and then giving the detail of its history, they drew out their works into a tedious and unreasonable length ; and thus mixing incompatible aims, they have left their labours, rather to be occasionally consulted, than read with delight by posterity. The later moderns, with that good sense which they have carried into every other part of science, have taken a different method in cultivating natural history. They have been content to give, not only the brevity, but also the dry and disgusting air of a dictionary to their systems. Kay, Klein, Brisson, and Linnseus, have had onl-' one aim, that of pointing out the object in Nature, of discovering its name, and where it was to be fovmd in those authors that treated of it in a more prolix and satisfactory manner. Thus natural history at present is carried on in two distinct and separate channels, the one serving 291, THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. to lead U3 to the tMng, the other conveying the history of the thing as sup- posing it aheady known. The following natm^al history is written with only such an attention to sys- tem as serves to remove the reader's embarrassments, and allm*e him to proceed. It can make no pretensions in directing him to the name of every object he meets with ; that belongs to works of a very different kind, and written with very different aims. It will fully answer my design if the reader, being already possessed of the name of any animal, shall find here a short, though satisfactory history of its habitudes, its subsistence, its manners, its friendships and hostilities. My aim has been to carry on just as much method as was sufficient to shorten my descriptions by generalizing them, and never to follow order where the art of writing, which is but another name for good sense, informed me that it would only contribute to the reader's embarrassment. Still, however, the reader will perceive that I have formed a kind of system in the history of every part of animated nature, directing myself by the great and obvious distinctions that she herself seems to have made, which, though too few to point exactly to the name, are yet sufficient to illuminate the sub- ject, and remove the reader's perplexity. Mr. Buffon, indeed, who has brought greater talents to this part of leammg than any other man, has almost entirely rejected method in classing quadrupeds. This, with great deference to such a character, appears to me running into the opposite extreme ; and, as some moderns have of late spent much time, great pains, and some learning, all to very little purpose, in systematic arrangement, he seems so much dis- gusted by their trifling, but ostentatious efforts, that he describes his animals almost in the order they happen to come before him. This want of method seems to be a fault, but he can lose Httle by a criticism, which every dull man can make, or by an error in arrangement, from wliich the duUest are the most usually free. In other respects, as far as this able pliilosopher has gone, I have taken him for my guide. The warmth of his style and the brilliancy of his imagination are inimitable. Leaving him, therefore, without a rival in these, and only availing myself of his information, I have been content to describe things in my own way ; and though many of the materials are taken from him, yet I have added, retrenched, and altered as I thought proper. It was my intention, at one time, whenever I differed from him, to have mentioned it at the bottom of the page ; but this occurred so often, that I soon found it would look like envy, and might, perhaps, convict me of those very errors which I was wanting to lay upon him. I have therefore, as being every way his debtor, concealed my dissent, where my opinion was different ; but wherever I borrow from him, I take care at the bottom of the page to express my obligations. But though my obligations to this writer are many, they extend but to the smallest part of the work, as he has hitherto completed only the histoiy of quadrupeds. I was therefore left to my reading alone, to make out the history of birds, fishes, and insects, of which the arrangement was so difficult, and the necessary information so widely diffused, and so obscm'ely related when found, that it proved by much the most laborious part of the undertaking. Thus having made use of Mr. Buffon's lights in the first part of this work, I may with some share of con- fidence recommend it to the public. But what shall I say of that part, where I have been entirely left without his assistance ? As I would affect neither modesty nor confidence, it will be sufficient to say, that my reading upon this part of the subject has been very extensive ; and that I have taxed my scanty circumstances in procuring books which are on this subject of all others the most expensive. In consequence of this industry, I here offer a work to the PltJEPACE TO THE BEAUTIES OF ENGLISH POETRY. 29£ public, of a kind, wliicli has never been attempted in ours, or any other modern language, that I know of. The ancients, indeed, and ]?liny in parti- cular, hare anticipated me in the present manner of treating natm'al history. Like those historians who described the events of a campaign, they have not condescended to give the private particulars of every individual that formed the army ; they were content with characterizing the generals, and describing tlieu' operations, while they left it to meaner hands to carry the muster-roll. I have followed their manner, rejecting the numerous fables which they adopted, and adding the improvements of the moderns, which are so numerous, that they actually make up the bulk of natural history. The delight which I found in reading Pliny, first inspired me with the idea of a work of this natm'e. Having a taste rather classical than scientific, and having but little employed myself in tmniing over the dry labours of modern system-makers, my earliest intention was to translate this agreeable writer, and by the help of a commentary to make my work as amusing as I could. Let us dignify natural history never so much with the grave appellation of a useful science, yet still we must confess that it is the occupation of the idle and the speculative, more than of the ambitious part of mankind. My in- tention was to treat what I then conceived to be an idle subject, in an idle manner ; and not to hedge round plain and simple nai*ratives with hard words, accumulated distinctions, ostentatious learning, and disquisitions that produced no conviction. Upon the appearance, however, of Mr. Buffon's work, I dropped my former plan and adopted the present, being convinced by his manner, that the be^t imitation of the ancients was to write from our own feelings, and to imitate Nature. It will be my chief pride, therefore, if this work may be found an iimocent amusement for those who have nothing else to employ them, or who require a relaxation from labour. Professed naturalists will, no doubt, find it superficial ; and yet I should hope that even these Will discover hints and remarks, gleaned from various reading, not wholly trite or elementary ; I would wish for their approbation. But my chief ambition is to drag up the obscm'e and gloomy learning of the cell to open inspection : to strip it from its garb of austerity, and to shew the beauties of that form, which only the industrious and the inquisitive have been hitherto permitted to approach. PREFACE TO THE BEAUTIES OE ENGLISH POETRY. My bookseller having informed me that there was no collection of English Poetry among us, of any estimation, I thought a few hours spent in making a proper selection would not be ill bestowed. Compilations of this kind are chiefly designed for such as either want leisure, skill, or fortune, to choose for themselves ; for persons whose professions turn them to different pui*suits, or who, not yet arrived at sufficient maturity, re- quire a guide to direct their application. To our youth, particularly, a x^ubli- cation of this sort may be useful ; since, if compiled with any share of judgment, it may at once imite precept and example, shew them what is beau- tifid, and infonn them why it is so : I therefore offer this, to the best of my 296 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. judgment, as tlio best collection tliat has as yet appeared : tliougli as tastes are various, numbers will be of a very different opinion. Many, perhaps, may wish to see in it the poems of their fayourite authors, others may wish that I had selected from works less generally read, and others still may wish that I had selected from their own. But my design was to give a usefid, im- affected compilation ; one tliat might tend to advance the reader's taste, and not impress him with exalted ideas of mine. Nothing is so common, and yet so absurd, as affectation in criticism. The desu'e of being thought to have a more discerning taste than others, has often led writers to labour after error, and to be foremost in promoting deformity. In this compilation I run but few risks of that kind ; every poem here is well known, and possessed, or the piiblic has been long mistaken, of peculiar merit : every poem has, as Aristotle expresses it, a beginning, a middle, and an end, in which, however trifling the rule may seem, most of the poetry in our language is deficient : I claim no merit in the choice, as it was obvious ; for in all languages best productions are most easily found. As to the short introductory criticisms to each poem, they are rather designed for boys than men ; for it will be seen that I dechned all refinement, satisfied with being obvious and sincere. In short, if this work be useful in schools, or amusing in the closet, the merit all belongs to others j I have nothing to boast, and at best can expect, not applause, but pardon. CRITICISMS. The Rape of the Lock, This seems to be Mr. Pope's most finished production, and is, perhaps, the most perfect m our language. It exhibits stronger powers of imagination, moi-e harmony of nrmibers, and a greater knowledge of the world, than any other of this poet's works : and it is probable, if om' country were called upon to shew a specimen of their geniui to foreigners, this would be the work here fixed upon. II Pemeroso. I have heard a very judicious critic say, that he had an higher idea of Mil- ton's style in poetry fi'om the two following poems, than from his Paradise Lost. It is certain the imagination shewn in them is correct and strong. The introduction to both in u'regular measui'e is borrowed from the Italians, and hm'ts an English ear. An Elegy written in a Country Churchyard. This is a very fine poem, but overloaded with epithet. * The heroic measure, with alternate rhyme, is very properly adajpted to the solemnity of the subject, as it is the slowest movement that our language admits of. The latter part of the poem is pathetic and interesting. London, in Imitation of the Third Satire of Juvenal. This poem of Mr. Johnson's is the best imitation of the original that has appeared in om' language, being possessed of all the force and satirical resent- ment of Juvenal. Imitation gives us a much truer idea of the ancients than even translation could do. The Schoolmistress, in Imitation of Spenser. Tliis poem is one of those happinesses in which a poet excels liimself, as there is nothing in all Shenstone which any way approaches it hi merit j and. PREFACE TO THE BEAUTIES OF ENGLISH POETRY. 297 though I dislike the imitations of our old English poets in general, yet, on this minute subject, the antiquity of the style produces a yery ludicrous solemnity. Cooper's Hill. This poem, by Denhani, though it may have been exceeded by later atl tempts in description, yet deserves the highest applause, as it far surpasses al, that went before it : the concluding part, though a little too much crowded is vexy masterly. Eloisa to Abelard. The harmony of numbers in this poem is very fine. It is rather drawn out to too tedious a length, although the passions vary with great judgment. It may be considered as superior to anything in the epistolary way ; and the many translations which have been made of it into the modern languages are in some measvu'e a proof of this. An Epistle from Mr. Phillips, to the Earl of Dorset. The opening of this x)oem is incomparably fine. The latter part is tedious and trifling. A Letter from Italy, to the Right Honourable Charles Lord Halifax, 1701. Few poems have done more honour to English genius than this. There is in it a strain of political thinking that was, at that time, new in our poetry. Had the harmony of this been equal to that of Pope's versification, it would be incontestably the finest poem in our language ; but there is a dryness in the numbers, which greatly lessens the pleasm'e excited both by the poet's judgment and imagination. Alexander's Feast ; or the Power of Music. An Ode, in honour of St. Cecilia^s Bay. This ode has been more applauded, perhaps, than it has been felt ; however, it is a very fine one, and gives its beauties rather at a thii'd or foiu-th than at a first perusal. Ode for Music on St. Cecilia's Day. This ode has by many been thought equal to the former. As it is a repeti- tion of Dry den's manner, it is so far inferior to him. The whole hint of Orpheus, with many of the lines, has been taken from an obscure Ode upon Music, published in Tate's Miscellanies. The Shejjherd's Week, in Six Pastorals. These are Mr. Q-ay's principal performance. They were originally intended, I suppose, as a burlesque on those of Phillips ; but perhaps without designing it, he has hit the true spu'it of pastoral poetry. In fact he more resembles Theocritus than any other English pastoral writer whatsoever. There runs through the whole a strain of rustic pleasantry, which should ever distinguish this species of composition ; but how far the antiquated expressions used here may contribute to the humom', I will not determine ; for my own part, I could wish the sim^jUcity were preserved, without recurring to such obsolete anti- quity for the manner of expressing it. Mac Flechioe. The severity of this satu-e, and the excellence of its versification, give it a distinguished rank in this species of composition. At present, an ordinary reader would scarcely suppose that ShadweU, who is here meant by Mac THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLTiSMITlt. L Fleckiioe, was worth being cliastised ; and that Dryden, descending to such game, was like an eagle stooping to catch flies. The truth however is, Shadwell at one time held divided reputation with this great poet. Every age produces its fashionable dunces, who, by following the transient topic or humour of the day, supply talkative ignorance with materials for conversation. On Poetry. A Rhapsody. Here follows one of the best versified poems in our language, and the most masterly production of its author. The severity with which Walpole is here treated was in consequence of that minister's having refused to provide for Swift in England, when applied to for that piu'pose in the year 1725 (if I re- member right). The severity of a poet, however, gave Walpole very little uneasiness. A man whose schemes, like this minister's, seldom extended beyond the exigency of the year, but little regarded the contempt of posterity. Of the Use of Riches. This poem, as Mr. Pope tells us himself, cost much attention and labour • and, from tlie easiness that appears in it, one would be apt to think as much. From the Bispemary. Canto VI. Tliis sixth canto of tlie Dispensary, by Dr. G-arth, has more merit than the whole preceding part of the poem ; and, as I am told, in the first edition of this work, it is more correct than as here exhibited; but that edition I have not been able to find. The praises bestowed on tliis poem are more than have been given to any other ; but our approbation at present is cooler, for it owed part of its fame to party. Selim ; or the Shepherd's Moral. The following eclogues, wi'itten by Mr. Collins, are very pretty : the images, it must be owned, are not veiy local ; for the pastoral subject could not well admit of it. The description of Asiatic magnificence and manners is a subject as yet unattempted amongst us, and, I believe, capable of furnishing a great variety of poetical imagery. The Splendid Shilling. This is reckoned the best parody of Milton in our language ; it has been an hundred times imitated without success. The truth is, the first thing in this way must preclude all future attempts, for nothing is so easy as to burlesque any man's manner, when we are once shewed the way. A Pi^ie of Tolacco : in Imitation of sio' several Authors. Mr. Hawkins Browne, the author of these, as I am told, had no good ori- ginal manner of his own, yet we see how well he succeeds when he turns an imitator ; for the following are rather imitations, than ridiculous parodies. A Night Piece on Death. The great fault of this piece, written by Dr. Pamell, is, that it is in eight syllable hues, very improper for the solemnity of the eubject j otherwise the poem is natm*al, and the reflections just. A Fairy Tale. By Dr. Pamell. Never was the old manner of speaking more happily applied, or a tale better told, than this, Palemon and Lavinia. Mr. Thomson, though, in general, a verbose and affected poet, has told this I PREFACE TO THE BEAUTIMS OE ENGLISH POETRY. 299 story with unusual simplicity : it is rather giyen here for being much esteemeri by the public, than by the editor. TJie Bastard. Almost all things written from the heart, as this certainly was, have some merit. The Poet here describes sorrows and misfortunes which were by no means imaginary ; and thus there runs a truth of thinking through this poem, without which it would be of little value, as Sarage is, in other respects, but an indifferent poet. The Poet aiid Ms Patron. Mr. Moore was a poet that nerer had justice done him while living ; there are few of the moderns have a more correct taste, or a more pleasing manner of expressing their thoughts. It was upon these fables he chiefly founded his reputation, yet they are by no means his best production. An Epistle to a Lady. This little poem, by Mr. Nugent, is very pleasing. The easiness of tlia poetry, and the justice of the thoughts, constitute its principal beauty. Hans Carvel. This Bagatelle, for which, by-the-by, Mr. Prior has got his greatest reputa- tion, was a tale told in all the old Itahan collections of jests ; and borrowed from thence by Fontaine. It had been translated once or twice before into English, yet was never regarded till it fell into the hands of Mr, Prior. A strong instance how much every thing is improved in the hands of a man of genius. Baucis and Philemon. This poem is very fine ; and though in the same strain with the preceding, is yet superior. To the Earl of Warwick ; on the Death of Mr. Addison. This elegy (by Mr. Tickell) is one of the finest in oiu' language : there is so little new that can be said iipon the death of a friend, after the complaints of Ovid, and the Latin Italians, in this way, that one is surprised to see so much novelty in this to strike us, and so much interest to affect. Colin and Lucy. A Ballad. Through all Tiekell's Works there is a strain of ballad thinking, if I may so express it ; and in this professed ballad, he seems to have surpassed himself. It is, perhaps, the best in our language in this way. The Tears of Scotland. This ode by Dr. Smollett does rather more honour to the author's feelings than his taste. The mechanical part, with regard to numbers and language, is not so perfect as so short a work as this requires ; but the pathetic it con- tains, particularly in the last stanza but one, is exquisitely fine. On the Death of the Lord Protector. Our poetry was not quite harmonized in Waller's time ; so that this, which would be now looked vipou as a slovenly sort of versification, was, with respect to the times in which it was wi-itten, almost a prodigy of hai'mony. A modern reader will chiefly be struck with the strength of thinking, and the turn of the compliments bestowed upon the Usurper. Every body has heard the answer our poet made Charles II. : who asked him how his poem upon Crom- well came to be finer than his panegyric upon himself. Your majesty, replies WaUer, knows, that poets always succeed best in fiction. 300 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. The Story of Phoebus and Daphne, applied. The Frencli claim this as belonging to them. To ■wliomsoeTer it belongs the thought is finely tm*ned. Night Thoughts by Dr. Young. These seem to be the best of the collection : from Avhence only the two first are taken. They are spoken of differently, either with exaggerated applause or contempt, as the reader's disposition is cither tm'ued to mirth or melan- choly. Satire I. Young's Satires were in higher reputation when published, than they stand in at present. He seems fonder of dazzling than pleasing ; of raising our ad- mh'ation for his wit, than our dislike of the follies lie ridicules. A Pastoral Ballad. The ballads of Mr. Shenstone are chiefly commended for the natural simpli- city of the thoughts, and the harmony of the versification. Howerer, they are not excellent in either. Phoebe, a Pastoral. Tliis by Dr. Byi-on, is a better effort than the preceding. A Song. "Despairing beside a clear stream." This by Mr. Eowe, is better than any thing of the kind in oui* language. An Essay on Poetry. This work by the Duke of Buckingham, is enrolled among our great Eng- lish productions. The precepts are sensible, the poetry not indifferent, but it has been praised more than it deserres. Cadenus and Vanessa. Tliis is thought one of Dr. Swift's correctest pieces ; its chief merit, indeed; is the elegant ease with which a story, but ill conceived in itself, is told. Alma : or the Progress of the Mind. ndi/TO I't'Xwr, Kal navra Kovtv, Kai ncivTa to jU>j5fci'* riai/Ta 7ap ef dXoyoyv 6<7T£ tcx yiyvofieva. What Prior meant by this poem I can't understand ; by the Grreek motto to it one would think it was either to laugh at the subject or his reader. There are some parts of it very fine ; and let them save the badness of the rest. PRE]5'ACE TO A COLLECTION OF POEMS FOR YOUNG LADIES, DEYOTIOI^AL, MORAL, AND ENTERTAIMNa. DoCTOE Eordyce's excellent Sermons for Young Women in some measure gave rise to the following compilation. In that work, where he so judiciously points out all the defects of female conduct to remedy them, and all the proper studies which they should pursue, with a view to improvement. Poetry is one to which he particularly would attach them. He only objects io the danger of pursuing this charming study through all the immoralities and fako PREFACE TO COLLECTION OF POEMS. aOl pictures of happiness with, which it abounds, and thus becoming the martyr of innocent curiosity. In the following compilation care has been taken to select, not only such pieces as innocence may read without a blush, but such as will even tend to strengthen that innocence. In this little work a lady may find the most ex- quisite pleasure, while she is at the same time learning the duties of life ; and, while she courts only entertainment, be deceived into wisdom. Indeed, this would be too great a boast in the preface to any origmal work ; but here it can be made with safety, as every poem in the following collection would singly have procured an author gi'eat reputation. They are divided into Devotional, Moral, and Entertaining, thus comprehend- ing the three great duties of life ; that wliich we owe to G-od, to our neighbour, and to ourselves. In the first part, it must be confessed, our English poets have not very much excelled. In that department, namely, the praise of our Maker, by whioli poetry began, and from which it deviated by time, we are most faultily defi- cient. There are one or two, however, particularly the Deity, by Mr. Boyse ; a poem, when it first came out, that lay for some time neglected, till intro- duced to public notice by Mr. Hervey and Mr. Fielding. In it the reader will ]:)erceive many striking pictures, and perhaps glow with a part of that grati- tude which seems to have inspired the wi'iter. In the moral part I am more copious, from the same reason, because our language contains a large number of the kind. Yoltaire, talking of our poets, gives them the preference in moral pieces to those of any other nation ; and indeed no poets have better settled the bounds of duty, or more precisely de- termined the rules for conduct in life than ours. In this department the fair reader will find the Muse has been soHcitous to guide her, not with the allurements of a syren, but the integrity of a friend. In the entertaining part my gx-eatest difficulty was what to reject. The mate- rials lay in such plenty, that I was bewildered in my choice : in this case then I was solely determined by the tendency of the poem ; and where I found one, however well executed, that seemed in the least tending to distort the judg- ment, or inflame the imagination, it was excluded without mercy. I have liere and there indeed, when one of particular beauty offered with a few blemishes, lopt off the defects, and thus, like the tyrant who fitted all strangers to the bed he had prepared for them, I have inserted some, by first adapting them to my plan ; we only diiFer in this, that he m-utilated with a bad design, I from motives of a contrary nature. It will be easier to condemn a compilation of this kind, than to 'prove its inutility. While yoiing ladies are readers, and while their guardians are solicitous that they shall only read the best books, there can be no danger of a work of this kind being disagreeable. It ofiers, in a very small compass, the very flowers of our poetry, and that of a kind adapted to the sex supposed to be its readers. Poetry is an art, which no young lady can, or ought to be wholly ignorant of. The pleasure which it gives, and indeed the necessity of knowing enough of it to mix in modern conversation, will evince the usefulness of my design, which is to supply the highest and the most innocent entertainment at the smallest expense ; as the poems in this collection, if sold singly, would amount to ten times the price of what I am able to afibrd the present. 303 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. THE BEE; A SELECT COLLECTION OP ESSAYS O^ THE MOST INTERESTINa AND ENTERTAINHSTO- SUBJECTS. No. L— SATUEDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1759. There is not, perhaps, a more whimsically dismal figure in nature, than a man of real modesty who assumes an air of impudence ; who, while his liearfc beats with anxiety, studies ease, and affects good humour. In this situation, how- ever, a periodical writer often finds himself, upon his first attempt to address the pubUc in form. All his power of pleasing is damped by solicitude, and his cheerfulness dashed with apprehension. Impressed with the terrors of the tribunal before which he is going to appear, his natural humour turns to pert- ness, and for real wit he is obliged to substitute vivacity. His first publication draws a crowd ; they part dissatisfied, and the author, never more to be in- dulged with a favourable hearing, is left tp condemn the indelicacy of his own address, or their want of discernment. For my part, as I was never distinguished for address, and have often even blundered in making my bow, such bodings as these had like to have totally repressed my ambition. I was at a loss whether to give the public specious promises, or give none ; whether to be merry or sad on this solemn occasion. If I should decline aU merit, it was too probable the hasty reader might ha-\^c taken me at my word. If, on the other hand, like labourers in the magazine trade, I had, with modest impudence, humbly presumed to promise an epi- tome of all the good things that ever were said or written, this might have disgusted those readers I most desire to please. Had I been merry, I might have been censured as vastly low ; and had I been sorrowful, I might have been left to mourn in solitude and silence ; in short, whichever way I tmmed, nothing presented but prospects of terror, despair, chandlers' shops, and waste paper. In this debate, between fear and ambition, my publisher happening to arrive, interrupted for awhile my anxiety. Perceiving my embarrassment about making my first appearance, he instantly offered his assistance and advice : " You must know, Su'," says he, " that the republic of letters is at present divided into three classes. One writer, for instance, excels at a plan, or a title- page : another works away the body of the book ; and a third is a dab at an index. Thus a magazine is not the result of any single man's industry ; but goes through as many hands as a new pin before it is fit for the public. I fancy. Sir," continues he, " I can provide an eminent hand, and upon mode- rate terms, to draw up a promising plan to smooth up om* readers a little, and pay them, as Colonel Charteries paid his seraglio, at the rate of three half- pence in hand, and three shillings more in promises." He was proceeding in his advice, which, however, I thought proper to de- cline by assuring him that as I intended to pm'sue no fixed method, so it was impossible to form any regular plan ; determiued never to be tedious in order to be logical, wherever pleasure presented I was resolved to follow. Like the Bee, which I had taken for the title of my paper, I would rove from flower to flower, with seeming inattention, but concealed choice, expatiate over all the beauties of the season, and make my industry my amusement. THE BEE. 303 This reply may also seiTe as an apology to the reader, who expects, before he sits down, a bill of his future entertainment. It would be improper to pall his curiosity by lessening his surprise, or anticipate any pleasure I am able to procure him, by saying what shall come next. Thus much, however, he may be assured of, that neither war nor scandal shall make any part of it. Homer finely imagines his deity turning away with horror from the prospect of a field of battle, and seeking tranquillity among a nation noted for peace and sim- plicity. Happy could any efibrt of mine, but for a moment, repress that savage pleasure some men find in the daily accounts of human misery ! How gladly would I lead them from scenes of blood and altercation, to prospects of innocence and ease, where every breeze breathes health, and every sound is but the echo of tranquillity ! But whatever the merit of his intentions may be, every writer is now con- vinced that he must be chiefly indebted to good fortune for finding readers willing to allow him any degree of reputation. It has been remarked that almost every character which has excited either attention or praise, has owed part of its success to merit, and part to an happy concurrence of circumstances in its favour. Had Caesar or Cromwell exchanged countries, the one might have been a serjeant, and the other an exciseman. So it is with wit, which generally succeeds more from being happily addressed, than from its native poignancy. A bon mot, for instance' that might be relished at White's, may lose all its flavom* when delivered at the Cat and Bagpipes in St. G-iles's. A jest calculated to spread at a gaming-table, may be received with a perfect neutrahty of face, should it happen to drop in a mackerel-boat. We have all seen dunces triumph in some companies, when men of real humour were disregarded, by a general combination in favour of stupidity. To drive the observation as far as it wiU go, should the laboiu's of a writer, who designs his performances for readers of a more refined appetite, fall into the hands of a devourer of compilations, what can he expect but contempt and confu- sion ! If his merits are to be determined by judges who estimate the value of a book from its bulk, or its frontispiece, every rival must acquire an easy superiority, who with persuasive eloquence promises four extraordinary pages of letter-press, or three beautifid. prints, curiously coloured from nature. But to proceed : though I cannot promise as much entertainment, or as much elegance, as others have done, yet the reader may be assured he shall have as much of both as I can. He shaU. at least find me alive while I study his entertainment ; for I solemnly assure him I was never yet possessed of the secret at once of writing and sleeping. During the course of this paper, therefore, all the wit and learning I have are heartily at his service ; which if, after so candid a confession,- he should notwithstanding still find it intolerably dull, low, or sad stuff, this I pro- test is more than I know. I have a clear conscience, and am entirely out of the secret. Yet I would not have him, upon the peiiisal of a single paper, pronounce me incorrigible ; he may try a second, which, as there is a studied difiereuce in subject and style, may be more suited to his taste : if this also fails, I must refer liim to a third, or even to a fourth, in case of extremity ; if he should etill continue refractory, and find me dull to the last, I must inform him, with Bays in the Rehearsal, that I think him a very odd kind of a fellow, and desire no more of his acquaintance. It is with such reflections as these I endeavour to fortify myself against the future contempt or neglect of some readers, and am prepared for their dislike by mutual recrimination. If such should impute dealing neither in battles 204, THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. \ nor scandal to me as a fault, instead of acquiescing in their censure, I mnfat beg leave to tell tliem a story. A traveller, in his way to*^ Italy, happening to pass at the foot of the Alps, found himself at last in a country where the inhabitants had each a large ex- crescence depending from the chin, like the pouch of a monkey. This defor- mity, as it was endemic, and the people little used to strangers, it had been the custom time immemorial to look upon as the greatest ornament of the liuman visage. Ladies grew toasts from the size of their chins, and none were regarded as pretty fellows, but such whose faces were broadest at the bottom. It was Sunday ; a country church was at hand, and our traveller was willino' to perform the duties of the day. Upon his first appearance at the church door, the eyes of all were naturally fixed upon the stranger ; but what was their amazement, when they found that he actually wanted that emblem of beauty, a pursed chin ! This was a defect that not a single creature had suffi- cient gravity (though they were noted for being grave) to withstand. Stifled bursts of laughter, winks, and whispers, circulated from visage to visage, and tlie prismatic figure of the stranger's face was a fund of infinite gaiety ; even the parson, equally remarkable for his gravity and chin, could hardly refrain joining in the good-liumour. Our traveller could no longer patiently continue an object for deformity to point at. G-ood folks, said he, I perceive that I am the unfortunate cause of aU. this good-humour. It is true, I may have faults in abundance, but I shall never be induced to reckon my want of a swelled face among the number.* On a beautiful Youth struck blind with Lightning. Imitated from the Spanish. Lumine Aeon dextro, capta est Leonida sinistro, Et poterat forma vinccre iiterqiie Deos. Parve puer, lumen qnod habes concede puellse; Sic tu crocus amor, sic erit ilia Venus.f , REMAEKS OlSr OUR THEATRES. iJB theatres are now opened, and all G-rub-street is preparing its advice to tlie managers ; we shall undoubtedly hear learned disquisitions on the struc- ture of one actor's legs, and another's eyebrows. We shall be told much of enunciations, tones, and attitudes, and shall have our lightest pleasures com- mented upon by didactic dulness. We shall, it is feared, be told, that Grarrick is a fine actor ; but then, as a manager, so avaricious ! That Palmer is a most surprising genius, and Holland likely to do well in a particular cast of cha- racter. We shall have them giving Shuter instructions to amuse us by rule, and deploring over the ruins of desolated majesty at Co vent- Garden. As I love to be advising too, for advice is easily given, and bears a shew of wisdom and superiority, I must be permitted to offer a few observations upon our theatres and actors, without, on this trivial occasion, throwing my thoughts into the formality of method. There is something in the deportment of all our players infinitely more stiff and formal than among the actors of other nations. Their action sits uneasy upon them ; for as the English use very little gesture in ordinary conversation, our English-bred actors are obliged to supply stage gestures by their imagina- tion alone. A French comedian finds j)roper models of action in every com- * Dr. Goldsmith inserted this introduction, with a few trifling alterations, in the volume of Essays he published in the year 1765. t An English Epigram on the same subject is inserted, p. 82. THE BEE. 305 pany and in eyeiy coffee-house lie enters. An Englishman is obliged to take his models from the stage itself; he is ohhged to imitate nature from an imita- tion of nature. I know of no set of men more likely to be improved by tra- velHng than those of the theatrical profession. The inhabitants of the conti- nent are less reserved than here ; they may be seen through upon a first acquaintance ; such are the proper models to draw from ; they are at once striking, and are found in great abundance. Though it would be inexcusable in a comedian to add any tiling of his own to the poet's dialogue, yet, as to action, he is entirely at liberty. By this, he may shew the fertility of his genius, the poignancy of his humour, and the exactness of his judgment j we scarcely see a coxcomb or a fool in common life that has not some peculiar oddity in liis action. These peculiarities it is not in the power of words to represent, and depend solely upon the actor. They give a relish to the humour of the poet, and make the appearance of nature more illusive ; the Italians, it is true, mask some characters, and endeavour to pre- serve the pecuHar humour by the make of the mask ; but I have seen others still preserve a great fund of humour in the face without a mask ; one actor, particu- larly, by a squint which he threw into some characters of low life, assumed a look of infinite solidity. This, though upon reflection we might condemn, yet, im- mediately upon representation, we coidd not avoid being pleased with. To illustrate what I have been saying by the plays I have of late gone to see : in the Miser, which was j)layed a few nights ago at Covent-garden. Lovegold appears through the whole in circumstances of exaggerated avarice ; all the player's action, therefore, should conspu'e with the poet's design, and represent him as an epitome of penury. The French comedian, in tliis character, in the midst of one of liis most violent passions, while he appears in an ungovern- able rage, feels the demon of avarice still upon him, and stoops down to pick up a pin, which he quilts into the flap of his coat-pocket with great assi- duity. Two candles are Hghted up for his wedding ; he flies, and turns one of them into the socket ; it is, however, lighted up again ; he then steals to it, and privately crams it into his pocket. The Mock Doctor was lately played at the other house. Here again the comedian had an opportunity of heightening the ridicule by action. The French" player sits in a chair with a high back, and then begins to shew away by talking nonsense, which he would have thought Latin by those who he knows do not miderstand a syllable of the matter. At last he grows enthusiastic, enjoys the admiration of the company, tosses his legs and arms about, and, in the midst of his raptures and vociferation, he and the chair fall back together. All this appears dull enough in the recital ; but the gravity of Cato could not stand it in the representation. In short, there is hardly a character in comedy, to which a player of any real humour might not add strokes of vivacity that could not fail of applause. But, in- stead of this, we too often see om' fine gentlemen do nothing tlu-ough a whole part, but strut and open their snuff-box ; our pretty fellows sit indecently with their legs across, and our clowns pull up their breeches. These, if once, or even twice, repeated, might do well enough ; but to see them served up in every scene, argues the actor almost as barren as the character he would expose. The magnificence of our theatres is far superior to any others in Europe, where plays only are acted. The great care our performers take in painting for a part, their exactness in all the minutise of dress, and other little scenical proprieties, have been taken notice of by Eicoboni, a gentleman of Italy, who travelled Europe with no other design but to remark upon the stage ; but there are several improprieties still continued, or lately come into fashion. As, for instance, spreadmg a carpet punctually at the begimiing of the death- 20 806 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. scene, in order to prevent our axjtors from spoiling their clothes ; this imme- diately apprises us of the tragedy to follow ; for laying the cloth is not a more sure indication of dinner than laying the carpet of bloody work at Drui*y-lane. Our little pages also with unmeaning faces, that bear up the train of a w^eep- ing princess, and our awkward lords in waiting, take off much from her dis- tress. Mutes of every kind divide our attention, and lessen our sensibility : but here it is entu*ely ridicidous, as we see them seriously employed in doing nothing. If we must have dirty-shirted guards upon the theatres, they should be taught to keej) their eyes fixed on the actors, and not roll them round upon the audience, as if they were ogling the boxes. Beauty, methinks, seems a requisite qualification in an actress. This seems scrupulously observed elsewhere, and for my part I could wish to see it ob- served at home. I can never conceive an hero dying for love of a lady totally destitute of beauty. I must think the x^art unnatural, for I cannot bear to hear him call that face angelic, when even paint cannot hide its wrinkles. I must condemn him of stupidity, and the person whom I can accuse for want of taste will seldom become the object of my affections or admh*ation. But if this be a defect, what must be the entire perversion of scenical decorum, when for instance we see an actress, that might act the Wapping Landlady without a bolster, pining in the character of Jane Shore, and while unwieldy with fat endeavouring to convince the audience that she is dying with hunger ! Tor the future, then, I could wish that the parts of the young or beautiful were given to performers of suitable figures ; for I must own, I could rather see the stage filled with agreeable objects, though they might sometimes bungle a little, than see it crowded with withered or mis-shapen figures, be their em- phasis, as I thmk it is called, ever so proper. The first may have the awkward appearance of new-raised troops ; but in viewing the last I cannot avoid the mortification of fancying myself placed in an hospital of invalids. THE STORY OF ALCAKDER AND SEPTIMIUS. TEANSLATED FEOM A BYZANTINE HISTOEIAN. Athens, even long after the decline of the Roman empire, still continued the seat of learning, politeness, and wisdom. The emperors and generals, who in these periods of approacliing ignorance still felt a passion for science, from time to time added to its buildings, or increased its professorships. Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, was of the number ; he repaired those schools which barbarity was suffering to fall into decay, and continued those pensions to men of learn- ing, which avaricious governors had monopoHzed to themselves. In this city, and about this period, Alcander and Septimius were fellow students together. The one the most subtle reasoner of all the Lyceum j the other the most eloquent speaker in the academic grove. Mutual admiration soon begot an acquaintance, and a similitude of disposition made them perfect friends. Their fortimes were nearly equal, their studies the same, and they were natives of the two most celebrated cities in the world j for Alcander was of Athens, Septimius came from Rome. In this mutual harmony they lived for some time together, when Alcander, after passing the first part of his youth in the indolence of philosophy, thought at length of entering into the busy world, and as a step previous to this, placed his affections on Hypatia, a lady of exquisite beauty. Hypatia shewed no disHke to his addresses. The day of their intended nuptials was fixed, the previous ceremonies were performed, and nothing now remained but her being conducted in triumph to the apartment of the intended bridegroom. THE BEE. 307 Au exultation in liis own happiness, or liis being imable to enjoy any satis = faction without making his friend Septiniius a partner, prevailed upon him to introduce his mistress to his fellow student, which he did with all the gaiety of a man who found himself equally happy in friendship and lore. But this was an interview fatal to the j)eace of both. Septimius no sooner saAv her, but he was smit Avith an involuntary passion. He used every effort, but in vain, to suppress desii'es at once so imprudent and unjust. He retu'ed to his apartment in inexpressible agony ; and the emotions of his mind in a shoit time became so strong, that they brought on a fever, which the physicians judged incurable. During this illness Alcander watched him with all the anxiety of fondness, and broiight his mistress to join in those amiable offices of friendship. The sagacity of the physicians, by this means, soon discovered the cause of their patient's disorder ; and JQcander, being apprised of their discovery, at length extorted a confession from the reluctant dying lover. It would but delay the narrative to describe the conflict between love and friendship in the breast of Alcander on this occasion : it is enough to say, that the Athenians were at this time arrived to such refinement in morals, that every vu*tue was carried to excess. In short, forgetful of his own felicity, he gave up his intended bride, in all her charms, to the young Eoman. They Avcre married privately by his connivance ; and this tmlooked-for change of fortune wrought as imexpected a change in the constitution of the now happy Septimius. In a few days he was perfectly recovered, and set out with his fair partner for Eome. Here, by an exertion of those talents of which he was so eminently possessed, he in a few years arrived at the highest dignities of the state, and was constituted the city judge, or praetor. Meanwhile Alcander not only felt the pain of being separated from his friend and mistress, but a prosecution was also commenced against him by the relations of Hypatia, for his having basely given her up, as was suggested, for money. Neither his innocence of the crime laid to his charge, nor his elo- quence in his own defence, was able to withstand the influence of a powerfid party. He was cast and condemned to pay an enormous fine. Unable to raise so large a sum at the time appointed, his possessions were confiscated, himself stript of the habit of freedom, exposed in the market-place, and sold as a slave to the highest bidder. A merchant of Thrace becoming Ixis purchaser, Alcander, with some other companions of distress, was carried into the region of desolation and sterility. His stated employment was to follow the herds of an imperious master, and his skill in hunting was all that was allowed him to supply a precarious subsist- ence. Condemned to hopeless servitude, every morning waked him to re- newal of famine or toil, and every change of season served but to aggravate his unsheltered distress. Nothing but death or flight was left him, and almost certain death was the consequence of his attempting to fly. After some years of bondage, however, an opportimity of escaping offered ; he embraced it with ardour, and travelling by night, and lodging in caverns by day, to shorten a long story, he at last arrived in Eome. The day of Alcander's arrival, Septi- mius sat in the forum, administering justice ; and hither om* wanderer came, expecting to be instantly known, and pubHcly acknowledged. Here he stood the whole day among the crowd, watching the eyes of the judge, and expect- ing to be taken notice of ; but so much was he altered by a long succession of hardships, that he passed entirely without notice ; and in the evening when he was going up to the prsetor's chair he was brutally repulsed by the attending lictors. The attention of the poor is generally driven from one imgratefid 20—2 308 THE WORKS OF OLIVM GOLDSMITH. object to anotlier. Night coming on, be nov^ found himself under a necessity of seeking a place to lie in, and yet knew not where to apply. All emaciated and in rags as he was, none of the citizens would harbour so much wretched- ness, and sleeping in the streets might be attended with inteiTuption or dan- ger ; in short, he was obliged to take tip his lodging in one of the tombs with- out the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty, or despair. In this mansion of horror, laying his head upon an inverted urn, he forgot his miseries for awhile in sleep ; and virtue found on this flinty couch more ease than down can supply to the guilty. It was midnight, when two robbers came to make this cave their retreat, but happening to disagree about the division of then* plunder, one of them stabbed the other to the heart, and left him weltering in blood at the entrance. In these circumstances he was found next morning, and this natiu-ally induced a farther inquiry. The alarm was spread, the cave was examined, Alcander was found sleeping, and immediately apprehended and accused of robbery and murder. The circumstances against him were strong, and the wretchedness of his appearance confirmed suspicion. Misfortune and he were now so long ac- quainted, that he at last became regardless of life. He detested a world where he had found only ingratitude, falsehood, and cinielty, and was deter- mined to make no defence. Thus lowering with resolution, he was dragged, bound with cords, before the tribunal of Septimius. The proofs were positive against him, and he offered nothing in his own vindication ; the judge, there- fore, was proceeding to doom him to a most cruel and ignominious death, when, as if illumined by a ray from heaven, he discovered, through all his misery, the featm'es, though dim with sorrow, of his long lost, loved Alcander. It is impossible to describe his joy and his pain on this strange occasion ; happy in once more seeing the person he most loved on earth, distressed at finding him in such circumstances. Thus agitated by contending passions, he flew from his tribunal, and falling on the neck of his dear benefactor, burst into an agony of distress. The attention of the multitude was soon, however, divided by another object. The robber, who had been really guilty, was ap- prehended selling his plunder, and, struck with a panic, confessed his crime. He was brought bound to the sa,me tribunal, and acquitted every other person of any partnership in his guilt. Need the sequel be related ? Alcander was acquitted, shared the friendship and the honom*s of his friend Septimius, lived afterwards in happiness and ease, and left it to be engraved on his tomb, " That no circumstances are so desperate, which Providence may not reheve." A LETTEE FROM A TRAVELLER. My Deae Will, Cracow, Aug. 2, 1738. Tor see by the date of my letter that I am arrived in Poland. When wiU my wanderings be at an end ? Wlien will my restless disposition give me leave to enjoy the present hour ? When at Lyons, I thought all happiness lay beyond the Alps ; when in Italy, I found myself still in want of some- thing, and expected to leave solitude behind me by going into Romelia : and now you find me turning back, still expecting ease everywhere but where I am. It is now seven years since I saw the face of a single creature who cared a farthing whether I was dead or alive. Secluded from aU the comforts of confidence, friendship, or society, I feel the solitude of an hermit, bat not his ease. The Prince of * * * has taken me in his train, so that I am in no danger ot Btamng for this bout. The prince's governor is a rude, ignorant pedant, and THE BEE. 309 \ his tutor a battered rake : thus, between two such characters, you may ima- gine he is finely instructed. I made some attempts to display all the little knowledge I had acquired by reading or observation ; but I find myself re- garded as an ignorant intruder. The truth is, I shall never be able to acquire a power of expressing myself with ease in any language but my own ; and out of my own country the highest character I can ever acquire, is that of being a philosophic vagabond. When I consider myself in the country which was once so formidable in war, and spread terror and desolation over the whole Koman empii'c, I can hardly account for the present wretchedness and pusillanimity of its inhabi- tants : a prey to every invader ; their cities plundered without an enemy ; their magistrates seeking redress by complaints, and not bj vigour. Every- thing conspires to raise my compassion for their miseries, were not my thoughts too busily engaged by my own. The whole kingdom is in a strange disorder : when our equipage, which consists of the prince and thirteen attendants, had arrived at some towns, there were no conveniences to be found, and we were obliged to have girls to conduct iis to the next. I have seen a woman travel thus on horseback before us for thirty miles, and think herself highly paid, and make twenty reverences, upon receiving, with ecstasy, about twopence for her troiible. In general we were better served by the women than the men on those occasions. The men seemed directed by a low sordid interest alone ; they seemed mere machines, and all their thoughts were employed in the care of then* horses. If we gently desired them to make more speed, they took not the least notice ; kind language was what they had by no means been used to. It was proper to speak to them in the tones of anger, and sometimes it was even necessary to use blows, to excite them to their duty. How difierent these from the common people of England, whom a blow might induce to return the affront sevenfold ! These poor people, however, from being brought vip to vile usage, lose all the respect which they should have for themselves. They have contracted an habit of regarding constraint as the great rule of their duty. When they were treated with mildness, they no longer continued to perceive a superiority. They fancied themselves our equals, and a continu- ance of our humanity might probably have rendered them insolent j but the imperious tone, menaces, and blows, at once changed their sensations and their ideas : their ears and shoulders taught their souls to shrink back into servi- tude, from which they had for some moments fancied themselves disengaged. The enthusiasm of liberty an Englislunan feels is never so strong, as when presented by such prospects as these. I must own, in aU my indigence, it is one of mj comforts (perhaps, indeed, it is my only boast) that I am of that happy country ; though I scorn to starve there ; though I do not choose to lead a life of wretched depen dance, or be an object for my former acquaintance to pomt at. Wliile you enjoy all the ease and elegance of prudence and virtue, your old friend wanders over the world, without a single anchor to hold by, or a friend except you to confide in.* Yours, &c. A SHORT ACCOUNT OF THE LATE MR. MAUPERTUIS. Ms. Mattpeettjis, lately deceased, was the first to whom the Enghsh phi- losophers owed their being particularly admu^ed by the rest of Europe. The romantic system of Des Cartes was adapted to the taste of the superficial and the indolent ; the foreign universities had embraced it with ardoiir, and such * The sequel of this correspondence to be continued occasionally. I shall alter nothing either in the style or substance of these letters, and the reader may depend on their being genuine. 310 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. TiXQ seldom convinced of their errors till all others give tip such false opinions as untenable. The philosophy of IsTewton, and the metaphysics of Locke, appeared ; but, like all new truths, they were at once received with opposition and contempt. The English, it is true, studied, understood, and consequently admired them ; it was very different on the Continent. Fontenelle, who seemed to preside over the Republic of Letters, unwilling to acknowledge that all his life had been spent in erroneous philosophy, joined in the universal disapprobation, and the English philosophers seemed entirely unknown. Maupertuis, however, made them his study : he thought lie might oppose the physics of his country, and yet still be a good citizen : he defended our countrymen, wrote in their favour, and at last, as he had truth on his side, carried his cause. • Almost all the learning of the English, till very lately, was conveyed in the language of France. The writings of Maupertuis spread the reputation of his master Newton, and by an happy fortune have united his fame with that of our human prodigy. The first of his performances, openly, in vindication of the ISTewtonian system, is his treatise, intituled, Sur la figure des Astres, if I remember right ; a work at once expressive of a deep geometrical knowledge, and the most happy manner of delivering abstruse science with ease. This met with violent opposition from a people, though fond of novelty in everything else, yet, how- ever, in matters of science, attached to ancient opinions with bigotry. As the old and obstinate fell away, the youtlx of France embraced the new opinions, and now seem more eager to defend Newton than even his countrymen. The oddity of character which great men aro sometimes remarkable for, Maupertuis was not entirely free from. If we can beHeve Voltaire, he once attempted to castrate himself ; but whether this be true or no, it is certain he was extremely whimsical. Though born to a large fortune, when employed in mathematical inquiries, lie disregarded his person to such a degree, and loved retirement so much, that he has been more than once put on the list of modest beggars by the curates of Paris, when he retired to some private quarter of the town, in order to enjoy his meditations without interruption. The cliai*acter given of him by one of Voltaire's antagonists, if it can be de- pended upon, is much to his honour. " You," says this wi'iter to Mr. Vol- taire ; '• you were entertained by the King of Prussia as a buffoon, but Mau- pertuis as a philosopher." It is certain that the preference which this royal scholar gave to Maupertuis was the cause of Voltaire's disagreement with him. Voltaire could not bear to see a man, whose talents he had no great opinion of, prefeiTcd before him as president of the royal academy. His Micromegas was designed to ridicule Maupertuis : and probably it has brought more dis- grace on the author than the subject. Whatever absurdities men of letters liave indulged, and how fantastical soever the modes of science have been, their anger is stiU more subject to ridicule. THE BEE, No. II. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1759. ON DRESS. FoEEiaNEES observe that there are no ladies in the world more beautiful, or more ill dressed, than those of England. Our countrywomen have been com- pared to those pictures, where the face is the work of a Raphael ; but the THE BEE. 311 draperies throtni out by some empty pretender, destitute of taste, and en- tirely unacquainted witli design. If I were a poet, I might observe, on this occasion, that so much beauty set off Avith all the advantages of dress would be too powerful an antagonist for the opposite sex, and therefore it was wisely ordered, that our ladies should want taste, lest their admirers should entirely want reason. But to confess a truth, I do not find they have a greater aversion to fine clothes than the women of any other country whatsoever. I cannot fancy that a shopkeeper's wife in Cheapside has a greater tenderness for the fortune of her husband than a citizen's wife in Paris ; or that miss in a boarding- school is more an economist in dress than mademoiselle in a nunnery. Although Paris may be accounted the soil in which almost every fashion talces its rise, its influence is never so general there as with us. They study there the happy method of uniting grace and fashion, and never excuse a woman for being awkwardly dressed, by saying her clothes are made in the mode. A French woman is a perfect architect in dress ; she never, with G-othic ignorance, mixes the orders ; she never tricks out a squabby Doric shape with Corinthian finery ; or, to speak without metaphor, slie conforms to general fashion, only when it happens not to be repugnant to private beauty. Our ladies, on the contraiy, seem to have no other standard for grace but the ran of the town. If fashion gives the word, every distinction of beauty, complexion, or stature ceases. Sweeping trains, Prussian bonnets, and trol- lopees, as like each other as if cut from the same piece, level all to one standard. The mall, the gardens, and the playhouses, are filled with ladies in uniform, and their whole appearance shews as little variety or taste as if their clothes were bespoke by the colonel of a marching regiment, or fancied by the same artist who dresses the three battalions of guards. But not only ladies of every shape and complexion, but of every age, too, arc possessed of this unaccountable passion of dressing in the same manner. A'lady of no quality can be distinguished from a lady of some quality only by the redness of her hands ; and a woman of sixty, masked, might easily pass for her grand- daughter. I remember a few days ago, to have walked behind a damsel, tossed out in all the gaiety of fifteen ; her dress was loose, unstudied, and seemed the result of conscious beaiity. I called up all my poetry on this occasion, and fancied twenty Cupids prepared for execution in every folding of licr white negligee. I had prepared my imagination for an angel's face ; but what was my mortification to find that the imaginary goddess was no other than my cousin Hannah, four years older than myself, and I shall be sixty- two the 12th of next IS'ovember. After the transports of our first salute were over, I coiild not avoid running my eye over her whole appearance. Her gown was of cambric, cut short before, in order to discover an high-heelod shoe, which was buckled almost at the toe. Her cap, if cap it might be called that cap was none, consisted of a few bits of cambric, and flowers of painted paper stuck on one side of her her head. Her bosom that had felt no hand, but the hand of Time, these twenty years, rose suing, but in vain to be pressed. I could indeed have wished her more than an handkerchief of Paris-net to shade her beauties ; for as Tasso says of the rose-bxid, Quanto simostra men tanto e piu bella, I should think hers most pleasing when least discovered. As my cousin had not put on all this finery for nothing, she was at that time sallying out to the park, when I had overtaken her. Perceiving, how- ever, that I had on my best wig, she offered, if I would 'squire her there, to send home the footman. Though I trembled for our reception in pubhc, yet 312 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITE. I could not, Tvitli any civility, refuse ; so to be as gallant as possiblcj I tools her hand in my arm, and thus we marched on together. When we made our entry at the Park, two antiquated figures, so polite and so tender as we seemed to be, soon attracted the eyes of the company. As we made our way among crowds who were out to shew their finery as well as we, wherever we came I perceived we brought good-humour in our train. The polite could not forbear smiling, and the vidgar burst out into a horse laugh at our grotesque figures. Cousin Hannah, who was perfectly conscious of the rectitude of her own appearance, attributed all this mirth to the oddity of mine ; while I as cordially placed the whole to her accoimt. Thus, from being two of the best-natured creatures alive, before we got half way up the mall, we both began to grow peevish, and like two mice on a string endeavoured to revenge the impertinence of others upon ourselves. " I am amazed, cousin Jeffery," says Miss, " that I can never get you to dress like a Cluistian. I knew we should have the eyes of the Park upon us, with your great wig so frizzed, and yet so beggarly, and yom* monstrous mufi*. I hate those odious muffs." I could have patiently borne a criticism on all the rest of my equipage ; but as I had always a peculiar veneration for my muff, I could not forbear being piqued a little ; and throwing my eyes with a spitefid air on her bosom, " I could heartily wish, Madam," replied I, " that for your sake, my muff was cut into a tippet." As my cousin by this time was grown heartily ashamed of her gentleman usher, and as I was never very fond of any kind of exhibition myself, it was mutually agreed to retire for a while to one of the seats, and from that retreat remark on others as freely as they had remarked on us. When seated, we continued silent for some time, employed in very different speculations. I regarded the whole company, now passing in review before me, as drawn out merely for my amusement. For my entertainment the beauty had all that morning been improving her charms, the beau had put on lace, and the young doctor a big wig, merely to please me. But quite dif- ferent were the sentiments of cousm Hannah ; she regarded every well-dressed woman as a victorious rival ; hated every face that seemed dressed in good humour, or wore the appearance of greater happiness than her own. I per- ceived her mieasiness, and attempted to lessen it, by observing that there was no company in the Park to-day. To this she readily assented : " and yet," says she, " it is full enough of scrubs of one kind or another." My smiUng at this observation gave her spirits to piu'sue the bent of her inclmation, and now she began to exhibit her skill in secret history, as she found me disposed to listen. " Observe," says she to me, " that old woman in tawdry silk, and dressed out even beyond the fashion. That is Miss Biddy Evergreen. Miss Biddy, it seems, has money, and she considers that money was never so scarce as it is now ; she seems resolved to keep what she has to herself. She is ugly enough, you see ; yet I assiue you, she has refused several offers, to my own knowledge, within this twelvemonth. Let me see, three gentlemen from Ireland who study the law, two waiting captains, her doctor, and a Scotch preacher, who had Uke to have carried her off. All her time is passed between sickness and finery. Thus she spends the whole week in a close chamber, with no other company but her monkey, her apothecary, and cat, and comes dressed out to the Park every Sunday, to shew her airs, to get new lovers, to catch a new cold, and to make new work for tlie doctor. " There goes Mrs. Koundabout, I mean the fat lady in the lutestring trol- lopee. Between you and I, she is but a cutler's wife. See how she's dressea as fine as hands and pins can make her, while her two marriageable daughters, like bimters, in stuff gowns, are now taking sixpenny worth of tea at the Wliite- THE BEE. 313 conduit house. Odious puss! how she waddles along, with her traia two yards behind her ! She puts me in mind of my Lord Bantam's Indian, sheep, which are obliged to have their monstrous tails trundled along in a go-cart. For all her airs, it goes to her husband's heart to see fom* yards of good lute- string wearing against the ground, like one of his knives on a grindstone. To Bpeak my mind, cousin JefFery, I never liked tails ; for suppose a young fellow should be rude, and the lady should offer to step back in a fright, instead of retiring, she treads upon her train, and falls fairly on her back ; and then you know, cousin, — her clothes may be spoiled. "Ah! Miss Mazzard! I knew we should not miss her in the Park; she in the monstrous Prussian bonnet. Miss, though so very fine, was bred a milliner, and might have had some custom if she had minded her business j but the girl was fond of finery, and instead of dressing her customers, laid out all her goods in adorning herself. Every new gown she put on impaired her credit ; she still, however, went on improving her appearance, and lessening her little fortune, and is now, you see, become a belle and a bankrupt." My cousin was proceeding in her remai'ks, which were interrupted by the approach of the very lady she had been so freely describing. Miss had per- ceived her at a distance, and approached to salute her. I found by the warmth of tlie two ladies' protestations, that they had been long intimate esteemed friends and acquaintance. Both were so pleased at this happy rencoimter, that they were resolved not to part for the day. So we all crossed the Park together, and I saw them in a hackney coach at the gate of St. James's. I coidd not, however, help observing, " That they are generally most ridiculous themselves, who are apt to see most ridicule in others." SOME PARTICULAES RELATIVE TO CHARLES XII. NOT COMMONLY KNOWN. SiE, Stockholm. I CANNOT resist yoiur solicitations, though it is possible I shall be unable to satisfy your curiosity. The polite of every country seem to have but one cha- racter. A gentleman of Sweden differs but little, except in trifles, from one of any other countiy. It is among the vulgar we are to find those distinctions which characterize a people, and from them it is that I take my picture of the Swedes. Though the Swedes in general appear to languish under oppression, which often renders others wicked, or of malignant dispositions, it has not, however, the same influence upon them, as they are faithful, civil, and incapable of atrocious crimes. Would you believe that in Sweden highway robberies are not so much as heard of ? for my part I have not in the whole country seen a gibbet or a gallows. They pay an infinite respect to their ecclesiastics, whom they suppose to be the privy councillors of Providence, who, on theu' part, turn this credulity to their own advantage, and manage their parishioners as they please. In general, however, they seldom abuse their sovereign authority. Hearkened to as oracles, regarded as dispensers of eternal rewards and punish- ments, they readily influence their hearers into justice, and make them practical philosophers without the pains of study. As to their persons they are perfectly well made, and the men particularly have a very engaging air. The greatest part of the boys which I saw in the country had very white hair. They were as beautiful as Cupids, and there was something open and entirely happy in their little chubby faces. The girls, on the contrary, have neither such fair, nor such even complexions, and tlieir features are much less delicate, which is a circumstance different from that of 314 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH, almost eyery other country. Besides this, it is observed that the -women are generally afflicted with the itch, for which Scania is particularly remarkable. I had an instance of this in one of the inns on the road. The hostess was one of the most beautiful women I hare ever seen ; she had so fine a com- plexion, that I could not avoid admiring it. But what was my sui'prisej when she opened her bosom in order to suckle her child, to perceive that seat of delight all covered with this disagreeable distemper. The careless manner in which she exposed to our eyes so disgusting an object, sxifficiently testifies that they regard it as no very extraordinary malady, and seem to take no pains to conceal it. Such are the remarks, whicli probably you may think trifling enough, I have made in my journey to Stockhohn, which to take it all together, is a large, beautiful, and even a populous city. The arsenal appears to me one of its greatest curiosities ; it is an handsome spacious building, but, however, scantily supplied with the implements of war. To recompense this defect, they have almost filled it with trophies, and other marks of their former military glory. I saw there several chambers filled with Danish, Saxon, PoHsh, and Eussian standards. There was at least enough to suffice half a dozen armies ; but new standards are more easily made than new armies can be enlisted. I saw, besides, some very rich fmniiture, and some of the crown jewels of great value : but what principally engaged my attention, and touched me with passing melancholy, were the bloody, yet precious spoils of the two greatest heroes the North ever produced. What I mean are the clothes in which the Grreat Grusfcavus Adolphus, and tlie intrepid Charles XII. died, by a fate not imusual to kings. The first, if I remember, is a sort of a buff waistcoat, made antique fashion, very plain, and without the least ornaments ; the second, which was even more remarkable, consisted only of a coarse blue cloth coat, a large hat of less value, a shirt of coarse linen, large boots, and buff gloves made to cover a great part of the arm. His saddle, his pistols, and his sword, have nothing in them remarkable, the meanest soldier, was in this respect no way inferior to his gallant monarch. I shall use this opportunity to give you some particulars of the life of a man already so well known, which I had from persons who knew him when a child, and who now, by a fate not unusual to courtiers, spend a life of poverty and retirement, and talk over in raptures aU the actions of their old victorious king, companion and master. Courage and inflexible constancy formed the basis of this monarch's cha- racter. In his tendcrest years he gave instances of both. Wlien he was yet scarcely seven years old, being at dinner with the queen his mother, intending to give a bit of bread to a great dog he was fond of, this hungry animal snapped too gi-eedily at the morsel, and bit his hand in a terrible manner. The wound bled copiously, but our young hero, without offering to cry, or taking the least notice of his misfortune, endeavoured to conceal what had happened, lest his dog should be brought into trouble, and wrapped his bloody hand in the napkin. The queen perceiving that he did not eat, asked him the reason. He contented himself with replying, that he thanked her, he was not hiuigiy. They thought he was taken ill, and so repeated their solicitations. But all was in vain, though the poor child was already grown pale with the loss of blood. An officer who attended at table, at last perceived it ; for Charles would sooner have died than betrayed his dog, who ho knew intended no injury. At another time when in tlie small-pox, and his case appeared dangerous, he grew one day very uneasy in his bed, and a gentleman who watched him, desirous of covering him iip close, received from the patient a violent box on his ear. Some hoiu's after, observing the prince more calm, he intreated to THE BEE. 315 know how he had incun-ed his displeasure, or what ho had done to have merited a blow ? A blow ? replied Charles, I don't remember any thing of it ; I remember, indeed, that I thought myself in the battle of Arbela, fighting for Darius, where I gave Alexander a blow, which brought him to the ground. What great effects might not these two qualities of courage and constancy have produced, had they at first received a just direction. Charles, with pro- per instructions, thus naturally disposed, would have been the delight and the glory of his age. Happy those princes, who are educated by men who are at once virtuous and wise, and have been for some time in the school of afflic- tion ; who weigh happiness against glory, and teach their royal pupils the real value of fame ; who are ever shewing the superior dignity of man to that of royalty : that a peasant who does his duty is a nobler character than a king of even middling reputation. Happy, I say, were princes, could such men be found to instruct them ; but those to whom such an education is generally instrustod, are men who themselves have acted in a sphere too high to knowmankind. Puffed up themselves with the ideas of false grandeur, and measiu'ing merit by adventi- tious circumstances of greatness, they generally communicate those fatal preju- dices to their pupils, confinn their pride by adulation, or increase their igno- rance by teaching them to despise that wisdom which is found among the poor. But not to moi'alize when I only intend a story ; what is related of the journeys of this prince is no less astonishing. He has sometimes been on horseback for four-and-twenty hours successively, and thus traversed the gi'catest part of his kingdom. At last none of his officers were found capable of following him ; he thus consequently rode the greatest part of his journeys quite alone, without taking a moment's repose, and without any other subsis- tence but a bit of bread. In one of these rapid courses he underwent an ad- venture singular enough. Riding thus post one day, all alone, he had the misfortune to have his horse fall dead under him. This might have embar- rassed an ordinary man, but it gave Charles no sort of uneasiness. Sure of find- ing another horse, but not equally so of meeting with a good saddle and pistols, he ungirds his horse, clasps the whole equipage on his own back, and thus accoutred, marches on to the next inn, which by good fortune was not far off. Entering the stable, he here foimd a horse entirely to his mind ; so, without further ceremony, he clapped on his saddle and housing with great composure, and was just going to mount, when the gentleman who owned the horse, w^s apprised of a stranger's going to steal his property out of the stable. Upon asking the king whom he had never seen, bluntly, how he presumed to meddle with his horse, Charles coolly replied, squeezing in his lips, which was his usual custom, that he took the horse because he wanted one ; for you see, con- tinued he, if I have none, I shall be obliged to carry the saddle myself. This answer did not seem at all satisfactory to the gentleman, who instantly drew his sword. In this the king was not much behind-hand with him, and to it they were going, when the guards by this time came up, and testified that surprise which was natural to see arms in the hand of a svibject against his king. Imagine whether the gentleman wag less surprised than they at his unpremeditated disobedience. His astonishment, however, was soon dissipated by the king, who, taking him by the hand, assured him he was a brave fellow, and himself would take care he should be provided for. Tliis promise wag afterwards fulfilled, and I have been assured the king made him a captain. HAPPINESS, IN A GREAT MEASURE DEPENDENT ON . CONSTITUTION. When I reflect on the unambitious retirement in which I passed the earlier 316 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. part of my life in the country, I cannot avoid feeling some pain in thinking that those happy days are never to return. In that retreat all natm-e seemed capable of affording pleasure ; I then made no refinements on happiness, but could be pleased with the most awkward eiforts of rustic mirth ; thought cross-purposes the highest stretch of human wit, and questions and commands the most rational amusement for spending the evening. Happy covdd so charming an illusion still continue ! I find age and knowledge only contribute to som' our dispositions. My present enjoyments may be more refined, but they are infinitely less pleasing. The pleasiu'e Garrick gives can no way com- pare to that I liave received from a country wag, who imitated a Quaker's sermon. The music of Matei is dissonance to what I felt when our old dairy- maid sung me into tears with Johnny Armstrong's Last Grood Night, or the cruelty of Barbara Allen. Writers of every age have endeavom'ed to shew that pleasure is in us, and not in the objects offered for our amusement. If the soul be happily disposed, every thing becomes a subject of entertainment, and distress will almost want a name. Every occuiTcnce passes in review like the figiires of a procession ; some may be awkward, others ill-dressed ; but none but a fool is for this en- raged with the master of the ceremonies. I remember to have once seen a slave in a fortification in Planders, wlio ap- peared no way touched with his situation. He was maimed, deformed, and chained ; obhged to toil from the appearance of day till night-fall, and con- demned to this for life; yet, with all these circumstances of apparent wi'etched- ness, he sung, woidd have danced, but that he wanted a leg, and appeared the merriest, happiest man of all the garrison. What a practical philosopher was here : an happy constitution supplied philosophy, and though seemingly des- titute of wisdom, he was really wise. No reading or study had contributed to disenchant the fairy land around him. Every tiling furnished him with an opportunity of mirth ; and though some thought him from his insensibility a fool, he was such an idiot as philosophers might wish in vain to imitate. They who, like him, can place themselves on that side of the world, in which every thing appears in a ridiculous or pleasing Hght, will find something in every occurrence to excite then* good-humom*. The most calamitous events, either to themselves or others, can bring no new affliction ; the whole world is to them a theatre, on which comedies only are acted. All the bustle of hero- ism, or the rants of ambition, serve only to heigliten the absurdity of the scene, and make the humour more poignant. They feel, in short, as little anguish at their own distress, or the complaints of others, as the imdertaker, though dressed in black, feels sorrow at a fuueral. Of all the men I ever read of, the famous Cardinal De Eetz possessed this happiness of temper in the highest degree. As he was a man of gallantry, and despised all that wore the pedantic appearance of philosophy, wherever pleasure was to be sold, he was generally foremost to raise the auction. Being an universal admh'er of the fair sex, when he found one lady cruel, he gene- rally fell in love with another, from whom he expected a more favourable reception ; if she too rejected his addresses, he never thought of retiring into deserts, or pining in hopeless distress. He persuaded himself, that instead of loving the lady, he only fancied he had loved her, and so all was well again. When fortune wore her angriest look, when he at last fell into the power of his most deadly enemy. Cardinal Mazarine, and was confined a close prisoner in the castle of Yalenciennes, he never attempted to support his distress by wisdom or philosophy, for he pretended to neither. He laughed at himself and his persecutor, and seemed infinitely pleased at his new situation. In this mansion of distress, though secluded from his friends, though denied all the THE BER 3lt alausements, and even the conveniencies of life, teased eveiy hour by the im- pertinence of wretches who were employed to guard him, he still retained his good humour, laughed at all their little spite, and carried the jest so far as to be revenged, by writing the life of his gaoler. All that philosophy can teach, is to be stubborn or sullen under misfortunes. The Cardinal's example wiU instruct us to be merry in cu'cumstances of the highest affliction. It matters not whether our good-humour be construed by others into insensibility, or even ideotism ; it is happiness to ourselves and none but a fool would measure his satisfaction by what the world thinks of it. Dick Wildgoose was one of the happiest silly fellows I ever knew. He was of the munber of those good-natured creatures that are said to do no harm to any but themselves. Whenever Dick fell into any misery, he usually called it seeing life. If his head was broke by a chaii*man, or his pocket picked by a sharper, he comforted himself by imitating the Hibernian dialect of the one, or the more fashionable cant of the other. Nothing came amiss to Dick. His inattention to money-matters had incensed his father to svicli a degi'ee, that all the intercession of friends in his favour was fruitless. The old gentleman was on his death-bed. The whole family, and Dick among the number, gathered round him, I leave my second son Andrew, said the expiring miser, my whole estate, and desire him to be frugal. Andrew, in a sorrowful tone, as is usual on these occasions, *' Prayed heaven to prolong his life and health to enjoy it himself." I recommend Simon, my tliird son, to the care of his elder brother, and leave him besides fom* thousand pounds. " Ah ! father," cried Simon, (in great affliction to be sure) " May heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself!" At last, tmniing to poor Dick ; "As for you, you have always been a sad dog, you'll never come to good, you'll never be rich, I'U leave you a shilling to buy an halter." " Ah ! father," cries Dick, without any emotion, "May heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself!" This was all the trouble the loss of fortune gave this thoughtless imprudent creature. However, the tenderness of an uncle recompensed the neglect of a father ; and Dick is not only excessively good-humoured, but competently rich. The world, in short, may cry out at a bankrupt who appears at a ball ; at an author who laughs at the public which pronounces him a dunce ; at a general who smiles at the reproach of the vulgar ; or the lady who keeps her good- humour in spite of scandal ; but such is the wisest behaviour they can possibly assume ; it is certainly a better way to oppose calamity by dissipation, than to take up the arms of reason or resolution to oppose it ; by the first method we forget our miseries, by the last we only conceal them from others 5 by struggling with misfortunes, we are sure to receive some wounds in the con- flict. The only method to come off victorious, is by running away. ON OUR THEATRES. Mademoiselle Clairon, a celebrated actress at Paris, seems to me the most perfect female figure I have ever seen upon any stage. Not, perhaps, that Nature has been more liberal of personal beauty to her, than some to be seen upon our theatres at home. There are actresses here who have as much of what connoisseurs call statuary grace, by which is meant elegance unconnected with motion, as she ; but they all fall infinitely short of her, when the sovil comes to give expression to the limbs, and animates every feature. Her first appearance is excessively engaging ; she never comes in staring round upon the company, as if she intended to count the benefits of the house, or at least to see, as well as be seen. Her eyes are always, at first, intently fixed upon the persons of the drama, and she lifts them by degrees, with 818 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. enchanting diffidence, upon tlie spectators. Hei' first speecli, or at least the first part of it, is delivered with scai'cely any motion of the arm ; her hands and her tongue never set out together ; but the one prepares us for the other. She sometimes begins with a mute eloquent attitude ; but never goes forward all at once with hands, eyes, head, and voice. This observation, though it may appear of no importance, should certainly be adverted to ; nor do I see any one performer (Grarrick only excepted) among us, that is not in this particular apt to offend. By this simple beginning she gives herself a power of rising in the passion of the scene. As she proceeds, every gesture, every look acquires new violence, tiU at last transported, she fills the whole vehe- mauce of the part, and all the idea of the poet. Her hands are not alternately stretched out, and then drawn in again, as with tlic einging-women at Sadler's Wells ; they are employed with graceful variety, and every moment please with new and imexpected eloquence. Add to this, tliat their motion is generally from the shoulder ; she never floiu*ishes lier hands while the upper part of her arm is motionless, nor has she the ridi- culous appeaa-ance, as if her elbows were pinned to her hips. But of aU the cautions to be given to our rising actresses, I would particu- lai'ly recommend it to them never to take notice of the audience, upon any occasion whatsoever ; let the spectators applaud never so loudly, their pi-aises should pass, except at the end of the epilogue, with seemmg inattention. I <'.an never pardon a lady on the stage who, when she di-aws the admiration of the whole audience, turns about to make them a low courtesy for their ap- ])lause. Such a figure no longer resembles Belvidera, but at once drops into Mrs. Cibbor. Suppose a sober tradesman, who once a year takes his shilling's worth at Drury-lane, in order to be delighted with the figure of a queen, the queen of Sheba for instance, or any other queen : this honest man has no other idea of the great but from their superior pride and "impertinence ; suppose such a man placed among tlie spectators, the fii-st figm'e that appears on the stage is the queen herself, curtseying and cringing to aU the company ; how can he fancy her the haughty favoiu'ite of King Solomon the wise, who appears actually more submissive than the wife of his bosom. We are all tradesmen of a nicer rehsh in this respect, and such conduct must disgust every spectator who loves to have the illusion of natm'c strong upon him. Yet, wliile I recommend to our actresses a skilful attention to gesture, I would not have them study it in the looking-glass. This, without some pre- caution, will render their action formal ; by too great an intimacy with this they become stiff and affected. People seldom improve, when they have no other model but themselves to copy after. I remember to have known a notable performer of the other sex, who made great use of this flattering monitor, and yet was one of the stiffest figures I ever saw. I am told his apartment was hung round with lookiug-glass, that he might see his person twenty times reflected upon entering the room ; and I wiU make bold to say, he saw twenty very ugly fellows whenever he did so. THE BEE, No. III. SATUEDAY, OCTOBEE 20, 1759. o:n" the use of LAKauAaE. The manner in which most writers begin their treatises on the use of language is generally thus : " Language has been granted to man, in order to discover THE BEE. 31S Ids -vvauts and necessities, so as to liave tliem relieved by society. Wliatercr ■vve desire, whatever we wisli, it is but to clothe those desires or wishes iu words, in order to fruition : the principal use of language, therefore, say they, is to express our wants, so as to receive a speedy redress." Such an account as this may serve to satisfy grammarians and rhetoricians well enough, but men who know the world maintain very contrary maxims ; they hold, and I think with some shew of reason, that he who best knows how to conceal his necessity and desires, is the most likely person to find redress, and that the true use of speech is not so much to express our wants as to con- ceal them. When we reflect on the manner in which mankind generally confer tlicir favours, we shall find that they who seem to want them least, are the very pei;gons who most liberally share them. There is something so attractive in riches, that the large heap generally collects from the smaller ; and the poor find as much pleasure in increasing the enormous mass, as the miser, who owns it, sees happiness in its increase. Nor is there in this anything repug- nant to the laws of true morality. Seneca himself allows, that in conferring benefits, the present should always be suited to the dignity of the receiver. Thus the rich receive large presents, and are thanked for accepting them. Men of middling stations are obliged to be content with presents something less ; while the beggar, who may be truly said to want indeed, is well paid if a farthing rewards his warmest solicitations. Every man who has seen the world, and has had his ups and downs in life, as the expression is, must have frequently experienced the truth of this doc- trine, *and must know that to have much, or to seem to have it, is the only way to have more. Ovid finely compares a man of broken fortune to a falling column ; the lower it sinks, the greater weight it is. obliged to sustain. Thus, when a man has no occasion to borrow, he finds numbers willing to lend him. Shoidd he ask his friend to lend Ixim an hundi'ed pounds, it is possible from the largeness of hia demand, he may find credit for twenty : but should he humbly only sue for a trifle, it is two to one whether he might be trusted for twopence. A certain young fellow at G-eorge's, whenever he had occasion to ask his friend for a guinea, used to prelude his request as if he wanted two hundi'ed, and talked so familiarly of large sums, that none could ever think he wanted a small one. The same gentleman, whenever he wanted credit for a new suit from his tailor, always made a proposal in laced clothes ; for he found by experience, that if he appeared shabby on these occasions, Mr. Lynch had taken an oath against trusting ; or what was every bit as bad, his foreman was out of the way, and would not be at home these two days. Tliere can be no inducement to reveal oiu' Vi^ants, except to find pity, and by this means relief; but before a poor man opens his mind in such circum- stances, he should first consider whether he is contented to lose the esteem of the person he solicits, and whether he is willing to give up friendship only to excite compassion. Pity and friendship are passions incompatible with each other, and it is impossible that both can reside in any breast for the smallest space, without impairing each other. Friendship is made up of esteem and pleasiire : pity is composed of sorrow and contempt ; the mind may for some time fluctuate between them, but it never can entertain both together. Yet let it not be thought that I would exclude pity from the human mind. There is scarcely any who are not in some degree possessed of this pleasing softness ; but it is at best but a short-lived passion, and seldom affords distress more than transitory assistance : with some it scarcely lasts from the first im- pulse till the hand can be put into the pocket ; with others it may continue for twice that space, and on some extraordinary sensibility I have seen it operate 320 TRE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. for half an hour. But, however, last as it ■will, it generally produces but beg* garlj effects ; and -where from this motive we give an halfpenny, from others we give always pounds. In gi'eat distress we sometimes, it is true, feel the influence of tenderness strongly ; wlien the same distress soHcits a second time, we then feel with diminished sensibility ; but like the repetition of an echo, every new impulse becomes weaker, till at last our sensations lose every mixture of soi'row, and degenerate into downright contempt. Jack Spindle and I were old acquaintance ; but he's gone. Jack was bred in a counting-house, and his father dying just as he was out of his time, left him an handsome fortune, and many friends to advise with. The restraint in which he had been brought up had thrown a gloom upon his temper, which some regarded as an habitual prudence, and from such considerations he had every day repeated offers of fi'iendship. Those who had money, were ready to offer him their assistance that way ; and they who had daughters, fre- quently, in the warmth of affection, advised him to marry. Jack, however, was in good circumstances ; he wanted neither money, friends, nor a wife, and therefoi'e modestly decHned their proposals. Some errors in the management of liis affaii's, and several losses in trade, soon brought Jack to a different way of thinking ; and he at last thought it his best way to let his friends know that their offers were at length acceptable. His first address was therefore to a scrivener, who had fomierly made him frequent offers of money and friendsliip, at a time when, perhaps, he knew those offers would have been refused. Jack, therefore, thought he might iise his old friend without any cerepiony, and, as a man confident of not being refused, requested the use of a hundred guineas for a few days, as he just then had an occasion for money. " And ]3ray, Mr. Spindle," replied the scrivener, " do you want all this money ?" — " Want it, Sir," says the other, *' ii I did not want it, I shoidd not have asked it." — " I am sorry for that," says the friend ; "for those who want money when they come to borrow, will want money when they shoidd come to pay. To say the truth, Mr. Spindle, money is money now-a-days. I beheve it is all sunk in the bottom of the sea, for my part ; and he that has got a little, is a fool if he does not keep what he has got." Not quite disconcerted by this refusal, our adventurer was resolved to apply to another, whom he knew to be the very best friend he had in the world. The gentleman whom he now addressed, received his proposal with all the affability that could be expected from generous friendship. " Let me see, you want a hundred guineas ; and pray, dear Jack, would not fifty answer ?" — " If yow have but fifty to spare, Sh% I must be contented." — " Fifty to spare ! I do not say that, for I believe I have but twenty about me." — " Then I mmt borrow the other thirty from some other friend.^' — " And pray," replied the friend, " would it not be the best way to borrow the whole money from that other friend ? and then one note will serve for all, you know. Lord, Mr. Spindle, make no ceremony with me at any time : you know I'm your friend, when you choose a bit of dinner or so. ^You, Tom, see the gentleman down. You won't forget to dine with us now and then. Your very humble servant." Distressed, but not discouraged at this treatment, he was at last resolved to find that assistance from love, which he could not have from friendship. Miss Jenny Dismal had a fortune in her own hands, and she had already made all the advances that her sex's modesty would permit. He made his proposal, therefore, with confidence, but soon perceived " !N"o bankrupt ever found the fair one kind." Miss Jenny and Master BiUy GraUoon were lately fallen deeply in love with each other, and the whole neighbourhood thought it would soon be a match. THE BEE. 321 Every day now began to strip Jack of his former finery ; his clotlies flew piece by piece to tbe pawnbroker's ; and lie seemed at length, equipped in the genuine mourning of antiquity. But still ho thought himself secm*e from starving ; the nimiberless invitations he had received to dine, even after his losses, were yet unanswered ; he was therefore now resolved to accept of a dinner because he wanted one ; and in this manner he actually lived among his friends a whole week without being openly affronted. The last place 1 saw poor Jack was at the Kev. Dr. Grosling's. He had, as he fancied, just nicked the time, for he came in as the cloth was laying. He took a chair without being desired, and talked for some time without being attended to. He assured the company that nothing procured so good an appetite as a walk to White Conduit House, where he had been that morning. He looked at the table-cloth, and praised the figure of the damask ; talked of a feast where he had been the day before, but that the venison was overdone. All this, how- ever, procured the poor creatm-e no invitation, and he was not yet sufficiently hardened to stay without being asked ; wherefoi'e, finding the gentleman of the house insensible to all his fetches, he thought proper, at last, to retire, and mend his appetite by a walk in the Park. You, then, O ye beggars of my acquaintance, whether in rags or lace ; whctlier in Kent-street or the Mall ; whether at Smyrna or St. Giles's ; might I advise you as a friend, never seem in want of the favour which you sohcit. Apply to every passion but pity, for redress. You may find relief from vanity, from self-interest, or from avarice, but seldom from compassion. The very eloquence of a poor man is disgusting ; and that moixth which is opened even for flattery, is seldom expected to close without a petition. If, then, you would ward off the gripe of Poverty, pretend to be a stranger to her, and she will at least use you with ceremony. Hear not my advice, but that of Offellus. If you be caught dining upon a halfpenny pori'inger of pease- soup and potatoes, praise the wholesomeness of your frugal repast. You may observe, that Dr. Cheyne has prescribed pease-broth for the gravel ; hint that you are not one of those who are always making a god of your belly. If you are obhged to wear a flimsy stufl" in the midst of winter, be the first to remark that stuffs are very much worn at Paris. If there be found some irreparable defects in any part of your equipage, which cannot be concealed by all the arts of sitting cross legged, coaxing, or darning, say, that neitlier you nor Sampson Gideon were ever very fond of dress. Or, if you be a philosopher, hint that Plato or Seneca are the tailors you choose to employ ; assure the company that man ought to be content with a bare covering, since what is now so much the pride of some, was formerly our shame. Horace will give you a Latin sen- tence fit for the occasion : Toga defenderefrigus, Quamvis crassa, queat. ^ In short, however caught, do not give up, but ascribe to the frugality of your disposition what others might be apt to attribute to the narrowness of your circumstances, and appear rather to be a miser than a beggar. To be poor, and to seem poor, is a certain method never to rise. Pride in the great is hateful, in the wise it is ridiculous ; beggarly pride is the only sort of vanity I can excuse. THE HISTOEY OF HYPASIA. Man, when secluded from society, is not a more soHtary being than the woman who leaves the duties of her own sex to invade the privileges of ours. She seems, in such circvimstanccs, like one in banishment ; she appears Hie a 21 322 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. neutral being between the sexes 5 and tliougli she may liare the admiration of both, she finds true happiness from neither. Of all the ladies of antiquity, I have read of none who was ever more justly celebrated than the beautiful Hypasia, the daughter of Leon the philo- sopher. Tliis most accomplished of women was bom at Alexandria, in the reign of Theodosius the yoimger. Natm-e was never more lavish of its gifts than it had been to her, endued as she was with the most exalted understand- ing, and the happiest turn to science. Education completed what Nature had begun, and made her the prodigy not only of her age, but the glory of her sex. From her father she leai'ut geometry and astronomy : she collected from the conversation and schools of the other philosophers, for which Alexandria was at that time famous, the principles of the rest of the sciences. What cannot be conquered by natui-al penetration and a passion for study ? The boundless knowledge, which at that period of time was required to form the character of a philosopher, noway discouraged her j she delivered herself up to the study of Aristotle and Plato, and soon not one in all Alexandria under- stood so perfectly as she all the difficulties of these two philosophers. But not their systems alone, but those of every other sect, were quite fami- liar to her ; and to this knowledge she added that of polite learning, and the art of oratory. All the learning which it was possible for the human mind to contain, being joined to a most enchanting eloquence, rendered this lady the wonder not only of the populace, who easily admire, but of philosophers themselves, who are seldom fond of admiration. The city of Alexandria was every day crowded with strangers, who came from all parts of Grreece and Asia to see and hear her. As for the charms of her person, they might not probably have been mentioned, did she not join to a beauty the most striking a virtue that might repress the most assuming ; and thougli in the whole capital, famed for charms, there was not one who could equal her in beauty ; though in a city, the resort of all the learning then existing in the world, there was not one who could eqxial her in know- ledge ; yet, with such accomplishments, Hypasia was the most modest of her sex. Her reputation for virtue was not less than her virtues ; and though in a city divided between two factions, though visited by the wits and the philo- sophers of the age, calumny never dared to suspect her morals, or attempt her character. Both the Christians and the Heathens who have transmitted her history and her misfortunes, have but one voice when they speak of her beauty, her knowledge, and her virtue. Nay, so much harmony reigns in their ac- counts of this prodigy of perfection, that, in spite of the opposition of their faitli, we should never have been able to judge of what religion was Hypasia, were we not informed, from other circumstances, that she was an heathen. Providence had taken so much pains in forming her, that we are almost in- duced to complain of its not having endeavoured to make her a Christian ; but from this complaint we are deterred by a thousand contrary observations, which lead us to reverence its inscrutable mysteries. This great reputation, of which she so justly was possessed, was at last, however, the occasion of her ruin. The person, who then possessed the patriarchate of Alexandria, was equally remarkable for his violence, cruelty, and pride. Conducted by an iU-grounded zeal for the Christian religion, or perhaps desirous of augmenting his authority in the city, he had long meditated the banishment of the Jews. A difference arising between them and the Christians with respect to some public games, seemed to him a proper juncture for putting his ambitious designs into execu- tion. He found no difficulty in exciting the people, naturally disposed to THE BEE. S23 revolt. The prefect -who at that time commanded the city, interposed on this occasion, and thought it just to put one of the chief creatures of the patriarch to the torture, in order to discover the first promoter of the conspiracy. The patriarch, enraged at the injustice he thought ofiered to his character and dignity, and piqued at the protection which was offered to the Jews, sent for the chiefs of the synagogue, and enjoined them to renounce their designs, upon pain of incurring his highest displeasure. The Jews, far from fearing his menaces, excited new tumxilts, in which several citizens had the misfortune to fall. The patriarch could no longer contain ; at the head of a numerous body of Christians he flew to the syna- gogues, which he demolished, and drove the Jews from a city, of which they had been possessed since the times of Alexander the Great. It may be easily imagined that the prefect could not behold, without pain, his jurisdiction thus insulted, and the city deprived of a number of its most industrious inhabitants. The affair was therefore brought before the emperor. The patriarch com- plained of the excesses of the Jews, and the prefect of the outrages of the patriarch. At this very juncture, five himdred monks of Mount Nitria, ima- gining the life of their chief to be in danger, and that their religion was threa- tened in his fall, flew into the city with ungovernable rage, attacked tlie prefect in the streets, and, not content with loading him with reproaches, wotmded him in several places. The citizens had by this time notice of the fury of the monks ; they, there- fore, assembled in a body, put the monks to flight, seized on liim who had been found throwing a stone, and delivered him to the prefect, who caused him to be put to death without farther delay. The patriarch immediately ordered the dead body, which had been exposed to view, to be taken down, procured for it all the pomp and rites of burial, and went even so far as himself to pronounce the funeral oration, in which he cLissed a seditious monk among the martyrs. This conduct was by no means generally approved of ; the most moderate even among the Christians per- ceived and blamed his indiscretion ; but ho was now too far advanced to retire. He had made several overtures towards a reconcihation with the pre- fect, which not succeeding, he bore all those an implacable hatred whom he imagined to have any hand in traversing his designs ; but Hypasia was particu- larly destined to ruin. She could not find pardon, as she was known to have a most refined friendship for the prefect ; wherefore the populace were in- cited agamst her. Peter, a reader of the principal church, one of those vile slaves by which men in power are too frequently attended, wretches ever ready to commit any crime which they hope may render them agreeable to their employer ; this fellow, I say, attended by a crowd of villains, waited for Ifypasia, as she was returning from a visit, at her own door, seized her as she was going in, and dragged her to one of the churches called Cesarea, where, stripping her in the most inhuman manner, they exercised the most inhuman criielties upon her, cut her into pieces, and bmnit her remains to ashes. Such was the end of Hypasia, the glory of her own sex, and the astonishment of ours. 01^ JUSTICE AND aENEEOSITY. Lysipptts is a man whose greatness of soid the whole world admires. His generosity is such, that it prevents a demand, and saves the receiver the trouble and the confusion of a request. His liberahty also does not oblige more by its greatness, than by his inimitable grace in giving. Sometimes he even distributes his bounties to strangers, and has been known to do good 324. THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. offices to those who professed themselves his enemies. All the world are tmanimous in the praise of his generosity ; there is only one sort of people who complain of his conduct. Lysippns does not pay his debts. It is no difficult matter to account for a conduct so seemingly incompatible with itself. There is greatness in being generous, and there is only simple justice in satisfying liis creditors. Grenerosity is the part of a soul raised above the vulgar. There is in it something of what we admire in heroes, and praise with a degree of rapture. Justice, on the contrary, is a mere mechanic virtue, fit only for tradesmen, and what is practised by every broker in 'Change Alley. In paying his debts a man barely does his duty, and it is an action attended with no sort of glory. Should Lysippus satisfy his creditors, who would be at the pains of telling it to the world ? Grenerosity is a virtue of a very different complexion. It is raised above duty, and from its elevation attracts the atten- tion, and the praises of us little mortals below. In this manner do men generally reason upon justice and generosity. The first is despised, though a virtue essential to the good of society ; and the other attracts our esteem, which too frequently proceeds from an impetuosity of temper, rather directed by vanity than reason. Lysippus is told that his banker asks a debt of forty pounds, and that a distressed acquaintance pe- titions for the same sum. He gives it without hesitating to the latter ; for he demands as a favour what the former requu'cs as a debt. Mankind in general are not sufficiently acquainted with the import of the word Justice : it is commonly behevcd to consist only in a performance of those duties to which the laws of society can oblige us. This I allow is some- times the import of the word, and in this sense justice is distinguished fi-om equity : but there is a justice still more extensive, and which can be shewn to embrace all the virtues united. Justice may be defined to be that virtue which impels us to give to every person what is his due. In this extended sense of the word, it comprehends the practice of every virtue which reason prescribes, or society should expect. Our du.ty to our Maker, to each other, and to ourselves, are fully answered, if we give them what w6 owe them. Thus justice, properly speaking, is the only virtue, and all the rest have their origin in it. The qualities of candour, fortitude, charity, and generosity, for instance, are not, in their own nature, vhtues j and, if ever they deserve the title, it is owing only to justice, which impels and directs them. Without such a mode- rator, candour might become indiscretion, fortitude obstinacy, charity impru- dence, and generosity mistaken profusion. A disinterested action, if it be conducted by justice, is at best indifferent in its nature, and not unfrequently even turns to vice. The expenses of society, of presents, of entertainment^ and the other helps to cheerfulness, are actions merely indifferent, when not repugnant to a better method of disposing of our superfluities, but they become vicious when they obstruct or exhaust om* abilities from a more virtuous disposition of oiir circumstances. True generosity is a duty as indispensably necessary as those imposed upon us by law. It is a rule imposed upon us by reason, which should be the sovereign law of a rational being. Eut this generosity does not consist in obeying every impulse of humanity, in following blind passion for om' guide, and impairing our circumstances by present benefactions, so as to render us incapable of future ones. Misers are generally characterised as men without honour, or without humanity, who live only to accumulate, and to this passion sacrifice every other happiness. They have been described as madmen, who, in the midst of THE BEE. g25 abundance, banisli every pleasure, and make, from imaginary wants, real necessities. But few, very few correspond to this exaggerated picture ; and perhaps there is not one in whom all these cii'cumstances are found united. Instead of this, we find the sober and the industrious branded by the vain and the idle, with this odious appellation. Men who, by frugality and labour, raise themselves above their equals, and contribute their share of industry to the common stock. Whatever the vain or the ignorant may say, well were it for society had we more of this character among us. In general, these close men are found at last the true benefactors of society. With an avaricious man we seldom lose in our dealings, but too frequently in ouv commerce with prodigality. A French priest, whose name was G-odinot, went for a long time by the name of the Grriper. He refused to relieve the most apparent wretchedness, and by a skilful management of his vineyard, had the good fortiine to acquire immense simis of money. The inhabitants of Eheims, who were his fellow- citizens, detested him, and the popidace, who seldom love a miser, wherever he went, received him with contempt. He still, however, continued his fonner simplicity of life, his amazing and unremitted frugality. Tliis good man had long perceived the wants of tlie poor in the city, particularly, in hnving no water but what they were obliged to buy at an advanced price ; wherefore, that whole fortune, which he had been amassing, he laid out in an aqueduct, by which he did the poor more useful and lasting service, than if he had dis- tributed his whole income in charity every day at his door. Among men long conversant with books, we too frequently find those mis- placed virtues, of which I have been now complaining. We find the studious animated witli a strong passion for the great vu'tues, as they are mistakenly called, and utterly forgetful of the ordinary ones. The declamations of philo- sophy are generally rather exhausted on these supererogatory duties, than on such as are indispensably necessary. A man therefore, who has taken his ideas of mankind from study alone, generally comes into the world with an heart melting at every fictitious distress. Thus he is induced by misplaced libe- rality, to put himself into the indigent circumstances of the persons he relieves. I shall conclude this paper with the advice of one of the ancients, to a yoiuig man whom he saw giving away all his substance to j)retended distress. " It is possible, that the person you relieve may be an honest man ; and I know that you who relieve him are such. You see, then, by your generosity, you only rob a man, who is certainly deserving, to bestow it on one who may possibly be a rogue. And while you are unjust in rewarding uncertain merit, you are doubly guilty by stripping yourself." SOME PAETICULAHS RELATINa TO FATHER FREIJO. Primus mortaUs tollere contra, Est oculos ausus, primusque assurgere contra.— iivcn. TiTE Spanish nation has, for many centuries past, been remarkable for the grossest ignorance in polite literatm'C, especially in point of natm^al philosophy ; a science so useful to mankind, that her neighbours have ever esteemed it a matter of the greatest importance, to endeavour by repeated experiments to strike a light out of the chaos in which truth seemed to be confounded. Their ciu-iosity in this respect was so indifferent, that though they had discovered new worlds, they were at a loss to explain the phenomena of their own, and their pride so xinaccountable, that they disdained to boiTow from others that instruction, which their natural indolence permitted them not to acquire. It gives me, however, a secret satisfaction, to behold an extraordinary genius 326 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. now existing in that nation, •wliose studious endeavours seem calculated to undeceive the superstitious, and instruct the ignorant : I mean the celebrated Padre Freijo. In miravelling the mysteries of Nature, and explaining physical experiments, he takes an opportunity of displaying the concurrence of second causes in those very wonders, which the vulgar ascribe to supernatural influence. All example of this kind happened a few years ago in a small town of the kingdom of Valencia. Passing tlu'ough at the hotu* of mass, he alighted from his mule and proceeded to the parish-church, which he found extremely crowded, and there appeared on the faces of the faithful a more than usual alacrity. The sun it seems, which had been for some minutes under a cloud, had begun to shine on a large crucifix, that stood on the middle of the altar, studded with several precious stones. The reflection from these, and from the diamond eyes of some silver saints, so dazzled the multitude, that they unanimously cried out, A miracle ! a mu'acle ! whilst the priest at the altar, with seeming consternation, continued his heavenly conversation. Padre Freijo soon dissipated the charm, by tying his handkerchief round the head of one of the statues, for which he was arraigned by the inquisition; whose flames, however, he has had the good fortune hitherto to escape. THE BEE, No. IV. SATUEDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1759. MISCELLANEOUS. "Were I to measure the merit of my present imdertaking by its success, or the rapidity of its sale, I might be led to form conclusions by no means favourable to the pride of an author. Should I estimate my fame by its extent, every newspaper and magazine would leave me far behind. Their fame is diffused in a very wide circle, that of some as far as Islington, and some yet farther still : while mine, I sincerely believe, has hardly travelled beyond the soiuul of Bow bell : and while the works of others fly like impinioned swans, I find my own move as heavily as a new plucked goose. Still, however, I have as much pride as they who have ten times as many readers. It is impossible to repeat all the agi'ceable delusions, in which a disappointed author is apt to find comfort. I conclude, that what my repu- tation wants in extent, is made up by its solidity. Minus juvat Gloria lata quam magna. I have great satisfaction in considering the dehcacy and dis- cernment of those readers I have, and in ascribing my want of popularity to the ignorance or inattention of those I have not. All the world may forsake an author, but vanity will never forsake him. Yet, notwithstanding so sincere a confession, I was once induced to shew my indignation against the public, by discontinuing my endeavours to please : and was bravely resolved, like Ealeigh, to vex them by burning my manu- script in a passion. Upon recollection, however, I considered what set or body of people would be displeased at my rashness. The sun, after so sad an accident, might shine next morning as bright as usual : men might laugh and sing the next day, and transact business as before, and not a single creature feel any regret but myself. I reflected upon the story of a minister, who in the reign of Charles II. upon a certain occasion resigned all his posts, and retired into the country in a fit of resentment. But as he had not given the world entu-ely up with his ambition, he sent a messenger to town, to see how the com'tiers woxdd bear THE BEE. 357 his resignation. Upon the messenger's return he was asked whether there appeared any commotion at court ? To -which he replied, There were very great ones. " Ay," says the minister, " I knew my friends would make a bustle ; all petitioning the king for my restoration, I presume." " No, Sir," replied the messenger, " they are only petitioning his ma;jesty to be put in your place." In the same manner, should I retire in indignation, instead of haying Apollo in mourning, or the muses in a fit of the spleen ; instead of haying the learned world apostrophising at my untimely decease, perhaps all Grrub-strcet might laugh at my fall, and self-approying dignity might never be able to shield me from ridicule. In short, I am resolved to write on, if it were only to spite them. If the present generation will not hear my voice, hearken, O posterity, to you I call, and from you I expect redress ! What rapture will it not give to have the Scaligers, Daciers, and Warburtons of futtu'c times commenting with admiration upon every line I now write, working away those ignorant creatures, who oiler to arraign my merit, with all the virulence of learned reproach. Ay, my friends, let them feel it : call names, never spare them ; they deserve it all, and ten times more. I have been told of a critic, who was crucified at the command of another to the reputation of Homer. That no doubt, was more than poetical justice, and I shall be perfectly content if those, who criticise me, are only clapped in the pillory, kept fifteen days upon bread and water, and obliged to run the gante- lopo through Patcrnoster-row. The truth is, I can expect happiness from posterity cither way. If I write iU, happy in being forgotten ; if well, happy in being remembered with respect. Yet, considering things in a prudential light, perhaps I was mistaken m designing my paper as an agreeable relaxation to the studious, or an help to conversation among the gay ; instead of addi'cssing it to siich, I should have written down to the taste and apprehension of the maiiy, and sought for re- putation on the broad road. Literary fame, I now find, like religious, gene- rally begins among the vulgar. As for the polite, they are so very polite, as never to applaud upon any account. One of these, with a face screwed up into aficctation, tells you, that fools may admire, but men of sense only ap- prove. Thus, lest he should rise in raptm-e at any thing new, he keeps down every passion but pride and self-importance ; approves with phlegm, and the poor author is damned in the taking a pinch of snvifi". Another has written a book himself, and being condemned for a dunce, he turns a sort of king's evidence in criticism, and now becomes the terror of every offender, A third, possessed of full-grown reputation, shades off" every beam of favour from those who endeavour to grow beneath him, and keejjs down that merit, which, but for his inflvience, might rise into equal eminence. While others, still worse, peruse old books for their amusement, and new books only to condemn ; so that the public seem heartily sick of all but the business of the day, and read every thing now with as little attenlion as they examine the faces of the pass- ing crowd. From these considerations I was once determined to throw off all connex- ions with taste, and fau'ly address my countrymen in the same engaging style and manner with other periodical pamphlets, much more in vogiie than j)ro- bably mine shall ever be. To effect this, I had thoughts of changing the title into that of the Eoyal Bee, the Anti&allican Bee, or the Bee's Magazine. I had laid in a proper stock of popular topics, such as encomixmis on the King of Prussia, invectives against the Queen of Hungary and the French, the necessity of a militia, oiu' imdoubted sovereignty of the seas, reflections upon the present state of affairs, a dissertation upon Hberty, some seasonable thoughts upon the mtended bridge of Blackfriars, and an address to Britons. 328 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. The history of an old ■woman, -whose teeth gi*ew thi*ee inches long, an ode upon our victories, a rebus, an acrostic upon Miss Peggy P. and a journal of tho •weather. All this, together -with four extraordinary pages of letter press, a beautiful map of England, and two prints curiously coloured from nature, I fancied might touch their very souls. I was actually beginning an address to the people, when my pride at last overcame my prudence, and determined me to endeavom' to please by the goodness of my entertainment, rather than by the magnificence of my sign. The Spectator, and many succeeding essayists, frequently inform us of the numerous compliments paid them in the course of their lucubrations ; of the frequent encoiu'agemcnts they met to inspire them with ardour, and increase their eagerness to please. I have received my letters as well as they j but, alas ! not -congratulatory ones ; not assiu-ing me of success and favour j but pregnant with bodings that might shake even fortitude itself. One gentleman assures me, he intends to throw away no more tliree-pences in purchasing the Bee ; and what is still more dismal, he will not recommend me as a poor author wanting encoiu'agement to his neighbourhood, which it seems is very numerous. Were my soul set upon thrce-pences, wliat anxiety might not such a denunciation produce ! But such does not happen to be the present motive of publication ; I write partly to shew my good-nature, and partly to shew my vanity ; nor will I lay down the pen till I am satisfied one way or another. Others have disliked the title and the motto of my paper, point out a mis- take in the one, and assure me the other has been consigned to dulness by anticipation. All this may be true ; hut %vhat is that to me ? Titles and mottos to books are like escutcheons and dignities in the hands of a king. The wise sometimes condescend to accept of them ; but none but a fool will ima- gine them of any real importance. We ought to depend upon intrinsic merit, and not the slender helps of title. Nam quc& non fecimus ipsi, vix ea nostra voco. For my part, I am ever ready to mistrust a promising title, and have, at some expense, been instructed not to hearken to the voice of an advertisement, let it plead ever so loudly, or never so long. A countryman coming one day to Smithfield, in order to take a slice of Bartholomew-fair, found a perfect sliow before eveiy booth. The di'ummer, the fire-eater, the wire-walker, and the salt-box, were all employed to invite him in. " Just a going ; the court of the King of Prussia in all his glory ; pray, gentlemen, walk in and see." From people who generously gave so much away, the clown expected a mons- trous bargain for his money when he got in. He stejjs up, pays his sixpence, the curtain is drawn, when too late he finds that he had the best part of the show for nothing at the door. A FLEMISH TRADITION. Evert country has its traditions, which, either too minute or not sufficiently authentic to receive historical sanction, are handed down among the vulgar, and serve at once to instruct and amuse them. Of this number the adven- tures of Kobin Hood, the hunting of Chevy-chase, and the bravery of Johnny Armstrong, among the English ; of Kaul Dereg among the Irish ; and Creigh- ton among the Scots, are instances. Of all the traditions, however, I remem- ber to have heard, I do not recollect any more remarkable than one stiU current in Flanders ; a story generally the first the peasants tell their children, when they bid them behave like Bidderman tho Wise. It is by no means, however, a model to be set before a polite people for imitation ; since if on the THE BEE. 329 one liand we perceire iu it the steady iufluence of patriotism ; wc on the other find as strong a desire of reycnge. But, to waye introduction, let us to the story. When the Saracens over-ran Europe with their armies, and penetrated as far eren as Antwerp, Bidderman was lord of a city, which time has since swept into destruction. As the inhabitants of this country were dirided under separate leaders, the Saracens found an easy conquest, and the city of Bidder- man among the rest became a prey to the yictors. Tims dispossessed of his paternal city, our unfortunate governor was ob- liged to seek refuge from the neighbouring princes, who were as yet unsub- dued, and he for some time lived in a state of wretched dependance among them. Soon, however, his love to his native country brought him back to liis own city, resolved to rescue it from tlie enemy, or fall in the attempt : thus, in disguise, he went among the inhabitants, and endeavoured, but in vain, to excite them to a revolt. Former misfortunes lay so heavily on their minds, that they rather chose to suffer the most cruel bondage, than attempt to vindicate their former freedom. As he was thus one day employed, whether by information or from suspi- cion is not known, he was apprehended by a Saracen soldier as a spy, and brought before the very tribunal at which he once presided. The account he gave of himself was by no means satisfactory. He could produce no friends to vindicate his character ; wherefore, as the Saracens knew not their prisoner, and as they had no direct proofs against him, they were content with con- demning him to be publicly whipped as a vagabond. The execution of this sentence was accordingly performed with the utmost rigour. Bidderman was bound to the post, the executioner seeming disposed to add to the cruelty of the sentence, as he received no biibc for lenity. AVhenever Bidderman groaned under the scourge, the other redoubling his blows, cried out, " Does the villain murmur ?" If Bidderman intreated but a moment's respite from torture, the other only repeated his foi'mer exclama- tion, " Does the villain murmur ?" From this period revenge as well as patriotism took entire possession of his soul. His fury stooped so low as to follow the executioner with unremitting resentment. But conceiving that the best method to attain these ends, was to acqture some eminence in the city, he laid himself out to oblige its now masters, studied every art, and practised every meanness that serve tO pro- mote the needy, or render the poor ]3leasing, and by these means in a few years he came to be of some note in the city, which justly belonged entirely to him. The executioner was therefore the first object of his resentment, and he even practised the lowest fraud to gi'atify the revenge he owed him. A piece of plate, which Bidderman had previously stolen from the Saracen governor he privately conveyed into the executioner's house, and then gave information of the theft. They who are any way acquainted with the rigour of the Arabian laws, know that theft is punished with immediate death. The proof was direct in this case : the executioner had nothing to offer in his own defence, and he was therefore condemned to be beheaded upon a scaffold in the pubhc market-place. As there was no executioner in the city but the very man who was now to suffer, Bidderman liimself undertook this, to him most agreeable office. The criminal was conducted from the judgment-seat bound with cords. The scaffold was erected, and he placed in such a manner as he might lie most convenient for the blow. But his death alone was not sufficient to satisfy the resentment of tliis ex- 350 THE WORKS OP OLIVER GOLDSMITH. tra ordinary man, unless it was aggravated with erery circumstance of cruelty. Wherefore, coming up the scaffold, and disposing everything in readiness for the intended blow, with the sword in his hand he approached the criminal, and whispering in a low voice, assured him that he himself was the person that had once been used with so much cruelty ; that to his knowledge he died very innocently, for the plate had been stolen by himself, and privately con- veyed into the house of the other. " O, mj countrymen," cried the criminal, " do you hear what this man says ?" Boes the villain murmur ? replied Bidderman, and immediately at one blow severed his head from his body. Still, however, he was not content till he hud ample vengeance of the gover- nors of the city who condemned him. To effect this, he hired a small house adjoining to the town wall, under which he evei-y day dug, and carried out the earth in a basket. In this unremitting labour he continued several years, eveiy day digging a little, and carrying the earth unsuspected away. By this means he at last made a secret commvmication from the country into the city, and only wanted the appearance of any enemy, in order to betray it. This oppor- tunity at length offered ; the French army came into the neighbourhood, but had no thoughts of sitting down before a town which they considered as impregnable. Bidderman, however, soon altered their resolutions, and upon communicating his plan to the general, he embraced it with ardour. Qlirough the private passage above-mentioned, he introduced a large body of the most resolute soldiers, who soon opened the gates for the rest, and the whole army rushing in, put every Saracen that was found to the sword. THE SAaACITY OF SOME Hs^SECTS. TO THE ATJTnOR OP THE BEE. SlE, Animals in general are sagacious in proportion as they cultivate society. The elephant and the beaver shew the gTeatest signs of this when united ; but Y/hen man intrudes into their communities, they lose all their spirit of indus- try, and testify but a very small share of that sagacity, for which, when in a social state, they are so remarkable. Among msects, the labours of the bee and the ant have employed the attention and admiration of the natui'ahst ; but their whole sagacity is lost upon separation, and a single bee or ant seems destitute of every degree of industry, is the most stupid insect imaginable, languishes for a time in sohtude, and soon dies. Of all the solitaiy insects I have ever remarked, the spider is the most sagiicious, and its actions to me, who have attentively considered them, seem almost to exceed belief. This insect is formed by nature for a state of war, not only upon other insects, but upon each other. For this state nature seems perfectly well to have formed it. Its head and breast are covered with a strong natural coat of mail, which is impenetrable to the attempts of every other insect, and its belly is enveloped in a soft pliant skin, which eludes the sting even of a wasp. Its legs are terminated by strong claws, not unlike those of a lobster ; and theu' vast length like spears, serves to keep eveiy as- sailant at a distance. Not worse fui'uished for observation than for an attack or a defence, it has several eyes, large, transparent, and covered with an homy substance, which, however, does not impede its vision. Besides this, it is fm*mshed with a for- ceps above tne mouth, which serves to kill or secure the prey already caught in its claws or its net. THE BEE. 331 Such ai'c tlie implements of war with, which the body is immediately furnished 5 but its net to entangle the enemy seems what it chiefly trusts to, and what it takes most pains to render as complete as possible. Nature has furnished the body of this little creature with a glutinous liquid, which, proceeding from the anus, it spins into thread coarser or finer, as it chooses to contract or dilate its sphincter. In order to fix its tlu-ead when it begins to weave, it emits a small drop of its liquid against the wall, which hardening by degrees, serves to hold the thread very firmly. Then receding from the first point, as it re- cedes the thread lengthens ; and when the spider has come to the place where tlie other end of the thread should be fixed, gathering up with his claws the thread which would otherwise be too slack, it is stretched tightly, and fixed in the same manner to the wall as before. In this manner it spins and fixes several tlu'eads parallcA'to each other, which, so to speak, serve as the warp to the intended web. To fonn the woof, it spins in the same manner its tlu'cad, transversely fixing one end to the first tliread that was spun, and which is always the strongest of the whole web, and the other to the wall. All these tlu'eads, being newly spun, are glutinous, and therefore stick to each other wherever they happen to touch ; and in those parts of the web most exposed to be torn, our natural artist strengthens them by doubling the threads sometimes sixfold. Thus far naturalists have gone in the description of this animal : what fol- lows is the result of my own observation upon that species of the insect called an house spider. I perceived about four years ago, a large spider in one corner of my room, making its web, and though the maid frequently levelled her fatal broom against the labours of the little animal, I had the good fortune then to prevent its destruction, and I may gay, it more than paid me by the entertainment it afibrded. In three days the web was with incredible diligence completed j nor could I avoid thinking that the insect seemed to exult in its new abode. It frequently traversed it round, examined the strength of every part of it, retired into its hole, and came out very frequently. The first enemy, however, it had to encounter, was another and a much larger spider, which, having no web of its own, and having probably exhausted all its stock in former labours of this kind, came to invade the property of its neighbour. Soon then a terrible encounter ensued, in which the invader seemed to have the victory, and the laborious spider was obliged to take refuge in its hole. Upon this, I perceived the victor using every art to draw the enemy from his strong hold. He seemed to go ofi*, but quickly returned ; and when he found all arts vain, began to demolish the new web without mercy. This brought on another battle, and, contrary to my expectations, the laborious spider became conqueror, and fairly killed his antagonist. Now tlien, in peaceable possession cf what was justly its own, it waited three days with the utmost impatience, repairing the breaches of its web, and taking no sustenance that I could perceive. At last, however, a large blue fly fell m\ o the snare, and struggled hard to get loose. The spider gave it leave to entangle itself as much as possible, but it seemed to be too strong for the cobweb. I must own I was greatly surprised when I saw the spider immedi- ately sally out, and in less than a minute weave a new net round its captive, by which the motion of its wings was stopped ; and when it was fairly ham- pered in this manner, it was seized, and dragged into the hole. In this manner it lived, in a precarious state, and Natvire seemed to have fitted it for such a life, for iipon a single fly it subsisted for more than a week. I once put a wasp into the nest, but when the spider came out in order to seize it as usual, upon perceiving what kind of an enemy it had to deal with. 332 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. it instantly broke all the bands tliat licld it fast, and contributed all tbafc lay ill its power to disengage bo formidable an antagonist. Wlien the wasp was at liberty, I expected the spider would have set about repairing the breaches that were made in its net, but those it seems were irreparable, wherefore the cobweb was now entu'ely forsaken, and a new one begun, which was com- pleted in the usual time. I had now a mind to try how many cobwebs a single spider could furnisli, wherefore I destroyed this, and the insect set about another. When I de- stroyed the other also, its whole stock seemed entirely exliausted, and it could spin no more. The arts it made use of to support itself, now deprived of its great means of subsistence, were indeed surprising. I have seen it roll up its legs like a ball, and lie motionless, for hours together, but cautiously watcliing all the time ; when a fly happened to approach sufficiently near, it would dart out all at once, and often seize its prey. Of this life, however, it soon began to gi-ow weary, and resolved to invade the possession of some other spider, since it could not make a web of its own. It formed an attack upon a neighbouring fortification with great vigour, but at first was as vigorously repulsed. Not daunted, liowever, with one defeat, in tliis manner it continued to lay siege to another's web for three days, and at length, having killed the defendant, actually took possession. When smaller flies happen to fall into the snare, the spider does not sally out at once, but very patiently waits till it is sm*e of them ; for, upon his immediately ap- proaching, the terror of his appearance miglit give the captive strength sufiicient to get loose ; the manner then is to wait patiently tiU, by ineffectual and im- potent struggles, the captive has wasted all its strength, and then he becomes certain and easy conquest. The insect I am now describing lived three years ; every year it changed its skin, and got a new set of legs. I have sometimes plucked off" a leg, which grew again in tAvo or three days. At first it dreaded my approach to its web, but at last it became so familiar as to take a fly out of my hand ; and upon my touching any part of the web, would immediately leave its hole, prepared either for a defence or an attack. To complete tliis description, it may be observed, that the male spiders are much less than the female, and that the latter are oviparous. Whe?i they come to lay, they spread a part of their web imder tlie eggs, and then roll tliem up carefully, as avc roll up things in a cloth, and thus hatch them in their hole. If distiu'bcd in their holes, they never attempt to escape without carry- ing this young brood in their forceps away with them, and thus frequently are sacrificed to their paternal affection. As soon as ever the young ones leave their artificial covering, they begin to spin, and almost sensibly seem to grow bigger. If they have the good fortune, when even but a day old, to catch a fly, they fall to with good appetites ; but they live sometimes tlu-ee or four days without any sort of sustenance, and yet still continvie to grow larger, so as every day to double their former size. As they grow old, however, they do not still continue to increase, but their legs only continue to grow longer ; and when a spider becomes entirely stiff" with age, and unable to seize its prey, it dies at length of hunger. THE CHAEACTEETSTICS OE aUEATNESS. In every duty, in every science in which we would wish to arrive at perfection, we should propose for the object of our pursuit some certain station even be- yond our abilities j some imaginary excellence, which may amuse and serve to TEE BEE. 333 animate our inquiry. In deviating from others, in following an unbeaten road, though we i)erhap3 may never arrive at the wished-for object, yet it is possible we may meet several discoveries by the way ; and the certainty of small advantages, even while we travel with secvu'ity, is not so amusing as* the hopes of great rewards, wliich inspire the adventurer. Evenit nonnunquam, says Quintilian, ut aliquicl grande inveniat qui semper qucerit quod nimium est. This enterprising spirit is, however, by no means the character of the presenu ago ; every person who should now leave received opinions, who should at- tempt to be more than a commentator upon philosophy, ov an imitator in polite learning, might be regarded as a chimerical projector. Hundreds would be ready not only to point out his errors, but to load him with reproach. Our probable opinions are now regarded as certainties ; the difficulties hitherto undiscovered as utterly inscrutable ; and the writers of the last age inimitable, and therefore the properest models of imitation. One might be almost induced to deplore the philosophic spirit of the age, which in proportion as it enlightens the mind, increases its timidity, and represses the vigour of every undertaking. Men are now content with being prudently in the right ; which, though not the way to make new acquisitions, it must be owned, is the best method of securing what we have. Yet this is certain, that the writer who never deviates, who never hazards a new thought, or a new expression, though his friends may compliment him upon his saga- city, though criticism lifts her feeble voice in his x^raise, will seldom arrive at any degree of perfection. The way to acquire lasting esteem, is not by tlie fewness of a writer's faults, but the greatness of his beauties, and our noblest works are generally most replete with both. An author who would be sublime, often runs his thought into burlesque ; yet I can readily ^Dardon his mistaking ten times for once succeeding. True genius walks along a line, and pei'haps our greatest pleasure is in seeing it sg. often near falling, without being ever actually down. Every science has its hitherto undiscovered mysteries, after which men should travel undiscouraged by the failure of former adventurers. Every new attempt serves perhaps to facilitate its futiu^e invention. We may not find the Philosopher's stone, but we shall probably hit upon new inventions in pursuing it. We shall perhaps never be able to discover the longitude, yet perhaps we may arrive at new truths in the investigation. Were any of those sagacious minds among us, (and surely no nation, or no period could ever compare with us in this particular) were any of those minds, I say, who now sit down contented with exploring the intricacies of another's system, bravely to shake oif admiration, and undazzled with tlie splendour of another's reputation, to chalk out a path to fame for themselves, and boldly cultivate untried experiment, what might not be the result of their inquiries, should the same study that has made them wise, make them enter- prising also ? What could not such qualities united produce ? But such is not the character of the English : while our neighbours of the continent launch out into the ocean of science, without proper store for the voyage, we fear shipwreck in every breeze, and consume in port those powers, which might probably have weathered every storm. Projectors in a state are generally rewarded above their deserts ; pro- jectors in the repubhc of letters, never. If wrong, every inferior dunce thinks himself entitled to laugh at their disappointment ; if right, men of superior talents think their honour engaged to oppose, since every new discovery is a tacit diminution of then' own pre-eminence. To aun at excellence, our reputation, our friends, and our all must be ven- tured ; by aiming only at mediocrity, we run no risk, and we do little service. 334 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Prudence and greatness are ever persuading us to contrary piirsuits. The one instructs us to be content witli our station, and to find happiness in hound- ing every wish. The other impels us to superiority, and calls nothing happi- ness but raptm'e. The one directs to follow mankind, and to act and think with the rest of the world. The other drives us from the crowd, and exposes us as a mark to all the shafts of envy or ignorance. Nee minus periculum ex magna fama quam ex mala. Tacit, The rewards of mediocrity are immediately paid, those attending excellence generally paid in reversion. In a word,- the little mind who loves itself, will write and think with the vulgar ; but the great mind will be bravely eccen- tric, and scorn the beaten road, from universal benevolence. *^* In this place our author introduces a paper, intituled a City Night- piece, with the following motto from Martial : Ille dolet vere, qui sine teste dolet. This beautiful Essay forms the 117th Letter in the Citizen of the World ; but Dr. Goldsmith has there omitted the concluding paragraph, which, on account of its singidar merit, we shall here preserve. But let me turn from a scene of such distress to the sanctified hypocrite, wJio has been talking of virtue till the time of bed, and now steals out, to give a loose to his vices luider the protection of midnight ; vices more atrocious because he attempts to conceal them. See how he pants down the dark alley, and, with hastening steps, fears an acquaintance in every face. He has passed ihe whole day in company he hates, and now goes to prolong the night among company that as heartily hate him. May his vices be detected ! May the morning rise upon his shame ! Yet I wish to no purpose ; villainy, when detected, never gives up, but boldly adds impudence to imposture. THE BEE, No. Y. SATUEDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1759. UPON POLITICAL ERUaALITY. FEUGALTTr has ever been esteemed a virtue as well among Pagans as Christians : there have been even heroes who have practised it. However, we must acknow- ledge that it is too modest a virtue, or, if you will, too obscure a one to be essential to heroism ; few heroes have been able to attain to such an height. Frugality agrees much better with politics : it seems to be the base, the sup- port, and, in a word, seems to be the inseparable companion of a just admini- stration. However this be, there is not perhaps in the world a people less fond of this virtue than the Enghsh, and of consequence there is not a nation more restless, more exposed to the imeasiness of life, or less capable of providing for particular happiness. We are taught to despise this virtue from our childhood, our education is improperly directed, and a man who has gone through the politest institutions, is generally the person who is least acquainted with the wholesome precepts of frugality. We every day hear the elegance of taste, the magnificence of some, and the generosity of others, made the sub- ject of our admiration and applause. All this we see represented, not as the TEE BEE. 335 eud and recompense of labour and desert, but as tlie actual result of genius, as tlie mark of a noble and exalted mind. In the midst of tliese praises bestowed on luxury, for wbich. elegance and taste are but another name, perhaps it may be thought improper to plead the cause of frugality. It may be thought low, or vainly declamatory, to exhort our youth from the follies of dress, and of every other superfluity ; to accustom them- selves, even with mechanic meanness, to the simple necessaries of Ufe. Such sort of instructions may appear antiquated ; yet, however, they seem the foundations of all our virtues, and the most efficacious method of making mankind useful members of society. Unhappily, however, such discourses are not fashionable among us, and the fashion seems every day growing stiU more obsolete, since the press, and every other method of exhortation, seems disposed to talk of the luxuries of life as harmless enjoyments. I remember, when a boy, to have remarked, that those who in school wore the finest clothes were pointed at as being conceited and proud. At present, our little masters are taught to consider dress betimes, and they are regarded, even at school, with contempt, who do not appear as genteel as the rest. Education should teach, us to become useful, sober, disinterested and laborious members of society ; but does it not at present point out a different path ? It teaches us to mtdti]3ly our wants, by which means we become more eager to possess, in order to dis- sipate a greater charge to ourselves, and more useless or obnoxious to society. If a youth happens to be possessed of more genius than fortune, he is early informed that he ought to think of his advancement in the world ; that he should labour to make himself pleasing to his superiors ; that he should shun low company (by which is meant the company of his equals) ; that he should rather live a little above than below his fortune ; that he should think of be- coming great j but he finds none to admonish him to become fi-ugal, to perse- vere in one single design, to avoid every pleasure and all flattery, which, liowever seeming to concilitate the favour of his superiors, never conciHtate tlieu' esteem. There are none to teach him that the best way of becoming happy in himself, and useful to others, is to continue in the state in which Fortune at first placed him, without making too hasty strides to advancement : that greatness maybe attained, but should not be expected; and that they who most impatiently expect advancement, are seldom possessed of their wishes. He has few, I say, to teach him this lesson, or to moderate his youthful pas- sions, yet, this experience may say, that a young man, who but* for six years of the early part of his life could seem divested of all his passions, would cer- tainly make, or considerably increase his fortune, and might indulge several of his favourite incHnations in manhood with the utmost security. The efficaciousness of these means is sufficiently known and acknowledged ; but as we are apt to connect a low idea with all our notions of frugahty, the person who would persuade us to it, might be accused of preaching up avarice. Of all vices, however, against which morality dissuades, there is not one more undetermined than this of avarice. Misers are described by some, as men divested of honour, sentiment, or humanity ; but this is only an ideal picture, or the resemblance at least is found but in a few. In truth, they who are generally called misers, are some of the very best members of society. The sober, the laborious, the attentive, the frugal, are thus styled by the gay, giddy, thoughtless, and extravagant. The first set of men do society all the good, and the latter all the evil that is felt. Even the excesses of the first no way injui-e the commonwealth j those of the latter are the most injurious that can be conceived. The ancient Komans, more rational than we in this particular, were very for from thus misplacing their admiration or praise : instead of regarding the 336 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITK. practice of parsimony as low or vicious, tliey made it synonymous even with probity. They esteemed those virtues so inseparable, that the known expres- sion of Vir Frugi signified, at one and the same time, a sober and managing man, an honest man, and a man of substance. The Scriptiu'es, in a thousand places, praise economy ; and it is everywhere distinguished from avarice. But, in spite of all its sacred dictates, a taste for vain pleasures and foolish expense is the ruling passion of the present times. Passion, did I call it ? rather the madness which at once possesses the great and the little, the rich and the poor ; even some are so intent upon acquiring the superfluities of life, that they sacrifice its necessaries in this foolish pursuit. To attempt the entire abolition of luxury, as it would be impossible, so it is not my intent. The generality of mankind are too weak, too much slaves to custom and opinion, to resist the torrent of bad example. Eut, if it be impossible to convert the multitude ; those who have received a more ex- tended education, who are enlightened and judicious, may find some hints on this subject useful. They may see some abuses, the suppression of which would by no means endanger public liberty ; they may be directed to the abolition of some necessai-y expenses, which have no tendency to promote happiness or virtue, and which might be directed to better purposes. Our fireworks, om* public feasts and entertainments, our entries of ambassadors, &c., what mum- mery all this ! what childish pageants ! what millions are sacrificed in paying tribute to custom ! what an tmnecessary charge at times when we are pressed with real want, which cannot be satisfied without burthening the poor ! Were such suppressed entirely, not a single creature in the state would have the least cause to mom-n their suppression, and many might be eased of a load they now feel lying heavily upon them. If this were put in practice, it would agree with the advice of a sensible writer of Sweden, who in the Grazette de France, 1753, thus expressed himself on that subject. " It were sincerely to be wished," says he, " that the custom were established amongst us, that in all events which cause a public joy, we made our exultations conspicuous only by acts useful to society. We should then quickly see many useful monu- ments of our reason, which, would much better perpetuate the memory of things worthy of being transmitted to posterity, and would be much more glorious to humanity than all these tumultuous preparations of feasts, enter- tainments and other rejoicings used upon such occasions." Tlxe same proposal was long before confirmed by a Chinese emperor, who lived in the last century, who, upon an occasion of extraordinary joy, forbad his subjects to make the usual illimiinations, either with a design of sparing their substance, or of turning them to some more durable indication of joy, more glorious for him, and more advantageous to his people. After such instances of political frugahty, can we then continue to blame the Dutch ambassador at a certain court, who receiving at his departure the portrait of the king, enriched with diamonds, asked what this fine thing might be worth ? Being told that it might amount to about two thousand pounds. " And why," cries he, " cannot his majesty keep the picture, and give the money ?" The simplicity may be ridiculed at fij^st ; but when we come to ex- amine it more closely, men of sense wiU at once confess that he had reason in what he said, and that a pm*se of two thousand guineas is much more service- able than a picture. Should we follow the same method of state frugality in other respects, what numberless savings might not be the result ! How many possibilities of saving ill the administration of justice, which now burdens the subject, and enriches some members of society, who are useful only from its corruption ! It were to be wished, that they who govern kingdoms would imitate artisans. THE BEE. 337 When at London a new stuff has been inventedj it is immediately counter- feited in France. How happy were it for society, if a first minister would be equally solicitous to transplant the useful laws of other coimtries into his own. We are arrived at a perfect imitation of porcelain ; let us endeayour to imitate the good to society that oui* neighbours are found to practise, and let our neighbours also imitate those parts of duty in which we excel. There are some men, who in their garden attempt to raise those fruits which Nature has adapted only to the sultry climates beneath the line. We have at our very doors a thousand laws and customs infinitely useful : these are the fruits we should endeavour to transplant ; these the exotics that Avould speedily become naturalized to the soil. They might grow in every climate, and benefit every possessor. The best and the most useful laws I have ever seen, arc generally practised in Holland. When two men are determined to go to law with each other, they are first obliged to go before the reconciling judges, called the peace- makers. If the parties come attended with an advocate or a solicitor, they are obliged to reth-e, as we take fuel from the fire we are desirous of extin- guishing. The peace-makers then begin advising the parties, by assm'ing them, that it is the height of folly to waste their substance, and make themselves mutually miserable, by having recourse to the tribunals of justice : follow but our di- rection, and we will accommodate matters without any expense to either. If the rage of debate is too strong upon either party, they are remitted back for another day, in order that time may soften theu* tempers, and j)roduce a re- conciliation. They are thus sent for twice or thrice ; if their folly happens to be incm-able, they are permitted to go to law, and as we give up to amputation such members as cannot be cured by art, justice is permitted to take its com'se. It is unnecessary to make here long declamations, or calculate what society would save, were this law adopted. I am sensible, that the man who advises any reformation, only serves to make liimself ridiculous. What ! mankind wiU be apt to say, adopt the customs of countries that have not so much real liberty as our own! our present customs what are they to any man ? we are veiy happy under them : this must be a very pleasant fellow, who attempts to make us happier than we ah*eady are ! Does he not know that abuses are the patri- mony of a great part of the nation ? Why deprive us of a malady by which such numbers find their account ? This I must ovm is an argument to which I have nothing to reply. What numberless savings might there not be made in both arts and com- merce, particularly in the liberty of exercising trade, without the necessary prerequisites of freedom ! Such useless obstructions have crept into every state, from a spirit of monopoly, a narrow selfish spirit of gain, without the least attention to general society. Such a clog upon industry frequently drives the poor from labom*, and reduces them by degrees to a state of hope- less indigence. We have already a more than sufficient repugnance to labour : we should by no means increase the obstacles, or make excuses in a state for idleness. Such faults have ever crept into a state, under wrong or needy administrations. Exclusive of the masters, there are numberless faulty expenses among ihe workmen; clubs, garnishes, freedoms, and such like impositions, which are not too minute even for law to take notice of, and which should be abolished without mercy, since they are ever the inlets to excess and idleness, and are the parent of all those^utrages which naturally fall upon the more useful part of eociety. In the' towns and countries I have seen, I neyer saw a city 22 338 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. or village yet, -^liose miseries -were not in proportion to the number of its pablic-liouses. In Rotterdam, you may go tlu'ougli eight or ten streets without finding a public-house. In Antwerp, almost every second house seems an alehouse. In the one city all wears the appearance of happmess and warm affluence ; in the other, the young fellows walk about the streets in shabby finery, their fathers sit at the door darning or knitting stockings, while their ports are filled with dmighills. Alehouses are ever an occasion of debauchery ar.d excess, and either in a re- ligious or poHtical light, it would be our highest interest to have the greatest part of them suppressed. They should be put imder laws of not continuing open beyond a certain hour, and harbom-mg only propei* persons. These rules, it may be said, will diminish the necessary taxes ; but this is false reasoning, since what was consumed in debauchery abroad, would, if such a regulation took place, be more justly, and perhaps more equitably for the workmen's family, spent at home ; and this cheaper to them, and without loss of time. On the other hand, om* alehouses being ever o^^en interrupt business 5 the workman is never certain who frequents them, nor can tlie master be siu'c of having what was begun, finished at the convenient time. An habit of frugality among the lower orders of mankind is much more beneficial to society than the imreflecting might imagine. The pavmbroker, the attorney, and other pests of society, might, by proper management, be tmTied into serviceable members ; and, were their trades abolished, it is i)Os- sible the same avarice that conducts the one, or the same chicanery that characterizes the other, might, by proper regulations, be converted into frugahty and commendable prudence. But some who have made the eidogium of luxmy, have represented it as the natural consequence of every comitry that is become rich. Did we not employ our extraordinary wealth in superfluities, say they, what other means would there be to employ it iu ? To which it may be answered, if frugality were established in the state, if our expenses were laid out rather in the necessaries than the superfluities of life, there might be fewer wants, and even fewer pleasures, but infinitely more happiness. The rich and the great would be better able to satisfy their creditors ; they would be better able to marry then' children, and, instead of one marriage at present, there might be two, if such regulations took place. The imaginary calls of vanity, which in reality, contribute nothing to oiu* real fehcity, would not then be attended to, while the real calls of Nature might be always and imiversally supplied. The difierence of employment in the subject is what, in reahty, produces the good of society. If the subject be engaged in providing only the luxuries, the necessaries must bo deficient in proportion. If neglecting the produce of our owti eoimtry, our minds are set upon the productions of another, we increase oxu* wants, but not oiu* means : and every new imported delicacy for our tables, or ornament in our equipage, is a tax upon the poor. The true interest of every government is to cultivate the necessaries, by which is always meant every happiness our own coimtry can produce ; and suppress all the luxuries, by which is meant, on the other hand, every hap- piness imported from abroad. Commerce has therefore its boimds ; aud every new import instead of receiving encouragement, shoidd be first ex- airuned whether it be conducive to the interest of society. Among the many publications with which the press is every day burdened, I have often wondered why we never had, as iu other countries, an Economical Journal, which might at once direct to all the useful discoveries in other countries, and spread those of our own. As other jourL.als serve to amuse THE BEE. the learned, or, what is more often the case, to make them quarrel, while they only serve to give us the history of the mischievous world, for so I call oiu* warriors ; or the idle world, for so may the learned he called ; they never trouble their heads about the most useful part of mankind, our peasants and our artizans j were such a work carried into execution with proper manage- ment and just direction, it might serve as a repository for every useful improvement, and increase that knowledge which learning often serves to confound. Sweden seems the only country where the Science of economy seems to have fixed its empire. In other countries, it is cultivated only by a few ad- mirers, or by societies which have not received sufficient sanction to become completely usefixl ; but here there is founded a royal academy, destined to this purpose only, composed of the most learned and powerful members of the state ; an academy which declines every thing which only terminates in amusement, erudition, or curiosity; and admits only of observations tending to illustrate husbandry, agriculture, and every real physical improvement. In this country nothing is left to private rapacity, but every improvement is immediately diffused, and its inventor immediately recompensed by the state. Happy were it so in other countries ; by this means every impostor would bo prevented from ruining or deceiving the public with pretended discoveries or nostrums, and every real inventor would not, by this means, suffer the incon- veniences of suspicion. In short, the economy, equally unknown to the prodigal and avaricious, seems to be a just mean between both extremes : and to a transgression of this at present decried virtue it is that we are to attribute a great part of the evils which infest society. A taste for superfluity, amusement, and pleasure bring effeminacy, idleness, and expense in their train. But a thirst of riches is always proportioned to our debauchery, and the greatest prodigal is too fre- quently found to be the greatest miser; so that the vices which seem the most opposite, are frequently found to produce each other and, to avoid both, it is only necessary to be frugal. Virtus e$t medium vitiorum et utrinqiie reductum.—Uou. A EEVERIE. Scarcely a day passes in which we do not hear compliments paid to Drjdcn, Pope, and other writers of the last age, while not a month comes forward that is not loaded with invective against tlie writers of this. Strange, that our critics should be fond of giving their favours to those who are insensible of the obligation, and their dislike to those who of all mankind are most apt to retaliate the injury. Even though our present writers had not equal merit with their predeces- sors, it would be politic to use them with ceremony. Every comphment paid them would be more agreeable, in proportion as they least deserved it. Tell a lady with an handsome face that she is pretty, she only thinks it her due ; it is what she has heard a thousand times before from others, and disregards the compliment : but assure a lady, the cut of whose visage is something more plain, that she looks killing to-day, she instantly bridles up and feels the force of the well-timed flattery the whole day after. Compliments, which we think are deserved, we accept only as debts with indifference ; but those which con- science informs us we do not merit, we receive with the same gratitude that we do favours giv^ere a possibility of having even our free schools kept a little out of town, it would certainly conduce to the health and vigom* of perhaps the mind, as well as of the body. It may be thought whimsical, but it is truth — I have found by experience, that they, who have spent all their lives in cities, contract not only an" effeminacy of habit, but even of thinking. Eat when I have said, that the boarding-schools are preferable to fron schools, as being in the country, this is certainly the only advantage I cait allow them ; otherwise it is impossible to conceive tlie ignorance of those who take upon them the important trust of education. Is any man unfit for any of the professions, he finds his last resource in setting up school. Do any 346 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. become bankrupts in trade, they still set np a boarding school, and drire a trade this way, when all others fail ; nay, I have been told of butchers and barbers, who have turned school-masters ; and, more surprising still, made fortunes in their new profession. Could we think ourselves in a country of civilized people : could it be con- ceived that we have any regard for posterity, when such are permitted to take the charge of the morals, genius and healtli of those dear Httle pledges, who may one day be the guardians of the liberties of Europe, and who may serve as the honour and bulwark of their aged parents ? The care of our children, is it below the state ? is it fit to indulge the caprice of 'the ignorant with the dis- posal of their children in this particular ? For the state to take the charge of all its children, as in Persia or Sparta, might at present be inconvenient ; but surely with great ease it might cast an eye to their instructors. Of all mem- bers of society, I do not know a more useful, or a more honourable one, than a school-master ; at the same time that I do not see any more generally de- spised, or whose talents are so ill rewarded. Were the salaries of school-masters to be augmented from a diminution of useless sinecures, how might it turn to the advantage of this people ; a people whom without flattery I may in other respects term the wisest and gi'eatest upon earth ! But while I would reward the deserving, I would dismiss those utterly unqualified for their employment : In short, I woidd make the business of a school-master every way more respectable, by increasing their salaries, and admitting only men of proper abilities. There are already school-masters appointed, and they have some small salaries ; but where at present there is but one schoolmaster appointed, there should at least be two ; and wherever the salary is at present twenty pounds, it should be an himdred. Do we give immoderate benefices to those who in- struct ourselves, and shall we deny even subsistence to those who instruct oiu children ? Every member of society should be paid in proportion as he is necessary ; and I will be bold enough to say, that school-masters in a state ave more necessary than clergymen, as children stand in more need of instruction than their parents. But instead of this, as I have ah'eady observed, we send them to board in the country to the most ignorant set of men that can be imagined. But lest the ignorance of the master be not sufficient, the child is generally consigned to the usher. This is generally some poor needy animal, little superior to a footman either in learning or spirit, invited to his place by an advertisement, and kept there merely from his being of a complying disposition, and making the children fond of him. " You give your child to be educated to a slave," s:iys a philosopher to a rich man ; " instead of one slave, you will then have two." It were well however if parents upon fixing their children in one of these houses, would examine the abilities of the usher as well as the master ; for, whatever they are told to the contrary, the usher is generally the person most employed in their education. If then a gentleman, upon putting out his son to one of these houses, sees the usher disregarded by the master, he may depend upon it>, that he is equally disregarded by the boys ; the truth is, in spite of all their endeavours to please, they are generally the laughing-stock of tlie school. Every trick is played upon the usher ; the oddity of his manners, liis dress, or his language is a fund of eternal ridicule ; the master himself now and then cannot avoid joining in the laugh, and the poor wretch, eternally resenting this ill usage, seems to live in a state of war witli all the family. This is a very proper person, is it not, to give children a relish for learning ? They must esteem learning very much, when they see its professors used with THE BEE. Ml Bucli ceremony. If the uslier be despised, the father may be assm'ed his child will never be properly instructed. But let me suppose, that there are some schools without these inconve- niences, where the master and ushers are men of learning, reputation, and assiduity. If there are to be foiuid such, they cannot be prized in a state sufficiently. A boy will learn more true wisdom in a public school in a year, than by a private education in five. It is not from masters, but from their equals, youth leai'n a knowledge of the world ; the little tricks they play eacli other, the punishment that frequently attends the commission, is a just picture of the great world, and all the ways of men are practised in a public school in miniature. It is tru.e, a child is early made acquainted with some vices in a school, but it is better to know these when a boy, than be first taught them when a man, for their novelty then may have irresistible charms. In a public education boys early learn temperance ; and if the parents and friends would give them less money upon their usual visits, it woitld be much to tJieir advantage, since it may justly bo said, that a great part of their dis- orders arise from surfeit, 2Jlus occidit cjula quam gladius. And now I am come to the article of health, it may not be amiss to observe, that Mr. Locke and some others have advised that children should be inured to cold, to fatigue and hardship from their yovith ; but Mr. Locke was but an indifferent phy- sician. Habit, I grant, has great influence over our constitutions, but we have not precise ideas iipon this subject. We know that among savages and even among our peasants there are found children born with such constitutions, that they cross rivers by swimming, endure cold, thirst, hvmger, and want of sleep to a surprising degree ; that when they happen to fall sick, they are cured without the help of medicine by nature alone. Such examples are adduced to persuade us to imitate their manner of education, and accustom ourselves" betimes to support the same fatigues. But had these gentlemen considered first, that those savages and peasants are generally not so long lived as they who have led a more indolent life : secondly, that the more laborious the life is, the less populous is the country. Had they considered, that what physicians' call the stamina vitce, by fatigue and labour become rigid, and thus anticipate old age. That the number, who survive those rude trials, bears no proportion to those who die in the experiment. Had these things been properly considered, they would not have thus extolled an education begun in fatigue and hardships. Peter the Grreat, willing to inure the children of his seamen to a life of Hardship, ordered that they should drink only sea-water, but they unfortunately all died under the experiment. But while I would exclude all unnecessary labours, yet stiU I would recom- mend temperance in the highest degree. No luxurious dishes with high- seasoning, nothing given children to force an appetite, as little sugared or salted provisions as possible, though never so pleasing : but milk, morning and night, shotdd be their constant food. This diet would make them more hoalthy than any of those slops that are usually cooked by the mistress of a boarding-school ; besides, it corrects any consmnptive habits, not unfrequently found amongst the children of city parents- As boys should be edticated with temperance, so the first greatest lesson that iliould be taught them is, to admire frugality. It is by the exercise of this virtue alone, they can ever expect to be useful members of society. It is true, lectui'cs continually repeated upon this subject may make some boys, when they grow up, run into an extreme, and become misers ; but it were well, had we more misers than we have ffmong us. I know few cliaracters more usefid in society ; for a man's having a larger or smaller share of money lying useless by hinij 848 THE IVORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. no way injures tlie commonwealth : since, sliould erery miser now exliaust liis stores, this might make gold more plenty, but it would not increase iha commodities or pleasures of life ; they would stiU remain as they are at present : it matters not, therefore, whether men are misers or not, if they bo only frugal, laborious, and fill the station they haye chosen. If they deny themselves the necessaries of life, society is no way injured by their folly. Instead, therefore, of romances, which praise young men of spmt, who go through a variety of adventures, and at last conclude a life of dissipation, folly, and extravagance, in riches and matrimony, there should be some men of wit employed to compose books that might equally interest the passions of our youth, where such an one might be praised for having resisted allure- ments when young, and how he at last became Lord Mayor ; how be was married to a lady of great sense, fortune, and beauty ; to be as explicit as possible, the old stoiy of Whittiogton, were his cat left out, might be more sci-viceable to the tender mind, than either Tom Jones, Joseph Andrews, or an hundred others, where frugality is the only good quality the hero is not possessed of. Were our school-masters, if any of them had sense enough to dmw up such a work, thus employed, it would be much more serviceable to their pupils, than aU the grammars and dictionaries they may publish these ten years. Cliildren sliould early be instructed in the arts from which they would after- wards draw the greatest advantages. When the wonders of natm'e are nevei exposed to our view, we have no great desire to become acquainted with those parts of learning which pretend to account for the phenomena. One of the ancients complains, that as soon as young men have left school, and are obliged to converse in the world, they fancy themselves transported into a new region. Ut cum in forum venerint existiment se in aliam terramm orhem delatos. We should early therefore instriict them in the experiments, if I may so ex- press it, of knowledge, and leave to matui'cr age the accoimting for the causes. But, instead of that, when boys begia natural philosophy in colleges, they have not the least cm'iosity for those parts of the science which are proposed for their instruction ; they have never before seen the phenomena, and conse- quently have no curiosity to learn the reasons. Might natm-al philosophy, therefore, be made their pastime in school, by this means it would in college become their amusement. In several of the machines now in use, there would be ample field both for instruction and amusement ; the different sorts of the phosphoriis, the artifi- cial pyrites, magnetism, electricity, the experiments upon the rarefaction and weight of the air, and those upon elastic bodies, might employ their idle hours, and none should be called from play to see such experiments but such as thought proper. At first, then, it wou]d be sufficient if the instrmnents, and the effects of their combination, were only shewn ; the causes should be de- ferred to a matiu'er age, or to those times when natural curiosity prompts us to discover the wonders of natm-e. Man is placed in this world as a specta- tor ; when he is tired with wondering at all the novelties about him, and not till, then, does he desire to be made acquainted with the causes that create those wonders. What I have observed with regard to natural philosophy, I would extend to every other science whatsoever. We should teach them as many of the facts as were possible, and defer the causes until they seemed of themselves desii'ous of knowing them. A mind thus leaving school, stored with all the simple experiences of science, would be the fittest in the world for the college course ; and though such a youth might not appear so bright, or so talkative, as those who had learned the real principles and causes of some of the sciences, THE BEE. 34.9 yet lie would make a wiser man, and wotdd retain a more lasting passion for letters, than he who was early burdened with the disagreeable institution of effect and caiise. In history, such stories alone should be laid before them as might catch the imagination ; instead of this, they are too frequently obliged to toil through the foiu* empires, as they are called, where their memories arc burdened by a number of disgusting names, that destroy all theu' future relish for our best historians, who may be termed the truest teachers of wisdom. Every species of flattery should be carefully avoided ; a boy, who happens to say a sprightly thing, is generally applauded so much, that he happens to continue a coxcomb sometimes all his life after. He is reputed a wit at four- teen, and becomes a blockhead at twenty. Nurses, footmen and such, should therefore be driven away as much as possible. I was even going to add, that the mother herself should stifle her pleastu'e, or her vanity, when little master happens to say a good or a smart thing. Those modest lubberly boys, who seem to want spmt, generally go through then' business with more ease to them- selves, and more satisfaction to their instructors. There has of late a gentleman appeared, who thinks the study of rhetoric essential to a perfect education. That bold male eloquence, which often with- out pleasing convinces, is generally destroyed by such institutions. Convinc- ing eloquence, however, is infinitely more serviceable to its possessor than the most florid harangue, or the most pathetic tones that can be imagined ; and die man who is thoroughly convinced himself, who understands his subject, and the language he speaks in, will be more apt to silence opposition, than he who studies the force of his periods, and fills our ears with sounds, while oiu* minds are destitute of conviction. It was reckoned the fault of the orators at the decline of the Roman em- pire, when they had been long instructed by rhetoricians, that their periods Avcre so harmonious, as that they could be svuig as well as spoken. What a ridiculous figure must one of these gentlemen cut thus measuring syllables, and weigliing words, when he should plead the cause of his client! Two architects were once candidates for the building a certain temple at Athens : the first harangued the crowd very learnedly upon the dififerent orders of archi- tectm'e, and shewed them in what manner the temple should be built ; the other who got up to speak after him, only observed, that what his brother had spoken he could do ; and thus he at once gained his cause. To teach men to be orators is little less than to teach them to be poets ; and for my part, I should have too great a regard for my child, to wish him a manor only in a bookseller's shop. Another passion which the present age is apt to run into, is to make chil- dren learn all things ; the languages, the sciences, music, the exercises, and I)ainting. Thus the child soon becomes a talker in all, but a master jji none. He thus acquires a superficial fondness for everything, and only shews his ignorance when he attempts to exhibit his skill. As I deliver my thoughts withovit method or connexion, so the reader must not be surprised to find me once more addressing school-masters on the present method of teacliing the learned languages, which is commonly by literal transla- tions. I wotdd ask such if they were to travel a journey, whether those parts of the road in which they found the greatest difficulties would not be most strongly remembered .P Boys who, if I may continue the allusion, gallop through one of the ancients vdth the assistance of a translation, can have but a very slight acquaintance either with the author or his language. It is by the exercise of the mind alone that a language is learned ; but a literal translation on the opposite page leaves no exercise for the memory at all. The boy will not be 350 TEE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. at tlie fatigue of remembering, when his doubts are at onco satisfied by a glance of the eye ; -whereas were every word to be sought from a dictionaiy, the learner would attempt to remember in order to save him the trouble of looking out for it for the future. To continue in the same pedantic strain, though no school-master, of all the various grammars now taught in the schools about town, I would recommend only the old common one ; I have forgot whether Lily's or an emendation of him. The others may be improvements ; but such improvements seem to me only mere grammatical niceties, no way influencing the learner, but perhaps loading him with trifling subtilties, which at a proper age he must be at some pains to forget. Whatever pains a master may take to make the learning of the languages agreeable to his pupil, he may depend upon it, it will be at first extremely un- pleasant. . The rudiments of every language, therefore, miist be given as a task, not as an amusement. Attempting to deceive children into instruction of this kind, is only deceiving ourselves ; and I know no passion capable of conquer- ing a child's natural laziness but fear. Solomon has said it before me ; nor is there any more certain, though perhaps more disagreeable truth, than the pi'overb in verse, too well known to repeat on the present occasion. It is vex'y probable that parents are told of some masters who never use the rod, and consequently are thought the properest instructors for their children ; but though tenderness is a requisite quality in an instructor, yet there is too often the truest tenderness in well-timed correction. Some have justly observed, that all passion should be banished on this ter- rible occasion : but I know not how ; there is a frailty attending human nature, that few masters are able to keep their temper whilst they coiTect. I knew a good-natured man, who was sensible of his own weakness in this respect, and consequently had recourse to the following expedient to prevent his passions from being enraged, yet at the same time administer justice with impartiality. Whenever any of his pupils committed a fault, he summoned a jury of his peers, I mean of the boys of his own or the next classes to him ; his accusers stood forth ; he had a liberty of pleading in his own defence, and one or two more had a liberty of pleading against him : when found guilty by the panncl, he was consigned to the footman, who attended in the house, who had pre- vious orders to punish, but with lenity. By this means the master took off the odium of punishment from himself; and the footman, between whom and the boys there could not be even the slightest intimacy, was placed in such a light as to be shunned by every boy in the school.''- And now I have gone thus far, perhaps you will think me some pedagogue, wilhng by a well-timed puff to increase the reputation of his own school j but such is not the case. The regard I have for society, for those tender minds who are the objects of the present essay, is the only motive I have for offering these thoughts, calculated not to surprise by their novelty, or the elegance of composition, but merely to remedy some defects which have crept into the present system of school education. If this letter should be inserted, perhaps I may trouble you in my next with some thoughts upon an university educa- tion, not with an intent to exhaust the subject, but to amend some few abuses. I am, &c. * This dissertation was thus far introduced into the volume of Essays afterward;; pub- lished by Dr. Goldsmith, with the following observation : This treatise was published before Rousseau's Emiiius ; if there be a similitude in anyone instance, it is hoped tlie author of the present essay will not be termed a plagiarist. THE BEE. 351 ON THE INSTABILITY OF WORLDLY aEANDEUR. An alehouse-keeper near Islington, wlio had long lived at tlie sign of the French King, upon the commencement of the last war with France, pulled down his old sign, and put up the Queen of Hungary. Under the influence of her red face and golden sceptre, he contmued to sell ale till she was no longer the favourite of his customers ; he changed her therefore some time ago for the King of Prussia, who may probahly be changed in turn for the next great man that shall be set up for vulgar admiration. Our pubHcan in tliis imitates the great exactly, who deal out their figures one after the other to the gazing crowd beneath them. Wlaen we have sufR- ciently wondered at one, that is taken in, and another exhibited in its room, which seldom holds its station long ; for the mob are ever pleased with variety. I must own I have such an indifferent opinion of the vulgar, that I am ever led to suspect that merit which raises their shou.t ; at least I am certain to find those great and sometimes good men, who find satisfaction in such acclama- tions, made worse by it ; and history has too frequently taught me, that the head which has grown this day giddy with the roar of the million, has the very next been fixed upon a pole. As Alexander VI. was entering a little town in the neighbourhood of Eome, which had been just evacuated by the enemy, he perceived the townsmen busy in the market-place in pvilhng down from a gibbet a figure which had been designed to represent himself. There were also some knocking down a neigh- bom'mg statue of one of the Orsini family, with whom he was at war, in order to put Alexander's effigy, when taken dowoi, in its place. It is possible a man who knew less of the world wovild have condemned tlio adulation of those barefaced flatterers ; but Alexander seemed pleased at their zeal, and turning to Borgia his son, said with a smile, Vides mi fill, quam leve discrhnen palibtdum inter et statuam. " You see, my son, the small difference between a gibbet and a statue." If the great could be taught any lesson, this might serve to teach them upon how weak a foundation their glory stands, which is built upon popular applause ; for as such praise what seems like merit, they as quickly condemn what has only the appearance of guilt. Popular glory is a perfect coquette ; her lovers must toil, feel every in- quietude, indulge every caprice, and perhaps at last be jilted into the bargain. Ti'ue glory on the other hand resembles a woman of sense ; her admirers must play no tricks ; they feel no great anxiety, for they are sure in the end of being rewarded in proportion to their merit. "When Swift used to appear in pubhc, he generally had the mob shouting in his train. " Pox take these fools," he would say, "how much joy might all this bawling give my Lord Mayor!" We have seen those vu-tues, which have, while living, retired from the puolic eye, generally transmitted to posterity, as the truest objects of admira- tion and praise. Perhaps the character of the late Duke of Marlborough may one day be set up, even above that of his more talked-of predecessor ; since an assemblage of all the mild and amiable virtues is far superior to those vulgarly called the great ones. X must be pardoned for this short tribute to the memory of a man, who, while living, would as much detest to receive any thing that wore the appearance of flattery, as I should to offer it. I know not how to turn so trite a subject out of the beaten road of common place, except by illustrating it rather by the assistance of my memory than my judgment, and instead of making reflections by telling a story. A Chinese, who had long studied the works of Confucius, who kuew the S53 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. characters of fourteen thousand words, and could read a great part of every book that came in his way, once took it into his head to travel into Europe, and obser-v-e the customs of a people whom he thought not very much inferior even to his own countrymen, in the arts of refining upon every pleasure. Upon his arrival at Amsterdam his passion for letters naturally led him to a bookseller's shop ; and as he could speak a little Dutch, he civilly asked the bookseller for the works of the immortal Ilixofou. The bookseller assured him, he had never heard the book mentioned before. " What, have you never heard of that immortal poet!" returned the other much surpi'ised, " that liglit of the eyes, that favourite of kings, that rose of perfection ! I suppose you know nothing of the immortal Fipsihihi, second cousin to tlie moon?" " Nothing at all, indeed, sir," returned the other. "Alas !" cries our traveller, " to what purpose then has one of these fasted to death, and the other oiFercd himself up as a sacrifice to the Tartarian enemy, to gain a renown which has never travelled beyond the precincts of Cliina!" There is scarcely a village in Europe, and not one university, that is not thus furnished with its little gi'eat men. The head of a petty corporation, Avho opposes the designs of a prince who would tyrannically force his subjects to save their best clothes for Sundays ; the puny pedant who finds one undis- covered property in the polype, describes an unheeded process in the skeleton of a mole, and whose mind, like liis microscope, perceives nature only in detail ; the rhymer who makes smooth verses, and paints to our imagination, when he should only speak to our hearts ; all equally fancy themselves walking forward to hnmortahty, and desire the crowd behind tliem to look on. The crowd takes them at theu* word. Patriot, philosopher, and poet, are shouted in theu' train. Where was there ever so much merit seen ; no times so im- portant as our own ; ages yet unborn shall gaze with wonder and applause ! to such music the important pigmy moves forward, bustUng and swelling, and aptly compared to o, puddle in a storm. I have lived to see generals, who once had crowds hallooing after them wherever they went, who were bepraised by newspapers and magazines, those echoes of the voice of the vulgar, and yet they have long sunk iiito merited obscurity, with scarcely even an epitaph left to flatter. A few years ago the herring fishery employed all Grub-street ; it was the topic in every coffee- laouse, and the burthen of every ballad. We were to drag up oceans of gold from the bottom of the sea ; we were to supply all Europe with herrings upon our own terms. At present we hear no more of all this. We have fished up very little gold that I can leam ; nor do we furnish the world with herrings, as was expected. Let us wait but a few years longer, and we shall find all our expectations an herring fishery. SOME ACCOtlNT OE THE ACADEMIES OF ITALY. TSEEE is not perhaps a country in Europe, in which learning is so fast upon the decline as in Italy; yet not one in which there are such a number of academies instituted for its support. There is scarcely a considerable town in tlie whole country, which has not one or two institutions of tliis natm'e, where the learned, as they are jpleased to call themselves, meet to harangue, to com- pliment each other, and praise the utility of their institution. Jarchius has taken the trouble to give us a list of those clubs, or academies, which amount to five hundred and fiLfty, each distinguished by somewhat whimsical in the name. The academies of Bologna, for instance, are _ divided into the Abbandonati, the Ausiosi, Ociosio, Arcadi, Confiisi, Dubbiosi, &c. The me. 353 There are few of these who have not published their transactions, and scarcely a member who is not looked upon as the most famous man in the world, at home. Of all those societies I know. of none whose works are worth being known out of the precincts of the city in which they were written, except the Cicalata Academiii (or, as we might express it, the tickling society) of Floi*encc. I have just now before me a manuscript oration, spoken by the late Tomaso Crudeli at that society, which will at once serve to give a better picture of the }nanner in which men of wit amuse themselves in that country, than any thing I could say xipon the occasion. Tlie oration is this : " The younger the nymph, my dear companions, the more happy the lover. From foxu'teen to seventeen, you are sure of finding love for love ; fi'om seven- teen to twenty-one, there is always a mixture of interest and affection. But Avhen that period is past, no longer expect to receive^ but to buy. No longer expect a nymph who gives, but who sells her favours. At this age every glance is taught its duty ; not a look, nor a sigh, without design ; the lady, like a skilful warrior, aims at the heart of another, wliile she shields her own from danger. " On the contrary at fifteen you may expect nothing but simplicity, inno- cence, and nature. The passions are then sincere ; the soul seems seated in the lips ; the dear object feels present happiness, without being anxious for the futm-e ; her eyes brighten if her lover approaches ; her smiles are borrowed from the Graces, and lier very mistakes seem to complete her desires. " Lucretia was just sixteen. The rose and lily took possession of her face, and her bosom, by its hue and its coldness, seemed covered with snow. So mucli beauty, and so much virtue seldom want admirers. Orlandino, a youth of sense and merit, was among the number. He had long languished for an opportunity of declaring his passion, when Cupid, as if willing to indulge his happiuess, brought the charming j'oung couple by mere accident to an arbour, where every prying eye but love was absent. Orlandino talked of the sincerity of his passion, and mixed flattery with his addresses ; but it was all in vain. The nymph was pre-engaged, and had long devoted to heaven those charms for which he sued. ' My dear Orlandino,' said she, ' you know I have long been dedicated to St. Catherine, and to her belongs all that lies below my girdle ; all that is 'above, you may freely possess, but farther I cannot, must not comply. The vow is passed ; I wish it were undone, but now it is impos- sible.' You may conceive, my companions, the embarrassment our young lovers felt upon tliis occasion. They kneeled to St. Catharine, and though both despau'cd, both implored her assistance. Their tutelar saint was in- treated to shew some expedient, by wliich both might continue to love, and }et both be happy. Their petition was sincere. St. Catharine was touched Avith compassion ; for lo, a miracle ! Lucretia's gii'dle unloosed, as if without hands ; and though before bound round her middle, fell spontaneously down to her feet, and gave Orlandino the possession of all those beauties which., lay above it." THE BEE, No. VII. SATDEDAY, I^OYEMBEE 17, 1759. OF ELOQUENCE. Of all kinds of success, that of an orator is the most pleasing. Upon other occasions the applause we deserve is conferred in om' absence, and we are iu- 23 854 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. sensible of the pleasiu-e we have given ; but in eloquence the victory and the triumph are inseparable. "VYe read owe ovn\ glory in the face of every spec- tator, the audience is moved, the antagonist is defeated, and the whole circle bui'sts into misolicited applause. The rewards wliich attend excellence in this way are so pleasing, that num- bers have wiitten professed treatises to teach us the art ; schools have been cstabhshcd with no other intent ; rhetoric has taken place among the institu- tions, and pedants have ranged under proper heads, and distinguished with long learned names, some of the strokes of IS'ature, or of passion, 'which orators have used. I say only some ; for a foho volume could not contain all the iigures which liave been used by the truly eloquent, and scarcely a good speaker or writer but makes use of some that are peculiar or new. Eloquence has preceded the rules of rhetoric, as languages have been formed before grammar. Nature renders men eloquent in great interests, or great passions. He that is sensibly touched, sees things with a very different eye from the rest of mankind. All nature to him becomes an object of comparison and metaphor, without attending to it ; he throws life into all, and inspires liis audience with a part of his own enthusiasm. It has been remarked that the lower parts of mankind generally express themselves most figuratively, and that tropes are found in the most ordinary forms of conversation. Thus in every language the heart bxu'ns ; the com-age is roused ; the eyes sparkle ; the spirits are cast down ; passion inflames ; pride swells, and pity sinks the soid. Nature everywhere speaks in those strong images, which from their frequency pass unnoticed. Natm'c it is which inspires those rapturous enthusiasms, those irresistible tiu'ns ; a strong passion, a pressing danger, calls up all the imagination, and gives the orator irresistible force. Thus a captain of the first cahphs, seeing his soldiers fly, cried out, " Whither do you run ? the enemy are not there ! You have been told that the caliph is dead : but Q-od is still living. He re- gards the brave, and will reward the courageous. Advance!" A man therefore may be called eloquent wJio transfers the passion or sentiment ivith which he is moved himself into the breast of another ; and this defiaiition appears the more just, as it comprehends the graces of silence, and of action. An intimate persuasion of the truth to be proved, is the sentiment and pas- sion to be transferred ; and who affects this, is truly possessed of the talent of eloquence. I have called eloquence a talent, and not an art, as so many rhetoricians have done, as art is acqmred by exercise and study, and eloquence is the gift of Nature. Rules will never make either a work or a discoiu-se eloquent : they only serve to prevent faults, but not to introduce beauties ; to prevent those passages which are truly eloquent and dictated by natm'e, from being blended with others which might disgust, or at least abate om' passion. What we clearly conceive, says Boilcau, we can clearly express. I may add that what is felt with emotion is expressed also with the same movements ; the words arise as readily to paint our emotions, as to express our thoughts with perspicuity. The cool care an orator takes to express passions whicli he does not feel, only prevents his rising into that passion he would seem to feel. In a word, to feel your subject thoroughly, and to speak without fear, are the only rules of eloquence, properly so called, which I can offer. Examine a writer of genius on the most beautiful parts of his work, and he will alwaj's assure you that such passages are generally those wliich have given him the least trouble, for they came as if by iuspu-ation. To pretend that cold and didactic precepts will make a man eloquent, is only to prove that he is in- capable of eloquence. THE BEE. ^i But, as in being perspicuous it is necessary to have a full idea of the subject, 60 in being eloquent it is not sufficient, if I may so express it, to feel by halves. The orator should be strongly impressed ; "which is generally the effect of a fine and exquisite sensibility, and not that transient and superficial emotion which he excites in the greatest part of his audience. It is even impos- sible to affect the hearers in any great degree without being affected ourselves. In vain it will be objected, that many writers have had the art to inspire their readers with a passion for virtue, without being virtuous themselves ; since it may be answered, that sentiments of virtue filled their minds at the time they were writing. They felt the inspu'ation strongly, while they praised justice, generosity, or good-natm-e ; but, unhappily for them, these passions might have been discontiniied when they laid down the pen. In vain will it be objected again, that we can move without being moved, as we can convince without being convinced. It is much easier to deceive our reason than our- selves ; a trifling defect in reasoning may be overseen, and lead a man astray, for it requires reason and time to detect the falsehood ; but our passions are not easily imposed upon, our eyes, our ears, and every sense, are watchful to detect the imposture. ]N"o discourse can be eloquent, that does not elevate the mind. Pathetic elo- quence, it is true, has for its only object to affect ; but I appeal to men of sensibility, whether their pathetic feelings are not accompanied with some degree of elevation. We may then call eloquence and sublimity the same thing, since it is impossible to be one without feeling the other. Hence it follows that we may be eloquent in any language, since no language refuses to paint those sentiments, with which we are thoroughly impressed. What is usually called sublimity of style seems to be only an error. Eloquence is not in the words but in the subject, and in great concerns the more simply any thing is expressed, it is generally the more sublime. True eloquence does not consist, as the rhetoricians assure us, in saying great things in a sublime style, but in a simple style ; for there is, properly speaking, no such thing as a fcublime style, the sublimity lies only in the things ; and when they are not so, the language may be turgid, affected, metaphorical, but not affecting. What can be more simply expressed than the following extract from a cele- brated preacher, and yet what was ever more sublime ? Speaking of the small, number of the elect, he breaks out thus among his audience : " Let me sup- pose that this was the last hour of us all ; that the heavens were opening over oiu' heads ; that time was passed, and eternity begun : that Jesus Christ in all liis glory, that man of sorrows in all his glory, appeared on the tribmial, and that we were assembled here to receive our final decree of life or death eternal ! Let me ask, impressed with terror like you, and not separating my lot from yours, but putting myself in the same situation in which we must all one day appear before Grod, our judge ; let me ask, if Jesus Christ should now appear to make the terrible separation of the just from the unjust, do you think the greatest number would be saved ? Do you think the number of the elect would even be equal to that of the sinners ? Do you think, if all om- works were examined with justice, would he find ten just persons in this great as- sembly ? Monsters of ingratitude ! would he find one ?" Such passages as these are subhme in every language. The expression may be less speaking, or more indistinct, but the greatness of the idea still remains. In a word, we may be eloquent in every language and in every style, since elocution is only an assistant, but not a constitutor of eloquence. Of what use, then, will it be said, are all the precepts given us upon this head both by tlae ancients and moderns ? I answer, that they cannot make us eloquent, but they will certainly prevent us from becoming ridiculous. They 23—2 850 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMifH. can seldom procure a single beauty, but they may banisb a thousand faults. The true method of an orator is not to attempt always to more, always to affect, to be continually sublime, but at proper interyals to give rest both to his own and the passions of his audience. In these periods of relaxation, or of preparation rather, rules may teach him to avoid any thing low, trivial, or disgusting. Thus criticism, properly speaking, is intended, not to assist those parts which are sublime, but those which are naturally mean and humble, which are composed with coolness and caution, and where the orator rather endeavours not to offend, than attempts to please. I have hitherto insisted more strenuously on that eloquence which speaks to the passions, as it is a species of oratory almost unknown in England. At the bar it is quite discontinued, and I think with justice. In the senate it is used but sparingly, as the orator speaks to enlightened judges. But in the pulpit, in which the orator should chiefly address the vulgar, it seems strange tliat it should be entu-ely laid aside. The vulgar of England are, without exception, the most barbarous and the most unknowing of any in Euroxje. A great part of their ignorance may be chiefly ascribed to their teachers, who with the most pretty gentleman-like serenity deliver their cool discourses, and address the reason of men, who have never reasoned in all their lives. They are told of cause and effect, of beings self-existent, and the universal scale of beings. They are informed of tlie excellence of the Bangoriau controversy, and the absurdity of an interme- diate state. The spruce preacher reads his lucubration without lifting his nose from the text, and never ventures to earn the shame of an enthusiast. By this means, though his audience feel not one word of all he says, he earns, however, among his acquaintance the character of a man of sense ; among his acquaintance only did I say — nay, even with liis bishop. The poHte of every country have several motives to induce them to a recti- tude of action ; the love of virtue for its own sake, the shame of offending, and the desire of pleasing. The vulgar have but one, the enforcements of religion ; and yet those who should push this motive home to their hearts, are basely found to desert their post. They speak to the squire, the philosopher, and the jaedant ; but the poor, those who really want instruction, are left uninstructed, I have attended most of our pulpit orators, who, it must be owned, write extremely well upon the text they assume. To give them their due also, they read their sermons with elegance and propriety ; but this goes but a very short w\ay in true eloquence. The speaker must be moved. In this, in this alone, our English divines are deficient. Were they to speak to a few calm dispas- sionate hearers, they certainly use the properest methods of address ; but their audience is chiefly composed of the poor, who must be influenced by motives of reward and punishment, and whose only virtues lie in self-interest, or fear. How, then, are such to be addressed ? Not by studied periods or cold dis- quisitions ; not by the labours of the head, but the honest spontaneous dictates 3f the heart. Neither writing a sermon with regular periods and all the harmony of elegant expression; neither reading- it with emphasis, propriety, and deliberation ; neither pleasing with metaphor, simile, or rhetorical fustian : neither arguing coolly, and untying consequences united in a priori, nor bund- ling up inductions a posteriori; neither pedantic jargon, nor academical trifling, can persuade the poor: writing a discoxu-se coolly in the closet, then getting it by memory, and delivering it on Sundays, even that will not do. What, then, is to be done ? I know of no expedient to speak, to speak at once inteUigibly, and feelingly, except to understand the language. To be comiuced of the truth of the object, to be perfectly acquainted with the sub- THE BEE. 357 ject in view, to prepossess yourself with a low opinion of yonr audience, and to do the rest extempore : by this means strong expressions, new thoughts, rising passions, and the true declamatory style, will naturally ensue. Fine declamation does not consist in flowery periods, delicate allusions, or musical cadences ; but in a plain, open, loose style, where the periods are long and obvious ; where the same thought is often exhibited in several points of view ; all this strong sense, a good memory, and a small share of experience, will furnish to every orator ; and without these a clergyman may be called a fine preacher, a judicious preacher, and a man of good sense ; he may make his hearers admire his understanding — but will seldom enlighten theirs. When I think of the Methodist preachers among us, how seldom they are endued with common sense, and yet how often and how justly they aff'ect their hearers, I cannot avoid saying within myself, had these been bred gentlemen, and been endued with even the meanest share of understanding, what might they not effect ! Did our bishops, who can add dignity to their expostida- tions, testify the same fervour, and intreat their hearers, as well as argue, what might not be the consequence! The vulgar, by which I mean the bulk of mankind, would then have a double motive to love religion, first from seeing its professors honoured here, and next from the consequences hereafter. At present the enthusiasms of tlie poor are opposed to law ; did law conspire with their enthusiasms, we should not only be the happiest nation upon earth, but the wisest also. Enthusiasm in religion, which prevails only among the vulgar, should be the chief object of politics. A society of enthusiasts, governed by reason among the great, is the most indissoluble, the most virtuous, and the most efficient of its own decrees that can be imagined. Every country, possessed of any degree of strength, have had their enthusiasms, which ever serve as laws among the people. The Greeks had their Kalolcagathia, the Komans their Amor Patrice, and we the truer and firmer bond of the Protestant religion. The principle is the same in all ; how much, then, is it the duty of tliose whom the law has appointed teachers of this religion, to enforce its obliga- tions, and to raise those enthusiasms among people, by which alone political society can subsist. From eloquence, therefore, the morals of our people are to expect emenda- tion ; but how little can they Tae improved by men who get into the pulpit rather to show their x)arts than convince us of the truth of what they dehver ; who are painfully correct in their style, musical in their tones, where every senti- ment, every expression seems the result of meditation and deep stiidy ? Tillotson has been commended as the model of pulpit eloquence ; thus fai' he should be imitated, where he generally strives to convince rather than cc please ; but to adopt his long, dry, and sometimes tedious discussions, which serve to amuse only divines, and are utterly neglected by the generality of mankind ; to praise the intricacy of his periods, which are too long to be spoken ; to continue his cool phlegmatic manner of enforcing every truth, is certainly erroneous. As I said before, the good preacher should adopt no model, write no sermons, study no periods ; let him but understand liis sub- ject, the language he speaks, and be convinced of the truths he delivers. It is amazing to what heights eloquence of this kind may reach ! This is that eloquence the ancients represented as lightnmg, bearing down every opposer j this the power which has tm-ned whole assemblies into astonishment, admira- tion, and awe, that is described by the torrent, the flame, and every other in- stance of irresistible impetuosity. But to attempt such noble heights belongs only to the truly great, or the tml^- good. To discard the lazy manner of reading sermons, or speakix3g ser- 358 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. nions by rote ; to set up singly against tlie opposition of men wlio are attached to their own errors, and to endeavour to be great instead of being prudent, are qualities we seldom see united. A minister of the Church of England, who may be possessed of good sense and some hopes of preferment, will sel- dom giye up such substantial advantages for the empty pleasure of improving society. By his pi'esent method he is hked by his friends, admired by his dependants, not displeasing to his bishop ; he Hves as well, eats and sleeps as well, as if a real orator, and an eager assertor of his mission ; he will hardly, therefore, ventm*e aU this to be called perhaps an enthusiast j nor will he de- part from customs established by the brotherhood, when by such a conduct, lie only singles himself out for their contempt. CUSTOM AND LAWS COMPARED. What, say some, can give us a more contemptible idea of a large state, than to find it mostly governed by custom ; to have few written laws, and no boun- daries to mark the jurisdiction between the senate and people ? Among the number who speak in this manner is the great Montesquieu, who asserts that every nation is free in proportion to the number of its written laws, and seems to hint at a despotic and arbitrary conduct in the present king of Prussia, who lias abridged the laws of his country into a very short compass. As Tacitus and Montesquieu happen to differ in sentiment upon a subject of so much importance (for the Roman expressly asserts, that the state is generally vicious in proportion to the number of its laws), it will not be amiss to examine it a httle more minutely, aud see whether a state, which, like Eng- land, is burthened with a multiplicity of written laws ; or which, hke Switzer- land, Gl^encva, and some other republics, is governed by custom and the deter- mination of the judge, is best. And to prove the superiority of custom to written law, we shall at least find history conspirmg. Custom, or the traditional observance of the practice of tlieir forefathers, was what directed the Romans as well in their public as private determinations. Custom was appealed to in pronouncing sentence against a criminal, where part of the formulary was more majorum. So Sallust, speaking of the expulsion of Tarquin, says, mutato more, and not lege mutata ; And Yu'gil, pacisque imponere morem. So that m those times of the empire, in wliich the people retained their liberty, they were governed by custom ; when they sunk into oppression and tyranny, they were restrained by new laws, and the laws of tradition abolished. As gettmg the ancients on our side is half a victory, it will not be amiss to fortify the argument with an observation of Chrysostom's : "That the enslaved are the fittest to be governed by laws, and freemen by custom." Custom par- takes of the nature of parental injunction; it is kept by the people themselves, and observed with a willing obedience. The observance of it must, therefore, be a mark of freedom, and, coming originally to a state from the reverenced founders of its liberty, will be an encouragement and assistance to it in the defence of that blessing ; but a conquered people, a nation of slaves, must pretend to none of this freedom, or these happy distinctions ; having by de- generacy lost all right to their brave forefathers' free institutions, their masters will in a policy take the forfeiture : and the fixmg a conquest must be done by giving laws, which may every moment serve to remind the people enslaved of their conquerors, nothing being more dangerous than to trust a late-subdued people with old customs, th{it presently upbraid theu* degeneracy, and provoke them to revolt. THE BEE. 359 The wisdom of tlie Eoman republic in tlieir veneration for custom, and backwardness to introduce a new law, was perhaps the cause of their long continuance, and of the virtues of which they have set the world so many ex- amples. But to shew in what that wisdom consists, it may be proper to observe, that the benefits of new -written laws are merely confined to the con- sequences of their observance ; but customary laws, keeping up a veneration for the foimders, engage men in the imitation of their virtues as well as policy. To this may be ascribed the religious regard the Romans paid to tlieir fore- fathers' memory, and their adhering for so many ages to the practice of the same virtues, which nothing contributed more to efface than the introduction of a voluminous body of new laws over the neck of venerable custom. The simphcity, conciseness, and antiquity of custom gives an air of majesty and immutability that inspu'cs awe and veneration ; but new laws are too apt to be voluminous, perplexed, and indeterminate, whence must necessarily arise neglect, contempt, and ignorance. As every human institution is subject to gross imperfections, so laws must necessarily be liable to the same inconveniences, and then* defects soon dis- covered. Thus, through the weakness of one part, all the rest are liable to be brought into contempt. But such weaknesses in a custom, for very obvious reasons, evade an examination ; besides, a friendly prejudice always stands up in their favour. But let us suppose a new law to be perfectly equitable and necessary ; yet, if the procurers of it have betrayed a conduct that confesses by-ends and pri- vate motives, the disgust to the circumstances disposes us, unreasonably indeed, to an irreverence of the law itself ; but we are indulgently bhnd to the most visible imperfections of an old custom. Though we perceive the defects ourselves, yet we remain persuaded that our wise forefathers had good reason for what they did ; and though such motives no longer continue, the benefit will still go along with the observance, though we don't know how. It is thus the Roman lawyers speak : Non omnium, qu(B a majoribus constUuta sunt, ratio reddi x>oiest , et ideo rationes eorum quoe constituuntur inquiri non oportet, alioquin multa ex Ms qucs. certa sunt subvertuntur. Those laws, which preserve to themselves the greatest love and observance, must needs be best; but custom as it executes itself, must be necessarily sxiperior to written laws in this respect, which are to be executed by another. Thus nothing can be more certain than that numerous written laws are a sign of a degenerate community, and are frequently not the consequences of vicious morals in a state, but the causes. Hence we see how much greater benefit it would be to the state rather to abridge than increase its laws. We every day find them increasing ; acts and reports, which may be tei'med the acts of judges, are every day becoming more volmninous, and loading the subject with new penalties. Laws ever increase in number and severity, until they at length are strained so tight as to break themselves. Such was the case of the latter empire, whose laws were at length become so strict, that the barbarous invaders did not bring servitude but hberty. OF THE PRIDE AND LUXURY OE THE MIDDLINa CLASS OE PEOPLE. Of all the follies and absvirdities under which this great metropolis labours, there is not one, I believe, that at present appears in a more glaring and ridi- yulous light than the pride and luxury of the middling class of people j tlicii 360 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. eager desire of being seen in a sphere far above tlieir capacities and circum- stances is daily, nay hourly, instanced by the prodigious number of mechanics, who flock to tlie races, and gaming-tables, brothels, and all public diversions this fashionable town affords. You shall see a grocer or a tallow-chandler, sneak from behind the counter, clap on a laced coat and a bag, fly to the E O table, throw away fifty pieces with some sharping man of quality ; while his indiistrious wife is selling a pennyworth of sugar, or a pound of candles, to support her fashionable spouse in his extravagances. I was led into this reflection by an odd adventure which happened to me the other day at Epsom races, whither I went, not through any desire I do assure you of laying betts or winning thousands, but at the earnest request of a friend, wlio had long indulged the curiosity of seeing the sport, very natural for an Englishman. When we had arrived at the course, and had taken several turns to observe the difierent objects that made up this whimsical group, a figure suddenly darted by us, moimted and dressed in all the elegance of those polite gentry who come to shew you they have a Uttle money, and rather than pay theu' just debts at home generously come abroad to bestow it on gamblers and pickpockets. As I had not an opportunity of viewing liis face tni his return, I gently walked after him, and met him as lie came back, when to my no small siu-prise I beheld in this gay Narcissus the visage of Jack Yarnish, an humble vender of prints. Disgusted at the sight, I pulled my friend by the sleeve, pressed him to return home, telling him all the way, that I was so enraged at the fellow's impudence, I was resolved never to lay out another penny with him. And now, pray Sir, let me beg of you to give this a place in your paper, that Mr. Yarnish may understand he mistakes the thing quite, if he imagines horse-racing recommendable in a tradesman : and that he, who is revelling every night in the arms of a common strumpet (though blessed with an indul- gent wife) when he ought to be minding his business, will never thrive in this world. He wiU find himself soon mistaken, his finances decrease, his friends shun him, customers fall off*, and himself tin-own into a gaol. I would ear- nestly recommend this adage to every mechanic in London, " Keep your shop, and your shop will keep you." A strict observance of these words will, I am sure, in time gain them estates. Industry is the road to wealth, and honesty to happiness : and he who strenuously endeavours to pursue tliein both, may never fear the critic's lash, or the sharp cries of penury and want. SABINUS AND OLINDA. In a fair, rich, and flom-isliing country, whose clifts are washed by the German ocean, lived Sabinus, a youth formed by natiu'c to make a conquest wherever he thought proper ; but the constancy of his disposition fixed him only with Olinda. He was indeed superior to her in fortune, but that defect on her side was so amply supphed by her merit, that none was thought more worthy of his regards than she. He loved her, he was beloved by her j and in a short time, by joining hands publicly, they avowed the union of their hearts. But, alas ! none, however fortunate, however happy, are exempt from the shafts of envy, and the malignant efibcts of ungoverned appetite. How unsafe, how; detestable are they who have this fury for their guide ! How certainly will it lead them from themselves, and plunge them in errors they would have shuddered at, even in apprehension ! Ainana, a lady of many amiable qualities, very nearly allied to Sabinus, and highly esteemed by hini; imagined herself sliglited, and injuriously treated, since his marriage with THE BEE. 361 Olinda. By uncaiitiously suffering this jealousy to corrode in her breast, she began to give a loose to passion ; she forgot those many virtues for which she had been so long and so justly a^jplauded. Causeless suspicion and mistakeu resentment beti-ayed her into all the gloom of discontent ; she sighed without ceasing ; the happiness of others gave her intolerable pain ; she thought of nothing but revenge. How unlike what she was, the cheerful, the prudent, the compassionate Ariana ! She continually laboured to disturb an union so firmly, so affectionately founded, and planned every scheme which she thought most likely to disturb it. Fortune seemed willing to promote her unjust intentions : the circumstances of Sabinus had been long embarrassed by a tedious lawsuit, and the court determining the cause unexpectedly in favour of his opponent, it sunk liia fortune to the lowest pitch of penury from the highest /lilluence. From the nearness of relationship Sabinus expected from Ariana those assistances his present situation required ; but she was insensible to all his intreaties, and tlie justice of every remonstrance, unless he first separated from Olinda, whom she regarded with detestation. Upon a compliance with her desires in this respect, she promised that her fortune, her interest, and her all should be at his command. Sabinus was shocked at the proposal ; he loved his wife with inexpressible tenderness, and refused those offers with indignation, which were to bo purchased at so high a price. Ariana was no less displeased to find her offers rejected, and gave a loose to all that warmth which she had long endeavoured to suppress. Eeproaeh generally produces recrimination : the quarrel rose to such a height, that Sabinus was marked for desti'uction ; and the very next day, iipon the strength of an old family debt, he was sent to gaol, with none but Olinda to comfort him in his miseries. In this man- sion of distress they lived together with resignation and even with comfort. She provided tlie frugal meal; and he read to her while employed in the little offices of domestic concern. Their fellow px'isoners admired their con- tentment, and whenever they had a desire of relaxing into mirth, and enjoying those little comforts that a pi-ison affords, Sabinus and Olinda were sure to be of the party. Instead of reproaching each other for their mutual wretched- ness, they both lightened it, by bearing each a share of the load imposed by Providence. Wlienever Sabinus shewed the least concern on his dear partner's account, she conjured him by the love he bore her, by those tender ties which now united them for ever, not to discompose himself ; that so long as his affection lasted, she defied all the ills of fortune, and every loss of fame or friendsliip ; that nothing could make her miserable but his seeming to want happiness, nothing pleased but his sympathizing with her pleasure. A con- tinuance in prison soon robbed them of the little they had left, and famine began to make its Ixorrid appearance ; yet still was neither found to murmur : they both looked upon their little boy, who, insensible of their or his own dis- tress, was playing about the room, with inexpressible yet silent anguish, when a messenger came to inform tliem that Ariana was dead, and that her will in favour of a very distant relation, who was now in another country, might easily be procured and bm-nt, in which case all her large fortune wovild revert to him as being the next heu* at law. A proposal of so base a uatiu'e filled our unhappy couple with horror ; they ordered the messenger immediately out of the room, and falling upon each other's neck indulged an agony of sorrow ; for now even all hopes of relief were banished. The messenger who made the proposal, however, was only a spy sent by Ariana to sound the dispositions of a man she loved at once and perse- cuted. This lady, though warped by wrong passions, was naturally kind, hidicious, and friendly. She found that all her attempts to shake the cou- 362 WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Btancy or the integrity of Sabinus were ineffectual ; she had therefore begun to reflect, and to wonder how she could so long and so unproToked injure such uncommon fortitude and affection. She had from the next room herself heard the reception given to the mes- senger, and could not avoid feeling all the force of superior vu'tue ; she tlierc- fore re-assumed her former goodness of heart ; she came into the room with tears in her eyes, and acknowledged the severity of her former treatment. She bestowed her first care in providing them all the necessary supplies, and acknowledged them as the most deserving heu's of her fortune. From tliis moment Sabinus enjoyed an uninterrupted happiness with Olinda, and both were happy in the friendship and assistance of Ariana, who, dying soon after, left them in possession of a large estate, and in her last moments confessed that vii'tue was the only path to true glory ; and that, however innocence may for a time be depressed, a steady perseverance will iu time lead it to a certain victory. THE SENTIMENTS OF A FRENCHMAN ON THE TEMPER OF THE ENaLISH. Nothing is so uncommon among the English as that easy affability, that in- stant method of acquaintance, or that cheerfulness of disposition, which make in France the charm of every society. Yet in this gloomy reserve they seem to pride themselves, and think themselves less happy, if obhged to be more social. One may assert, without wronging them, that they do not stvidy the method of going through life with pleasure and tranquillity like the Frencli. Might not this be a proof that they are not so much philosophers as they imagine ? Philosophy is no more than the art of making ourselves happy ; that is of seeking pleasure in regularity, and reconciling what we owe to society with what is due to ourselves. This cheerfulness, which is the characteristic of our nation in the eye of an Englishman, passes ahnost for folly. But is their gloominess a greater mark of tlieir wisdom ? and, folly against folly, is not the most cheerful sort the best ? If our gaiety makes them sad, they ought not to find it strange, if their seriousness makes us laugh. As this disposition to levity is not familiar to them, and as they look on every thing as a fault which they do not find at home, the Enghsli, who Uve among vis, are hurt by it. Several of then* authors reproach us with it as a vice, or at least as a ridicule. Mr. Addison styles us a comic nation. In my opinion it is not acting the philosopher on this point, to regard as a fault that quality which contributes most to the pleasiu^e of society and happiness of hfe. Plato, convinced that whatever makes men happier, makes them better, advises to neglect nothing that may excite and convert to an early habit this sense of joy in children. Seneca places it in the first rank of good things. Certain it is at least, that gaiety may be a concomitant of all sorts of vh'tue, but that there are some vices with which it is incompatible. As to him who laughs at every thing, and him who laughs at nothing, neither of them has sound judgment. All the difference I find between them is, that the last is constantly the most unhappy. Those who speak against cheerfulness, prove nothing else, but that they were born melancholic, and that in their hearts they rather envy than condemn that levity they affect to despise. The Spectator, whose constant object was the good of mankind in general, and of his own nation in particular, should according to his own principles place cheerfulness among the most desirable quahties ; and probably, whenever he THE BEE. 3G3 coutradicts himself in this particular, it is only to conform to the tempers of the people whom lie addresses. He asserts that gaiety is one great obstacle to the prudent conduct of women. But are those of a melancholic temper, as the English women generally are, less subject to the foibles of love ? I am acquainted with some doctors in this science, to whose judgment I would more willingly refer than to his. And perhaps, in reality, persons naturally of a gay temper are too easily taken off by different objects, to give themselves up to all the excesses of this passion. Mr. Hobbcs, a celebrated pliilosopher of his nation, maintains that laughing proceeds from our pride alone. This is only a paradox if asserted of laughing ill general, and only argues that misanthropical disposition for which he was remarkable. To bring the causes he assigns for lavighing imder suspicion, it is sufficient to remark that proud people are commonly those who laugh least. G-ravity is the inseparable companion of pride. To say that a man is vain, because the humour of a writer or the buffooneries of *an harlequin excite his laughter, would be advancing a great absurdity. We should distinguish between laughter inspired by joy, and that which arises from mockery. The malicious sneer is improperly called laughter. It must be owned that pride is the parent of such laughter as this : but this is in itself vicious j wlicreas, the other sort has nothing in its principles or effects that deserves condemnation. We find this amiable in others, and is it unhappiness to feel a disposition towards it in ourselves ? When I see an Englishman laugh, I fancy I rather see hun hunting after joy, than having caught it ; and this is more particularly remarkable in their women, whose tempers are inclined to melancholy. A laugh leaves no more traces on their countenance than a flash of lightning on the face of the heavens. The most laughing air is instantly succeeded by the most gloomy. One ^vould be apt to think that their souls open with difficulty to joy, or at least that joy is not pleased with its habitation there. In regard to fine raillery it must be allowed that it is not natural to the English, and therefore those who endeavour at it make but an ill figure. Some of their authors have candidly confessed, that pleasantry is quite foreign to their character ; but according to the reason they give, they lose nothing by this confession. Bishop Sprat gives the following one : " The English," says lie, " have too much bravery to be derided, and too much virtue and hoiioui" to mock others." THE BEE, No. YIII. SATUEDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1759. ON DECEIT AND FALSEHOOD. The following account is so judiciously conceived, that I am convinced the reader wiU be more pleased with it, than with any tiling of mine, so I shall make no apology for this new pubHcation. to the authoe of the bee. Sir, Deceit and falsehood have ever been an over-match for truth, and followed and admired by the majority of mankind. If we inquire after the reason of tluB, we shall find it in our owu imaginations, which are amused and enter- 364 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. tained with tlie perpetual novelty and variety that fiction affords, but find no manner of delight in the uniform simplicity of homely truth, which stiU sues them under the same appcai'ance. He therefore that would gain our hearts must make his court to our fancy, which being sovereign comptroller of the passions, lets them loose, and in flames tliem more or less, in proportion to the force and efficacy of the first cause, which is ever the more powerful the more new it is. Thus in matlic- matical demonstrations themselves, though they seem to aim at pure truth and instruction, and to be addressed to our reason alone, yet I think it is pretty plain, that our imderstanding js only made a drudge to gratify our invention and curiosity, and we are pleased not so much because our dis- coveries are certain, as because they are new. I do not deny but tlie woi-ld is stdl pleased with things that pleased it many ages ago, but it should at the same time be considered, that man is naturally so much of a logician, ^s to distinguish between matters that are plain and easy, and others that are hard and inconceivable. What we un- derstand, we overlook and despise, and what we know nothing of we hug and delight in. Thus there are such things as perpetual novelties ; for we are pleased no longer than we are amazed, and nothing so much contents us as that which confoimds us. This weakness in human nature gave occasion to a party of men to make such gainful markets as they have done of our credulity. All objects and facts whatever now ceased to be what they had been for ever before, and received what make and meaning it is found convenient to put upon them : what people ate, and drank, and saw, was not what they ate, and drank, and saw, but something farther, which they were fond of, because they were ig- norant of it. In short notliing was itself, but something beyond itself: and by these artifices and amusements tlie lieads of the world were so tm*ned and intoxicated, that at last tliei'e was scarcely a sound set of br-ains left in it. In this state of giddiness and infatuation it was no very hard task to per- suade the already deluded, that there was an actual society and communion between human creatures and spiritual daemons. And when they liad thus put people into the power and clutclies of the devil, none but they alone could have either skill or strength to bring the prisoners back again. But so far did they carry this dreadful drollery, and so fond were tliey of it, that to maintain it and themselves in profitable repute, they literally sacri- ficed for it, and made impious victims of numberless old women, and other miserable persons, who either through ignorance could not say what they were bid to say, or through madness said what they should not have said. Fear and stupidity made them incapable of defending themselves, and frenzy and infatuation made them confess guilty impossibilities, which produced cruel sentences and then inhuman executions. Some of these wretched mortals, finding themselves either hateful or temble to all, and befriended by none, and perhaps wanting tlie common necessaries of life, came at last to abhor themselves as much as they were abhorred by others, and grew willing to be burnt or hanged out of a world, which was no other to them than a scene of persecution and anguish. Others of strong imaginations and little understandings were by positive and repeated charges against them, of committing mischievous and super- natural facts and villanies, deluded to judge of themselves by the judgment of their enemies, whose weakness or malice prompted them to be accusers. And many have been condemned as witches nnd dealers with the devil for no other reason but their knowing more than those who accused, tried, and passed sentence upon them. THE BEE. In these cases credulity is a mucli greater error thau infidelity, and it is safer to believe nothing than too much. A man, that belieres little or nothing of witchcraft, will destroy nobody for being under the imputation of it ; and so far he certamly acts with humanity to others, and safety to himself; but he that credits all, or too mu.ch upon that article, is obliged, if he acts con- sistently with his jpersuasion, to kill all those whom he takes to be the killers of mankind ; and such are witches. It would be a jest and a contradiction to say, that ho is for sparing them who are harmless of that tribe, since the received notion of their supposed contract with the devil implies that they are engaged by covenant and inclination to do all the mischief they jjossibly can. I have heard many stories of witches, and read many accusations against them ; but I do not remember any that would have induced me to have con- signed over to the halter or the flame any of those deplorable wretches, who, as they share our likeness and nature, ought to share our compassion, as per- sons crvielly accused of impossibilities. But we love to delude ourselves, and often fancy or forge an effect, and then set ourselves as gravely as ridiculously to find out the cause. Thus, for exam- ple, when a di'cam or tlie hyp has given us false teiTors or imaginary pains, we immediately conclude that the infernal tyrant owes us a spite, and inflicts his wrath and stripes upon us by the hands of some of liis sworn servants amongst us. ITor this end an old woman is promoted to a seat in Satan's privy council, and appointed his executioner in chief within her district. So ready and civil are we to allow the devil the dominion over us, and even to provide him with butchers and hangmen of our own make and nature. I have often wondered why we did not, in choosing om* proper ofiicers for Belzebub, lay the lot rather upon men than women, the former being more bold and robust, and more equal to that bloody service ; but upon inquiry I find it has been so ordered for two reasons ; first, the men, having the whole direction of this afiair, are wise enough to slip their own necks out of the col- lar ; and, secondly, an old woman is grown by custom the most avoided and most unpitied creature under the sun, the very name carrying contempt and satire in it. And so far indeed we pay but an uncourtly sort of respect to Satan, in sacrificing to him nothing but the dry sticks of human nature. We have a wondering quality witliin us, which finds huge gratification when Ave see strange feats done, and cannot at tlie same time see the doer, or the cause. Such actions arc siu'c to be attributed to somo witch or daemon ; for if we come to find they are slily performed by artists of oiu* own species, and by causes purely natural, our delight dies with our amazement. It is therefore one of the most unthankful offices in the world, to go about to expose the mistaken notions of witchcraft and spirits ; it is robbing mankind of a valuable imagination, and of the privilege of being deceived. Those who at any time undertook the task, have always met with rough treatment and ill language for their pains, and seldom escaped the imputation of atheism, because they would not allow the devil to be too powerful for the Almighty. For my part, I am so much a heretic as to believe, that Grod Almighty, and not the devil, governs the world. If we inquire what are the common marks and symptoms by which witches are discovered to be such, we shall see how reasonably and mercifully those poor creatures were burnt and hanged, who 'unhappily fell imder that name. In the first place the old woman must be prodigiously ugly ; her eyes hollow and red, her face shrivelled ; she goes double, and her voice trembles. It frequently happens, that this rueful figure frightens a child into the palpita- tion of the heart : home he runs, and tells his mamma, that goody such a one TUB WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITIL looked at liim, and lie is very ill. The good woman cries out her dear baby is bewitched, and sends for the parson and the constable. It is moreover necessary, that she be very poor. It is true, her master Satan has mines and hidden treasures in his gift ; but no matter, she is for all that very poor, and lives on alms. She goes to Sisly the cook maid for a dish of broth, or the heel of a loaf, and Sisly denies them to her. The old woman goes away muttering, and perhaps in less than a month's time Sisly hears the voice of a cat, and strains her ankles, which are certain signs that she is bewitched. A fai'mer sees his cattle die of the murrain, and the sheep of the rot, and poor goody is forced to be the cause of their death, because she was seen talking to herself the evening before such an ewe departed, and had been gatlieriug sticks at the side of the wood where such a cow run mad. Tlie old woman has always for her companion an old gi'ay cat, which is a disguised devil too, and confederate with goody in works of darkness. They frequently go journeys into Egypt upon a broomstaff in half an hour's time, and now and then goody and her cat change shapes. The neighbom-s often over-hear them in deep and solemn discom*so together, plotting some dreadful mischief you may be sure. There is a famous way of trying witches, recommended by King James I. The old woman is tied hand and foot, and thrown into the river ; and if she swims she is guilty, and taken out and burnt j but if she is mnocent, she sinks, and is only drowned. The witches are said to meet their master frequently in churches and church- yards. I wonder at the boldness of Satan and liis congregation, in revelling and playing mountebank farces on consecrated ground j and I have as often wondered at the oversight and ill policy of some people in allowing it possible. It would have been both dangerous and impious to have treated this subject at one certain time in this ludicrous manner. It used to be managed with all possible gravity, and even terror : and indeed it was made a tragedy in all its parts, and thousands were sacrificed, or rather murdered, by such evidence and colours, as, Grod be thanked ! we are at this day ashamed of. An old woman may be miserable now, and not be hanged for it. A^ ACCOUNT OF THE AUaUSTAN AQE OF ENaLAJSTD. The history of the rise of language and learning is calculated to gratify curiosity rather than to satisfy the understanding. An account of that period only, when language and learning arrived at its highest perfection, is the most conducive to real improvement, since it at once raises emulation, and directs to the proper objects. The age of Leo X. in Italy is confessed to be the Au- gustan age with them. The French writers seem agreed to give the same appellation to that of Lewis XIY. j but the English are yet undetermined with respect to themselves. Some have looked upon the wi-iters in the times of Queen Elizabeth as the true standard for future imitation; others have descended to the reign of James I., and others still lower, to that of Charles II. Were I to be permitted to olTer an opinion upon this subject, I should readily give my vote for the reign of Queen Anne, or some years before that period. It was 'then that taste was united to genius ; and as, before, our writers charmed with their strength of thinking, so then they pleased with strength and grace united. In that period of British glory, though no writer attracts our attention singly, yet, like stars lost in each other's brightness, they have cast such a lustre upon the age in THE BEE. ml wliicli they lired, tliat tlieir minutest transactions "will be attended to by pos- terity with a greater eagerness than the most important occuiTences of cren empires, which have been transacted in greater obscm'ity. At that period there seemed to be a just balance between patronage and tlic press. Before it men were little esteemed whose only merit was genius ; and since, men who can prudently be content to catch the public, are certain of living without dependance. But the writers of the period of which I am speaking, were sufficiently esteemed by the great, and not rewarded enough by booksellers, to set them above independence. Fame consequently then was the truest road to happiness ; a sedulous attention to the mechanical business of the day makes the present never-failing resource. The age of Charles II., which om' countrymen term the age of wit and im- morality, produced some writers that at once served to improve our language and corrupt our hearts. The king himself had a large share of knowledge; and some wit, and his courtiers were generally men who had been brought up in the school of affliction and experience. For this reason, when the sunshine of their fortune returned, they gave too great a loose to pleasure, and language was by them cultivated only as a mode of elegance. Hence it became more enervated, and was dashed with quaintnesses, which gave the public writings of those times a very illiberal air. L'Estrange, who was by no means so bad a writer as some have represented him, was sunk in party faction, and having generally the worst side of the arguViient, often had recourse to scolding, pertness, and consequently a vulga- rity that discovers itself even in his more liberal compositions. He was the first writer who regularly enlisted himself under the banners of a party for X)ay, and fought for it through right and wrong for upwards of forty literary campaigns. This intrepidity gained him the esteem of Cromwell himself, and the papers he wrote even just before the revolution, ahnost with the rope about his neck, have his usual characters of impudence and perseverance. That he was a standard-writer cannot be disowned, because a great many very eminent authors formed their style by his. But his standard was far from being a just one ; though, when party considerations are set aside, he cer- tainly was possessed of elegance, ease, and perspicuity. Dryden, though a great and imdisputed genius, had the same cast as L'Estrange. Even his plays discover him to be a party-man, and the same principle infects his style in subjects of the lightest nature ; but the Enghsh tongue, as it stands at present, is greatly his debtor. He first gave it regular harmony, and discovered its latent powers. It was his pen that formed the Congreves, the Priors, and the Addisons, who succeeded him ; and had it not been for Dryden we never should have known a Pope, at least in the meridian lustre he now displays. But Dryden's excellencies as a writer were not con- fined to poetry alone. There is in his prose writings an ease and elegance that have never yet been so well united in works of taste or criticism. The English language owes very little to Otway, though, next to Shake- speare, the greatest genius England ever produced in tragedy. His excellen- cies lay in painting directly from nature, in catching every emotion just as it rises from the soul, and in all the powers of the moving and pathetic. He appears to have had no learning, no critical knowledge, and to have lived in great dis- tress. When he died (which he did in an obscure house near the Minories), he had about him the copy of a tragedy, which it seems he had sold for a trifle to Bentley the bookseller. I have seen an advertisement at the end of one of L'Estrange's poHtical papers, offering a reward to any one who should bring it to his shop. What an invaluable treasure was there irretrievably lost, by the ignorance and neglect of the age he lived in ! 368 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMlftl. Lee had a great command of language; and vast force of expression both which the best of our succeeding dramatic poets thought proper to take for their models. Eowe, in particulJir, seems to have caught that manner, though in all other respects inferior. The other poets of that reign contributed but little towards improving the English tongue, and it is not certain whether they did not injure rather than improve it. Immorality ha? its cant as well as party, and many shocking expressions now crept into the language, and be- came the transient fashion of the day. The upper galleries, by the prevalence of party-spirit, were courted with great assiduity, and a horse-laugh fol- lowing ribaldry was the highest instance of applause, the chastity as well as energy of diction being overlooked or neglected. "Virtuous sentiment was recovered, but energy of style never was. Tliis, though disregarded in plays and party-writings, still prevailed amongst men of character and business. The despatches of Sir Richard Fanshaw, Sir William Godolphin, Lord Arlington, and many other ministers of state, are all of them, with respect to diction, manly, bold, and nervous. Sir William Temple, though a man of no learning, had gi*eat knowledge and experience. He wrote always like a man of sense and a gentleman ; and his style is the model by which the best prose writers in the reign of Queen Anne formed theirs. The beauties of Mr. Locke's stjle, though not so much celebrated, are as striking as that of his understanding. He never says more nor less than he ought, and never makes use of a word that he could have changed for a better. The same observation holds good of Dr. Samuel Clarke. Mr. Locke was a philosopher; his antagonist, Stillingfleet, bishop of Worcester, was a man of learning : and therefore the contest between tliein was unequal. The clearness of Mr. Locke's head renders his language per- spicuous, the learning of Stillinglleet's clouds his. This is an instance of the superiority of good sense over learning, towards the im^jrovement of every langujige. There is nothing peculiar to the language of Archbishop Tillotson, but his manner of writing is inimitable ; for one who reads him, wonders why he him- self did not think and speak in that very manner. The turn of his periods is agi'ceable, though artless, and everytliing he says seems to flow spontaneously from inward conviction. Barrow, though greatly his superior in learning, faUs short of him in other respects. The time seems to be at hand when justice will be done to Mr. Cowley's prose, as well as poetical writmgs ; and tliough his friend Doctor Sprat, bishop of Rochester, in his diction falls far short of the abilities for which he has been celebrated ; yet there is sometimes a happy flow in his periods, some- thing that looks like eloquence. The style of his successor, Atterbm-y, has been much commended by his friends, which always happens when a man distingmshes himself in party ; but there is in it nothing extraordinary. Even the speech which he made for himself at the bar of the House of Lords, before he was sent into exile, is void of eloquence, though it has been cried up by his friends to such a degree, that his enemies have suSered it to pass imcensured. The philosopliical manner of Lord Shaftcsbui'y's writing is nearer to that of Cicero than any English author has yet arrived at ; but perhaps had Cicero written in English, his composition would have greatly exceeded that of our countryman. The diction of the latter is beautiful, but siioli beauty as, upon nearer inspection, carries with it evident symptoms of afiectatiou. This has been attended with very disagreeable consequences. Nothing is so easy to copy as affectation, and his lordship's rank and fame have procured him more THE BEE. 369 imitators in Britain than any other writer I know ; all faitlifully prescryiug his blemishes, but unhappily not one of his beauties. Mr. Treuchard and 33r. l)avenant wero political writers of great abilities in diction, and their pamphlets arc now standards in that way of Avriting. They were followed by Dean Swift, who, though in other respects far their superior, never could arise to that manliness and clearness of diction in political writing, for which they were so justly famous. They were, all of them, exceeded by the late Lord Bolingbroke, whose strength lay in that province : for, as a philosopher and a critic, he was ill qualified, being destitute of vu'tue for the one, and of learning for the other. His writings against Sir Eobert Walpole are incomparably the best part of his works. The personal and perpetual antipathy he had for that family, to whose places he thought his own abilities had a right, gave a glow to his style, and an edge to his manner, that never yet have been equalled in political writing. His misfortunes and disappointments gave his mind a turn, which his friends mistook for philosophy, and at one time of his life he had the art to impose the same belief upon some of his enemies. His idea of a Patriot King, which I reckon (as indeed it was) amongst his writings against Sir Eobert Walpole, is a masterpiece of diction. Even in his other works his style is excellent ; but where a man either does not, or will not, understand the subject he wi'ites on, there must always be a deficiency. In politics, he was generally master of what he undertook — in morals, never. Mr. Addison, for a happy and natural style, will be always an honoitr to British literature. His diction indeed wants strength, but it is equal to all tlie subjects he undertakes to handle, as he never (at least in his finished works) attempts anything either in the argumentative or demonstrative way. Though Sir Richard Steele's reputation as a public writer was owing to his connexions with Mr. Addison, yet", after their intimacy was formed, Steele sunk in his merit as an author. This was not owing so much to the evident superiority on the part of Addison, as to the unnatural efforts which Steele made to equal or eclipse him. This emulation destroyed that genuine flow of diction which is discoverable in all his former compositions. Wliilst their writings engaged attention and the favour of the public, reiterated but iansu.ccessful endeavours were made towards forming a grammar of the English language. The autliors of those efforts went uponwi'ong prin- ciples. Instead of endeavouring to retrench the absurdities of our language, and bringing it to a certain criterion, their grammars were no other than a collection of rules attempting to neutralise those absurdities, and bring them under a regular system. Somewhat effectual, however, might have been done towards fixing the standard of the English language, had it not been for the spirit of party. For both whigs and tories being ambitious to stand at the head of so gi-eat a design, the Queen's death happened before any plan of an academy could be resolved on. Meanwhile the necessity of such an institution became every day more apparent. The periodical and political Avriters, who then swarmed, adopted the very worst manner of L'Estrange, till not only all decency, but all pro- priety of language, was lost in the nation. Leslie, a pert writer, with some wit and learning, insulted the government every week with the grossest abuse. His style and manner, both of which were illiberal, was imitated by Eidpath, De Foe, Dvmton, and others of the opposite party ; and Toland pleaded the cause of atheism and immorality in much the same strain ; his subject seemed to debase his diction, and he ever failed most in one, when he grew most licentious in the other. 24 370 THE JFORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Towards the end of Queen Anne's reign, some of the greatest men in Eng- land deyoted their time to party, and then a much better manner obtained in political writing. Mr. 'VValpole, Mr. Addison, Mr. Mainwariug, Mr. Steele, and many members of both hoiises of parliament drew their pens for the whigs ; but they seem to have been over-matched, though not in argument yet in writing, by EoUngbroke, Prior, Swift, Arbutlmot, and the other friends of the opposite party. They who oppose a ministry, have always a better field for ridicule and reproof than they who defend it. Smce that period our wi-iters have either been encouraged above their merits or below them. Some who were possessed of the meanest abilities acquired the highest preferments, while others who seemed born to reflect a lustre upon their age perished by want and neglect. More, Savage, and Amherst were possessed of great abiHties, yet they were suffered to feel all the miseries that usually attend the ingenious and the imprudent, that attend men of strong passions, and no phlegmatic reserve in their command. At present, were a man to attempt to improve his fortune, or increase his friendship by poetry, he would soon feel the anxiety of disappointment. The press lies open, and is a benefactor to every sort of literature but that alone. I am at a loss whether to ascribe this falling off of the public to a vicious taste in the poet, or in them. Perha^ss both are to be reprehended. The poet either drily didactive gives us rules which might appear abstruse even in a system of ethics, or triflingly volatile writes upon the most unworthy subjects ; content, if he can give music instead of sense ; content, if he can paint to the imagination without any desires or endeavoiu's to affect ; the pubHc, therefore, with justice discard such empty sound, which has nothing but a jingle, or, what is worse, the unmusical flow of blank verse to recommend it. The late method also into which om' newspapers have fallen, of giving an epitome of every new publication, must greatly damp the writer's genius. He flnds himself in tliis case at the mercy of men who have neither abilities nor 'learning to distinguish liis merit. He finds his own composition mixed with the sordid trash of every daily scribbler. There is a suflicient specimen given of his work to abate curiosity, and yet so mutilated as to render him contemptible. His fii'st, and perhaps his second work, by these means sink, among the crudities of the age, into oblivion. Fame he finds begin to turn her back : lie therefore flies to profit which invites him, and he em'ols himself in the lists of dulness and of avarice for life. Yet there are still among \is men of the greatest abilities, and who in some parts of learning have sui'passed their predecessors : justice and friendsliip might here impel me to speak of names which will shine out to all posterity, biit prudence restrains me from what I should otherwise eagerly embrace. Envy might rise against every honom^ed name I should mention, since scarcely one of them has not those Avho arc his enemies, or those who despise him, &c. OP THE OPERA IN ENaLAND. The rise and fall of our amusements pretty much resemble that of empire. They this day floiu'ish without any visible cause for such vigom'; the next they decay without any reason that can be assigned for their downfall. Some years ago the ItaHan opera was the only fashionable amusement among our nobihty. The managers of the playhouses dreaded it as a mortal enemy, and our very poets listed themselves in the opposition j at present the house seems de- serted, the Castrati sing to empty benches, OYen Prince Yologese himself, a youth of great expectations, sings himself out of breath, and rattles liis chain to no ijurpose. THE BEE. 371 To Bay the truth, tlie opera, as it is conducted among ns, is but a very humdrum, amusement ; in other countries the decorations are entirely magnifi- cent, the singers all excellent, and the burlettas or interludes quite entertain- ing ; the best poets compose the words, and the best masters the music : but with us it is otherwise; the decorations arc bvit trifling and cheap; the singers, Matei only excepted, but indifferent. Instead of interlude, we haye those sorts of skipping dances, which are calculated for the galleries of the theatre. Eveiy performer sings his favourite song, and the music is only a medley of old Italian airs, or some meagre modern Capricio. Wh-cn such is the case, it is not much to be wondered at if the opera is pretty much neglected; the lower orders of people have neither taste nor fortune to relish such an entertainment ; they would find more satisfaction in the roast ieef of old England, than in the finest closes of an eunuch — they sleep amidst all the agony of recitative : on the other hand, people of fortune or taste can hardly be pleased, where there is a visible poverty iu the decorations, and an entire want of taste in the composition. Would it not surprise one, that when Metastasio is so well known in Eng- land, and so universally admu'cd, the manager or the composer should have recourse to any other operas than those written by him ? I might venture to say, that written by Metastasio, put up iu the bills of the day, would alone be sufficient to fill a house, since thus the admirers of sense as well as sound might find entertainment. The performers also should be intreated to sing only their parts, without clapping in any of their own favourite airs. I must own, that such songs are generally to me the most disagreeable in the world. Every singer generally cliooses a favoui'ite air, not from the excellency of the music, but from the difficulty ; such songs are generally chosen as surprise rather than please, wlicre the performer may shew his compass, his breath, and his volubility. Hence proceed those tinnatural startings, those unmusical closings, and shakes lengthened out to a painful continuance; such indeed may shew a voice, but it must give a truly delicate ear the utmost uneasiness. Such tricks are not music ; neither Corelli nor Pergolesi ever permitted them, and they begin even to be discontinued in Italy, where they first had their rise. And now I am upon the subject : our composers also should affect greater simplicity ; let their bass cliff have all the variety they can give it ; let the body of the music (if I may so express it) be as various as they please, but let them avoid ornamenting a bai-ren gi'ound-work ; let them not attempt by flourishing to cheat us of solid harmony. The works of Mr. Eameau are never heard withou.t a surprising effect. I can attribute it only to this simplicity he everywhere obseiwes, insomuch that some of his fijiest harmonies are often only octave and unison. This simple manner has greater powers than is generally im.agined ; and were not such a demonstration misplaced, I think, from the principles of music, it might bo proved to be most agreeable. But to leave general reflection. With the present set of performers, the operas, if the conductor thinks proper, may be carried en with some success, since they have all some merit ; if not as actors, at least as singers. Signora Matei is at once both a perfect actress and a very fine singer. She is possessed of a fine sensibility in her manner, and seldom indulges those extravagant and immusical flights of voice complained of before. Cornacini on the other hatid is a very indifferent actor, has a most unmeaning face, seems not to feel his part, is infected with a passion of shewing his compass ; but to recompense all these defects, his voice is melodious, he has vast compass and great volubility, his swell and shake are perfectly fine, unless that he continues the 21 2 372 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. latter too long. In short, whatever the defects of his action may be, they are amply recompensed by his excellency as a singer ; nor can I avoid fancying that he might make a much greater figure in an oratorio than upou the stage. However, upon the whole, I know not whether ever operas can be kept up in England ; they seem to be entirely exotic, and require the nicest manage- ment and care. Instead of this^ the care of them is assigned to men unac- quainted with the genivis and disposition of the people they wovdd amuse, and whose only motives are immediate gain. Whether a discontinuance of such entertainments would be more to the loss or the advantage of the nation, I will not take upon me to determine ; since it is as much our interest to induce foreigners of taste among us on the one hand, as it is to discourage those trifling members of society, who generally compose the operatical dramatis personce, on the other. AN ENQUIET INTO THE PTIESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. CHAPTEE I. INTEODirCTION. It has been so long the practice to represent literature as declining, that every renewal of this complaint now comes with diminished influence. The public has been so often excited by a false alarm, that at present the nearer we approach the threatened period of decay, the more our security increases. It will now probably be said that taking the decay of genivis for gi-anted, as I do, ai'gues either resentment or partiality. The waiter possessed of fame, it may be asserted, is willing to enjoy it without a rival, by lessening every com- petitor ; or, if unsuccessful, he is desirous to turn upon others the contempt which is levelled at himself, and being convicted at the bar of literary justice, hopes for pardon by accusing every brother of the same profession. Sensible of this, I am at a loss wliere to find an apology for persisting to arraign the merit of the age ; for joining in a cry which the judicious have long since loft to be kept up by the vulgar, and for adopting the sentiments of the multitude in a performance that at best can please only a few. Complaints of our degeneracy in Kterature, as well as in morals, I own, have been frequently exhibited of late ; but seem to be enforced more with the ardour of devious declamation, than the calmness of deliberate enqiiiry. The dullest critic, who strives at a reputation for delicacy, by shewing ho cannot be pleased, may pathetically assure us that our taste is upon the decline, may consign every modern performance to oblivion, and bequeath nothing to pos- terity except the labours of our ancestors, or his own. Such general invective, however, conveys no instruction : all it teaches is, that the writer dislikes an age by which he is probably disregarded. The manner of being useful on the subject would be, to point out the symptoms, to investigate tlie causes, and direct to the remedies of the approaching decay. This is a subject hitherto unattempted in criticism ; perhaps it is the only subject in which criticism can be useful. How far the writer is equal to such an undertaking the reader must deter- mine ; yet, perhaps, his observations may be just, though his manner of PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 373 expressing them should only serve as an example of the errors he undertakea to reprove. Novelty, however, is not permitted to usurp the place of reason ; it may attend, but shall not conduct the enquiiy. Eut it shoixld be obsei-ved that the more original any performance is, the more it is Uable to deviate ; for cautious stupidity is always in the right. CHAPTER 11. THE CAUSES WHICH CONTEIBUTE TO THE DECLINE OF IEAHNXNG. If we consider the revolutions which have happened in the commonwealth of letters, survey the rapid progress of learning in one period of antiquity, or its amazing decline in another, we shall be almost induced to accuse nature of partiahty, as if she had exhausted all her efforts in adorning one age, while slie left the succeeding entirely neglected. It is not to nature, however, but to ourselves alone, that this partiality must be ascribed ; tlie seeds of excel- lence are sown in every age, and it is wlioUy owing to a Avrong direction in the passions or pursuits of mankind, that they have not received the propar cultivation. As in the best regulated societies, the very laws which at first give the government solidity, may in the end contribute to its dissolution, so i\\e efforts which might have promoted learning in its feeble commencement, may, if continued, retard its progress. The paths of science, which were at first intricate because untrodden, may at last grow toilsome because too much frequented. As learning advances, the candidates for its honours become more numerous, and the acquisition of fame more imccrtain ; the modest may despair of attaining it, and the opulent think it too pi'ccarious to pursue ; thus the task of supporting the honour of the times may at last devolve on indigence and effrontery, while learning must partake of the contempt of its professors. To illustrate these assertions, it may be proper to take a slight review of the decline of ancient learning : to consider how far its depravation was owing to tlie impossibility of supporting continued perfection ; in wliat respect it pro- ceeded from voluntai-y corruption ; and how far it was hastened on by accident. If modern learning be compai^ed with ancient in tliese different lights, a x^arallel between both, which has hitherto pi'oduced only vain dispute, ]nay contribute to amusement, perhaps to insti'uction. We shall thus be enabled to perceive what period of antiquity the present age most resembles, whether we are making advances towards excellence, or retiring again to primeval obscurity; we shall thus be taught to acquiesce in those defects M'liich it is impossible to prevent ; and reject all faulty innovations, though offered under the specious titles of improvement. Learning, when planted in any country, is transient and fading, nor does it floui'ish till slow gradations of improvement have naturalized it to the soil. It makes feeble advances, begins among the vulgar, and rises into reputation among the great. It cannot be established in a state at once, by introducing the learned of other countries ; these may grace a court, but seldom enlighten a kingdom. Ptolemy PhiladeliDhus, Constantine Porpliyrogeneta, Alfred, or Charlemagne, might have invited learned foreigners into their dominions, but could not establish learning. While in the radiance of royal favour, every art and science seemed to flourish ; but, when that was withdrawn, they quickly felt the rigom's of a strange climate, and with exotic constitu- tions perished by neglect. As the arts and sciences arc slow in coming to maturity, it is requisite, iu S71 THE Works of o liver goldsmith. order to their perfection, that the state shoxild be permanent which gives them reception. There are numberless attempts without success, and experiments without conclusion, between the first rudiments of an art, and its almost per- fection ; between the outlines of a sliadow, and the pictm*e of an Apelles. Leisure is required to go through the tedious interval, to join the experience of predecessors to om* own, or enlarge our views, by building on the ruined attempts of former adventurers. All this may be performed in a society of long continuance ; but if the kingdom be but of short duration, as was the case of Arabia, learning seems coeval, sympathizes with its political struggles^ and is annihilated in its dissolution. But pei'manence in a state is not alone sufficient ; it is requisite also for this end that it should be free. Natm^alists assure us, that all animals are saga- cious in proportion as they are removed from the tyranny of others ; in native liberty, the elephant is a citizen, and the beaver an architect ; but whenever ilie tyrant man intrudes upon their communitj^ their spirit is broken, tliey seem anxious only for safety, and their intellects suffer an equal diminution with their prosperity. The parallel will hold with regard to mankind : fear natiu'ally represses invention ; benevolence, ambition ; for in a nation of slaves, as in the despotic governments of the East, to labour after fame is to bo a candidate for danger. To attain literary excellence also, it is requisite that the soil and climate should, as much as possible, conduce to happiness. The earth must supply man with the necessaries of life, before lie has leism-e, or inclination, to pursue more refined enjoyments. The climate also must be equally indulgent, for, in too wanu a region, the mind is relaxed into languor, and by the opposite excess, is chilled into torpid inactivity. These are the principal advantages whicli tend to tlie improvement of learning, and all these were united in the states of Greece and Kome. We must now cxa,mino what hastens, or prevents its decline. Those who behold the pha;nomena of nature, and content themselves Avith tlic view without inquiring into their causes, are pcrliaps wiser than is gene- rally imagined. In tliis manner our rude ancestors were acquainted with focts ; and poetry, which helped the imagination and the memory, was tliought the most proper vehicle for conveying their knowledge to posterity. It was the poet who harmonized the ungrateful accents of his native dialect, who lifted it above common conversation, and shaped its rude combinations into order. From him the orator formed a style, and though poetry first rose out of prose, in turn it gave birth to every prosaic excellence. Musical period, concise expression, and delicacy of sentiment, were all excellencies derived from the poet ; in short, he not only preceded, but formed the orator, philo- sopher, and historian. When the observations of past ages were collected, philosophy next began CO examine their causes. She had numberless facts from whicli to draw proper inferences, and poetry bad taugbt her the strongest expression to enforce them. Thus the Grreek philosophers, for instance, exerted all their happy talents in the investigation of truth, and the production of beauty. They saw, that there was more excellence in captivating the judgment, than in raising a momentary astonishment ; in their arts they imitated only such parts of nature as might please in the representation ; in the sciences, they cultivated such parts of knowledge, as it was every man's duty to know. Thus learning was encou- raged, protected, honoured; and in its turn it adorned, strengthened, and harmonized the community. But as the mind is vigorous and active, and experiment is dilatory and pain- fiJ, tlie spirit of pliiloso}thy being excited, the reasoner, when destitute of PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 375 experiment, had recourse to tlicory, and gave up ■uliat •v\'a3 useful for refine- ment. Critics, sophists, grammarians, rhetoricians, and commentators, now began to figure in the literary commonwealth. In the dawn of science such are generally modest, and not entirely useless ; their performances serve to mark the progress of learning, though they seldom contribute to its improvement. But as nothing but speculation was required in making proficients, in their respective departments ; so neither the satu'e nor the contempt of the wise, though Socrates was of the number, nor the laws levelled at them by the state, though Cato wg,s in the legislature, could prevent their approaches.*" Possessed of all the advantages of unfeeling dulncss, laborious, insensible, and perse- vermg, they still proceeded mending and mending every work of genius, or, to speak witliout irony, undermining all that was polite and iiseful. Libraries were loaded, but not enriched with their labours, while the fatigue of reading their explanatory comments AA-^as tenfold that which might sufiice for under- standing the original, and their works eifectually increased our application, by professing to remove it. Against so obstinate and irrefragable an enemy, what could avail the un- supported sallies of genius, or the opposition of transitory resentment ? In short, they conquered by persevering, claimed the right of dictating upon every work of taste, sentiment, or genius, and at last, when destitute of other employment, like the supernumerary domestics of the great, made work for each other. They now took upon them to teach poetry to those who wanted genius ; and the power of disputing, to those who knew nothing of the subject in de- bate. It was observed, how some of the most admu-ed poets had copied nature. From these they collected dry rules, dignified with long names, and such were obtruded upon the public for their improvement. Common sense would be apt to suggest, that the art might be studied to more advantage, rather by imitation than precept. It might suggest that those rules were collected, not from nature, but a copy of nature, and would consequently give us still fainter resemblances of original beauty. It might still suggest that explained Avit makes but a feeble impression, that the observations of othei'3 are soon forgotten, those made by ourselves are permanent aud useful. But it seems, understandings of every size were to be mechanically instructed in poetry. If the reader was too dull to relish the beauties of Vu'gil, the com- ment of Scrvius was ready to brighten his imagination ; if Terence could not raise him to a smile, Evantius was at hand, with a longwinded scholium to increase his titillation. Such rules are calculated to make blockheads talk ; but all the lemmata of the Lyceum, are unable to give him feeling. But it would be endless to recount all the absurdities which were hatched in the schools of those specious idlers ; bo it sufficient to say, that they in- creased as learning improved, but swarmed on its decUnc. It was then that every work of taste was buried in long comments, every useful subject in morals was distinguislied away into casuistry, and doubt and subtilty charac- terised the learning of the age. Mctrodorus, Valerius Probus, Axdus Grellius, Pedianus, Boethius, and an hundred others, to be acquainted with whom might show much reading, and but little judgment ; these, I say, made choice each of an author, and delivered all their load of learning on his back ; shame to our ancestors ! many of their works have reached our times entire, while Tacitus himself has suffered mutilation. In a word, the commonwealth of literature was at last wholly overrun by these studious triflers. Men of real genius were lost in the multitude, or, as * Vide Suetoti. Hist.. Gram. 376 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. in a world of fools it were folly to aim at being an onlj exception, obliged to conform to cyery prevailing absui-dity of the times. Original productions seldom appeared, and learning, as if grown superannuated, bestowed all its panegyric upon the yigour of its youth, and tm*ned encomiast upon its former achievements. It is to these, then, that the deprivation of ancient xoolite learning is principally to be ascribed. By them it was separated from common sense, and made the proper employment of speculative idlers. Men bred up among books, and seeing nature only by reflection, could do little except hunt after perplexity and confusion. The public, therefore, with reason rejected learning, when thus rendered barren, though voluminous ; for we may be assured, that the generality of mankind never lose a passion for letters, while they continue to be either amusing or useful. It was such writers as these that rendered learning unfit for uniting and strengthening civil society, or for promoting the views of ambition. True pliilosophy had kept the G-recian state, cemented into one effective body, more tlian any law for that pui'pose ; and the Etrurian philosophy, which prevailed in the first ages of Rome, inspired those patriot virtues which paved the way to universal empire. But by the labours of commentators, when philosophy became abstruse, or triflingly minute, when doubt was presented instead of knowledge, when the oi-ator was taught to charm the multitude with tlie music of his periods, and pronounced a declamation that might be sung as well as spoken, and often upon subjects wholly fictitious j in such circum- stances, learning was entirely unsuited to all the purposes of government, or the designs of the ambitious. As long as the sciences could influence the state, and its politics were strengthened by them, so long did the community give tiiem countenance and protection. But the wiser part of mankind would not be imposed upon by iinintclligible jargon, nor, like the knight in Pantagrucl, swallow a chimera for a breakfast, though even cooked by Aristotle. As the philosopher grew useless in the state, he also became contemptible. In the times of Lucian he was chiefly remarkable for his avarice, his impudence, and his beard. Under the auspicious influence of genius, arts and sciences grew up together, and mutually illustrated each other. But when once pedants became law- givers, the sciences began to want grace, and the pohte arts solidity ; these grew crabbed and sour, those meretricious and gaudy : the philosopher became disgustingly precise, and the poet, ever straining after grace, caught only finery. These men also contributed to obstruct the progress of wisdom, by addicting their readers to one particular sect, or some favourite science. They generally carried on a petty traffic in some Httle creek ; within that they busily plied about, and drove an insignificant trade ; but never ventured out into the great ocean of knowledge, nor went beyond the bounds that chance, conceit, or laziness, had first prescribed their enquiries. Their disciples, instead of aim- ing at being originals themselves, became imitators of that merit alone wliicli was constantly proposed for their admiration. In exercises of this kind, the most stupid ai*e generally most successful ; for there is not in nature a more imitative animal than a dunce. Hence, ancient learning may be distinguished into three periods. Its com- mencement, or the age of poets ; its maturity, or the age of philosophers ; and its decline, ox the age of critics. In the poetical age commentators were very few, but might have in some respects been useful. In its philosophical, their assistance must necessarily become obnoxious, yet, as if the nearer we approached perfection, the more we stood in need of their directions, in this period they began to gi'ow numerous. But when polite learning was PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 37^ no more, tlicn it was those literary lawgivers made the most formidable appearance. Corruptissima rejmblica, plurimce leges. Tacit. But let us take a more distinct view of those ages of ignorance in which false refinement had involved mankind, and see how far they resemble our own. CHAPTER III. A VIEW 03? THE OBSCUEE AGES. WnATEVEE the skill of any country may be m the sciences, it is from its ex- cellence in polite learning alone that it must expect a character from posterity. The poet and the historian are they who diffuse a lustre upon the age, and tlie philosopher scarcely acquires any applaiise, unless his character be introduced to the vulgar by their mediation. The obscure ag3s, which succeeded the decline of the Eoman empire, are a striking instance of the truth of this assertion. Wliatever period of those ill- fated times we happen to turn to, we shall perceive more skill in the sciences among the professors of them, more abstruse and deeper enquiry into every philosophical subject, and a greater shew of subtil ty and close reasoning, than in the most enlightened ages of all antiquity. But their writings were mere speculative amusements, and all their researches exhausted upon trifles. Un- skilled in the arts of adorning their knowledge, or adapting it to common sense, their voluminous productions rest peacefully in our libraries, or at best are enquired after from motives of curiosity, not by the scholar, but the virtuoso. I am not insensible that several late French historians have exhibited the obscure ages in a very different light ; they have represented them as utterly ignorant both of arts and sciences, buried in the profoundest darkness, or only illuminated with a feeble gleam, which, like an expiring taper, rose and sunk by intervals. Such assertions, however, though they serve to help out the declaimer, should be cautiously admitted by the historian. For instance, the tenth century is particularly distinguished by posterity with the appellation of obscure. Yet even in this the reader's memory may possibly suggest the names of some, whose works, still preserved, discover a most extensive erudition, though rendered almost tiseless by affectation and obscurity. A few of their names and writings may be mentioned, which will serve at once to confirm what I assert, and give the reader an idea of what kind of learning an age declining into obscm'ity chiefly chooses to cultivate. About the tenth century flourished Leo the philosopher. We have seven volumes folio of his collections of laws, published at Paris, 1647. He wrote upon the art military, and understood also astronomy and judicial astrology. lie was seven times more voluminous than Plato. Solomon the German wrote a most elegant dictionary of the Latin tongue, still preserved in the university of Louvain ; Pantaloon, in the lives of his illustrious countrymen, speaks of it in the warmest strains of rapture. Dic- tionary writing was at that time much in fashion. Coustantine Porphyrogeneta was a man universally skilled in the sciences. His tracts on the administration of an empire, on tactics, and on laws, were published some years since at Leyden. His court, for he was emperor of the Fast:, was resorted to by the learned from all parts of the world. Liutprandus was a most voluminous historian, and particularly famous for the history of his own times. The compliments paid him as a writer, are said to exceed even his own voluminous x^voductions. I cannot pass over one of a latter date made him by a German divine. Liutprandus nunquam Liutprando dissimilis. S78 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLBSMITII. Alfric composed seyeral grammars and dictionaries still prcseryed among tlio curious. Pope Sylvester tlie second wi'ote a treatise on the sphere, on arithmetic and geometry, published some years since at Paris. Michael Psellus lived in this age, whose boots in the sciences, I -will not sci-uple to assert, contain more learning than those of any one of the earlier ages ; his erudition was indeed amazing, and he was as volmninous as he was learned. The character given him by AUatius has, perhaps, more truth in it than will be granted by those who have seen none of his productions. There was, says he, no science with which he was unacquainted, none which he did not write something upon, and none which he did not leave better than he found it. To mention his works would be endless. His commentaries on Aristotle alone amount to three fohos. Eertholdus Teutonicus, a very voluminous historian, was a politician, and wrote against the government under which he lived : but most of his writings, though not all, are lost. Constantius Afer was a philosopher and physician. We have remaining but two volumes folio of his philological performances. However, the historian who prefixes the life of the author to his works, says, that he wrote many moi'c, as he kept on writing dm*ing the course of a long life. Lambertus published an universal history about this time, which has been printed at Frankfort in folio. An universal liistory in one folio ! If he had consulted with his bookseller, he wovdd liave spun it out to ten at least ; but Lambertus might have had too much modesty. By this time the reader perceives the spirit of learning which at that time prevailed. The ignorance of the age was not owing to a dislike of knowledge ; but a false standard of taste was erected, and a wi'ong direction given to phi- losophical enquiry. It was the fashion of the day to write dictionaries, com- mentaries, and compilations, and to evaporate in a folio the spirit that coidd scarcely have siifiiced for an epigram. The most barbarous times had men of learning, if commentators, compilers, polemic divines, and intricate metax:)hy- sieians, deserved the title. I have mentioned but a very inconsiderable number of the writers in this age of obscurity. The multiplicity of their publications will at least equal those of any similar period of the most x^olite antiquity. As, therefore, tli& writers of those times are almost entirely forgotten, we may infer, that the luimber of publications alone will never secure any age whatsoever from obli vion. Nor can j^rinting, contrary to what Mr. Eaumelle has remarked, pre- vent literary decline for the future, since it only increases the number of books, without advancuig their inti'insic merit. CHAPTER IV. or THE PEESENT STATE OF POLITE LEAENING IN ITALY. FiiOM ancient we are now come to modern times, and in running over Euroi^o, we shall find that, wherever learning has been cvdtivated, it has flourished by tlie same advantages as in Grreece and Rome ] and that, wherever it has de- clined, it sinks by the same causes of decay. Dante, the poet of Italy, who wrote in the 13th century, was the first who attempted to bring learning from the cloister into the community, and paint liuman nature in a language adapted to modern manners. He addressed a barbarous people in a method suited to their apprehensions ; united purgatoiy and the river Styx, St. Peter and Yirgil, heaven and hell together, and shews a strange mixture of good sense and absm'dity. The truth is, he owes most PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 879 of liis repuiation to tlie obscurity of tlie times in ■wliicli Lc lived. As in tlie land of Benin a man may pass for a prodigy of parts who can read, so in an age of barbarity a small degree of excellence ensures success. But it was great merit in him to hare lifted up the standard of nature, in spite of all the opposition and the persecution he received from contemporary criticism. To tliis standard every succeeding genius resorted ; the germ of every art and science began to unfold, and to imitate nature was found to be the surest way of imitating antiquity. In a century or two after modern Italy might jnstly boast of rivalling ancient Rome j equal in some branches of poHte learning, and not far surpassed in others. They soon however fell from emulating the wonders of antiquity into simple admiration. As if the word had been given when Yida and Tasso wrote on the arts of poetry, the whole sAvarm of critics was up : the Speroni's of the age attempted to be aAvkwardly merry ; aud the Virtuosi and the Nascotti sat upon the merits of every contemporary performance. After the age of Clement YII. tlie Italians seemed to think that there was more merit in praising or censuring well, than in writing well ; almost every subsequent performance since theu' time being designed rather to shew the excellence of the critic's taste than his genius. One or tAvo poets, indeed, seem at present born to re- deem the honour of their country. Metastasio has restored nature in all her simplicity. And Maffei is the first that has introduced a tragedy among his countrymen without a love-plot. Perhaps the Samson of Milton, and the Athalia of Eacine, might have been his guides in such an attempt. But two poets in an age arc not sufRcicnt to revive the splendour of decaying genius j nor should we consider them as the standard by which to characterise a na- tion. Our measures of literary reputation must be taken rather from that niunerous class of men who, placed above the vulgar, are yet beneath the great, and who confer fame on others without receiving any portion of it themselves. In Italy, then, we shall no where find a stronger passion for the arts of taste, yet no country making more feeble efforts to promote either. The Virtuosi and Filosofi seem to have divided the Encyclopedia between each other. Both inviolably attached to their respective pursuits, and from an opposition of cliaracter, each holding tlie other in the most sovereign contempt. The Vir- tuosi, professed critics of beauty in the works of art, ju.dge of medals by the smell, and pictures by feeling. In statuary hang over a fragment with the most ardent gaze of admiration : though wanting the head and the other ex- tremities, if dug from a ruin the Torse becomes inestimable. An unintelligible monument of Etruscan barbarity cannot be sufficiently prized : and any thing from Herculaneum excites rapture. When the intellectual taste is thus de- cayed, its relishes become false, and like that of sense, nothing will satisfy but what is best suited to feed the disease. Poetry is no longer among them an imitation of what we see, but of what a visionary might wish. The zephyr breathes the most exquisite perfume, the trees Avear eternal verdure ; fawns and dryads and hamadryads stand ready to fan the sultry shepherdess, who has forgot indeed the prettinesses with which Q-uarini's shepherdesses have been reproached, but is so simple and innocent as often to have no meaning. Happy country, where the pastoral age begins to revive ! Where the wits even of Eome are united into a rural gronpe of nymphs and swains under the appellation of modern Arcadians. Where, in the midst of porticos, processions, and cavalcades, abbes turned shepherds, and shepherdesses without sheep indulge their innocent divertimenti. The Filosofi are entirely different from the former. As those pretend to have got theic knowledge from conversing with the living and polite, so these 380 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. boast of having theirs from books and Btudy. Bred up all their lives in col- k^ges, they have there learned to think in track, servilely to follow the leader of their sect, and only to adopt snch opinions as their miiversii ies, or the in- quisition, are pleased to allow. By these means they are behind the rest of Europe in several modern improvements. Afraid to think for themselves ; and their universities seldom admit opinions as true, till viniversally received among the rest of mankind. In short, were I to personize my ideas of learn- ing in this country, I would represent it in the taAvdry habits of the stage, or else in the more homely guise of bearded school philosophy. CHAPTER Y. OF POLITE 1EAENIN& IN GERMANY. If wc examine the state of learning in Germany, we shall find that the Germans early discovered a passion for polite litcratm-e ; but unhappily, like conquerors, who, invading the dominions of others, leave their own to desola tion, instead of studying the German tongue they continue to wa-ite in Latin : thus, while they cultivated an obsolete language, and vainly laboured to apply it to modern manners, they neglected their own. At the same time also they began at the wrong end, I mean by being com- mentators, and though they have given many instances of tlieir industry, they have scarcely alTordcd any of genius. If criticism could have improved the taste of a people, the Germans would have been the most polite nation alive. We shall no where behold the learned wear a more important appearance than here ; no where more dignified with professorsliips, or dressed out in the fop- peries of scliolastic finery. However, they seem to earn all the honours of this kind which they enjoy. Their assiduity is unparalleled ; and did they employ half tliose hours on study which they bestow on reading, we might be induced to pity as well as. praise their painful pre-eminence. But guilty of a fault too common to great readers, they write through volumes, while they do not think through a page. Never fatigued themselves, they think the reader can never be weary ; so they drone on, saying all that can be said on the sub- ject, not selecting what may be advanced to the purpose. Were angels to write books, they never would write folios. But let the Genuans have their due ; if they are dull, no nation alive as- siuiies a more laudable solemnity, or better understands all the decorums of stupidity. Let the discoiu'se of a professor run on never so heavily, it cannot be irksome to his dosing pupils, who frequently lend hun sympathetic nods of approbation. I have sometimes attended their disputes at gi-adation. On this occasion tlicy often dispense with their gi'avity, and seem really all alive. The disputes are managed between the followers of Cartesius, whose exploded system tliey continue to call the new philosophy, and those of Aristotle. Though both parties are in the wrong, they argue with an obstinacy Avorthy the cause of ti'uth; Nego, Probo, and Distinguo, grow loud ; the disputants become warm, the moderator cannot be heard, the aiidience take part in the debate, till at last the whole hall buzzes with sophistry and error. There are, it is true, several societies in this country whicli are chiefly cal- culated to promote knowledge. His late Majesty, as elector of Hanover, has established one at Gottingen, at an expense of not less than a hundred thou- eand pounds. This university has already pickled monsters, and dissected live puppies without number. Their transactions have been published in the learned world at proper intervals since their instittition ; and will, it is hoped, one day give them just reputation. But had the fourth part of the immense sum above mentioned been given in proper rewards to genius, in some neigh- PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 381 bouring countries, it would hare rendered the name of the donor immortal, and added to the real interests of society. Yet it ought to be observed, that of late learning has been patronised hero by a prince, who, in the humblest station, would have been the first of man- kind. The society established by the king of Prussia at Berlin, is one of the finest literary institutions that any age or nation has produced. This academy comprehends all the sciences under fpm' different classes ; and although the object of each is different, and admits of being separately treated, yet these classes mutually influence the progress of each other, and concur in the same general design. Experimental philosophy, mathematics, metaphysics, and polite literature, are here carried on together. The members are not col- lected from among the students of some obscure seminary, or the wits of a metropolis, but chosen from all the literati of Europe, supported by the bounty, and ornamented by the productions, of their royal founder. We can easily discern how much such an institution excels any other now subsisting. One fundamental error among societies of this kind is, their addicting them- selves to one branch of science, or some particidar part of polite learning. Thus, in Germany, there are no where so many establishments of this nature ; but as they generally profess the promotion of natural or medical knowledge, he who reads their"^ Acta will only find an obscm-e farrago of experiments, most frequently terminated by no resulting phsenomena. To make experi- ments is, I own, the only way to promote natural knowledge ; but to treasure lip every unsuccessful enquiry into nature, or to communicate every experi- ment without conclusion, is not to promote science, but oppress it. Had the members of these societies enlarged their plans, and taken in art as well as science, one pai't of knowledge would have repressed any faulty luxuriance in the other, and all would have mutually assisted each other's promotion. Be- sides, the society which, with a contempt of all collateral assistance, admits of members skilled in one science only, whatever their diligence or labour may be, will lose much time in the discovery of such truths as are well known al- ready to the learned in a different line ; consequently their progress must be slow in gaining a proper eminence from which to view their subject, and their strength will be exhausted in attaining the station whence they should have set out. With regard to the Eoyal Society of London, the greatest, and per- haps the oldest institution of the kind, had it widened the basis of its institu- tion, though they might not have propagated more discoveries, they would probably have delivered them in a more pleasing and compendious foi^m. I'liey would have been free from the contempt of the ill-natured, and the rail- lery of the wit, for which, even candour must allow, there is but too much foundation. But the Berlin academy is subject to none of all these incon- veniences, but every one of its individuals is in a capacity of deriving more from the common stock than he contributes to it, while each academician serves as a check upon the rest of his felloAvs. Yet, very probably, even this fine institution will soon decay. As it rose, so it will decline with its great encourager. The society, if I may so s^^eak, is artificially supported, the introduction of foreigners of learning was right ; but in adopting a foreign language also, I mean the French, in which all the transactions are to be published, and qiiestions debated : in this there was an error. As I have already hinted, the language of the natives of every country should be also the language of its polite learning. To figure in polite learning, every country should make their own language from their own manners ; nor will they ever succeed by introducing that of another, which has been formed from manners which are different. Besides, an academy composed of foreigners must still be recruited from abroad, luiless aU the natives of the coimtry to 382 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. which it belongs, are in a capacity of becoming candidates for its lionours, or rewards. While France therefore continues to supply Berlin, polite leami ig will flourish} but when royal favour is Avithdrawn, learning Avill return to its natural country. CHAPTER VI. OF POLITE LEAENINa IN HOLLAND AND SOME OTllEE COUNTKIES OE EUROPE. Holland, at first view, appears to have some pretensions to polite learning. It may be regarded as the great emporium, not less of literature than of every other commodity. Here, though destitute of what may be properly called a language of their own, all the languages are understood, cultivated and spoken. All useful inventions in arts, and new discoveries in science, are published here ahnost as soon as at the places -wliich first produced them. Its in- dividuals have the same faults, however, with the Germans, of making more use of their memory than theu* judgment. The chief employment of their litei'ati is to criticise, or answer, the new performances which apj)ear else- where. A dearth of wit in France or England natvu'ally produces a scarcity in Holland. What Ovid says of Echo, may be applied here, Nee loqiti prius ipsa (lidicit nee reticere loquenti. They wait till something new comes out from others ; examine its merits, and reject it, or make it reverberate through the rest of Europe. After all, I know not whether they should be allowed any national character for polite learning. All their taste is derived to them from neighbom-ing nations, and that in a language not their own. They somewhat resemble their brokei-s, who trade for immense sums without having any capital. The other countries of Eiu'ope may be considered as immersed in ignorance, or making but feeble efforts to rise. Spain has long fallen from amazing Eu- rope with her wit, to amusing them with the greatness of her catholic credulity. Home considers her as the most favourite of all her children, and school- divinity still reigns there in triumph. In spite of all attempts of the Mar- quis i)'Ensanada, who saw with regret the barbarity of his countrymen, and bi'avely offered to oppose it by introducing new systems of learning, and suppressing the seminaries of monastic ignorance, in spite of the ingenuity of Padre Feio, whose book of vulgar errors so finely exposes the monkish stupidity of the times, the religious have prevailed. Ensanada has been banished, and now lives in exile. Feio has incm-red the hatred and contempt of every bigot whose errors he has attempted to oppose, and feels no doubt the unremitting displeasure of the priesthood. Persecution is a tribute the" gi-eat must ever pay for pre-eminence. It is a little extraordinary, however, how Spain, whose genius is naturally fine, should be so mucli behind the rest of Eiu-ope in this particular ; or why school-divinity should hold its ground there for nearly six hundred years. The reason must be, that philosophical opinions, which are otherwise transient, acquire stabihty in proportion as they are connected with the laws of the country, and philosophy and law have no where been so closely united as here. Sweden has of late made some attempts in polite learning in its own lan- guage. Count Tessin's instructions to the prince, his pupil, are no bad begin- ning. If the Muses can fix their residence so far northward, perhaps no country bids so fan* for their reception. They have, I am told, a language rude but energetic ; if so, it will bear a polish ; they have also a jealous sense of liberty, and that strength of thinking peculiar to northern climates, without PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 383 its attendant ferocity. They will certainly in time produce somewhat great if their intestine divisions do not miliappily prevent them. The history of polite learning in Denmark may be comprised in the life of one single man ; it rose and fell with the late famous Baron Holberg. This was, perhaps, one of the most extraordinary personages that has done honour to the present centmy. His being the son of a private sentinel did not abate the ardour of his ambition ; for he learned to read, though without a master. Upon the death of his father, being left entirely destitute, he was involved in all that distress which is common among the poor, and of which the great have scarcely any idea. However, though only a boy of nine years old, he still persisted in pursuing his studies, travelled about from school to school, and begged his learning and his bread. When at the age of seventeen, in- stead of applying himself to any of the loAver occupations, which seem best adapted to such circumstances, he was resolved to travel for improvement from Iforway, the place of his birth, to Copenhagen, the capital city of Den- mark. He lived there by teaching French, at the same time avoiding no op- portimity of improvement, that his scanty fimds could permit. But his am- bition was not to be restrained, or his thirst of knowledge satisfied imtil he had seen the world. Without money, recommendations or friends, he imder- took to set out upon his travels, and make the tour of Europe on foot. A good voice and a trifling skiU in music were the only finances he had to sup- port an undertaking so extensive ; so he travelled by day, and at night sung at the doors of peasants' houses to get himself a lodging. In this manner, while yet very young, Holberg passed through France, Grermany, and Holland, and coming over to England, took up his residence for two years in the university of Oxford. Here he subsisted by teaching French and music, and wrote his universal history, his earliest, but worst performance. Furnished with all the learning of Europe, he at last thought proper to return to Copen- hagen, where his ingenious productions quickly gained liim that favour he deserved. He composed not less than eighteen comedies ; those in his own language arc said to excel, and those which arc translated into French have peculiar merit. He u'as honoured with nobility, and enriched by the bounty of the king ; so that a life begun in contempt and penury ended in opulence and esteem. Thus we see in what a slow state polite leamiing is in those countries I have mentioned, either past its prime, or not yet arrived at maturity. And though the sketch I have drav.'n be general, yet it was for the most part taken upon the spot. I am sensible, however, of the impropriety of national reflection ; and did not truth bias me more than inclination in this particular, I should, instead of the account already given, have presented the reader with a pane- gyric on many of the individuals of every country, whose merits deserve the warmest strains of praise. Apostolo Zeno, Algarotti, Groldoni, Muratori, and Stay, in Italy ; Haller, Klopstock, and Babner, in Germany ; Muschenbroek, and Caubius, in Holland ; all deserve the highest applause. Men like these, united by one bond, pm-suing one design, spend their labour and their lives in making their fellow-creatm^es happy, and in repairing the breaches caused by ambition. In this light the meanest philosopher, though all his possessions are his lamp or his cell, is more truly valuable than he whose name echoes to the shout of the million, and who stands in all the glare of admiration. In this light, though poverty and contemptuous neglect are all the wages of his good will from mankind, yet the rectitude of his intention is an ample recompense ; and self-applause for the present, and the alluring prospect of fame for futu- rity, reward his labours. The perspective of life brightens upon us, when terminated by an object so charming. Every intermediate image of want, 384. THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH, banishment, or sorrow, receives a histvc from its distant influence. With thii in view, the patriot, philosopher, and poet, have often looked with calnmess on disgrace and famine; and rested on their straw with cheerful serenity. Even the last terrors of departing natui'o abate of their severity, and look kindly on him who considers his sufferings as a passport to immortality, and lays his sorrows on the bed of fame. CHAPTEE yil. or POLITE LEAENING IN FEAKCE. We have hitherto seen, that wherever the poet was permitted to begin by im- proving his native language, polite learning flourished ; but where the critic undertook the same task, it has never risen to any degree of perfection. Let us now examine the merits of modern learning in France and England ; where, though it may be on the decline, yet it is still capable of retrieving much of its former splendour. In other places learning has not yet been planted, or has suffered a total decay. To attempt amendment there would be only like the application of remedies to an insensible or a mortified j^art ; but here there is still life, and there is hope. And indeed the French them- selves are so far from giving into any despondence of this kind, that on the contrary tliey admii'e the progress they are daily making in every science; that levity, for Avhich we are apt to despise this nation, is probably the j)rincipal source of their happiness. An agreeable oblivion of past pleasures, a freedom from solicitude about future ones, and a poignant zest of every present enjoyment, if they be not philosophy, are at least excellent substitutes. By tliis they are taught to regard the period in which they live with admiration. The present manners and the present conversation surpass all that preceded. A similar enthusiasm as strongly tinctures their learning and their taste. While we, with a despondence characteristic of our nation, are for removing back Bri- tish excellence to the reign of Queen Elizabeth, otu* more happy rivals of the continent cry up the writers of the present times with rapture, and regard the age of Lewis XV. as the true Augustan age of France. Tlie truth is, their present wi* iters have not fallen so far short of the merits of their ancestors as ours have done. That self-sufficiency now mentioned may have been of service to them in this particular. By fancying themselves superior to their ancestors, they have been encoiu'aged to enter the lists with confidence ; and by not being dazzled at the splendom' of another's reputation, have sometimes had sagacity to mark out an mibeaten path to fame for themselves. Other causes also may be assigned, that their second growth of genius is still more vigorous than ours. Their encouragements to merit are more skil- fully directed, the link of patronage and learning still continues unbroken. The French nobility have certainly a most pleasing way of satisfying the vanity of an author without indulging his avarice. A man of literary merit is siire of being caressed by the great, though seldom enriched. His pension from the crown jtlst supplies half a competence, and the sale of his labours makes some small addition to his cu'cumstances ; thus the author leads a life of splen- did poverty, and seldom becomes wealthy or indolent enough to discontinue an exertion of those abilities by which he rose. With the English it is different ; our writers of rising merit are generally neglected, while the few of an estab- lished reputation are overpaid by luxmious affluence. The young encounter every hardsliip which generally attends upon aspiring indigence ; the old enjoy the vulgar, and pei'haps the more prudent, satisfaction of putting riclies in competition with fame. Those are often seen to spend their youth in want PMESENT is TATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 385 and obscurity ; these are sometimes found to lead an old age of indolence and avarice. But sucli treatment must naturally be expected from Englishmen, whose national character it is to be slow and cautious in making friends, but violent in friendships once contracted. The English nobility, in short, are often known to give greater rewards to genius than the French, who, however, are much more judicious in the application of their empty favours. The fair sex in France have also not a httle contributed to prevent the de- cline of taste and literature, by expecting such qualifications in their admirers. A man of fashion at Paris, however contemptible we may think him here, must be acquainted with the reigning modes of philosophy, as well as of dress, to be able to entertain his mistress agreeably. The sprightly pedants are not to be caught by dumb shew, by the squeeze of the hand or the ogling of a broad eye ; but must be pursued at once through all the labyrinths of the Newtonian system, or the metaphysics of Locke. I have seen as bright a circle of beauty at the chymical lectures of Eouelle as gracing the court at "Versailles And indeed wisdom never appears so charming as when graced and protecteo by beauty. To these advantages may be added the reception of their language in the different courts of Europe. An author who excels is sure of having all the polite for admirers, and is encouraged to write by the pleasing expectation of universal fame. Add to this, that those countries, who can make nothing good from their own language, have lately begun to write in this, some of whose productions contribute to support the present literary reputation of France. There are therefore many among the French who do honour to the present age, and whose writings will be transmitted to posterity with an ample share of fame ; some of the most celebrated are as follow : Voltaire whose voluminous yet spirited jproductions are too well known to require an eulogy ; does he not resemble the champion mentioned by Xeno- phon, of great reputation in all the gymnastic exercises united, but imferior to each champion singly, who excels only in one ? Montesquieu, a name equally deserving fame with the former ; the spirit of Laws is an instance how much genius is able to lead leai-ning. His system has been adopted by the literati ; and yet is it not possible for opinions equally plausible to be formed upon opposite principles, if a genius like his could bo found to attempt such an undertaking ? He seems more a poet than a phi- losoj)her. Rousseau of Greneva ; a professed man-hater, or more properly speaking a philosopher enraged with one half of mankind, because they unavoidably make the other half mihappy. Such sentiments arc generally the result of much good nature and little experience. Pyron, an author possessed of as much wit as any man alive, yet with as little prudence to tm'n it to his own advantage. A comedy of his called La Metromanie, is the best theatrical production that has appeared of late in Europe. But I know not whether I should most commend his genius or cen- sure his obscenity ; his ode a Priape, has justly excluded him from a place in the academy of Belles Lettres. However, the goodnatured Montesquieu by his interest procured the starving bard a trifling pension. His own epitaph was all the revenge he took upon the academy for being repulsed. Cy git Pyron qui ne fut jamais rien Pas meme Academicien. Crebillon junior ; A writer of real merit, but guilty of the same indelicate faults with the former. Wit employed in dressing up obscenity is like the art 2u 886 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. used iu painting a corpse ; it may be thus rendered tolerable to one sense, but fails not quickly to ojQfend some other. Q-resset is agreeable and easy. His comedy called the M^chant, and an humorous poem entitled Veryert, hare original merit. He was bred a Jesuit, but his wit procured his dismission from the society. This last work par- ticularly could expect no pardon from the convent, being a satire against nunneries ! D'Alembert has united an extensire skill in scientifical learning with the most refined taste for the pohte arts. His excellency in both has procured him a seat in each academy. Diderot is an elegant writer and subtle reasoner. He is the supposed author of the famous Thesis which the abbe Prade sustaiaed before the doctors of the Sorbonne. It was levelled against Christianity, and the Sorbonne too hastily gave it their sanction. They perceived its purport, however, when it was too late. The college was brought into some contempt, and the abbe obhged to take refuge at the court of Berlin. The Marquis D'Argens attempts to add the character of a philosopher to the vices of a debauchee. The catalogue might be increased with several other authors of merit, such as Marivaux, Le Franc, Saint Foix, Destouches, and ModonvHle ; but let it suffice to say, that by these the character of the present age is tolerably sup- ported. Though their poets seldom rise to fine enthusiasm, they never sink into absurdity j though they fail to astonish, they are generally possessed of talents to please. The age of Lewis XIV., notwithstanding these respectable names, is still vastly superior. For besides the general tendency of critical corruption, which shall be spoken of by-and-by, there are other symptoms which indicate a de- cline. There is, for instance, a fondness of scepticism, which runs through the works of some of their most applauded writers, and which the numerous class of their imitators have contributed to difiiise. Nothing can be a more certain sign that genius is in the wane than its being obliged to fly to paradox for support, and attempting to be erroneously agreeable. A man who with all the impotence of wit, and aU the eager desires of infideUty, writes against the religion of his country, may raise doubts, but will never give conviction ; all he can do is to render society less happy than he found it. It was a good manner which the father of the late poet Saint Foix took to reclaim liis son from this juvenile error. The yoimg poet had shut himself up for some time in his study, and his father, wiUing to know what had engaged his attention so closely, upon entering foiind him busied in drawing up a new system of reli- gion, and endeavom-ing to show the absurdity of that already estabhshed. The old man knew by experience, that it was useless to endeavour to convhace a vain yoimg man by right reason ; so only desired his company up stairs. When come into the father's apartment, he takes his son by the hand, and drawing back a cxirtain at one end of the room, discovered a crucifix ex- quisitely painted. " My son," says he, "you desire to change the religion of your country, behold the fate of a reformer." The tnith is, vanity is more apt to misguide men than false reasoning ; as some had rather be conspicuous in a mob, than unnoticed even in privy council, so others choose rather to be foremost in the retinue of error, than follow in the train of truth. What in- fluence the conduct of such writers may have on the moi-als of a people is not my business here to determine. Certain I am, that it has a manifest tendency to subvert the literary merits of the coimtry in view. The change of rehgion in every nation has hitherto produced barbarism and ignorance, and such will be probably its consequences in every future period. For when the laws and 1 PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 337 the opinions of society are made to clash, harnaouy is dissolved, and all t]ie parts of peace unavoidably crushed in the encounter. The writers of this country have also of late fallen into a method of con- sidering every part of art and science as arising from simple x^rinciples. The success of Montesquieu, and one or two more, has induced all the subordi- nate ranks of genius into vicious imitation. To this end they tm'n to our view that side of the subject which contributes to support their hypothesis, while the objections are generally passed over in silence. Thus an imiversal system rises from a partial representation of the question, a whole is concluded from a part, a book appears entirely new, and the fancy-built fabric is styled for a short time very ingenious. In this manner we have seen of late almost every subject in morals, natural historj'^, politics, economy, and commerce treated ; su.bjects naturally proceeding on many principles, and some even opposite to each other, are all taught to proceed along the line of systematic simpHcity, and continue, like other agreeable falsehoods, extremely pleasing till they are detected. I must still add another fault, of a nature somewhat similar to the former. As those above mentioned are for contracting a single science into system, so tliose I am going to speak of are for drawing up a system of all the sciences united. Such undertakings as these are carried on by different writers cemented into one body, and concm-ring in the same design, by the mediation of a bookseller. From these inauspicious combinations proceed those monsters of learning, the Trevoux, Encyclopedies, and Bibliotheques, of the age. In making these, men of every rank in literature are employed, wits and dunces contribute their share, and Diderot, as well as Desmaretz, are candidates for oblivion. The genius of the first supplies the gale of favom*, and the latter adds the useful ballast of stupidity. By such means, the enormous mass heavily makes its way among the public, and, to borrow a bookseller's phrase, the whole impression moves off. These great collections of learning may serve to make us inwardly repine at our OAvn ignorance, may serve, when gilt and lettered, to adorn the lower shelves of a regular library : but woe to the reader, who, not daunted at the immense distance between one great paste- board and the other, opens the volume and explores his way through a region so extensive, but barren of entertainment. No imexpected landscape there to delight the imagination ; no diversity of prospect to cheat the painful journey ; he sees the wide extended desert lie before him ; what is past only increases his terror of what is to come. His course is not half finished, he looks behind him with affright, and forward with despair. Perseverance is at last overcome, and a night of oblivion lends its friendly aid to terminate the perplexity. CHAPTER IX. or LEAENINa IN GEEAT BEITAIIT. To acquire a character for learning among the English at present, it is neces- sary to know much more than is either important or useful. It seems the spu-it of the times for men here to exhaust their natm'al sagacity in exploring the in- tricacies of another man's thought, and thus never to have leisure to think for themselves ; others have carried on learning from that stage where the good sense of om' ancestors have thought it too minute or too speculative to instruct or amuse. By the industry of such, the sciences, which in themselves are easy of access, affright the learner with the severity of their appearance. He Bees them surrounded with speculation and subtiity, placed there by their professors, as if with a view of deterring his approach. Hence it happens, 25—2 388 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. that the generality of readers fly from tlie scholar to the compiler, who offers them a more safe and speedy conveyance. From this fault also arises that mutual contempt between the scholar and the man of the world, of which every day's experience furnislieth instances. The man of taste, however, stands neutral in this controversy ; h.e seems placed in a middle station, between the world and the cell, between learning and common sense. He teaches the vulgar on what part of a cliaracter to lay tlie emphasis of praise, and the scholar where to point liis application so as to deserve it. By bis means even the philosopher acquires popidar applause, and all that are truly great, the admii'ation of posterity. By means of polite leai'ning aloue the patriot and the hero, the man who praiseth virtue, and lie who practises it, who fights successfully for his country, or avIio dies in its defence, becomes immortal. But this taste now seems cultivated with less ardour than formerly, and consequently the public must one day expect to see the advantages arising from it, and the exquisite pleasures it affords our leisure entirely annihilated. For if, as it should seem, the rewards of genius are im- properly directed : if tliose who are capable of supporting the honour of the times by their writings prefer opulence to fame ; if the stage should be shut to writers of merit, and open only to interest or intrigue : if such should happen to be tbe vile complexion of tlie times (and that it is nearly so we shall shortly see,) the very virtue of the age will be forgotten by posterity, and nothing remembered, except our filling a chasm in tlie registers of time, or having served to continue the species. CHAPTER X. OP EEWAEDINO- GENIUS IN ENGLAND. There is nothing authors are more apt to lament, than want of encouragell ment from tlie age. Wliatever their differences in other respects, they are a- rcady to unite in this complaint, and each indirectly offers himself as an in- stance of the truth of his assertion. The beneficed divine, wliose wants are only imaginary, expostulates as bitterly as the poorest author. Should interest or good fortune advance the divine to a bisbopric, or tbe poor son of Parnassus into that place which the other has resigned : both are authors no longer : the one goes to prayers once a day, kneels upon cushions of velvet, and thanks gracious Heaven for having made the circumstances of all mankind so extremely happy ; the other battens on all the dehcacies of life, enjoys his wife and his easy chair, and sometimes, for the sake of conversation, deplores the luxm-y of these degenerate days. All encouragements to merit are therefore misapplied, which make the author too rich to continue his profession. There can be nothing more just than the old observation, that authors, like running horses, should be fed bnt not fattened. If we would continue them in oiu' service, we should rewa.rd them with a little money and a great deal of praise, still keeping their avarice subservient to their ambition. Not that I think a writer incapable of filling an employment with dignity. I would only insinuate that when made a bishop or 'statesman, he will continue to please us as a writer no longer. As, to resume a former allusion, the running horse when fattened will still be fit for very useful purposes, though unqualified for a courser. No nation gives greater encouragements to learning than we do ; yet at th© same time none are so injudicious in the application. We seem to confer tliem with the same view that statesmen have been known to grant employments ab court, rather as bribes to silence than incentives to emulation. Upon this principle all oiu' magnificent endowments of colleges are erro- PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 389 ', i neous, and at best more frequently enrich the prudent than reward the inge- nious. A lad, whose passions are not strong enough in youth to mislead him from that path of science which his tutors, and not his inclinations, have chalked out, by four or five years perseverance may probably obtain every advantage and honour his college can bestow. I forget whether the simile has been used before, but I would compare the man wlaose youth has been thus passed in the tranquilUty of dispassionate prudence, to liquors which never fer- ment, and consequently continue always muddy. Passions may raise a com- motion in the youthful breast, but they disturb only to refine it. However this be, mean talents are often rewarded in colleges with an easy subsis- tence. The candidates for preferments of this kind often regard their admis- sion as a patent for futiu'e indolence ; so that a life begun in studious labour is often continued in luxm-ious indolence. Among the universities abroad I have ever observed their riches and their learning in a reciprocal proportion, their stupidity and pride increasing with their opulence. Hap]>eniiig once in conversation with Gaubius of Leyden to mention the college of Edinburgh, he began by complaining that all the Eng- lish stvidents which formerly came to his university now went entirely there ; and the fact surprised him more, as Leyden was now as well as ever furnished Avith masters excellent in then* respective professions. He concluded by ask- ing, if the professors of Edinburgh were rich ? I replied, that the salary of a professor there seldom amounted to more than thirty pounds a year. Poor men, says he, I heartily wish they were better provided for; until they become rich, we can have no expectation of EngHsh students at Leyden. Premiums also, proposed for literary excellence, when given as encourage- ments to boys may be useful ; but when designed as rewards to men are certainly misapplied. "We have seldom seen a performance of any great merit, in con- sequence of rewards proposed in this manner. Who has ever observed a vrriter of any eminence a candidate in so precarious a contest? The man who knows the real vahte of his own genius will no more venture it upon an un- certainty, than he who knows the true use of a guinea will stake it witli a sharper. Every encouragement given to stupidity, when known to be such, is also a negative insult upon genius. This appears in nothing more evident than the undistinguished success of those who solicit subscriptions. Wlien first brought into fashion, subscriptions wei'e conferred upon the ingenious alone, or those who were reputed su.ch. But at present we see them made a resource of in- digence, and requested not as rewards of merit, but as a relief of distress. If tradesmen happen to want skill in conducting their own business, yet they are able to write a book ; if mechanics want money, or ladies shame, they write books and solicit subscriptions. Scarcely a morning passes, that proposals of tliis nature are not thrust into the half-opening doors of the rich, with per- haps a paltry petition, shewing the author's wants but not his merits. I would not willingly prevent that pity wliich is due to indigence ; but while the streams of liberality are thus diffused, they must in the end become pro- portionably shallow. What then are the proper encouragements of genius ? I answer, subsis- tence and respect ; for these are rewards congenial to its nature. Every animal has an ailment peculiarly suited to its constitution. The heavy ox seeks nourishment from earth ; the light cameleon has been supposed to exist on air ; a sparer diet even than this will satisfy tlie man of true genius, for he makes a luxurious banquet upon empty applaiise. It is this alone wliich has inspired all that ever was truly great and noble among us. It is, as Cicero finely calls it, the echo of virtue. Avarice is the passion of inferior natures j 390 THE WORKS OF OLIVMR GO LDSynTH, | money tlic pay of the common lierd. The anthor who draws liis quill merely lo take a purse, no more deserves success than ho who presents a pistol. When the link between patronage and learning was entire, then all who de- served fame were in a capacity of attaining it. When the great Somers was at the helm, patronage was fashionable among our nobility. The middle ranks of mankind, who generally imitate the Great, then followed their example, and applauded from fashion if not from feeling. I have heard an old poet* of that glorious age say, that a dinner with his lordship has procured him invi- tations for the whole week following ; that an airing in his patron's chariot has supplied him with a citizen's coach on every future occasion. For, who would not be proud to entertain a man who kept so much good company ? But this link now seems entirely broken. Since the days of a certain prime minister of inglorioTis memory, the learned have been kept pretty much at a distance. A jockey, or a laced player, supplies the place of the scholar, poet, or the man of virtue. Those conversations, once the result of Avisdom, wit, and innocence, ai*e now turned to humbler topics, little more being expected from a companion tlian a laced coat, a pliant bow, and an immoderate friend- ship for — a well served table. Wit, when neglected by the gi'eat, is generally despised by the vulgar. Those who are unacquainted with the world, are apt to fancy the man of wit as leading a very agreeable life. They conclude, perhaps, that he is attended to with silent admiration, and dictates to the rest of mankind with all the eloquence of conscious superiority. Yery different is his present situation. He is called an author, and all know that an author is a thing only to be laughed at. His person, not his jest, becomes the mirth of the company. At his approach the most fat unthinking face brightens into malicious meaning. Even aldermen laugh, and revenge oii him the ridicule which was lavished on tlieir forefathers : Etiam victis redit in prajcordia virtus, Yictoresque cadunt. It is indeed a rellection somewhat mortifying to the autlior, who breaks his ranks, and singles oiit for public favour, to think that he nuist combat con- ; tempt before he can arrive at glory. That he must expect to have all tlie fools of society united against him before he can hope for the applause of the judi- cious. For this however he must prepare beforehand ; as those who have no idea of the difHculty of his employment will be apt to regard his inactivity as ! idleness, and not having a notion of the pangs of uncomplying thought in themselves, it is not to be expected they should have any desire of rewarding I it in othere. j Yoltaire has finely described the hardships a man must encounter who writes j for the public. I need make no apology for tlie length of the quotation. | *' Your fate, my dear Le Fevre, is too strongly marked to pei-mit your retir- \ ing. The bee must toil in making honey, the silk-worm must spin, the philo- ; sopher must dissect them, and you are bom to sing of their labours. You must be a poet and a scholar, even though your inclinations shoidd resist ; nature is too strong for inclination. But hope not, my friend, to find tranquil- lity in the employment you are going to pursue. The route of genius is not less obstructed with disappointment than that of ambition. " If you have the misfortune not to excel in your profession as a poet, re- pentance must tincture all your futiu'e enjoyments. If you succeed, you make enemies. You tread a narrow path ; contempt on one side, and hatred on the other, are ready to seize you upon the slightest deviation. * Dr Young. PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 391 " But why must I be hated, you will perhaps reply, why must I be perse- cuted for having written a pleasing poem, for having produced an applaxided tragedy, or for otherwise instructing or amusmg mankind or myself? " My dear friend, these very successes shall render you miserable for life. Let me suppose your performance has merit, let me suppose you have sur- mounted the teazing employments of printing and publishing, how will you be able to lull the critics, who, Hke Cerberus, are posted at all the avenues of literature, and who settle the merits of every new performance. How, I say, will you be able to make them open in your favour ? There are always three or four literary journals in France, as many in Holland, each supporting oppo- | site interests. The booksellers who guide these periodical compilations find | theu' account in being severe ; the authors employed by them have wretched- ! ness to add to their natural malignity. The majority may be in your favour, but you may depend on being torn by the rest. Loaded with unmerited scur- rility perhaps you reply ; they rejoin j both plead at the bar of the public, and both are condemned to ridicule. " But if you write for the stage your case is still more worthy compassion. You are there to be judged by men whom the custom of the times has ren- dered contemptible. Irritated by thek- own inferiority they exert aU their little tyranny upon you, revenging upon the author the insults they receive from the public. From sucli men then you are to expect your sentence. Sup- pose your piece admitted, acted : one single ill-natured jest from the pit is suificient to cancel all your labours. But allowing that it succeeds. There are an hundred squibs flying all abroad to prove that it should not have succeeded. You shall find your brightest scenes bm^lesqued by the ignorant ; and the leai'ned who know a little Glreek, and nothing of their native language, alfect to despise you. " But perhaps with a panting heart you carry your piece before a woman of quality. She gives the labours of your brain to her maid to be cut into shreds for curling her hair ; while tlie laced footman, who carries the gaudy livery of luxury, insults your appearance, who bear the livery of indigence. " But granting your excellence has at last forced envy to confess that your i works have some merit : this then is all the reward you can expect while liv- i ing. However, for this tribute of applause you must expect persecution. ! You will bo reputed the author of scandal which you have never seen, of | verses you despise, and of sentiments directly contrary to your own. In I short, you must embark in some one party, or aU parties will be against you. " There are among us a number of learned societies, where a lady presides, whose wit begins to twinkle, when the splendour of her beauty begins to de- cline. One or two men of learning compose her ministers of state. These | must be flattered, or made enemies by being neglected. Thus, though you i bad the merit of all antiquity united in yoxir person, you grow old in misery i and disgrace. Every place designed for men of letters is filled up by men of ! intrigue. Some nobleman's private tutor, some com't flatterer shall bear away the prize, and leave you to anguish and to disappointment." Yet it were well if none but the dunces of society were combined to render the prosession of an author ridiculous or unhappy. Men of the first emi- I nence are often found to indulge this illiberal vein of raillery. Two contend- j ing writers often, by the opposition of their wit, render their profession con- j temptible in the eyes of ignorant persons, who should have been taught to ' admire. And yet, whatever the reader may think of himself, it is at least two i to one but he is a greater blockhead than the most scribbling dunce he affects ! to despise. I The poet's poverty is a standing topic of contempt. His writing for bread \ 892 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. is an unpardonable offence. Perhaps of all mankind an antlior in these timsa I is used most hardly. We keep him poor and yet revile his poverty. Like angry parents who correct their children till tliey cry, and then correct them for crying, we reproach him for living by his wit, and yet allow him no other means to live. I His taking refuge in garrets and cellars has of late been violently objected to him, and that by men who I dare hope are more apt to pity than insult his distress. Is poverty the writer's fault ? No doubt he knows how to prefer a bottle of champagne to the nectar of the neighbouring ale-house, or a venison pasty to a plate of potatoes. Want of deUcacy is not in him but in us, Avho deny him the opportimity of making an elegant choice. Wit certainly is the property of those who have it, nor should we be dis- pleased if it is only the property a man sometimes has. We must not un- derrate him who uses it for subsistence, and flies from the ingratitude of the age even to a bookseller for redress. If the profession of an author is to be laughed at by the stupid, it is certainly better to be contemptibly rich tlian contemptibly poor. For all the wit that ever adorned the human mind will at present no more shield the author's poverty from ridicule, than his high-topped gloves conceal the unavoidable omissions of his laundress. To be more serious, new fashions, follies and vices, make new monitors ne- cessary in every age. An author may be considered as a merciful substitute to the legislature : he acts not by punishing Crimes but preventing them ; liowever virtuous the present age, there may be still growing employment for ridicule or reproof, for persuasion or satire. If the author be therefore still so necessary among us, let us treat him with proper consideration as a child of the public, not a rent-charge on the community. And indeed a child of the public he is in all respects ; for while so well able to direct others, how incap- able is he frequently fovind of guiding himself! His simplicity exposes him to all the insidious approaches of cunning ; his sensibility to the slightest in- vasions of contempt. Though possessed of fortitude to stand immoved the expected bursts of an earthquake, yet of feelings so exquisitely poignant as to agonize under the slightest disappointment. Broken rest, tasteless meals, and causeless anxiety, shorten his Ufe, or render it unfit for active employment ; prolonged vigils and intense apphcation still farther contract his span, and make lus time glide insensibly away. Let us not then aggi-avate those natural inconveniences by neglect ; we have had sufficient instances of this kind already. Sale and Moore will suffice for one age at least. But they are dead, and their sorrows are over. The neglected author of the Persian eclogues, which, however inaccm*ate, excel any in om* language, is still alive. Happy, if insensible of our neglect, not raging at our ingratitude.* It is enough that the age has already produced instances of men pressing foremost in the hsts of fame, and worthy of better times, schooled by continued adversity into an hatred of their kind, flying from thought to drunkenness, yielding to the united pressure of labour, penmy, and sorrow, sinking unheeded, without one friend to drop a tear on their unattended obsequies, and indebted to charity for a grave. The author, when unpatronized by the gi'eat, has natiu-ally recourse to the bookseller. There cannot be perhaps imagined a combination more prejudicial to taste than this. It is the interest of the one to allow as little for wi'iting, and of the other to write as much as possibla; accordingly tedious compila- tions and periodical magazines are the result of their joint endeavom*s. In these circumstances the author bids adieu to fame, writes for bread, and for that only imagination is seldom called in j he sits down to address the venal * Our author here alludes to the insanity of Collins. PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 393 muse with tlie most plilegmatic apathy : and as we are told of the Russian, coiu'ts his mistress by falling asleep in her lap. His reputation never spreads in a wider circle than that of the trade, who generally value him, not for the fineness of his compositions, but the quantity he works oif in a given time. A long habit of writing for bread thus tui'ns the ambition of every author at last into avarice, lie finds that he has written many years, that the pub- lic are scarcely acqviainted even with his name ; he despairs of applause, and turns to profit which invites him. He finds that money procures all those advantages, that respect, and that ease, wliich he vainly expected from fame. Thus the man who, iinder the protection of the great, might have done honour to hiunanity, when only patronized by the bookseller, becomes a thing little superior to the fellow who works at the press. CHAPTER XL OF THE MAEKS OP IITEEAEY DECAY IN EEANCE AND ENOLAND. The faults aheady mentioned are such as learning is often found to flourish under ; but there'^is one of a much more dangerous nature which has begun to fix itself among us, I mean criticism, which may properly be called the natural destroyer of polite learning. We have seen that critics, or those whose only business is to write books upon other books, are always more numerous as learning is more diffused ; and experience has shewn, that instead of promoting its interest, which they profess to do, they generally injure it. This decay which criticism produces may be deplored, but can scarcely be remedied, as the man who writes against the critics is obliged to add himself to the nvmiber. Other depravations in the repubhc of letters, such as affectation in some popu- lar -^^Titer leading others into vicious imitation; political struggles in the state ; a depravity of morals among the people ; ill-directed encouragement, or no encouragement from the great ; these have been often foimd to co-ope- rate in the decline of literature ; and it has sometimes declined, as in modern Italy, without them ; but an increase of criticism has always portended a decay. Of all misfortunes therefore in the commonwealth of letters, this of judging from rule, and not from feeling, is the most severe. At such a tri- bunal, no work of original merit can please. Sublimity, if carried to an ex- alted height, approaches burlesque, and humour sinks into vulgarity : the person who cannot feel may ridicule both as such, and bring rules to corrobo- rate his assertion. There is, in short, no excellence in writing that sucli judges may not place among the neighboviring defects. Rules render the reader more difficult to be pleased, and abridge the author's poAver of pleasing. If we turn to either country, we shall perceive evident symptoms of this natural decay beginning to appear. Upon a moderate calculation, there seems to be as many volumes of criticism pubHshed in those countries as of all other kinds of polite erudition united. Paris sends forth not less than fouT literary jom-nals every month, the Anne-literaire, and the Feuille by Freron, tlie Jom-nal Etraugere by the Chevalier D'Arc, and Le Merciu'e by Marmontel. We have two literary reviews in London, with critical newspapers and maga- zines without nimiber. The compilers of these resemble the commoners of Rome ; they are all for levelling property, not by increasing their own but by duninishing that of others. The man who has any good nature in his dis- position must, however, be somewhat displeased to see distmguished i*eputa- tions often the s^sort of ignorance : to see by one false pleasantry the future peace of a worthy man's hfe disturbed, and this only, because he has misuc- eessfully attempted to instruct or amuse us. Though ill-nature is far from being wit, yet it is generally laughed at as such. The critic enjoys the tri' 391 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. umph, and ascribes to his parts wliat is only due to his effrontery. I fire with indignation when I see persons wholly destitute of education and genius in- dent to the press, and thus turn book-makers, adding to the sin of criticism the sin of ignorance also ; whose trade is a bad one, and wlio arc bad woi*!:- men in \h.e trade. Wlien I consider those industrious men as indebted to the works of others for a precarious subsistence, when I see them coming down at stated intervals to rummage the bookseller's compter for materials to work upon, it raises a smile though mixed with pity. It reminds me of an animal called by natu- ralists the soldier. This little creature, says the historian, is passionately fond of a shell, but not being supphed with one by nature, has recourse to the deserted shell of some other. I have seen these harmless reptiles, continues he, come down once a year from the mountains, rank and file cover the whole shore and ply busily about, each in request of a sheU to please it. Nothing can be more amusing than their industry upon this occasion. One shell is too big, another too little, they enter and keep possession sometimes for a good while imtil one is, at last, foimd entirely to please. When all are thus pro- perly equipped, they march up again to the mountains, and live in their new acquisition till under a necessity of clianging. There is indeed scarcely an error, of which our present writers are guilty, that does not arise from their opposing systems ; there is scarcely an error that criticism cannot be brought to excuse. From this proceeds the affected security of our odes, the tuneless flow of our blank verse, the pompous epitliet, laboured diction, and every other deviation from common sense, which procures the poet the applause of the month ; he is praised by aU, read by a few, and soon forgotten. There never was an imbcaten path trodden by the poet that the critic did not endeavour to reclaim him by calling his attempt innovation. This might be instanced in Dante, who first followed natm-e, and was persecuted by the critics as long as he lived. Thus novelty, one of the gi'eatest beauties in poetry, must be avoided, or the connoisseur be displeased. It is one of the cliief privileges however of genius to fly from the herd of imitators by some happy singularity ; for should he stand stiU, his heavy pursuers will at length certainly come up and fairly dispute the victory. The ingenious Mr. Hogarth used to assert, that every one except the con- noissem' was a judge of painting. The same may be asserted of writing ; the public in general set the whole piece in the proper point of view ; the critic lays his eye close to all its minuteness, and condemns or approves in detail. And this may be the reason why so many writers at present are apt to appeal from the tribmial of criticism to that of the people. Fi'om a desu'e in the critic of grafting the spirit of ancient languages upon the EngHsh have proceeded at length several disagTeeable instances of pe- dantry. Among the mimber I think we may reckon blank verse. Nothing but the greatest sublimity of subject can render such a measure pleasing ; however, we now see it xised upon the most trivial occasions ; it has particu- larly found its way into our didactic poetry, and is likely to bring that species of composition into disrepute, for which the EngHsh are deservedly famous. Those who are acquainted with writing, know that our language runs almost naturally into blank verse. The writers of oiu' novels, romances, and all of this class, who have no notion of style, naturally hobble mto this unharmo- nious measure. If rhymes, therefore, be more difiicult, for that veiy reason I would have our poets write in rhyme. Such a restriction upon the thought of a good poet often lifts and increases the vehemence of every sentiment ; for fancy, like a fountain, plays highest by diminishing the aperture. But rhymes, PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 395 it -will be said, are a remnant of a monkisli stupidity, an innovation upon the poetry of the ancients. They are but indifferently acquainted with antiquity who make the assertion. Ehymes are probably of older date than either the Greek or Latin dactyl or sponde. The Celtic, which is allowed to be the first language spoken in Europe, has ever preserved them, as we may find in tho Edda of Iceland, and the Irish carols stiU sung among the original inhabitants of that island. Olaus Wonnius gives us some of the Teutonic poetry in this way ; and Pontopiddan, bishop of Bergen, some of the Norwegian ; in short, this jingle of sounds is almost natui'al to mankind ; at least it is so to our language, if we may judge from many unsuccessful attempts to throw it off. I should not have employed so much time in opposing this erroneous in- novation if it were not apt to introduce another in its train : I mean, a dis- gusting solemnity of manner into our poetry ; and as the prose writer has been ever found to follow the poet, it must consequently banish in both all that agreeable trifling, which, if I may so express it, often deceives us into insti'uction. Tlie finest sentiment and the most weighty truth may put on a pleasant face, and it is even vii'tuous to jest when serious advice must be dis- gusting. But instead of this, the most trifling performance among us now assumes all the didactic stiffness of wisdom. The most diminutive son of fame or of famine has his we and his us, his firstlys and his secondlys, as me- thodical as if bound in cow-hide and closed with clasps of brass. Were these monthly reviews and magazines frothy, pert, or absurd, they might find some pardon ; but to be dull and dronish is an encroachment on the prerogative of a folio. These things should be considered as pills to purge melancholy j they should be made up in our splenetic climate to be taken as physic, and not so as to be used when we take it. However, by the power of one single monosyllable our critics have almost, got the victory over humour amongst us. Does the poet paint the absurdities of the vulgar ; then he is loiu : does he exaggerate the features of folly to render it more thoroughly ridiculous, he is then very low. In short, they have proscribed the comic or satirical muse from every walk but high life, which, though abounding in fools as well as the humblest station, is by no means so fruitful in absurdity. Among well-bred fools we may despise much, biit have little to laugh at ; nature seems to present us with an universal blank of silk, ribands, smiles, and whispers : absurdity is the poet's game, and good breeding is the nice concealment of absurdities. The truth is, the critic gene- rally mistakes humour for wit, which is a very different excellence. Wit raises human nature above its level ; humour acts a contrary part, and equally depresses it. To expect exalted humour is a contradiction in terms ; and the critic, by demanding an impossibility from the comic poet, has in effect banished new comedy from the stage. But to put the same thought in a different light j when an unexpected similitude in two objects strikes the im- agination ; in other words, when a thing is ivittily expressed, all our pleasure turns into admiration of the artist, who had fancy enough to draw the picture. Wlien a thing is humorously described, our burst of laughter proceeds from a very different cause ; we compare the absurdity of the character repre- sented with our awn, and triumph in otir conscious superiority. ISTo natural defect can be a cause of laughter, because it is a misfortune to which ourselves are liable ; a defect of this kind changes the passion into pity or horror : wc only laugh at those instances of moral absurdity, to which we are conscious we ourselves are not liable. Eor instance, shou.ld I describe a man as wanting his nose, there is no humour in this, as it is an accident to which human nature is subject and may be any man's case : but should I represent this uaan without his nose as extremely curious in the choice of his smiff-box, we 39G THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. liere see him guilty of an absurdity, of wbich we imagine it impossible for our- selyes to be guilty, and therefore applaud our own good sense on the com- parison. Thus then the pleasiu-e we receive from wit turns on the admiration of another ; that which we feel from humour centres in the admiration of our- selves. The poet, therefore, must place the object he would have the subject of humour in a state of inferiority ; in other words, the subject of humour must be low. The solemnity worn by many of onr modern writers is, I fear, often the mask of dulness : for certain it is, it seems to fit every author who pleases to put it on. By the complexion of many of our late publications, one might be apt to cry out with Cicero, Civem mehercule non puto esse qui his temjjoribus ridere possit. On my conscience, I believe we have all forgot to laugh in these days. Such writers probably make no distinction between what is praised and what is pleasing ; between those commendations which the reader pays his own discernment, and those which are the genuine result of his sensations. It were to be wished therefore that we no longer found pleasure with the inflated style tliat has for some years been looked upon as fine writing, and which every young writer is now obliged to adopt, if he chooses to be read. We should now dispense with loaded epithet and dressing up trifles with dignity. For to use an obvious instance, it is not those who make the greatest noise with their wares in the streets that have most to sell. Let us, instead of writing finely, try to write naturally ; not limit after lofty expressions to deliver mean ideas, nor be for ever gaping, when we only mean to deliver a wliisper. CHAPTEE XII. OF THE STAGE. Ofe theatre has been generally confessed to share in this general dechne, though partaking of the shew and decoration of the Italian opera with the propriety and declamation of French performance. The stage also is more magnificent with us than any otlier in Europe, and the people in general fonder of theatrical entertainment. Yet still as our pleasures, as well as more important concerns, are generally managed by party ; the stage has felt its in- fluence. The managers and all who espouse their side are for decoration and ornament : the critic, and all who ha?ve studied French decorum, are for regu- larity and declamation. Thus it is almost impossible to please both parties ; and the poet by attempting it finds himself often incapable of pleasing either. If he introduces stage pomp, the critic consigns his performance to the vulgar j if he indulges in recital and simplicity, it is accused of insipidity or dry afiectation. From the nature therefore of our theatre and the genius of our coimtry, it is extremely difiicult for a dramatic poet to please his audience. But happy would he be were those the only difficulties he had to encounter ; there are many other more dangerous combinations against tlie little wit of the age. Our j)oet's performance must undergo a process truly chymical before it is presented to the public. It must be tried in the manager's fire, strained through a licenser, suffer from repeated corrections till it may be a mere caput mortuwn when it arrives before the public. The success however of pieces upon the stage would be of little moment, did it not influence the success of the same piece in the closet. Nay I think it would be more for the interests of virtue if stage performances were read, not acted ; made rather our companions in the cabmet than on the tlieatre. While we arc readers, every moral sentiment strikes us in all its beauty, but PRESENT STATE OF TOLITE LEARNING. 397 the love scenes are frigid, tawdry, and disgusting. When "we are spectators all the persuasives to vice i-eceive an additional lustre. The love scene is aggravated, the obscenity heightened, the best actors figure in the most de- bauched characters, while the parts of morality, as they are called, are thrown to some mouthing macliine, who j)uts even virtue out of countenance by his wretched imitation. But whatever be the incentives to vice which are found at the theatre, public pleasures are generally less guilty than solitary ones. To make our solitary satisfactions truly innocent, the actor is useful, as by his means the poet's work makes its way from the stage to the closet, for all must allow that the reader receives more benefit by perusing a well- written play than by seeing it acted. But how is this rule inverted on our theatres at present ! Old pieces are revived and scarcely any new ones admitted ; the actor is ever in our eye, and the poet seldom peiinitted to appear ; the pubHc are again obliged to rumi- nate over those hashes of absurdity, which were disgusting to our ancestors even in an age of ignorance ; and the stage, instead of serving the people, is made subservient to the interests of avarice. "We seem to be pretty much in tlie situation of travellers at a Scotch inn ; vile entertainment is served up, complained of and sent down ; up comes worse, and that also is changed, and eveiy change makes our wretched cheer more imsavoury. Wliat must be done ? only sit down contented, cry up all that comes before us, and admire even the absurdities of Shakspeare. Let the reader suspend his censure ; I admire the beauties of this great father of our stage as much as they deserve, but coidd wish for the honour of our country, and for his honour too, that many of his scenes were forgotten. A man blincV^of one eye should always be painted in profile. Let the specta- tor, who assists at any of these new revived pieces, only ask himself whether he would approve such a performance if wi'itten by a modern poet ; I fear ho will find that much of his applause proceeds merely from the sound of a name and an empty veneration for antiquity. In fact, the revival of those jDieces of forced humour, far-fetched conceit, and unnatural hyperbole, which have been ascribed to Shakspeare, is rather gibbetting than raising a statue to his memory ; it is rather a trick of the actor, who thinks it safest acting in exaggerated characters, and who by outstepping nature chooses to exhibit the ridiculous outre of a harlequin under the sanction of that venerable name. What strange vamped comedies, farcical tragedies, or what shall I call them, speaking pantomimes, have we not of late seen. Wo matter what the play may be, it is the actor who draws an audience. He throws life into aU ; all are in spirits and merry, in at one door and out at another ; the spectator in a fool's paradise knows not what all this means till the last act concludes m matrimony. The piece pleases our critics because it talks old English ; and it pleases the galleries because it has ribaldry. True taste or even common sense are out of the question. But great art must be sometimes used before they can thus impose upon the public. To this purpose a prologue, written with some spirit, generally precedes the piece, to inform us that it was composed by Shakspeare, or old Ben, or somebody else who took them for his model. A face of iron could not have the assurance to avow dislike ; the theatre has its partisans who imder- stand the force of combinations, trained up to vociferation, clapping of hands, and clattering of sticks ; and though a man might have strength suflicient to overcome a lion in single combat, he may run the risk of being devoured by an army of ants. ^98 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. I am not insensible that third nights are disagreeable drawbacks upon the annual profits of the stage ; I am confident it is much more to the manager's adyantage to furbish up all the lumber which the good sense of our ancestors but for his care had consigned to oblivion : it is not with him therefore, but with the public I would expostulate : they haye a right to demand respect, and surely those ncAvly-reviyed plays are no instances of the manager's deference. I have been informed that no new play can be admitted upon our theatres unless the author chooses to wait some years, or to use the phrase in fashion, till it comes to be played in turn. A poet thus can never expect to contract a famiharity with the stage, by which alone he can hope to succeed ; nor can the most signal success relieve immediate want. Our Saxon ancestors had but one name for a wit and a witch. I will not dispute the propriety of uniting those characters then ; but the man who under the present dis- com'agements ventm*es to write for the stage, whatever claim he may have to the appellation of a wit, at least he has no right to be called a conjuror. From all that has been said Upon the state of oiu' theatre, we may easily foresee whether it is likely to improve or decline ; and whether the free-born muse can bear to submit to those restrictions wliicli avarice or power would impose. For the future, it is somewhat unlikely that he whose labours are valuable, or who knows their value, will turn to the stage for cither fame or subsistence, when he must at once flatter an actor and please an audience. CHAPTER XIII. ON- UNIVEESITIES. Instead of losing myself in a subject of such extent, I shall only offer a fcAV thoughts as they occm*, and leave their connection to the reader. We seem divided, whether an education formed by travelling or by a sedentary life be preferable. We see more of the world by travel, but more of human nature by remaining at home : as in an infirmary the student, v/ho only attends to the disorders of a few patients, is more likely to tmderstand his profession, than he who indiscriminately examines them all. A youth just landed at the Brille resembles a clown at a puppet-shew ; carries his amazement from one miracle to another : from tliis cabinet of curiosities to that collection of pictures ; but wondering is not the way to grow wise. Whatever resolutions we set ourselves not to keep company with our countrymen abroad, we shall find them broken when once we leave home. Among strangers we consider ourselves as in a solitude, and it is but natural to desire society. In all the great towns of Em'ope there are to be found Englishmen residing either from iiaterest or choice; these generally lead a life of continued de- bauchery ; such are the countrymen a traveller is likely to meet with. This may be the reason why EngHshmen are all thought to be mad or me- lancholy by the vulgar abroad. Their money is giddily and merrily spent among sharpers of their own country ; and when that is gone, of all nations the English bear worst that disorder called the maladie du poche. Countries wear very different appearances to travellers of different circum- stances. A man who is whirled through Europe in a post-chaise, and the pilgrim who walks the grand tour on foot will foi'm very different conclusions.* To see Europe with advantage a man should appear in various circum- * In the first edition our author added, Baud inexpertus loquor; for he travelled through frunce, &c, on foot. PliESENl' STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. stances of fortune, but the experiment would be too dangerous for young men. Tlaere are many things relative to other countries which can be learned to more advantage at home j their laws and policies are among the number. The greatest advantages which result to youth from travel, are an easy ad- dress, the shaking off national prejudices, and the finding nothing ridiculous in national peculiarities. The time spent in these acquisitions could have been more usefully employed at home. An education in a college seems there- fore preferable. We attribute to imiversities either too much or too little. Some assert that they are the only proper places to advance learning ; while others deny even their utiUty in forming an education. Both are erroneous. Learning is most advanced in populous cities, where chance often conspires with industry to promote it ; where the members of this large tmiversity, if I may so call it, catch manners as they rise, study life, not logic, and have the world for correspondents. The greatest number of universities have ever been founded in times of the greatest ignoi'ance. New improvements in learning are seldom adopted in colleges until admitted every where else. And this is right ; we should always be cautious of teach- ing the rising generation uncertainties for truth : thus, though the professors in universities have been too £i*equently found to oppose the advancement of learning ; yet when once established they are the properest persons to dif- fuse it. There is more knowledge to be acquu-ed fi'om one page of the volume of mankind, if the scholar only knows how to read, than in volumes of antiqtuty j we grow learned, not wise, by too long a continuance at college. This points out the time ta which we should leave the university ; perhaps the age of twenty-one, when at our imiversities the first degree is generally taken, is the proper period. The universities of Em-ope may be divided into three classes. Those upon the old scholastic establishment, where the pupils are immured, talk nothing but Latin, and support every day syllogistical disputations in school-philoso- phy. Would not one be apt to imagine this was the proper education to make a man a fool? Such are the imiversities of Prague, Louvain, and Padtia. The second is, where the pupils are under few restrictions, where all scholas- tic jargon is banished, where they take a degree when they think proper, and live not in the college but city. Such are Edinburgh, Leyden, Gottingen, G-eneva. The third is a mixtm-e of the two former, where the pupils are re- strained, but not confined ; where many though not all the absm-dities of scho- lastic philosophy are suppressed, and where the first degree is taken after four years matriculation. Such are Oxford, Cambridge, and Dublin. As for the first class, their absurdities are too apparent to admit of a paral- lel. It is disputed which of the two last are more conducive to national im- provement. Skill in the professions is acquired more by practice than study; two or tln-ee years may be sufficient for learning theu' rudiments. The universities of Edinburgh, &c. grant a licence for practising them when the student thinks proper, which our universities refuse till after a residence of several years. The dignity of the professions may be supported by tliis dilatory proceed- ing ; but many men of leammg are thus too long excluded from the lucrative advantages which superior skLU has a right to expect. Those imiversities must certainly be most frequented, which promise to give in two yeaxs the advantages which others will not under twelve. 400 THE TFORKS OF OLIVER GOLBSMITIL Tlie man wlio lias studied a profession for three years and practised it foi nine more, -will certainly know more of liis business than he who has only studied it for twelve. The universities of Edinhui'gh, &c. must certainly be most proper for the study of those professions, in which men choose to turn their learning to profit as soon as possible. The universities of Oxford, &c. are improper for this, since they keep the student from the world, which after a certain time is the only true school of improvement. When a degree in the professions can be taken only by men of independent fortunes, the number of candidates in learnmg is lessened, and consequently the advancement of learning retarded. This slowness of conferring degrees is a remnant of scholastic barbarity. Paris, Louvain, and those universities which still retam their ancient institu- tions, confer the doctor's degree slower even than we. The statutes of every university should be considered as adapted to the laws of its respective government. Those should alter as these happen to fluctuate. i'our years spent in the arts (as they are called in colleges) is perhaps laying too laborious a foundation. Entering a profession without any previous acqui- sitions of this kind is building too bold a superstructure. Teaching by lecture, as at Edinburgh, may make men scholars if they think proper ; but instructing by examination, as at Oxford, will make them so often against their inclination. Edinburgh only disposes the student to receive learning; Oxford often makes him actually learned. In a word, were I poor I should send my son to Leyden or Edinburgh, though the annual expense in each, particularly in the first, is very great. Were I I'ich I would send him to one of our own universities. By an educa- tion received in the first he has the best likelihood of living ; by that received in the latter he has the best chance of becoming gi'eat. We have of late heard much of the necessity of studying oratory. Vespa- sian was the first who paid pi'ofessors of rhetoric for publicly instructing youth at Rome. However, those pedants never made an orator. The best orations that ever were spoken were pronounced in the parliaments of Eing Charles the Fii'st. These men never studied the rules of oratory. Mathematics are perhaps too much studied at our universities. This seems a science to which the meanest intellects are equal. I forget who it is that says, " All men might understand mathematics if they would." The most methodical manner of lecturing, whether on morals or nature, is first rationally to explain, and then produce the experiment. The most in- structive method is to shew the experiment first ; curiosity is then excited, and attention awakened to every subsequent deduction. Hence it is evident, that in a well-formed education a com'se of history should ever precede a com*se of ethics. The sons of our nobility are permitted to enjoy greater liberties in our uni- versities than those of private men. I sliould blush to ask the men of learn- ing and virtue, who preside in our seminaries, the reason of such a prej udi- cial distinction. Our youth should there be insph'ed with a love of philoso- phy : and the first maxim among philosophers is, that merit only makes dis- tinction. Whence has proceeded the vain magnificence of expensive architecture in our colleges ? Is it that men study to more advantage in a palace than in a cell ? One single performance of taste or genius confers more real honom*s on ts parent university than all the labours of the chissel. PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 40 Sui'ely pride itself has dictated to the fellows of our colleges the absurd pas sion of being attended at meals, and on other public occasions, by those poor men who, willing to be scholars, come in upon some charitable foundation. It imphes a contradiction, for men to be at once learning the liberal arts and at the same time treated as slaves ; at ouce studying freedom and practising eeryitude. CHAPTER XIV. THE CONCLrSIOK. EvEEY subject acquires an adventitious importance to him who considers il with a,pplication. He finds it more closely connected with human happiness than the rest of mankind are apt to allow : he sees consequences resulting from it which do not strike others with equal conviction ; and still pursuing speculation beyond the bounds of reason, too frequently becomes ridiculously earnest in trifles or absurdity. It will perhaps be incurring this imputation, to deduce universal degeneracy of manners from so slight an origin as the depravation of taste ; to assert that, as a nation grows dull, it sinks into debauchery. Yet such probably may be the consequence of literary decay ; or, not to stretch the thought beyond what it will bear, vice and stupidity are always mutually productive of each other. Life at the greatest and best has been compared to a froward child, that must be humoured and played with till it falls asleep, and then all the care is over. Our few years are laboured away in varying its pleasures ; new amuse- ments are pursued with studious attention ; the most cliildish vanities are dignified with titles of importance ; and the proudest boast of the most aspir- ing philosopher is no more, than that he provides his little playfellows the greatest pastime with the greatest innocence. Thus the mind, ever wandering after amusement, when abridged of happi- ness on one part endeavours to find it on another ; when intellectual pleasures are disagreeable, those of sense will take the lead. The man, who in this age is enamoured of the tranquil joys of study and retirement, may in the next, should learning be fashionable no longer, feel an ambition of being foremost at an horse-course ; or, if such could be the absurdity of the times, of being himself a jockey. Eeason and appetite are therefore masters of sur revels hi turn ; and as we incline to the one or pursue the other, we rival angels or imi- tate the brutes. In the pursuit of intellectual pleasures hes every virtue j of sensual, every vice. It is this difierence of pursuit which marks the morals and characters of mankind ; which lays the line between the enlightened philosopher and the half-taught citizen ; between the civil citizen and illiterate peasant ; between the law-obeying peasant and the wandering savage of Africa, an animal less mischievous indeed than the tiger, because endued with fewer powers of doing mischief. The man, the nation, must therefore be good, whose chiefest luxu- ries consist in the refinement of reason : and reason can never be universally cultivated unless guided by taste, which may be considered as the link between science and common sense, the medium through which learning should ever be seen by society. Taste will therefore often be a proper standard when others fail, to judge of a nation's improvement or degeneracy in morals. We have often no perma- nent characteristics, by which to compare the virtues or the vices of our ances- tors with our own. A generation may rise and pass away without leaving any traces of what it really was ; and all complaints of our deterioration may bo only topics of declamation, or the cavillings of disappointment : but m taste 26 402 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. \ we liave standing eyidence ; we can with precision compare the literary per- formances of ovix fathers with our own, and from their excellence or defects determine the moral, as well as the literary, merits of either. If, then, there ever comes a time when taste is bo far depraved among us that critics shall load every work of genius with unnecessary comment, and quarter their empty performances with the substantial merit of an author, both for subsistence and applause ; if there comes a time when censure shall speak in storms, but praise be whispered in the breeze, while real excellence often finds shipwreck in either ; if there be a time when the Muse shall seldom be heard, except in plaintive elegy, as if she wept her own dechne, while lazy compilations supply the place of original thinking ; should there ever be such a time, may succeeding critics both for the honour of om* morals as well as our learning, say, that such a iDeriod bears no resemblance to the present age ! LETTERS TROM A CITIZEN OF THE WOELD, TO HIS FEIENDS IN THE EAST. THE EDITOE'S PEEFACE. The schoolmen had formerly a very exact way of computing the abilities of their saints or authors. Escobar, for instance, was said to have learning as five, genius as four, and gravity as seven. Caramuel was greater than he. His learning was as eight, his genius as six, and his gravity as thu'teen. Were I to estimate the merits of oiu' Chinese philosopher by the same scale, I would not hesitate to state his genius still liigher ; but as to his learning and gravity, these I tliijik might safely be marked as nine hundred and ninety-nine, within one degree of absolute frigidity. "Set upon his first appearance here, many were angry not to find him as ignorant as a Tripoline ambassador, or an envoy from Mujac. They were surprised to find a man born so far from London, that school of prudence and wisdom, endued even with a moderate capacity. They expressed the same surprise at his knowledge that the Chinese do at ours. -^How comes it, said they, that the Europeans, so remote from China, think with so much justice and vrecision. They have never read our books, they scarcely knoiv even our letters, and yet they talk and reason just as we do. The truth is, the Chinese and we are pretty much alike. Difierent degrees of refinement, and not of distance, mark the distinctions among mankind. Savages of the most opposite climates have all but one character of improvidence and rapacity ; and tutored nations, however separate, make use of the very same methods to procure refined enjoyment. The distinctions of polite nations are few ; but such as are pecuHar to the Chinese, appear in every page of the following correspondence. The meta- phors and allusions arc all drawn from the East. Then- formality oiu* author carefully preserves. Many of then* favourite tenets in morals are illustrated. * Le Compte, vol. i. p. 210. CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. . 403 The Chinese are always concise, so is he. Simple, so is lie. The Chinese are grave and sententious, so is he. But in one particular the resemblance is pe* culiarly striking : the Chinese are often dull, and so is he. Nor has my as- sistance been wanting. We are told in an old romance of a certain knight- errant and his horse who contracted an intimate friendship. The horse most usually bore the knight, but in cases of extraordinary dispatch, the knight returned the favour, and carried his horse. Thus in the intimacy between my author and me, he has usually given me a lift of his eastern sublimity, and I have sometimes given him a retm*n of my colloquial ease. Yet it appears strange in this season of panegyric, when scarcely an author passes unpraised either by his friends or himself, that such merit as our phi- losopher's should be forgotten. Wliile the epithets of ingenious, copious, elaborate, and refined, are lavished among the mob like medals at a coronation, the lucky prizes fall on every side, but not one on him. I could on this occa- sion make myself melancholy, by considering the capriciousness of jp^^blic taste, or the mutability of fortune : but during this fit of morality, lest my reader should sleep, I'll take a nap myself, and when I awake tell him my dream. I imagined the Thames was frozen over, and I stood by its side. Several booths were erected upon the ice, and I was told by one of the spectators, that Fashion Faie was going to begin. He added, that every author who would carry his works there, might probably find a very good reception. I was re- solved however to observe the humom*s of the place in safety from the shore, sensible that ice was at best precarious, and having been always a little cow- ardly in njy sleep. Several of my acquaintance seemed much more hardy than I, and went over the ice with intrepidity. Some carried their works to the fair on sledges, some on carts, and those which were more voluminous, were conveyed in waggons. Their temerity astonished me. I knew their cargoes were heavy, and expected every moment they would have gone to the bottom. They all entered the fair, however, in safety, and each soon after returned, to my great sm*prise, highly satisfied with his entertainment, and the bargains he had brought away. The success of such niuubers at last began to operate upon me. If these, cried I, meet with favour and safety, some luck may, perhaps, for once attend the unfortunate, I am resolved to make a new adventure. The furnitui'e frippery and fire-works of China have long been fashionably bought up. I'll try the fair with a small cargo of Chinese morality. If the Chinese have contributed to vitiate our taste, I'll try how far they can help to improve our understanding. But, as others have driven into the market in waggons, I'll cautiously begin by venturing with a wheelbarrow. Thus resolved, I baled up my goods, and fairly ventured ; when, upon just entering the fan*, I fancied the ice that had supported an hundred waggons before, cracked under me, and wheel-barrow and all went to the bottom. Upon awaking from my reverie with the fright, I cannot help wishing that the pains taken in giving this correspondence an English dress, had been em- ployed in contriving new political systems, or new plots for farces, I might then have taken my station in the world either as a poet or a philosopher, and made one in those little societies wlierc men club to I'aise each other's reputa- tion. But at present I belong to no particular class, I i-esemble one of those animals, that has been forced from its forest to gratify human curiosity. My earliest wish was to escape unheeded through life ; but I have been set up for half-pence, to fret and scamper at the end of my chain. Though none are injured by my rage, I am natwaUy too savage to court any friends by fawning ; too obstinate to be taught new tricks ; and too improvident to mind what 26—2 404 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. may happen : I am appeased, thougli not contented. Too indolent for in- trigue, and too timid to push for favour, I am — But what signifies wliat I am ? 'fiXwlf Kal av Ti5xn jue'va xa/pexe' tov Xtjmev' evfiov. Ou&ev e/jioi %' I'M'"' Tra/fere tou? fJ.er efie, Fortune mid Hope, adieu !~I see my Port, Too long your dupe ; he others now your tport. LETTER I. TO ME. *^f**, MEECHANT IN LONDON-. SiE, Amsterdam. YOUES of the 13th instant, covering two bills, one on Messrs. E. and D. value 478/. 105. and the other on Mr. ****, value 285/. duly came to hand, the former of which met with honour, but the other has been trifled with, and I am afraid will be returned protested. The bearer of this is my friend, therefore let him be yours. He is a native of Honan in China, and one who did me signal services, when he was a man- darine, and I a factor at Canton. By frequently conversing with the English there, he has learned the language, though he is entirely a stranger to their manners and customs. I am told he is a philosopher ; I am sm^e he is an honest man : that to you will bo his best recommendation, next to the con- sideration of his being the friend of, Sir, Yours, &c.* . LETTER n. LONDON. TEOM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO ***^', MEECHANT IN AMSTEEDAM. Friend of my heart. May the ivings of peace rest upon iJiy dwelling, and the shield of conscience pre- serve thee from vice and misery ! For all thy favours accept my gratitude and esteem, the only tributes a poor philosophic wanderer can return. Sure, for- tune is resolved to make me unhappy, when she gives others a power of testi- fying their friendship by actions, and leaves me only words to express the sincerity of mine. I am perfectly sensible of the delicacy with which you endeavour to lessen your own merit and my obligations. By calling your late instances of friend- ship only a return for former favours, you would induce me to impute to your justice what I owe to your generosity. The services I did you at Canton, justice, humanity, and my office bade me perform : those you have done me since my arrival at Amsterdam, no laws obliged you to, no justice required, even half yoiu' favours would have been greater than my most sanguine expectations. The sum of money therefore which you privately conveyed into my baggage, when I was leaving Holland, and which I was ignorant of till my arrival in London, I must beg leave to return. You have been bred a merchant, and I a scholar ; you consequently love money better than I. You can find pleasure in superfluity ; I am perfectly content with what is sufficient ; take therefore what is yours, it may give you some pleasure, even though you have no occa- sion to use it ; my happiness it cannot improve, for I have already all that I want. My passage by sea from Eottei'dam to England was more painful to me than all the journeys I ever made on land. I have traversed the immeasm-able CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 405 wilds of Mogul Tartary ; felt all the rigours of Siberian sties } I have had my repose an hundred times disturbed by invading savages, and have seen, with- out shrinking, the desert sands rise hke a troubled ocean all around me : against these calamities I was armed with a resohxtion ; but in my passage to England, though nothing occurred that gave the mariners any uneasiness, to one who was never at sea before, all was a subject of as.tonishincnt and terror. To find the land disappear, to see om' ship mount the waves swift as an arrow from the Tartar bow, to hear the wind howling through the cordage, to feel a sickness which depresses even the spirits of the brave : these were unexpected distresses, and consequently assaulted me luiprcpared to receive them. You men of Europe thiuk nothing of a voyage by sea. With us of China, a man who has been from sight of land is regarded upon liis return with admi- ration. I have known some provinces where there is not even a name for the ocean. What a strange people therefore am I got amongst, who have founded an emj)ire on this unstable element, who build cities upon billows that rise higher than the mountains of Tipartala, and make the deep more formidable than the wildest tempest. Such accounts as these, I must confess, were my first motives for seeing England. These induced me to undertake a journey of seven Imndrcd painful days, in order to examine its opulence, buildings, sciences, arts, and manu- factures, on the spot. Judge, then, my disappointment on entering London, to see no signs of that opulence so much talked of abroad : wherever I turn, I am presented with a gloomy solemnity in the houses, the streets, and the in- habitants ; none of that beautiful gilding which makes a principal ornament in Chinese architectvn*e. The streets of Nankin are sometimes strewed with gold leaf ; very different are those of London : in the midst of their pave- ments, a great lazy puddle moves muddily along ; heavy-laden machines, with wheels of unweildy thickness, crowd up every passage ; so that a stranger, instead of finding time for observation, is often happy if he has time to escape from being crushed to pieces. The houses borrow very few ornaments from architecture ; their chief deco- ration seems to be a paltry piece of painting hung out at their doors or windows, at once a proof of their indigence and vanity : their vanity, in each having one of those pictures exposed to public view ; and their indigence, in being unable to get them better painted. In this respect, the fancy of their painters is also deplorable. Could you believe it ? I have seen five black lions and three blue boars in less than the circuit of half a mile ; and yet you know that animals of these colours arc no where to be found except in the wild imaginations of Europe. From these circumstances in their buildings, and from the dismal looks of the inhabitants, I am induced to conclude that the nation is actually poor ; and that, like the Persians, they make a splendid figure every where but at home. The proverb of Xixofu is, that a man's riches may be seen in his eyes 5 if we jvidge of the English by this rule, there is not a poorer nation under the sun. I have been here but two days, so will not bo hasty in my decisions ; such letters as I shall wi-ite to Fipsihi in Moscow, I beg you'll endeavour to foi-ward with all diligence ; I shall send them open, in order that you may take copies or translations, as you are equally versed in the Dutch and Chinese languages. Dear friend, think of my absence with regret, as I sincerely regret yours j even while I write, I lament our separation. Farewell ! 406 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITti. LETTER III. From lien- chi altakgi to the caee of fipsihi, resident in Moscow : to be forwaeded by the russian carat an to fum hoam, first presi- dent of the ceremonial academy at pekin in china. Think not O tliou guide of my yoiitli, that absence can impair my respect, or interposing trackless deserts blot your reverend figiu'c from my memory. The farther I travel I feel the x^ain of separation with stronger force ; those ties that bind me to my native country, and you, are still unbroken. By every remove, I only drag a greater length of chain.* Could I find aught worth transmitting from so remote a region as this to wliich I have wandered, I should gladly send it ; but, instead of this, you must be contented with a renewal of my former professions, and an imperfect account of a people with whom I am as yet but superficially acquainted. The remarks of a man who has been but three days in the country 'can only be those obvious circumstances wliich force themselves upon the imagination : I consider myself liere as a newly- created being introduced into a new world ; cA'^ery object strikes with wonder and sui'prise. The imagination, still unsatcd, seems the only active principle of the mind. The most trifling occmTcnces give pleasure, till the gloss of novelty is worn away. When I have ceased to wonder, I may possibly grow wise ; I may then call the reasoning principle to my aid, and compare those objects with each other, which were before examuied without reflection. Behold me then in London, gazing at the strangers, and they at me ; it seems they find somewhat absiird in my figure ; and had I been never from home, it is possible I might find an infinite fund of ridicule in theirs ; but by long travelling I am taught to laugh at folly alonoj and to find nothing truly ridiculous but viUany and vice. When I had just quitted my native country, and crossed the Chinese wall, I fancied every deviation from the customs and manners of China was a de- parting from nature ; I smiled at the blue lips and red foreheads of the Ton- guese ; and could hardly contain when I saw the Daures dress their heads with horns. The Ostiacs, powdered with red earth; and the Calmuck beauties, tricked out in all the finery of sheep-skin, appeared highly ridiculou-3 ; but I soon perceived tliat the ridicule lay not in them but in me : that I falsely condemned others for absurdity, because they happened to difier from a standard originally founded in prejudice or partiality. I find no pleasm'e therefore in taxing tlie English with departing from nature in their external appearance, which is all I yet know of their character ; it is possible they only endeavour to improve her simple plan, since every extrava- gance in dress pi'oceeds from a desire of becoming more beautiful than Nature made us ; and this is so harmless a vanity that I not only pardon but approve it : a desire to be more excellent than others is what actually makes us so, and, as thousands find a livelihood in society by such appetites, none but the ignorant inveigh against them. You are not insensible, most reverend Fum Hoam, what numberless trades, even among the Chinese, subsist by the harmless pride of each other. Your nose- borers, feet-swathers, tooth-stainers, eye-brow pluckers, would all want bread, should their neighbours want vani^. These vanities, however, employ much fewer hands in China than in England ; and a fine gentleman, or a fine lady. * We find a repetition of this beautiful and affecting image in the Traveller: ' And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.' CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 407 here dressed up to the fashion, seems scarcely to haye a single limb that does not suffer some distortions from art. To make a fine gentleman several trades are required, but chiefly a barber : you have undoubtedly heard of the Jewish champion, whoso strength lay in his hair : one would think that the English were for placing all wisdom there: to appear wise, nothing more is requisite here than for a man to borrow hair from the heads of all his neighbours, and clap it like a bush on his own : the distributors of law and physic stick on such quantities, that it is almost impos- sible, oven in idea, to distmguish between the head and the hair. Those whom I have been now describing affect the gravity of the lion : those I am going to describe more resemble the pert vivacity of smaller animals. The barber, who is stiU master of the ceremonies, cuts their hair close to tiie crown ; and then with a composition of meal and hog's lard plasters the whole in such a manner, as to make it impossible to distinguish whether the patient wears a cap or a plaster ; . but, to make the picture more perfectly striking, conceive the tail of some beast, a greyhound's tail, or a pig's tail for instance, appended to the back of the head, and reaching down to that place where tails in other animals are generally seen to begm ; thus betailed and bepow- dered, the man of taste fancies he improves in beauty, dresses up his hard- featured face in smiles, and attempts to look hideously tender. Thus equipped, he is qualified to make love, and hopes for success more from the powder on the outside of his head, than the sentiments within. Yet when I consider what sort of a ci-eature the fine lady is, to whom he is supposed to pay his addresses, it is not strange to find him thus equipped in order to please. She is herself every whit as fond of powder, and tails, and hog's lard, as he : to speak my secret sentiments, most reverend Fum, the ladies here are horribly ugly ; I can hardly endure the sight of them ; they no way resemble the beauties of China : the Em*opeans have quite a different idea of beauty from us ; when I reflect on the small-footed perfections of an Eastern beauty, how is it possible I should liave eyes for a woman whoso feet are ten inches long. I shall never forget the beauties of my native city of IS"anfew. How very broad their faces ! how very short their noses ! how very little theu' eyes ! how very thin their lips ! how very black their teeth ! the snow on the tops ofj Bao is not fairer than then* cheeks: and their eye- brows are small as the line by the pencil of Quamsi. Here a lady witli such perfections would be frightful ; Dutch and Chinese beauties mdecd have some resemblance, but English women are entirely different ; red cheeks, big eyes, and teeth of a most odious whiteness, are not only seen here, but wished for ; and then they have such masculine feet, as actually serve some for walking ! Yet uncivil as natm^e has been, they seem resolved to outdo her in unkindness ; they use white powder, blue powder, and black powder, for theu' hair, and a red powder for the face on some particular occasions. They like to have the face of various colours, as among the Tartars of Koreki, frequently sticking on, with spittle, little black patches on every part of it, except on tlie tip of the nose, which I have never seen with a patch. You '11 have a better idea of their manner of placing these spots, when I have finished a map of an English face patched up to the fashion, which shall shortly be sent to increase your curious collection of paintings, medals, and monsters. But what surprises more than all the rest is what I have just now been credibly informed by one of this country. "Most ladies here," says he, "have two faces ; one face to s1co]d in, and another to shew in company ; the first is generally reserved for the husband and family at home ; the other put on to 408 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. please strangers abroad : tlie family face is often indifferent enough, but the out-door one looks something better ; this is always made at the toilet, where the looking-glass and toad-eater sit in council, and settle the complexion of the day." I can't ascertain the truth of tliis remark 5 however, it is actually certain, that they wear more clothes witliin doors than without ; and I have seen a lady, who seemed to shudder at a breeze in her own apartment, aj)pear half naked in the streets. Farewell ! LETTER lY. TO THE SAME. The English seem as silent as the Japanese, yet vainer than the inhabitants of Siam." Upon my arrival I attributed that reserve to modesty, which I now find has its origili.iu pride. Condescend to address them fii'st, and you are sure of their acquaintance ; stoop to flattery, and you concHiate their friend- ship and esteem. They bear hungci-, cold, fatigue, and fill the miseries of life, without shrinking ; danger only calls forth their fortitude ; they even exult in calamity ; but contempt is what they cannot bear. An Englishman fears con- tempt more than death ; he often flies to death as a refuge from its pressure j and dies when he fancies the world has ceased to esteem him. Pride seems the soiu'ce not only of then* national vices, but of their national virtues also. An Englishman is taught to love his king^ts^TiUiriend, but to'~ acknowledge no other master than the laws which himself has contributed to enact. He despises those nations, who, that one may be free, are all con- tent to be slaves ; who first lift a tyrant into terror, and then shrink under his power as if delegated from heaven. Liberty is echoed in aU their assemblies ; and thousands might be found ready to offer Up their lives'^or-tiiesotm'di though perhaps not one of all the number understands its meaning. Tlte lowest mechanic however looks upon it as his duty to be a watchful guardian of his country's freedom, and often uses a language that might seem haughty, even in the mouth of the great emperor who ti'aces his ancestry to the moon. A few days ago, i^assing by ono of tlieir prisons, I could not avoid stopping, in order to listen to a dialogue, wliich I thought might afford me some enter- tainment. The conversation was carried on between a debtor through the grate of his prison, a porter who had stopped to rest his burthen, and a soldier at the window. The subject was upon a threatened invasion from France, and each seemed extremely anxious to rescue his country from the impending danger. For my part, cries the prisoner, the greatest of my apprehensions is for ourfreedom ; if the French should conquer, what ivould become of English liberty ? My dear friends, liberty is the Englishman's prerogative ; we must jjreserve that at the expeme of our lives ; of that the French shall never deprive us ; it is not to be expected that men who are slaves themselves would preserve our freedom should they happen to conquer. " Ay, slaves, cries the porter, they are all slaves, fit only to carry burthens, every one of them. Before I would stoop to slavery, may this be my poison (and he held the goblet in his hand), may this be my poison — but I would sooner Hst for a soldier." The soldier, taking the goblet from his friend, with much awe fervently cried out, it is not so much our liberties as our religion that would suffer by such a change ; ay, our religion, my lads. May the devil sink me into fames (such was the solemnity of his adjiiration), if the French should come over, but our religion would be utterly undone. So saying, instead of a hbation, he applied the goblet to his lips, and confirmed his sentiments with a ceremony of the most persevering devotion. In short, every man here pretends to be a poHtician ; even the fair sex sxe CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 40d Bonie times found to mix tlie severity of national altercation with the blandish- ments of love, and qften become conquerors by more weapons of destruction than their eyes. This universal passion for politics is gratified by Daily Grazettes, as with us at China. But as in ours the emperor endeavoiu's to instruct his people, m theirs the people endeavom' to instruct the administration. You must not, however, imagine, that they who compile these papers iiave any actual know- ledge of the politics or the government of a state ; they only collect their materials from the oracle of some coffee-house ; which oracle has liimself gathered them the night before from a beau at a gaming-table who has pillaged lais knowledge from a great man's porter, who has had his information from the great man's gentleman, who has invented the whole story for his own amuse- ment the night preceding. The English in general seem fonder of gaining the esteem than the love of those tliey converse with : this gives a formality to their amusements ; their gayest conversations have something too wise for innocent relaxation ; thougli in company you are seldom disgusted with the absurdity of a fool, you are sel- dom lifted into rapture by those strokes of vivacity which give instant, though not permanent, pleasiu'e. What they want, however, in gaiety, they make up in politeness. You smile at hearing ffii5'pTaTsethe!EiiglisTi" for their politeness ; you who have heard very different accounts from the missionaries at Pekin, who have seen such a differ- ent behaviour in their merchants and seamen at home. But I must still repeat it, the English seem more polite than any of their neighbours ; their great art in this respect lies in endeavouring, while they oblige, to lessen the force of tlie favour. Other countries are fond of obliging a stranger, but seem desir- ous that he should be sensible of the obligation. The English confer their kindness with an appearance of indifference, and give away benefits with 'an air as if they despised them. Walking a few days ago between an English and a Frenchman into the suburbs of the city, we were overtaken by a heavy shower of rain. I was unprepared ; but they had each large coats, which defended them from what seemed to be a perfect inundation. The Englishman, seeing me shrink from the weather, accosted me thus: PsM, man, what dost shrink at? here, take this coat ; I dont ivant it ; I find it no way useful to me; I had as lief he without it. The French- man began to shew his politeness in turn. My dear friend, cries he, why won't you oblige me hy making use of my coat ? you see how well it defends me from the rain; I should not choose toj)art with it to others^ but to such a friend as you I could even jfart with my skin to do him service. From such minute instances as these, most reverend Fum Hoam, I am sensible yovir sagacity will collect instruction. The volume of nature is the book of knowledge ; and he becomes most wise who makes the most judicious selection. Farewell ! LETTER V. TO THE SAME. I HAVE already informed you of the singular passion of this nation for politics. An Enghshman, not satisfied with finding, by his own prosperity, the con- tending powers of Em-ope properly balanced, desires also to know the precise value of every weight in either scale. To gratify this curiosity, a leaf of po- litical instruction is served up every morning with tea : when our politician has feasted upon this, he repairs to a coffee-house, in order to ruminate upon what he has read, and increase his collection ; from thence he proceeds to the 410 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. ordinary, inquires what news, and treasm*ing up every acquisition there, hunts \ about all the evening in quest of more, and carefuUy adds it to the rest. I Tlius at night he retu'es home, fuU of the important advices of the day. When lo! awaking next morning, he finds the instructions of yesterday a col- lection of absurdity or palpable falsehood. This, one would think, a mortify- ing rep^dse in the pm'suit of wisdom ; yet our politician, no way discom-aged, hunts on, in order to collect fresh materials, and in order to be again disap- pointed. I have often admired the commercial spirit which prevails over Europe ; have been surprised to see them carry on a traffic with productions that an Asiatic stranger would deem entirely useless. It is a proverb in Cliina, that an European suffers not even his spittle to be lost : the maxim, however, is not sufficiently strong, since they sell even their lies to great advantage. Every nation drives a considerable trade in this commodity with their neigh- bours. An English dealer in this way, for instance, has only to ascend to his work- house, and manufacture a tm*bulent speech, averred to be spoken in the senate ; or a report supposed to be dropped at court ; a piece of scandal that sti-ikos at a popular mandarine ; or a secret treaty between two neighbouring powers. When finished, these goods are baled up, and consigned to a factor abroad, who sends in return two battles, three sieges, and a shrewd letter filled with dashes blanks and stars **** of great importance. Thus you perceive, that a single gazette is the joint manufacture of Europe ; and he who would peruse it with a philosophical eye might perceive in every paragraph something characteristic of the nation to which it belongs. A map does not exhibit a more distinct view of the boundaries and situation of every country, than its news does a picture of the genius and the morals of its in- habitants. The superstition and erroneous delicacy of Italy, the formahty of 8]5ain, the cruelty of Portugal, the fears of Austria, the confidence of Prussia, the levity of France, the avarice of Holland, the pride of England, the ab- surdity of Ireland, and the national partiality of Scotland, are all conspicuous in every page. But, perhaps, you may find more satisfaction in a real newspaper, than in my desci'iption of one ; I therefore send a specimen, which may serve to ex- hibit the manner of their being ^vritten, and distinguish the characters of the various nations which are united in its composition. Naples. We have lately dug up here a curious Etruscan monument, broke in two in the raising. The characters are scarce visible ; but Lugosi, the learned antiquary, supposes it to have been erected in honour of Picus, a Latiu king, as one of the lines may be plainly distinguished to begin with a P. It is hoped this discovery will xii'oduce something valuable, as the literati of our twelve academies are deeply engaged in the disquisition. Pisa. Since father Eudgi, prior of St. Grilbert's, has gone to reside at Eome, no miracles have been performed at the shrine of St. G-ilbert : the devout begin to gi'ow uneasy, and some begin actually to fear that St. Grilbert has forsaken them with the reverend father. Lucca. The administrators of our serene republic have frequent conferences upon the part they shall take in the present commotions of Europe. Some are for sending a body of their troops, consisting of one company of foot and six horsemen, to make a diversion in favour of the empress queen; others are as strenuous asserters of the Pi'ussian interest : what turn these debates may take; time only can discover. However, certain it is, we shall be able to bring into the field, at the opening of the next campaign, seventy-five armed men, a commander in chief, and two drummers of great experience. CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 411 Spain. Yesterday the new king showed liimself to his subjects, and after liaving stayed half an liour in his balcony, retired to the royal apartment. The night concluded on this extraordinary occasion with illuminations, and other demonstrations of joy. The queen is more beautiful than the rising sun, and reckoned one of the first wits in Europe ; she had a glorious opportunity of displaying the readiness of her invention, and her skill in repartee, lately at court. The duke of Lerma, coming up to her with a low bow and a smile, and presenting a nose- gay set with diamonds, Madam, cries he, / am your most obedient humble ser- vant. Oh, Sir, replies the queen, without any prompter or the least hesitation, I'm very proud of the very great honour you do me. Upon which she made a low com'tesy, and all the courtiers fell a laughing at the readiness and the smartness of her reply. Lisbon. Yesterday wo had an auto defe, at which were burned three young wonpn accused of heresy, one of them of exqtusite beauty ; two Jews, and an old woman convicted of being a witch ; one of the friars, who attended this last, reports, that he saAv the devil fly out of her at the stake in the shape of a flame of fire. The populace behaved on this occasion with great good-humom-, joy, and sincere devotion. Our merciful Sovereign has been for some time past recovered of his fright : fcliough so atrocious an attempt deserved to exterminate half the nation, yet he has been graciously pleased to spare the lives of his subjects ; and not above five hundi'cd have been broke upon the wheel, or otherwise executed, upon this horrid occasion. Vienna. We have received certain advices that a party of twenty thousand Austrians, having attacked a much superior body of Prussians, put them all to flight, and took the rest prisoners of war. Bkklin. We have received certain advices that a party of twenty thousand Prussians, having attacked a much superior body of Austrians, put them to flight, and took a great nxunber of prisoners, with their military chest, cannon, and baggage. Though we have not succeeded this campaign to our wishes, yet, when we think of him who commands us, we rest in security : while we sleep, our king is watcliful for our safety. Paeis. We shall soon strike a signal blow. We have seventeen flat-bot- tomed boats at Havre. The people are in excellent spirits, and our ministers make no difficulty in raising the supplies. We are all undone ; the people are discontented to the last degree ; the ministers are obliged to have recourse to the most rigorous measures to raise the expenses of the war. Our distresses are great ; but Madame Pompadour continues to supply our king, who is now growing old, with a fresh lady every night. His health, thank heaven, is still pretty well ; nor is he in the least unfit, as was reported, for any kind of royal exercitation. He was so frightened at the aiTair of Damien, that his physicians were apprehensive lest his reason should sufier j but that wretch's tortures soon composed the kingly terrors of his breast. England. Wanted an usher to an academy. N. B. He must be able to read, dress haii-, and must have had the small-pox. Dublin. We hear that there is a benevolent subscription on foot among the nobility and gentry of this kingdom, who are great patrons of merit, in order to assist Black and All Black, in his contest with tlie Padderen mare. We hear from G-ermany that prince Perdinand has gained a complete vic- tory, and taken twelve kettle-^rums, five standards, and four waggons of ammunition, prisoners of war. 412 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Edinbuegh. We are positive when we say that Satinders M'Grregor, who was lately executed for horse-stealing, is not a Scotchman, but born in Car- rickfergus. Farewell ! LETTER VI. PTTM HOAM, riRST PEESIDENT CP THE CEEEMONIAL ACADEMY AT TEKIN, TO LIEN CHI ALTANGI, THE DISCONTENTED WANDEEEE ; BY THE WAY OP MOSCOW. Whethee Sporting on the flowery banks of the river Trtis, or scaling the steepy mountains of Douchenour ; whether traversing the black deserts of Kobi, or giving lessons of politeness to the savage inhabitants of Europe ; in whatever country, whatever climate, and whatever circumstances, all hail ; May Tion, the imiversal soul, take you under his protection, and inspii'e you with a superior j)ortion of himself! How long, my friend, shall an enthusiasm for knowledge continue to ob- struct yoiur happiness, and tear you from all the connexions that make life pleasing ? How long will you continue to rove from climate to climate, circled by thousands, and yet without a friend, feeling all the inconveniences of a crowd, and all the anxiety of being alone ? I know you reply, that the refined pleasure of growing every day wiser, is a sufficient recompense for every inconvenience. I know you will talk of tlis vulgar satisfaction of soliciting happiness from sensual enjoyment only ; and probably enlarge upon the exquisite raptures of sentimental bliss. Yet, believe me, friend, you are deceived ; all our pleasures, though seemingly never so remote from sense, derive their origin from some one of the senses. The most exquisite demonstration in mathematics, or the most pleasing disquisition in metaphysics, if it does not ultimately tend to increase some sensual satisfaction, is delightful only to fools, or to men who have by long habit contracted a false idea of pleasure ; and he who separates sensual and sentimental enjoyments, seeking happiness from mind alone, is in fact as wi-etched as the naked in- habitant of the forest, who places all happiness in the first, regardless of the latter. There are two extremes in this respect; the savage, who swallows doAvn the di'aught of pleasure without staying to reflect on his happiness ; and the sage who passeth the cup while he reflects on the conveniences of drinking. It is with an heart full of sorrow, my dear Altangi, that I must infoi'm you that what the world calls happiness must now be yours no longer. Our great emperor's displeasure at yoiu' leaving China, contrary to the rules of our government, and the immemorial custom of the empu*e, has produced the most terrible eflects. Your wife, daughter, and the rest of your family, have been seized by his order, and appropriated to his use ; all, except your son are now the peculiar property of him who possesses all ; him I have hidden from the officers employed for this purpose ; and even at the hazard of my life I have concealed him. The youth seems obstinately bent on finding you out, Avherever you are : he is determined to face every danger that o]Dposes his pursuit. Though yet but fifteen, all his father's virtues and obstinacy spa; kle in his eyes, and mark him as one destined to no mediocrity of fortune. You see my dearest friend, what imprudence has brought thee to ; from opulence, a tender family, suiTounding friends, and your master's esteem, it has reduced thee to want, persecution, and still worse, to our mighty monarch's displeasure. Want of pi-udence is too fi-equently the want of virtue ; nor is | there on earth a more j)owerful advocate for vice than poverty. As I shall I endeavoiu' to guard thee from the one, so guard thyseK from the other : and i fitill think of me with affection and esteem. Farewell ! j CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 413 LETTEE VII. TKOM LIEN CHI AMANGI, TO TUM HOAM, PIEST PRESIDENT OP THE CERE- MONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN IN CHINA. The Editor thinkfs proper to acquaint the reader, tliat the greatest part of the following letter seems to him to be little more than a rhapsody of sentences borrowed from Confu- cius, the Chinese philosopher. A WIFE, a daughter, carried into captivity to expiate my offence ; a son, scarce yet arrived at matm'ity, resolving to encounter every danger in the pious pui'suit of one who has undone hian ; these indeed are circumstances of distress ; though my tears were more precious than the Gem of Q-olconda, yet Avould they fall upon such an occasion. But I submit to the stroke of heaven, I hold the volume of Confucius in my hand, and as I read, grow humble, and patient, and wise. We should fee'l sorrow, says he, but not sink under its oppression ; the heart of a wise man should resemble a mirror, which reflects every object without being sullied by any. The Avheel of fortune turns incesssantly round ; and who can say within himself, I shall to-day be uppermost ? We should hold the immutable mean that lies between insensibility and anguish ; our attempts shovdd not be to extinguish nature, but to repress it : not to stand mimoved at distress, but endeavour to turn every disaster to our own advantage. Our greatest glory is, not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall. I fancy myself at present, O thou reverend disciple of Tao, more than a match for all that can happen : the chief business of my life has been to procure wisdom, and the chief object of that wisdom was to be happy. My attendance on your lectures, my conferences with the missionaries of Europe and all my subsequent adventures upon quitting China, were calculated to increase the sphere of my happiness, not my curiosity. Let European tra- vellers cross seas and deserts merely to measure the height of a mountain, to describe the cataract of a river, or tell the commodities which every country may produce : merchants or geographers, perhaps may find profit by such dis- coveries ; but what advantage can accrue to a philosopher from such accounts, who is desirous of understanding the human heart, who seeks to know the men of every country, who desires to discover those differences which result from climate, religion, education, prejudice, and partiality? I should think my time very ill-bestowed, were the only fruits of my adven- tures to consist in being able to tell, that a tradesman of London lives in an house tliree times as high as that of our great emperor. That the ladies wear longer clothes than the men, that the priests are dressed in colours which we are taught to detest, and that their soldiers wear scarlet, which is with us the symbol of peace and innocence. How many travellers are there, who confine their relations to such minute and useless particulars ! for one who enters into the genivis of those nations with whom he has conversed, who discloses their morals, their opinions, the ideas which they entertain of religious worship, the intrigues of their ministers, and their skill in sciences ; there are twenty who only mention some idle particulars, which can be of no real use to a true philosopher. AH their remarks tend neither to make themselves nor others more happy ; they no way contribute to control their passions, to bear ad- versity, to inspire true vu-tue, or raise a detestation of vice. Men may be very learned, and yet very miserable ; it is easy to be a deep geometrician, or a sublime astronomer, but very difficult to be a good man. I esteem, therefore, the traveller who instructs the heart, but despise him who only indulges the imagination ; a man who leaves home to mend himself and others, is a philosopher j but he who goes from country to 414 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. country, guided by tlie blind impulse of curiosity, is only a vagabond. From Zerdusht down to him of Tyanea, I honour all those great names who endeavoured to unite the world by their travels : such men grew wiser as well as better, the farther they departed from home, and seemed like rivers, whoso streams are not only increased, but refined, as they travel from their source. For my own part, my greatest glory is, that travelling has not more steeled my constitution against all the vicissitudes of climate, and all the depressions of fatigue, than it has my mind against the accidents of fortune, or the accesses of despair. Farewell ! LETTER VIII. TO THE SAME. How Insupportable ! oh thou possessor of heavenly Avisdom, would be this separation, this immeasm-able distance from my friend, were I not able thus to delineate my heart upon paper, and to send thee daily a map of my mind ! I am every day better reconciled to the people among whom I reside, and begin to fancy, that in time I shall find them more opulent, more charitable, and more hospitable, than I at first imagined. I begin to learn somewhat of their manners and customs, and to see reasons for several deviations which they make from us, from whom aU other nations derive their poUteness as well as their original. In spite of taste, in spite of prejudice, I now begin to think their women tole- rable ;• I can now look on a languishing blue eye without disgust, and pardon a set of teeth, even though whiter than ivory. I now begin to fancy there is no universal standard for beauty. The truth is, the manners of the ladies in this city are so very open, and so vastly engaging, that I am inclined to pass over the more glaring defects of their persons, since compensated by the more solid, yet latent beauties of the mind. What though they want black teeth, or are deprived of the allurements of feet no bigger than their thumbs, yet stiU they have souls, my friend ; such souls, so free, so pressing, so hospitable, and so engaging — I have received more invitations in the streets of London from the sex in one night, than I have met with at Pekin in twelve revolutions of the moon. Every evening, as I return home from my usual solitary excursions, I am met by several of those weU-disposed daughters of hospitality, at diiferent times, and in difi'erent streets, richly dressed, and with minds not less noble than their appearance. You know that nature has indulged me with a person by no means agreeable ; yet are they too generous to object to my homely appearance ; they feel no repugnance at my broad face and flat nose ; they perceive me to be a stranger, and that alone is a sufficient recommendation. They even seem to think it their duty to do the honom-s of the country by every act of complaisance in theu' power. One takes me under the arm, and iu a manner forces me along ; another catches me roimd the neck, and desires to partake in this office of liospitality ; while a third, kinder still, invites me. to refresh my spu-its with wine. Wine is in England reserved only for the rich ; yet here even wine is given away to the stranger ! A few nights ago, one of those generous creatures, dressed all in white, and flaunting like a meteor by my side, forcibly attended me home to my own apartment. She seemed charmed with the elegance of the furniture, and the convenience of my situation : and well iadeed she might, for I have liired an apartment for not less than two shillings of their money every week. But her civihty did not rest here ; for at parting, being desu-ous to know the hour, and perceiving my watch out of order, she kindly took it to be repaired by a CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 415 relation of her own, wliich you may imagine will save some expense ; and slie assures me that it will cost her nothing. I shall have it back in a few days, when mended, and am preparing a proper speech expressive of my gratitude on the occasion : Celestial excellence, I intend to say, happxj I am in having found out, after many painful adventures, a land of innocence, and a people of humanity : I may rove into other climes, and converse with nations yet unknown, hut where shall I meet a soul of such purity as that which resides in thy breast / Sure thou hast been nurtured by the bill of the Shin Shin, or sucked the breasts of the provident Gin Hiung. The melody of thy voice could rob the Chong Fou of her whelps, or inveigle the Boh that lives in the midst of the waters. TIty servant shall ever retain a sense of thy favours ; and one day boast of thy virtue sincerity, and truth, among the daughters of China. Adieu LETTER IX. TO THE SAME. I HAVE been deceived! she whom I fancied a daughter of Paradise has proved to be one of the infamous disciples of Han ! I have lost a trifle, I have gained the consolation of having discovered a deceiver. I once more, there- fore, relax into my former indifference with regard to the English ladies ; they once more begin to appear disagreeable in my eyes : thus is my whole time passed in forming conclusions which the next minute's experience may probably destroy ; the present moment becomes a comment on the past, and I improve rather in humility than wisdom. Their laws and religion forbid the English to keep more than one woman ; I therefore concluded that prostitutes were banished from society ; I was deceived ; every man here keeps as many wives as he can maintain ; the laws are cemented with blood, praised and disregarded. The very Chinese, whose religion allows him two wives, takes not half the liberties of the English in this particular. Their laws may be compared to the books of the Sybils ; they are held in great veneration, but seldom read, or scldomer understood ; even those who pretend to be their guardians dispute about the meaning of many of them, and confess their igncrqpce of others. The law therefore which commands them to have but one wife, is strictly observed only by those for whom one is more than sufficient, or by such as have not money to buy two. As for the rest, they violate it publicly, and some glory in its violation. They seem to think, like the Persians, that they give evident marks of manhood by increasing their seraglio. A Mandarine therefore here generally keeps four wives, a gentleman three, and a stage-player two. As for the magistrates, the country justices and squires, they are employed first in debauching young virgins, and then punishing the transgression. Erom such a picture you will be apt to conclude, that he who employs four ladies for his amusement, has four times as much constitution to spare as he who is contented with one ; that a Mandarine is much cleverer than a gentle- man, and a gentleman than a x^layer ; and yet it is quite the reverse ; a Man- darine is frequently sup^Dorted on spindle shanks, appears emaciated by luxury, and is obliged to have recourse to variety, merely from the weakness, not the vigour, of his constitution, the number of his wives being the most equivocal symptom of his virility. Besides the country squire, there is also another set of men, whose whole employment consists in corrupting beaiity ; these the silly part of the fair sex call amiable ; the more sensible part of them, however, give them the title of abominable. You wiU probably demand what are the talents of a man thus caressed by the majority of the opposite sex ; what talents, or what beauty is 416 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. he possessed of superior to tlie rest of his fellows. To answer you directly, he lias neither talents nor beauty ; but then he is possessed with impudence and assiduity. With assiduity and impudence, men of all ages, and all figures, may commence admirers. I have even been told of some who made pro- fessions of expiring for love, when all the world could perceive they were going to die of old age : and what is more suprising still, such battered beaux are generally most infamously successful. A fellow of this kind employs three hours every morning iu dressing his head, by which is understood only his hair. He is a professed admirer, not of any particular lady, but of the «vhole sex. He is to suppose every lady has caught cold every night, which gives liim an opportunity of calling to see how she does the next morning. He is upon all occasions to shew himself in very great pain for the ladies ; if a lady drops even a pin, he is to fly in order to present it. He never speaks to a lady without advancing his mouth to her ear, by which he frequently addresses more senses than one. I^on proper occasions he looks excessively tender. This is performed by laying his hand upon his heart, shutting his eyes, and shewing his teeth. He is excessively fond of dancing a minuet with the ladies, by which is only meant walking round the floor eight or ten times with his hat on, affecting great gravity, and sometimes looking tenderly on his partner. He never affronts any man himself, and never resents an affront from another. He has an infinite variety of small talk upon all occasions, and laughs when he has nothing more to say. Such is the killing creature who prostrates himself to the sex tili ho has undone them ; all whose submissions are the effects of design, and who to please the ladies almost becomes himself a lady. LETTEE X. TO THE SAME. I HA YE hitherto given you no account'of my journey from China to Europe, of my travels through countries, where nature sports in primeval rudeness, where she pours forth her wonders in sohtude ; countries, from whence the rigorous climate, the sweeping inundation, the drifted desert, the howling forest, and mountains of immeasurable height, banish the husbandman, and spread extensive desolation ; countries, where the brown Tartar wanders for a precarious subsistence, with an heart that never f^lt pity, himself more hideous than the wilderness he makes. You will easily conceive the fatigue of crossing vast tracts of land, either desolate, or still more dangei'ous by its inhabitants : the retreat of men, who seem driven from society in order to make war upon all the human race ; nominally jprofessing a subjection to Muscovy or China, but without any re- semblance to the countries on which they depend. After I had crossed the great wall, the first objects that presented them- selves were the remains of desolated cities, and all the magnificence of vener- able ruin. There were to be seen temples of beautiful structm'e, statues wrought by the hand of a master, and around a country of luxuriant plenty ; but not one single inhabitant to reap the bounties of nature. These were prospects that miglit humble the pride of kings, and repress human vanity. I asked my guide the cause of such desolation. These countries, says he, were once the dominions of a Tartar prince : and these ruins the seat of arts, ele- gance, and ease. This prince waged an unsuccessful war with one of the em- CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 417 perors of China : he was conquered, his cities phmdered, and all his subjects caiTied into captivity. Such are the eflfects of the ambition of kings ! Ten Deryises, says the Indian proverb, shall sleep in peace upon a single carpet, while two kings shall quarrel though they have kingdoms to divide them. Sure, my friend, the cruelty and the pride of man have made more deserts than nature ever made ! she is kind, but man is ungrateful ! Proceeding in my jovirney through this pensive scene of desolated beauty, in a few days I arrived among the Daures, a nation still dependent on China. Xaizigar is their principal city, which, compared with those of Europe, scarcely deserves the name. The governors, and other officers, who are sent yearly from Pekin, abuse their authority, and often take the wives and daughters of inhabitants to themselves. The Daures, accustomed to base submission, feel no resentment at those injuries, or stifle what they feel. Custom and necessity teach even barbarians the same art of dissimidation that ambition and intrigue inspire in the breasts of the polite. Upon beholding such unlicensed stretches of power, alas, thought I, how little does our wise and good emperor know of these intolerable exactions ! These provinces are too distant for complaint, and too insignificant to expect redress. The more distant the government, the honester shoidd be the governor to whom it is entrusted j for hope of im- punity is a strong inducement to violation. The rehgion of the Daures is more absvird than even that of the sectaries of Fohi. How would you be surprised, O sage disciple and follower of Confu- cius ! you who believe one eternal intelligent cause of all, should you be pre- sent at the barbarous ceremonies of this infatuated people ! How would you deplore the bhndness and folly of mankind ! His boasted reason seems only to. light him astray, and brutal instinct more regularly points out the path to happiness. Could you think it ? they adbre a wicked divinity : they fear liim and they worship him ; they imagine him a malicious being, ready to injure and ready to be appeased. The men and women assemble at midnight in a hut, which serves for a temple. A priest stretches himself on the ground, and aU the people pour forth the most horrid cries, wliile drums and timbrels swell the infernal concert. After this dissonance, miscalled music, has con- tinued about two hours, the priest rises from the ground, assumes an air of inspiration, grows big with the inspiring dsemon, and pretends to a skill in futurity. In every country, my friend, the bonzes, the brachmans, and the priests, deceive the people ; all reformations begin from the laity ; the priests point Us out the way to heaven with their fingers, but stand still themselves, nor seem to travel towards the country in view. The customs of this people correspond to theif religion ; they keep their dead for three days on the same bed where the person died ; after which they bury him in a grave moderately deep, but with the head still uncovered. Here for several days they present him difierent sorts of meats ; which, when they per- ceive he does not consume, they fill up the grave, and desist from desii'ing him to eat for the future. How, how can mankind be guilty of such strange ab- surdity ; to intreat a dead body already putrid to partake of the banquet ! Wliere, I again repeat it, is human reason ? not only some men, but whole nations, seem divested of its illumination. Here we observe a whole country adorning a divhiity through fear, and attempting to feed the dead. These are their most serious and most religious occupations : are these men rational, or are not the apes of Borneo more wise ? Certain I am, O thou instructor of vay youth ! that without philosophers, without some few virtuous men who seem to be of a difFerenfe nature from the rest of mankind, without such as these the worship of a wicked divinity would 27 418 TEE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. surely be establislied over every part of the eartli. Fear guides more to theu: duty than gi-atitude : for one man who is virtuous from the love of virtue, from the obligation that he thinks he lies under to the Giver of all, there are ten thousand who are good only from the apprehensions of punishment. Could these last be persuaded, as the Epicureans were, that heaven had no thunders in store for the villain, they would no longer continue to acknowledge subordination, or thank that Being who gave them existence. Adieu ! LETTEE XL TO THE SAME. Eeom such a picture of nature in primeval simpHcity, tell me, my much re- spected friend, are you in love with fatigue and solitude? Do you sigh for the severe frugality of the wandering Tartar, or regret being born amidst the luxxiry and dissimulation of the polite ? Kather teU me, has not every kind of life vices peculiarly its own ? Is it not a truth, that refined countries have more vices, but thosft not so terrible ; barbarous nations few, and they of the most hideous complexion ? Perfidy and fraud are the vices of civilized nations, credulity and violence those of the inhabitants of the desert. Does the luxury of the one produce half the evils of the inhumanity of the other ? Certainly those philosophers who declaim against luxmy have but little under- stood its benefits ; they seem insensible, that to luxmy we owe not only the greatest part of our knowledge, but even of ovir virtues. It may sound fine in the mouth of a declaimer, when he talks of subduing our appetites, of teaching every sense to be content with a bare sufficiency, and of supplying only the wants of nature ; but is there not more satisfaction in indulging those appetites, if with innocence and safety, than in restraining them ? Am not I better pleased in enjoyment than in the sullen satisfaction of thinking that I can live without enjoyment ? The more various our artifi- cial necessities, the wider is our cu'cle of pleasure j for all pleasure consists in obviating necessities as they rise ; luxury, therefore, as it increases our wants, increases our capacity for happmess. Examine the history of any country remarkable for opulence and wisdom, you will find they would never have been wise had they not been first luxu- rious ; you will find poets, philosophers, and even patriots, marching in luxury's train. The reason is obvious : we then only are curious after knowledge, when we find it connected with sensual happiness. The senses ever point out the way, and reflection comments upon the discovery. Inform a native of the desert of Kobi, of the exact measure of the parallax of the moon, he finds no satisfaction at all in the information j he wonders how any one could take such pains, and lay out such treasures, in order to solve so useless a difiiculty ; but connect it with his happiness, by shewing that it improves navigation, that by such an investigation he may have a warmer coat, a better gim, or a finer knife, and he is instantly in raptures at so great an improvement. In short, we only desii'e to know what we desire to possess ; and whatever we may talk against it, luxury adds the spur to curiosity, and gives us a desire of becoming more wise. But not our knowledge only, but our virtues are unproved by luxury. Ob- serve the brown savage of Tliibet, to whom the fruits of the spreading pome- granate supply food, and its branches an habitation. Such a character has few vices, I grant, but those he has are of the most hideous nature ; rapine and cruelty are scarcely crimes in liis eye ; neither pity nor tenderness, which ennoble every virtue, have any place in liis heart ; he hates his enemies, and kills those he subdues. On the other hand, the polite Chinese and civilized CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 419 Eui'opeau seem even to love their enemies. I have just now seen an instance where the English have succoured those enemies, whom their own coimtrjmen actually refused to relieve. The greater the luxuries of every country, the more closely, politically speaking, is that country united. Luxury is the child of society alone ; the luxurious man stands in need of a thousand different artists to furnish out his happiness ; it is more likely, therefore, that he should be a good citizen who is connected by motives of self-interest with so many, than the abstemious man who is united to none. In whatsoever light, therefore, we consider luxmy ; whether as employing a number of hands naturally too feeble for more laborious employment ; as find- ing a variety of occupation for others who might be totally idle, or as furnish- ing out new inlets to happiness, without encroaching on mutual property ; in whatever light we regard it, we shall have reason to stand up in its defence, and the sentiment of Confucius still remains unshaken ; that we should enjoy as many of the luxuries of life as are consistent ivith our own safety, and the pros- perity of others ; and that he ivho finds out a new pleasure is one of the most useful members of society. LETTEE XIL TO THE SAME. Feom the funeral solemnities of the Daures, who think themselves the ]Dolitest people in the world, I must make a transition to the funeral solemnities of the English, who think themselves as polite as they. The numberless ceremonies wliich ai'e used here when a person is sick, appear to me so many evident marks of fear and apprehension. Ask an Englishman, however, whether he is afraid of death, and he boldly answers in the negative ; but observe his behaviour in circumstances of approaching sickness, and you will find Ids actions give his assertions the lie. The Chinese are very sincere in this respect ; they hate to die, and they confess their terrors ; a great part of their life is spent in preparing things proper for their fmieral. A poor ai'tizan shall spend lialf his income in pro- viding himself a tomb twenty years before he wants it ; and denies himself the necessaries of life, that he may be amply provided for when he shall want them no more. But people of distinction in England really deserve pity, for they die in circumstances of the most extreme distress. It is an established rule, never to let a man know that he is dying : physicians are sent for, tlie clergy are called, and every thing passes in silent solemnity round the sick bed. The patient is in agonies, looks round for pity : yet not a single creature will say that he is dying. If he is possessed of fortune, his relations intreat him to make his wdl, as it may restore the tranquillity of his mind. He is desired to •undergo the rites of the church ; for decency requu-es it. His friends take tlieir leave only because they do not care to see him in pain. In short, an Inuidred stratagems are used to make him do what he might have been in* duced to perform only by being told, Sir, you are past all hopes, and had as good think decently of dying. JBesides all this, the chamber is darkened, the whole house echoes to the cries of the wife, the lamentations of the children, the grief of the servants, and the sighs of friends. The bed is surrounded with priests and doctors in black, and only flambeaux emit a yellow gloom. Wliere is the man, how in- trepid soever, that would not shrink at such a hideous solemnity ? For fear of affrighting their expiring friends, the English practice all that can fill them 420 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH with tcn*or. Strange effect of human prejudice, thus to torture merely from mistaken tendex-ness ! You see, my friend, what contradictions there are in the tempers of those islanders ; when prompted by ambition, rerengo/or disappointment, they meet death with the utmost resolution : the very man who in his bed would have trembled at the aspect of a doctor, shall go with intrepidity to attack a bastion, or deliberately noose himself up in his garters. The passion of the Europeans for magnificent interments, is equally strong with that of the Chinese. When a tradesman dies, his frightful face is painted up by an undertaker, and placed in a proper situation to receive company : this is called lying in state. To this disagreeable spectacle all the idlers in town flock, and learn to loath the wretch dead, whom they despised when living. In this manner you see some, who would have refused a shilling to save the Hfe of their dearest friend, bestow thousands on adorning their putrid corpse. I have been told of a fellow who, grown rich by the price of blood, left it in his will that he should lie in state ; and thus unknowingly gibbeted himself into infamy, when he might have otherwise quietly retired into oblivion. Wlien the person is buried, the next care is to make his epitaph ; they are generally reckoned best which flatter most ; such relations, therefore, as have received most benefits from the defunct, discharge this friendly office, and generally flatter in proportion to their joy. When we read those monumental histories of the dead, it may be justly said, that all men are equal in the dust ; for they all appear equally remarkable for being the most sincere Christians, the most benevolent neighbours, and the honestest men of their time. To go tlu'ough an European cemetery, one would be apt to wonder how mankind could have so basely degenerated from such excellent ancestors ; every tomb pretends to claim your, reverence and regret ; some are praised for piety, in those inscriptions, who never entered the temple until they were dead ; some are praised for being excellent poets, who were never mentioned, except for their dulness, when living ; others for sublime orators, who were never noted except for their impudence ; and others still for military achievements, who were never in any other skirmishes but with the watch. Some even make epitaphs for themselves, and bespeak the reader's good-will. It were indeed to be wished, that every man would early learn in this manner to make his own ; that he would di'aw it up in terms as flattering as possible ; and that he would make it the employment of his whole hfe to deserve it ! I have not yet been in a place called Westminster- abbey, but soon intend to visit it. There, I am told, I shall see justice done to deceased merit ; none, I am told, are permitted to be bm'ied there, but such as have adorned, as well as improved, mankind. There no intruders, by the influence of friends or for- tune, presume to mix their unhallowed ashes with philosophers, heroes, and poets. JSTothing but true merit has a place in that awful sanctuary. The guardianship of the tombs is committed to several reverend priests, who are never guilty, for a superior reward, of taking down the names of good men, to make room for others of equivocal character, nor ever profane the sacred walls with pageants that posterity cannot know, or shall blush to own. I always was of opinion, that sepulchral honom's of this kind should be con- sidered as a national concern, and not trusted to the care of the priests of any country, how respectable soever ; but from the conduct of the reverend per- sonages, whose disinterested patriotism I shall shortly be able to discover, lam taught to retract my former sentiments. It is true, the Spartans and tho Persians made a fine political use of sepulchral vanity ; they permitted none to be thus interred; who had not fallen in the vindication of their country. CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. A monument thus became a real mark of distinction ; it nerved the hero's arm witli tenfold yigour; and he fought without fear, who only fought for a gi*aye. Farewell ! LETTER XIII. PEOM THE SAME. I AM just returned from Westminster-abbey, the place of sepulture for the philosophers, heroes; and kiiigH of England. — Wliat a gloom do monumental inscriptions, and all the venerable remains of deceased merit inspire ! Imagine a temple, marked with the hand of antiquity, solemn as religious awe, adorned with all the magnificence of barbarous profusion, dim windows, fretted pillars, long colonnades, and dark ceiHngs. Think, then, what were my sensations at being introduced to such a scene. I stood in the midst of the temple, and threw my eyes round on the walls, filled with the statues, the inscriptions, and the monuments of the dead. Alas, I said to myself, how does pride attend the puny child of dust even to the grave ! Even humble as I am, I possess more consequence in the present scene than the greatest hero of- them all : they have toiled for an hour to gain a transient immortality, and are at length retired to the grave, where they have no attendant but the worm, none to flatter but the epitaph. As I was indulging such reflections, a gentleman, dressed in black, per- ceiving me to be a stranger, came up, entered into conversation, and politely offered to be my instructor and guide througli the temple. " If any monu- ment," said he, "should particularly excite your curiosity, I shall endeavour to satisfy your demands." I accepted witli tluiiiks the gentleman's ofier, adding that " I was come to observe the policy, the wisdom, and the justice of the English, in conferring rewards upon deceased merit. If adulation like this (continued I) be properly conducted, as it can no ways injui'e those who are tlattered, so it may be a glorious incentive to those who are now capable of enjoying it. It is the duty of every good government to turn this monumental pride to its own advantage ; to become strong in the aggregate from the weak- ness of the individual. If none but the ti'uly great have a place in this awful repository, a temple like this will give the finest lessons of morality, and be a. strong incentive to true ambition. I am told, that none have a place here but characters of the most distinguished merit." The man in black seemed im- patient at my observations ; so I discontinued my remarks, and we walked on together to take a view of every particular monument in order as it lay. As the eye is naturally caught by the finest objects, I could not avoid being particularly curious about one monument, which appeared more beautiful than the rest : That, said I to mj guide, I take to be the tomb of some very gi*eat man. By the peculiar excellence of the workmanship, and the magnificence of the design, this must be a trophy raised to the memory of some king who has saved his country from ruin, or lawgiver, who has reduced his fellow- citizens from anarchy into just subjection. It is not requisite, replied my companion, smiling, to have such qualifications in order to have a very fine monument here. More humble abilities will suflS^ce. What, I suppose then, the gaining two or three battles, or the taking half a score toicns, is thought a sufficient qualification ? Graining battles, or taking towns, replied the man in black, may be of service : but a gentleman may have a very fine monument licre without ever seeing a battle or a siege. This, then, is the monument of some poet, I presume, of one whose tvit has gained him immortality ! No, Sir, ■replied my guide, the gentleman who lies here never made verses ; and as for wit, he despised it in others, because he had none himself. Pray tell me then 422 . THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH, in a word, said I peevishly, what is the great man ivho lies here particularly r?- markable for ? Remarkable, Sir ! said my companion ; why, Sir, the gentle ■ man that lies here is remarkable, very remarkable — for a tomb in Westminster- abbey. But, head of my Ancestors ! how has he got here ? I fancy he could never bribe the guardians of the temple to give him a place. Should he not be ashamed to be seen among company, where even moderate merit would look liJce infamy ? I suppose, replied the man in black, the gentleman -was rich, and his friends, as is usual in such a case, told him he was great. He readily be lieved them ; the guardians of the temple, as they got by the self-delusion, were ready to believe him too j so he paid his money for a fine monument ; and the workman, as you see, has made him one of the most beautiful. Think not, however, that this gentleman is singular in his desire of being buried among the great ; there are several others in the temple, who, hated and shunned by the great while alive, have come here, fully resolved to keep them company now they are dead. As we walked along to a particular part of the temple, there, says the gen- tleman, pointing with his finger, that is the poet's^oi'uer^ there you see the monuments of Shakspeare, and Milton, aint-Friof , and Drayton. Drayton ! I replied, I never heard of him before ; but I have been told of one Pope, is he there ? It is time enough, replied my guide, these hundred years ; he is not long dead ; people have not done hating him yet. Strange, cried I, can any be found to hate a man, whose life was wholly spent in entertaining and in- structing his fellow-creatm^es ? Yes, says my guide, they hate him for that very reason. There are a set of men called answerers of books, who take upon them to watch the republic of letters, and distribute reputation by tlie sheet ; they somewhat resemble the eunuchs in a seraglio, who are incapable of giving pleasm*e themselves, and hinder those that would. These answerers liave no other employment but to cry out Dunce and Scribbler, to x^raise the dead, and revile the living ; to grant a man of confessed abilities some small share of merit ; to applaud twenty blockheads, in order to gain the reputation of candour ; and to revile the moral character of the man whose writings they cannot injm'e. Such wretches are kept in pay by some mercenary bookseller, or more frequently, the bookseller himself takes this dirty work off their hands, as all that is required is to be very abusive and very dull. Every poet of any genius is sure to find such enemies ; he feels, though he seems to despise, their malice ; they make him miserable here, and in the pursuit of empty fame, at last he gains solid anxiety. Has this been the case with every poet I see here? cried I. — Yes, with every mother's son of them, replied he, except he happened to be born a Manda- rine. If he has much money, he may buy reputation from your book- answerers, as well as a monument from the guardians of the temple. But are there not some men of distinguished taste, as in China, who are willing to patronize men of merit, and soften the rancour of malevolent dulness ? I own there are many, replied the man in black, but alas ! Sir, the book- answerers crowd about them, and call themselves the writers of books ; and the patron is too indolent to distinguish : thus poets are kept at a distance, while their enemies eat up all their rewards at the Mandarine's table. Leaving this part of the temple, we made up to an iron gate, through which my companion told me we were to pass in order to see the monuments of the kings. Accordingly I marched up without farther ceremony, and"wa3~going~^ tcrcrrter, when a person, who held the gate in his hand, told me I must pay first. I was surpi'ised at such a demand ; and asked the man, whether the people of England kept a show ? whether the paltry sum he demanded was not a national reproach ? whether it was not more to the honour of the coun- CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 423 try to let their magnificence or their antiquities be openly seen, than thus meanly to tax a curiosity which tended to their own honour ? As for your questions, replied tlie gate-keeper, to be svire they may be very right, because I don't understand them ; but as for that there three-pence, I farm it from one, who rents it from another, who hires it from a tliird, who leases it from the guardians of the temple, and we all must live. I expected, upon paying here, to see something extraordinary, since what I had seen for nothing filled me with so much surprise ; but in this I was disappointed ; there was little more within than black coffins, rusty armour, tattered standards, and some few slovenly figures in wax. I was sorry I had paid, but I comforted myself by considering it would be my last payment. A person attended us, who, without once blushing, told an hundred lies ; he talked of a lady wlao died by pricking her finger ; of a king with a golden head, and twenty such pieces of absurdity. Look ye there, gentlemen, says he, pointing to an old oak chair, there's a curiosity for ye ; in that chair the kings of England were crowned : you see also a stone underneath, and that stone is Jacob's pillow. I could see no curiosity either in the oak chau', or the stone ; could I indeed behold one of the old kings of England seated in this, or Jacob's head laid upon the other, there might be something curious in the sight : but in the present case there was no more reason for my surprise than if I should pick a stone from their streets, and call it a curiosity, merely because one of the kings happened to tread upon it as he passed in a procession. Erom hence our conductor led us througni several dark walks and winding ways, uttering lies, talkmg to himself, and flourishing a wand which he held in liis hand. He reminded me of the black magicians of Kobi. After we had been almost fatigued with a vai'iety of objects, he at last desired me to consider attentively a certain sxiit of armour, which seemed to shew nothing remarkable. This armour, said he, belonged to General Monk. Very surpris- ing, that a general should icear armour ! And pray, added he, observe this cap, this is Grcneral Monk's cap. Verg strange indeed, very strange, that a general should have a cap also! Pray, friend, what might this cap have cost originally ? Tliat, Sii', says he, I don't know ; but this cap is all the wages I have for my trouble. A very small recompense tridy, said I. Not so very small, replied he, for every gentleman puts some money into it, and I spend the money. What more money! still more money! Every gentleman gives something. Sir. I '11 give thee notliing, returned I : the guardians of the temple should pay yom* wages, friend, and not permit you to squeeze thus from every spectator. When we pay our money at the door to see a show, we never give more as we are going out. Sure the guardians of the temple can never think they get enough. Shew me the gate ; if I stay longer, I may pro- bably meet with more of those ecclesiastical beggars. Tlius leaving the temple precipitately, I returned to my lodgings, in order to rtiminate over what was great, and to despise what was mean, in the occur- rences of the day. LETTER XIV. PEOM THE SAME. I WAS some days ago agreeably surprised by a message from a lady of distinc- tion, who sent me word, that she most passionately desired the pleasure of my acquaintance ; and, with the u.tmost impatience, expected an interview. I will not deny, my dear Eum Hoam, but that my vanity was raised at such an im'itation ; I flattered myself that she had seen me in some public place, and had conceived an afiection for my person, which thus induced her to deviate 424 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. from the usual decorums of llie sex. My imagiuation painted her in all the bloom of youth and beauty. I fancied her attended by the loves and graces ; and I set out with the most pleasing expectations of seeing the conquest I had made. When I was introduced into her apartment, my expectations were quickly at an end ; I perceived a little shrivelled figure indolently reclined on a sofa, who nodded by Avay of approbation at my approach. This, as I was afterwards informed, was the lady herself, a woman equally distinguished for rank, polite- ness, taste, and understanding. As I was dressed after the fasliion of JEurope, she had taken me for an Englishman, and consequently saluted me in her or- dinary manner ; but when the footman infoimed her grace tliat I was the gen- tleman from China, she instantly lifted herself from the couch, -while her eyes sparkled with unusual vivacity. *' Bless me ! can this be the gentleman that was born so far from home ? What an unusual share of somethingness in liis whole appearance ! Lord ! how I am charmed with the outlandish cut of his face! how bewitching the exotic breadth of his foi-ehead! I would give the world to see him in his own country dress. Pray tmTi about. Sir, and let me see you beliind. There! there's a travell'd air for you. You that attend there, bring up a plate of beef cut into smaU jDieces ; I have a violent passion to sec him eat. Pray, Su*, have you got yom- chopsticks about you .P It will be so pretty to see the meat carried to the mouth with a jerk. Pray speak a little Chinese : I have learned some of the language myself. Lord, have you notliing pretty from China about you; something that one does not know what to do with ? I have got twenty things from China that are of no use in the world. Look at those jars, they arc of the right pea- green: tliese arc the furniture." Dear Madam, said I, these, though they may appear fine in your eyes, are hut paltry to a Chinese ; but, as they are useful utensils, it is proper they should have a place in every apartment. Useful! Sir, replied the lady; sure you mistake, they are of no use in the world. What ! are they not filled ■with an infusion of tea as in China ? replied I. Quite empty, and useless, upon my lionour. Sir. Then they are the most cumbrous and clumsy furniture in the world, as nothing is truly elegant but what unites use with beauty. I protest, says the lady, I shall begin to suspect thee of being an actual barbarian. I i^uppose you hold my two beautiful pagods in contempt. What ! cried I, has Fohi spread his gross superstitions here also ? Pagods of all kinds are my aversion. A Chinese, a traveller, and want taste ! it sm'prises me. Pray, Sir, examine 1 he beauties of that Chinese temple, which you see at the end of the garden. Is there any thing in China more beautiful ? Where I stand I see nothing, Madam, at the end of the garden, that may not as well be called an Egyptian pyramid as a Chinese temple ; for that little building in view is as like the one as f other. What ! Su*, is not that a Chinese temple ? You must surely be mis- taken. Mr, Freeze, who designed it, calls it one, and nobody disputes his pre- tensions to taste. I now found it vain to contradict the lady in anything she tliought fit to advance ; so was resolved rather to act the disciple than the in- structor. She took me through several rooms all furnished, as slie told me in the Chinese manner ; sprawhng dragons, squatting pagods, and clumsy Man- darines, were stuck iipon every shelf: in turning round one must have used caution not to demolish a part of the precarious furniture. In a house like this, thought I, one must live continually upon the watch : the inhabitant must resemble a knight in an enchanted castle, who expects to meet an adventure at every turning. But Madam, said I, do not accidents ever happen to all this finery ? Man, Sii', replied the lady, is born to misfor- tunes, and it is but fit I should have a shai-e. Three weeks ago, a careless servant snapped off the head of a favourite Mandarine : I had scarce done CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 425 grieving for tliat, wlien a monkey broke a beautiful jar ; this I took the more to heart, as the injury was done me by a friend ; howeyer, I survived the cala- mity ; when yesterday crash went laalf a dozen dragons upon the marble hcartli stone ; and yet I live ; I survive it all : you can't conceive wliat com- fort I find under afflictions from philosophy. There is Seneca, and Bohng- broke, and some othei-s, who guide me through life, and teach me to support its calamities. — I could not but smile at a woman who makes her own misfor- j times, and then deplores the miseries of her situation. Wherefore, thcd of i acting with dissimulation, and willing to indulge my meditations in solitude, I took leave just as the servant was bringing in a plate of beef, pursuant to the directions of his mistress. Adieu ! LETTER XV. FROM THE SAME. The better sort here pretend to the utmost compassion for animals of every kind ; to hear them speak, a stranger would be apt to imagine they could hardly hurt the gnat that stung them ; they seem so tender, and so full of pity, that one Av'oukl take them for the harmless friends of the whole creation ; the protectors of the meanest insect or reptile that was privileged Avith ex- istence. And yet (would yoii believe it ?) I have seen the very men who have thus boasted of their tenderness, at the same time devouring the llesh of six different animals tossed up in a fricassee. Strange contrariety of conduct : they pity, and they eat the objects of their compassion ! The lion roars witli terror over its captive ; the tiger sends forth its hideous shriek to intimidate its prey ; no creatm'e shews any fondness for its short-lived prisoner, except a man and a cat. Man was born to live with innocence and simplicity, but lie has deviated from nature ; he was born to share the bounties of heaven, but he has mono- polized them ; he was born to govern the brute creation, but he is become their tyrant. If an epicm'o now shall happen to surfeit on his last night's feast, twenty animals the next day are to undergo the most exquisite tortures, in order to provoke his appetite to another guilty meal. Hail, O ye simple, liouest Bramins of the East, ye inoffensive friends of all that were born to happiness as well as you : you never sought a short-lived pleasui'e from the miseries of other creatures. You never studied the tormenting arts of ingenious refinement ; you never surfeited upon a guilty meal. How much more purified and refined are all your sensations than ours ; you disthiguish every element with the utmost precision ; a stream untasted before is new luxury, a change, of air is a new banqu.et, too refined for Westei'n imaginations to conceive. Though the Europeans do not hold the transmigration of souls, yet one of their doctors has, with great force of argument, and great plausibility of rea- soning, endeavoured to prove that the bodies of animals are the habitations of daemons and wicked spirits, which are obliged to reside in these prisons till the resurrection pronounces their everlasting punishment ; but are previously condemned to suffer all tlie pains and hardships inflicted upon them by man, or by eacli other here. If this be the case, it may frequently happen, that while we whip pigs to death, or boil live lobsters, we are putting some old acquaintance, some near relation, to excruciating tortures, and are serving liini up to the very same table where he was once the most welcome companion. " Kabul, says the Zendavesta, was born on the rushy banks of the river Mawra ; his possessions were great, and his luxuries kept pace with the afflu- ence of his fortune ; he hated the harndess Bramins, and despised their holy religion ; every day his table was decked out with the flesh of an hundred 426 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. dilTerent animals, and his cooks had an hundred different ways of dressing it, to solicit even satiety. "Notwithstanding all his eating, he did not arrive at old age ; he died of £> surfeit, caused by inteinperauce : upon this, his soul was carried off, in order to take its trial before a select assembly of the souls of those animals which his gluttony had caused to be slain, and who were now appointed his judges. "He trembled befoi'e a tribunal, to every member of which he had formerly acted as an unmerciful tyrant ; he sought for pity, but found none disposed to grant it. Does he not remember, cries the angry boar, to what agonies I was put, not to satisfy his hunger, but his vanity ? I was first hunted to death, and my flesh scarce thought worthy of coming once to his table. Were my advice followed, he should do peno-nce in the shape of an hog, which in life he most resembled. " I am rather, cries a sheep upon the bench, for having him suffer under the appearance of a lamb ; we may then send him through four or five trans- migrations in the space of a month. Were my voice of any weight in the assembly, cries a calf, he should rather assmne such a form as mine ; I was bled every day, in order to make my flesh white, and at last killed without mercy. Would it not be wiser, cries a hen, to cram him in the shape of a fowl, and then smother him in his own blood, as I was served ? The majority of the assembly were pleased with this punishment, and were going to condemn him without farther delay, when the ox rose up to give his opinion : I am in- formed, says this counsellor, that the pi-isoner at the bar has left a wife with cliild behind him. By my knowledge in divination, I foresee that this child will be a son, decrepid, feeble, sickly, a plague to himself and all about him. What say you then, my companions, if we condemn the father to animate the body of liis own son ; and by this means make him feel in himself those miseries his intemperance must otherwise have entailed u]5on his posterity ? The whole court applauded the ingenuity of his torture ; they thanked him for his advice. Kabul was driven once more to revisit the earth ; and his soul, in the body of his own son, passed a period of thirty years, loaded with misery, anxiety, and disease." LETTEE XVI. FEO:*! THE SAME. I KNOW not whether I am more obliged to the Chinese missionaries for the instruction I have received from them, or prejudiced by the falsehoods they have made me believe. By them I was told that the Pope was universally al- lowed to be a man, and placed at the head of the church ; in England, how- ever, they plainly prove hiin to be a whore in man's clothes, and often burn him in effigy as an impostor. A thousand books have been written on either side of the question ; priests are eternally disputing against each other ; and those mouths that want argument are filled with abuse. Which party must I believe, or shall I give credit to neither ? Wlien I survey the absurdities and falsehoods with which the books of the Europeans are filled, I thank Heaven for having been born in China, and that I have sagacity enough to detect imposture. Tlie Europeans reproach us with false history and fabulous chronology: how should they blush to see their own books, many of which are written by the doctors of theu' religion, filled with the most monstrous fables, and at- tested with the utmost solemnity. The bounds of a letter do not permit me to mention all the absurdities of this kind, which in my reading I have met M-ith. I shall confine myself to the accounts which some of their lettered men CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 42? give of the persons of some of tlie inliabitants on our globe : and not satisfied with the most solemn asseverations, they sometimes pretend to hare been eye-witnesses of what they describe. A Christian doctor, in one of his principal performances,* says, that it was not impossible for a whole nation to haye but one eye in the middle of the forehead. He is not satisfied with leaving it in doubt ; but in another workf assures vis, that the fact was certain, and that he himself was an eye-witness of it. When, says lie, / took a journey into Ethiopia, in company with several other servants of Christ, in order to preach the gospel there ; I beheld in the Southern pro7-inces of that country a nation which had only one eye in the midst of their foreheads. You will, no doubt, be surprised, reverend Fmn, with this author's ef- frontery ; but, alas ! he is not alone in this story ; he has only borrowed it from several others Avho wrote before him. Solinus creates another nation of Cyclops, the Arimaspians who inhabit those countries that border on the Cas- pian sea. This author goes on to tell us of a people of India, who have but one leg and one eye, and yet are extremely active, run with great swiftness, and live by himting. These people we scarcely know how to pity or admire ; but the men whom Pliny calls Cynaraolci, who have got the heads of dogs, really deserve om' compassion : instead of language they express theu* senti- ments by barking. Solinus confirms -what Pliny mentions ; and Simon May- olo, a French bishop, talks of them as of particular and familiar acquaintances. After passing the deserts of Egypt, says he, we meet icith the Kunokephaloi, who inhabit those regions that border on Ethiopia ; they live by hunting ; they cannot speak, but whistle ; their chins resemble a serpent's head ; their hands are armed with long sharp claws: their breast resembles that of a greyhound: and they excel in siciftness and agility. "Would you think it, my friend, that these odd kind of people are, notwithstanding their figure, excessively delicate ? not even an Alderman's wife, or Chinese Mandarine, can excel them in this particular. These people, continues our faithful bishop, never refuse wine ; love roast and boiled meat ; they are particularly curious in having their meat well dressed, and spurn at it if in the least tainted. When the Ptolemies reigned in Egypt (says he a little farther on) those men with dogs' heads taught grammar and music. For men who had no voices to teach music, and who could not speak to teach grammar, is, I confess, a little extraordinary. Did ever the disciples of Fohi broach any thing more ridiculous ? Hitherto we have seen men with lieads strangely deformed, and with dogs' heads ; but what would you say if you heard of men without anj heads at all ? Pomponius Mela, Solinus, and Aulus GrcUius, describe them to our hand ; " The Blemia) have a nose, eyes, and mouth on their breasts ; or, as others will have it, placed on their shoulders." One would think that these authors had an antipathy to the liuman form, and were resolved to make a new figiu'c of their own ; but let us do them justice. Though they sometimes deprive us of a leg, an arm, an head, or some such trifling part of the body, they often as liberally bestow upon us something that we Avanted before. Simon Mayole seems our particular friend in this respect : if he has denied heads to one part of mankind, he has given tails to another. He describes many of the English of his time, which is not more than an hundred years ago, as having tails. His own words are as fol- low : In England there are some families rohich have tails, as a punishment for deriding an Augustin friar , sent by St. Gregory, and who preached in Dorset- * Augustin. de Clvit. Dei, lib. xvi. p. 422, t Id ad Fratres in Eremo, Serm, xxxvii. 428 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITtt. shire. They seiced the tails of different animals to his clothes : hut soon they ^ound that those tails entailed on theyn and their posterity for ever. It is cer- tain tliafc the autlior had some gi'Oiind for this description ; many of thb Enghsh wear tails to their wigs to this veiy day, as a mark, I suppose, of tlie antiquity of their families, and perhaps as a symbol of those tails with which they were formerly distinguished by nature. You see, my friend, there is nothing so I'idiculous that has not at some time been said by some philosopher. The writers of books in Europe seem to think themselves authorized to say what they please ; and an ingenious phi- losopher among them* has openly asserted, that he would undertake to per- suade the whole republic of readers to behere that the sun was neither the cause of light nor heat; if he could only get six philosophers on his side. Farewell ! LETTER XVII. TEOM THE SAME. Were an Asiatic politician -to read the treaties of peace and friendship that hare been annually making for more than an hundred years among the in- habitants of Europe, he would probably be surprised how it should cA'er hap- pen that Christian princes could quaiTel among each other. Their compacts for peace are drawai np with the Titmost precision, and ratified Avith the greatest solemnity ; to these each i^arty promises a sincere and inviolable obedience, and all wears the appearance of open friendship and unreserved reconcihation. Yet, notwithstanding those treaties, the people of Europe are almost con- tinually at war. There is nothing more easy than to break a treaty ratified in all the usual foniis, and yet neither party be the aggressor. One side, for instance, breaks a trifling article by mistake ; the opposite party, upon this, makes a small but pi-emeditated repinsal ; this brings on a return of gi'cater from the other; both sides complain of injuries and infractions ; war is de- clared ; they beat ; are beaten ; some two or three hundred thousand men are killed ; they grow tired ; leave off just where they began ; and so sit coolly down to make new treaties. The English and French seem to place themselves foremost among the champion states of Europe. Though parted by a narrow sea, yet are they entirely of opposite characters ; and from their vicinity are taught to fear and admire each other. They are at present engaged in a very destructive war, have already spilled much blood, are excessively irritated, and all upon account of one side's desiring to wear greater quantities of furs than the other. The pretext of the war is about some lands a thousand leagues off: a country cold, desolate, and hideous ; a country belonging to a people who were in pos- session for time immemorial. The savages of Canada claim a property in the countiy in dispute ; they have all the pretensions which long possession can confer. Here they had reigned for ages withoitt rivals in dominion ; and knew no enemies but the prowling bear or insidious tiger ; their native forests produced all the necessaries of life, and they found ample luxury in the enjoy- ment. In this manner they might have continued to live to eternity, had not the English been informed that those countries produced furs in great abundance. From that moment the country became an object of desire ; it A\as found that furs were things veiy much wanted in England ; the ladies edged some of their clothes with furs, and muffs were worn both by gentlemen and ladies. In short, furs were found indispensably necessary for the happi- ness of the state ; and the king was consequently petitioned to gi'aiit not only * Fontenelle. CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 429 the country of Canada, but all the savages belonging to it, to the subjects of England, in order to have the people supplied with proper quantities of this necessary commodity. So very reasonable a request was immediately complied with, and large colonies were sent abroad to procure furs, and take possession. The French, who were equally in want of furs (for they were as fond of muffs and tippets as the English), made the very same request to their monarch, and met with the same gracious reception from their king, who generously granted what was not his to give. "Wherever the French landed, they called the coimtry their own ; and the English took possession wherever they came, upon the same equitable pretensions. The harmless savages made no opposition ; and, could the intruders have agreed together, they might peaceably have shared this desolate countiy between them. But they quarrelled about the bound- aries of their settlements, about grounds and rivers to which neither side could shew any other right than that of power, and which neither could occupy but by usui-pation. Such is the contest, that no honest man can heartily wish success to either party. The war has continued for some time with various success. At first the French seemed victorious ; but the English have of late dispossessed them of the whole country in dispute. Think not, however, that success on one side is the harbinger of peace ; On the contrai*y, both parties must be heartily tired, to effect even a temporary reconciliation. It should seem the business of the victorious party to offer terms of peace ; but there are many in England, who, encouraged by success, are for still protracting the war. The best English politicians, however, are sensible that to keep their present conquests, would be rather a burthen than an advantage to them : rather a diminution of their strength than an increase of power. It is in the politic as in the human constitution ; if the limbs grow too large for the body, their size, instead of improving, will diminish the vigour of the whole. The colonies should always bear an exact proportion to the mother country ; when they grow populous, they grow powerful, and by becoming powerful, they become independent also ; thus subordination is destroyed, and a country swallowed lip in the extent of its own dominions. The Turkish empire would be more formidable, were it less extensive ; were it not for those countries which it can neither command, nor give entirely away ; which it is obliged to protect, but from which it has no power to exact obedience. Yet, obvious as these truths are, there are many Englishmen who are for transplanting new colonies into this late acquisition, for peopling the deserts of America with the refuse of their countrymen, and (as they express it) with the waste of an exuberant nation. But who are those unhappy creatvu'cs who are to be thus drained away ? not the sickly, - for they are unwelcome guests abroad as well as at home ; nor the idle, for they would starve as well behind the Applachian mountains as in the streets of London. This refuse is com- posed of the laborious and enterprising, of such men as can be serviceable to their cotmtry at home ; of men who ought to be regarded as the sinews of the people, and cherished with every degree of political indulgence. And what are the commodities which this colony, when established, are to produce in return ? Why, raw silk, hemp, and tobacco. England, therefore, must make an exchange of her best and bravest subjects for raw silk, hemp, and tobacco ; her hardy veterans and honest tradesmen must be trucked for a box of snuff or a silk petticoat. Strange absm'dity ! Sure the politics of the Daures are not more strange, who sell their religion, their wives and their liberty, for a glass bead, or a paltiy penknife. Farewell! 430 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. LETTEE XYIII. FEOM THE SAME. The English love their wives with much passion, the Hollanders with niucli prudence ; the English, when they give their hands, frequently give tlieir hearts ; the Dutch give the hand, but keep the heart wisely in their own possession. The English love with violence, and expect violent love in return ; the Dutch are satisfied with the slightest acknowledgments, for they give little away. The English expend many of the matrimonial comforts in the first year ; the Dutch fragally husband out their pleasures, and are always constant because they are always indifferent. There seems very little difference between a Dutch bridegroom and a Dutch husband. Both are equally possessed of the same cool, unexpecting serenity ; they can see neither Elysium nor Paradise behind the curtain j and Yiffrow is not more a goddess on the wedding-night, than after twenty years' matri- monial acquaintance. On the other hand, many of the English marry in order to have one happy month in their hves ; they seem incajDable of looking beyond that period ; they unite in hopes of finding rapture, and disappointed in that, disdain ever to accept of happiness. From hence we see open hatred ensue ; or what is worse, concealed digust under the appearance of fulsome endearment. Much formality, great civility, and studied compliments, are exhibited in public ; cross looks, sulky silence, or open recrimination, fill up their hours of private entertainment. Hence I am taught, whenever I see a new-married couple more than ordi- nai'ily fond before faces, to consider them as attempting to impose upon the company or themselves, either hating each other heartily, or consuming that stock of love in the beginning of their course, which should serve them through their whole journey. Neither side should expect those instances of kindness which are inconsistent with true freedom or happiness to bestow. Love, when founded in the heart, will shew itself in a thousand unpremedi- tated sallies of fondness ; but every cool deliberate exliibition of the passion only argues little imderstanding, or gi*eat insincerity. Choang was the fondest husband, and Han si the most endearing wife, in all the kingdom of Korea ; they were a pattern of conjugal bliss ; the inhabitants of the country around saw, and envied their felicity; wherever Choang came, Hansi was sure to follow ; and in all the pleasures of Hansi, Choang was admitted a partner. They walked hand in hand wherever they appeared, shewing every mark of mutual satisfaction, embracing, kissing, their mouths were for ever joined, and to speak in the language of anatomy, it was with them one perpetual anastomosis. Their love was so great, that it was thought nothing could inteiTujit their mutual peace ; when an accident happened, which, in some measure, di- minished the husband's assurance of his wife's fidelity ; for love so refined as his was subject to a thousand little disquietudes. Happening to go one day alone among the tombs that lay at some distance from his house, he there perceived a lady dressed in the deepest mourning (beinff clothed all over in white), fanning the wet clay that was raised over one ot the graves with a large fan, which she held in her hand. Choang, who had eai'ly been taught wisdom in the school of Lao, was unable to assign a cause for her present employment ; and coming up, civilly demanded the reason. Alas ! replied the lady, her eyes bathed in tears, how is it possible to survive the loss of my husband, who lies buried in this grave; he was the best of men, the tenderest of husbands ; with his dying breath he bade mo CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 431 never marry again till the earth over his grave should be dry : and here you see me steadily resolving to obey his will, and endeavouring to dry it with my fan. I have employed two whole days in fulfilling his commands, and am determined not to marry till they are punctually obeyed, even though his grave should take up four days in drying. Clioang, who was sti'uck with the widow's beauty, could not, . however, avoid smiling at her haste to be married ; but, conceaUng the cause of his mirth, civilly invited her home j adding that he had a wife, who might be capable of giving her some consolation. As soon as he and his guest were returned, he imparted to Hansi in private what lie had seen, and could not avoid expressing his uneasiness, that such might be his own case if his dearest wife should one day happen to survive him. It is impossible to describe Hansi's resentment at so unkind a suspicion. As her passion for him was not only great, but extremely delicate, she em- ployed tears, anger, frowns, and exclamations, to chide his suspicions ; the widow herself was inveighed against ; and Hansi declared she was resolved never to sleep under the same roof witli a wretch, who, like her, could be guilty of such barefaced inconstancy. The night was cold and stormy ; how- ever, the stranger was obliged to seek another lodging, for Choang was not disposed to resist, and Hansi would have her way. The widow had scarcely been gone an hour, when an old disciple of Choang's, whom he had not seen for many years, came to pay him a visit. He was received with the utmost ceremony, placed in the most honom-able seat at supper, and tlie wine began to circulate with great freedom. Choang and Hansi exhibited open marks of mutual tenderness and unfeigned reconciliation : nothing could equal their apparent happiness ; so fond an husband, so obe- dient a wife, few could behold without regretting their own infelicity. When, Iji ! their happiness was at once disturbed by a most fatal accident. Choang fell lifeless in an apoplectic fit upon the floor. Every method was used, but in vain, for his recovery. Hansi was at first inconsolable for his death : after some hours, however, she found spirits to read his last wiU. The ensuing day she began to morahze and talk wisdom ; the next day she was able to comfort the young disciple : and on the third, to shorten a long story, they both agreed to be married. There was now no longer mourning in the apartments : the body of Choang was now thrust into an old coffin, and placed in one of the meanest rooms, there to lie imattended until the time prescribed by law for his interment. In the meantime, Hansi and the young disciple were arrayed in the most magnificent habits ; the bride wore in her nose a jewel of immense price, and her lover was dressed in all the finery of his former master, together with a pair of artificial whiskers that reached down to his toes. The hour of their nuptials was arrived ; the whole family sympathized with their approaching happiness ; the apartments were brightened up with lights that diffused the most exquisite perfume, and a lustre more bright than noon day. The lady expected her youthful lover in an inner apartment with impatience ; when his servant approaching with terror in his countenance, informed her that his master was fallen into a fit, which would certainly be mortal, unless the heart of a man lately dead could be obtained, and apphed to his breast. She scarcely waited to hear the end of his story, when, tucking up her clothes, she ran with a mattock in her hand to the coifin where Choang lay, resolving to apply the heart of her dead husband as a cure for the living. She therefore struck the lid with the utmost violence. In a few blows the coffin flew open, when the body, which to all appearance had been dead, began to move. Terrified at the sight, Hansi dropped the mattock, and Choang walked out, astonished 432 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. I at liis own situation, his wife's iimisual magnificence, and her more amazing eurprise. He went among the apartments, unable to conceive the cause of so much splendour. He was not long in suspense before his domestics informed him. of every transaction since he first became insensible. He could scarcely believe what they told him ; and went in pursuit of Hansi herself, in order to receive more certain infoi'mation, or to reproach her infidehty. But she pre- vented his reproaches : he found her weltering m blood ; for she had stabbed • herself to the heart, being nnable to survive her shame and disappointment. Choang, being a philosopher, was too wise to make any loud lamentations : he thought it best to bear his loss with serenity : so, mending up the old cofiin where he had lain himself, he placed his faithless spouse in his room ; and, unwilling that so many nuptial preparations should be expended in vain, he the same night married the widow with the large fan. As they both were apprised of the foibles of each other before hand, they knew how to excuse them after marriage. They lived together for many years in great tranquillity ; and, not expecting rapture, made a shift to find contentment. Parewell ! CHAPTER XIX. TO THE SAME. The gentleman dressed in black, who was my companion through "Westminster- abbey, came yesterday to pay me a visit ; and, after drinking tea, we both resolved to take a walk together, in order to enjoy the freshness of the country, which now begins to resume its verdm'e. Before we got out of the suburbs, however, wo were stopped in one of the streets by a crowd of people, gathered in a circle round a man and his wife, who seemed too loud and too angry to be un- derstood. Tlie people were highly pleased with the dispute, which, upon inquiry, we found to be between Dr. Cacafogo, an apothecary, and his wife. The doctor, it seenis, coming iinexpectedly into his wife's apartment, found a gentleman there in circumstances not in the least equivocal. The doctor, who was a person of nice honour, resolving to revenge the fla- grant insult, immediately flew to the chimney-piece, and takiag down a rusty blunderbuss, drew the trigger upon the defiler of his bed ; the deHnquent would certainly have been shot through the head, but that the piece had not been charged for many years. The gallant made a shift to escape through the window, but the lady still remained ; and as she well knew her husband's temper, undertook to manage the quai-rel without a second. He was fm*ious, and she loud ; their noise had gathered all the mob, who charitably assembled on the occasion, not to prevent, but to enjoy the quarrel. Alas ! said I to my companion, what will become of this unhappy creature thus caught in adultery? BeHeve me, I pity her from my heart ; her husband, I suppose, will shew her no mercy. Will they burn her as in India, or behead her as in Persia ? Will they load her with stripes as in Turkey, or keep her in perpetual imprisonment, as with us in China ? Pry thee, what is the wife's punishment in England for such offences ? When a lady is thus caught trip- ping, replied my companion, they never punish her but the husband. You sm'ely jest, interrupted I ; I am a foreigner, and you would abuse my igno- rance ! I am really serious, returned he ; Dr. Cacafogo has caught his wife in the act ; but as he had no witnesses, his small testimony goes for nothing ; tlic consequence, therefore, of his discovery will be, that she will be packed off to live among her relations, and the doctor must be obliged to allow her a sepa- rate maintenance. Amazing ! cried I ; is it not enough, that she is permitted to live separate from the object she detests, but must he give her money to CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 43^ keep her in spirits too ? That he must, said my guide, and be called a cuck- old by all his neighbours into the bargain. The men will laugh at him, the ladies -vriU pity him ; and all that his warmest friends can say in his favour will be, that the poor good soul has never had any harm in him, I want patience, interrupted I ; what ! are there no private chastisements for the wife ; no schools of penitence to shew her folly ; no rods for such dehnquents ? Psha, man, replied he smiling, if every delinquent among us were to be treated ia your manner, one half of the kingdom would flog tlie other. I must confess, my dear Fum, that if I were an English husband, of all things I would take care not to be jealous, nor busily pry into those secrets my wife was pleased to keep from me. Should I detect her infidelity, what is the consequence ? If I calmly pocket the abuse, I am lauglied at by her and her gallant ; if I talk my griefs aloud like a tragedy hero, I am laughed at by the whole world. The course then I would take would be, whenever I went out, to tell my wife where I was going, lest I should unexpectedly meet her abroad in company with some dear deceiver. Whenever I returned, I would use a peculiar rap at the door, and give four loud hems as I walked dehberately up the staircase. I would never inquisitively peep under the bed, or look behind the curtains. And even thovigh I knew the captain was there, I would calmly take a dish of my wife's cool tea, and talk of the army with reverence. Of all nations, the Russians seem to me to behave most wisely in such ch'- cumstances. The wife promises her husband never to let liim see her trans- gressions of this nature ; and he as punctually promises, whenever she is so detected, without the least anger, to beat her without mercy ; so they both know what each has to expect ; the lady transgresses, is beaten, taken again into favour, and all goes on as before. When a Russian young lady, therefore, is to be married, her father, with a cudgel in his hand, asks the bridegroom whether he chooses this virgin for his bride ? To which the other replies in the affirmative. Upon this the father, turning the lady tlu'ee tunes roimd, and giving her three strokes with his cudgel on the back ; My dear, cries he, these are the last bloivs you are ever to receive from your tender father ; I resign my authority, and my cudgel to your husband ; he Jcnoivs better than me the use of either. The bridegroom knows decorums too well to accept of the cudgel abruptly ; he assures the father that the lady will never want it, and that he would not, for the world, make any use of it ; but the father, who knows what the lady may want better than he, insists upon his acceptance : upon this there follows a scene of Russian polite- ness, while one refuses, and the other offers the ciidgel. The whole, however, ends with the bridegroom's taking it ; upon which the lady drops a courtesy m token of obedience, and the ceremony proceeds as usual. There is something excessively fair and open in this method of com'tship : by this both sides are prepared for all the matrimonial adventures that are to follow. Marriage has been compared to a game of skill for life : it is generous thus in both parties to declare they are sharpers in the beginning. In Eng- land, I am told, both sides use every art to conceal their defects from each other before man-iage, and the rest of their lives may be regarded as doing penance for their former dissimulation. Farewell ! LETTER XX. PEOM THE SAME. The republic of letters is a very common expression among the Europeans \ and yet, when applied to the learned of Europe, is the most absurd that can bo imagined, since nothing is more unhke a republic than the society which goes by 28 434 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. __^ tliat name. From this expression one would be apt to imagine, tliafc the learned were united into a single body, joining their interests, and concurring in the same design. From this one might be apt to compare them to our lite- rary societies in China, where each acknowledges a just subordination ; and all contribute to build the temple of science, without attempting, from ignorance or envy, to obstruct each other. But very different is the state of learning here ; every member of this fancied republic is desirous of governing, and none willing to obey ; each looks upon his fellow as a rival, not an assistant, in the same pm*suit. They calum- niate, they injm'e, they despise, they ridicule each other ; if one man writes a book that pleases, others shall wi-ite books to shew that he might have given still greater pleasure, or should not have pleased. If one happens to hit upon something new, there are numbers ready to assiire the public that aU this was no novelty to them or the learned ; that Cardanus, or Brunus, or some other author too dull to be generally read, had anticipated the discovery. Thus, instead of uniting like the members of a commonwealth, they are divided into almost as many factions as there are men j and their jarring constitution, in- stead of being styled a republic of letters, should be entitled an anarchy of literature. It is true, there are some of superior abihties who reverence and esteem each other ; but their mutual admiration is not sufficient to shield off the contempt of the crowd. The wise are but few, and they praise with a feeble voice ; the vulgar are many, and roar in reproaches. The truly great seldom unite in so- cieties ; have few meetings, no cabals ; the dunces himt in fuU cry till they have nm down a reputation, and then snarl and fight with each other about dividing the spoil. Here you may see the compilers and the book-answerers of every month, when they have cut up some respectable name, most fre- quently reproacliing each other with stupidity and dulness ; resembling the wolves of the Russian forest, who prey upon venison, or horse-flesh, when they can get it ; but in cases of necessity, lying in wait to devour each other. While they have new books to cut up, they make a hearty meal ; but if this resource should unhappily fail, then it is that critics eat up critics, and com- pilers rob from compilations. Confucius obsei*ves, that it is the duty of the learned to unite society more closely, and to persuade men to become citizens of the world j but the authors I refer to, are not only for disuniting society, but kingdoms also : if the Eng- lish are at war with France, the dimces of France think it their duty to be at war with those of England. Thus Freron, one of their first-rate scribblers, thinks proper to characterise aU the English writers in the gi-oss : "Their whole merit," says he, " consists in exaggeration, and often in extravagance : correct their pieces as you please, there still remains a leaven which corrupts the whole. They sometimes discover genius, but not the smallest share of taste : England is not a soil for the plants of genius to thrive in." This is open enough, with not the least adulation in the picture j but hear what a French- man of acknowledged abihties says upon the same subject : " I am at a loss to determine in what we excel the Enghsh, or where they excel us j when I com- pare the merits of both in any one species of Hterary composition, so many reputable and pleasing writers present themselves from either country, that my judgment rests in suspense: lam pleased with the disquisition, without finding"the object of my inquiry." But lest you should tiujik the French alono are faulty in this respect, hear how an English jouraalist dehvers his sentiments of them ; " we are amazed," says he, " to find so many works translated from the French, while we liave such numbers neglected of om* own. in our opinion, notwithstanding their fame throughout the rest of Em*ope, the CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. French are tlie most contemptible reasoners (wo had almost said writers) that can be imagined. However, nevertheless, excepting, &c." Another English Avrit«r, Shaftesbury, if I remember, on the contrary says that the French au- thors are pleasing and judicious, more clear, more methodical, and entertain- ing, than those of his own country. From these opposite pictures you perceive that the good authors of either coimtry praise, and the bad revile each other ; and yet, perhaps, you will be sm'prised that indifferent writers should thus be the most apt to censure, as they have the most to apprehend from recrimination : you may perhaps imagine, that such as are possessed of fame themselves should be most ready to declare their opinions, since what they say might pass for decision. But the truth happens to be, tliat the great are solicitous only of raising their own reputations, while the opposite class, alas ! are solicitous of bringing every re- putation down to a level with their own. But let us acquit them of malice and envy ; a critic is often guided by the same motives that direct his author. The author endeavours to persuade us, that he has written a good book ; the critic is equally solicitous to shew that he could write a better, had he thought proper. A critic is a being possessed of all the vanity, but not the genius, of a scholar ; incapable from his native weakness of lifting himself from the ground,^ he applies to contiguous merit for support j makes the sportive sallies of another's imagination his serious employment, pretends to take our feelings under his care, teaches where to condemn, where to lay the emphasis of praise ; and may with as much justice be called a man of taste, as the Chinese who measm-es his wisdom by the length of his nails. If then a book, spirited or humorous, happens to appear in the republic of letters, several critics are in waiting to bid the pubhc not to laugh at a single line of it, for themselves had read it ; and they know what is most proper to excite laughter. Other critics contradict the fulminations of this tribunal, call them all spiders, and assm*e the public that they ought to laugli without re- straint. Another set are in the mean time quietly employed in writing notes to the book, intended to shew the particular passages to be laughed at ; when these are out, others still there are who write notes upon notes : thus a single new book employs not only the paper-makers, the printers, the pressmen, the bookbinders, the hawkers, but twenty critics, and as many compilers. In short, the body of the learned may be compared to a Persian army, where there are many pioneers, several suttlers, nimaberless servants, women and children in abundance, and but few soldiers. Adieu ! LETTER XXI. TO THE SAME. The EngKsh are as fond of seeing plays acted a s the Chinese j but there is a vast difference in the manner of conducting ihem. We play our pieces in the open air, the English theirs under cover ; we act by day-light, they by the blaze of torches. One of our plays continues eight or ten days successively j an English piece seldom takes vip above fom* hours in the representation. My companion in black, with whom I am now beginning to contract an in- timacy, introduced me a few nights ago to the playhouse, where we placed our- selves conveniently at the foot of the stage. As the curtain was not drawn before my arrival, I had an opportunity of observing the behaviour of the spectators, and indulging those reflections which novelty generally inspires. The rich in general were placed in the lowest seats, and the poor rose above them in degrees proportioned to their v>overty. The order of precedence 28—2 436 THE WORKS OF OLIVM GOLDSMITH. eeemed hei*e inrerted ; those who were undermost all the day, now enjoyed a tciiiporaiT eminence, and became masters of the ceremonies. It was they who called for the music, indulging eyery noisy freedom, and testifying all the insolence of beggary in exultation. They who held the middle region seemed not so riotous as those above them, nor yet so tame as those below ; to judge by their looks, many of them seemed strangers there as well as myself : they were chiefly employed, during this period of expectation, in eating oranges, reading the story of the i^lay, or making assignations. /^TDliose who sat in the lowest rows, which are called the pit, seemed to con- 'sider themselves as judges of the merit of the poet and the performers ; they were assembled partly to be amused, and partly to shew their taste ; appear- ing to laboiu* under tliat restraint Avhich an affectation of superior discernment generally pi'oduces. My companion, however, informed me, that not one in an hundred of them knew even the first principles of criticism ; that they assumed the right of being censors because there was none to contradict their pretensions ; and that every man who now called himself a connoisseur, became such to all intents and purposes. Those who sat in the boxes appeared in the most unhappy situation of all. The rest of the audience came merely for their own amusement ; these rather to furnish out a part of the entertainment themselves. I could not avoid considering them as acting parts in dumb show, not a courtesy or nod, that was not the result of art ; not a look nor a smile that was not designed for murder. Grentlemen and ladies ogled each other through spectacles : for my companion observed, that blindness was of late become fashionable ; all affected indifference and ease, while their hearts at the same time burned for conquest. Upon the whole, the lights, the music, the ladies in their gayest dresses, the men with cheerfulness and expectation in their looks, all eon- spired to make a most agreeable picture, and to fill an heart that sympathizes at human happiness with inexpressible serenity. The expected time for the play to begin at last arrived, the curtain was drawn, and the actors came on. A woman who personated a queen, came in courfcesying to the audience, who clapped their hands upon her appearance. Clapping of hands is, it seems, the manner of applauding in England ; tlie manner is absurd, but every country, you know, has its peculiar absurdities. I was equally surprised, however, at the s\ibmission of the actress, who sliould have considered herself as a queen, as at the little discernment of the audience who gave her such marks of applause before she attempted to deserve them. Prehminaries between her and the audience being thus adjusted, the dialogue was supported between her and a most hopeful youth, who acted the part of her confidant. They both appeared in extreme distress, for it seems the queen had lost a child some fifteen years before, and still keeps its dear resemblance next her heart, while her kind companion bore a part in her sorrows. Her lamentations grew loud, comfort is offered, but she detests the very sound. She bids them preach comfort to the winds. Upon this her husband comes in, who, seeing the queen so much afflicted, can himself hardly refrain from tears, or avoid partaking in the soft distress. After thus grieving through three scenes, the curtain dropped for the first act. Ti'uly, said I to my companion, these kings and queens are veiy much dis- tm*bed at no very great misfortune ; certain I am, were people of humbler stations to act in this manner, they would be thought divested of common sense. I had scarcely finished this observation, when the curtain rose, and the king came on in a violent passion. His wife had, it seems refused his proffered tenderness, and spumed his royal embrace ; and he seemed resolved CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 437 not to survive her fierce disdain. After lie had thus fretted, and the queen had fretted through the second act, the curtain was let down once more. Now, says my companion, you perceive the king to be a man of spirit, he feels at every pore : one of your phlegmatic sons of clay would have given the queen her own way, and let her come to herself by degrees ; but the king is for immediate tenderness, or instant death : death and tenderness are leading passions of every modern buskined hero j this moment they embrace, and the -^lext stabymixing" daggers and kisses in every period. " I was going to second his remarks, when my attention was engrossed by a new object : a man came in balancing a straw upon his nose, and the- audience wei'e clapping their hands in all the raptures of applause. To what purpose, cried I, does this unmeaning figure make his appearance ; is he a part of the plot ? Unmeaning do you call him ? replied my friend in black : this is one of the most important characters of the whole play, nothing pleases the people more than seeing a straw balanced ; there is a great deal of meaning in the straw ; there is something suited to every apprehension in the sight j and a fellow possessed of talents like these is sure of making his fortune. Tlie third act now began with an actor who came to inform us, that he was the villain of the play, and intended to shew strange things before all was over. He was joined by another, who seemed as much disposed for mischief as he ; their intrigues continued through this whole division. If that be a villain, said I, he must be a very stupid one to tell his secrets without being asked ; such soliloquies of late are never admitted in China. The noise of clapping interrupted me once more ; a child of six years old was learning to dance on the stage, which gave the ladies and mandarines in- finite satisfaction. I am sorry, said I, to see the pretty creature so early learning so bad a trade ; dancing being, I presume, as contemptible here as in China. Quite the reverse, interrupted my companion, dancing is a very reputable and genteel employment here ; men have a greater chance for en- couragement from the merit of their heels than their heads. One who jumps up and flourishes his toes tliree times before he comes to the ground, may have three hundred a year ; he who flourishes them four times, gets foiu* hundred ; but he who arrives at five is inestimable, and may demand what salary he thinks proper. The female dancers too are valued for this sort of jumping and crossing ; and it is a cant word among them, that she deserves most who shews highest. But the fourth act is begun, let us be attentive. In the fourth act the queen, finds her long-lost child, now grown up into a youth of smart parts and great qualifications ; wherefore, she wisely considers tliat the crown will fit his head better than that of her husband, whom she knows to be a di'iveller. The king discovers her design, and here comes on the deep distress ; he loves the queen and he loves the kingdom ; he resolves, therefore, in order to possess both, that her son must die. The queen exclaims at his barbarity, is frantic with rage, and at length, overcome with sorrow, falls into a fit ; upon which the ciirtain drops, and the act is conckided. ^ Observe the art of the poet, cries my companion ; when the queen can say""' no more, she falls into a fit. While thus her eyes are shut, while she is sup- ported in the arms of Abigal, what horrors do we not fancy ! we feel it in every nerve ; take my word for it, that fits are the true aposiopesis of modern tragedy. .---' The fifth act began, and a busy piece it was. Scenes shifting, trumpets sounding, mobs hallooing, cai'pets spreading, guards bustling from one door to I anotlier ; gods, daemons, daggers, racks, and ratsbane. But whether the king j was killed, or the queen was drowned, or the son was poisoned, I have abso- I li;tely forgotten. a 438 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. ^ _ "When the play was over, I coiild not aroid observing, tliat the persons of the drama appeared in as much distress in the first act as the last : how is it possible, said I, to sympathize with them through five long acts ? Pity is but a short-lived passion ; I hate to hear an actor mouthing trifles ; neither start- ings, strainings, nor attitudes afiect me, imless there be cause : after I have been once or twice deceived by those unmeaning alarms, my heart sleeps in peace, probably unafiected by the principal distress. There should be one great passion aimed at by the actor as well as the poet, all the rest should be subordinate, and only contribute to make that the greater ; if the actor, there- fore, exclaims upon every occasion in the tones of despair, he attempts to move ixs too soon ; he anticipates the blow, he ceases to afiect, though he gains our applause. I scarcely perceived that the audience were almost all departed, wherefore mixing with the crowd, my companion and I got into the street ; where, essay- ing an hundred obstacles from coach wheels and palanquin poles, like birds in their flight tlirough the branches of a forest, after various turnings, we both at length got home in safety. Adieu ! LETTER XXII. TKOM THE SAME. The letter which came by the way of Smyrna, and which you sent me unopened, was from my son. As I have permitted you to take copies of all those I sent to Cliina, you might have made no ceremony in opening those directed to me. Either in joy or sorrow, my friend should participate in my feelings. It would give pleasure to see a good man pleased at my success ; it would give almost equal pleasure to see him sympathize at my disappointment. Every account I receive from tlie East seems to come loaded with some new afiliction. My wife and daughter were taken from me, and yet I sustained tlio loss with intrepidity ; my son is made a slave among the barbarians, whicli was the only blow that could have reached my heart : yes, I will indulge the transports of nature for a little, in order to shew I can overcome them in the end. True magnanimity consists not in never falling, but in ElgiNO- every time we fall. AVlien our mighty emperor had published his displeasure at my departure, and seized upon all that was mine, my son was privately secreted from his resentment. Under the protection and guardian ship, of Eum Hoam, the best and the wisest of all the inhabitants of China, he was for some time instructed ill the learning of the missionaries, and the wisdom of the East. But hearing of my adventures, and incited by fihal piety, he was resolved to follow my fortunes, and shai*e my distress. He passed the confines of China in disguise, hired himself as a camel-driver to a caravan that was crossing the deserts of Thibet, and was within one day's joiu'ney of the river Laur, which divides that country from India, when a body of wandering Tartars falling imexpectedly upon the caravan, plundered it, and made those who escaped their first fury slaves. By those he was led into the extensive and desolate regions that border on the shores of the Ai'al lake. Here he lived by hunting ; and was obliged to supply every day a certain proportion of the spoil, to regale his savage masters. His learning, his vix'tues, and even his beauty, were qualifications that no way served to recommend him ; they knew no merit, but that of providing large quantities of milk and raw fl.esh ; and were sensible of no happiness but that of rioting on the un- dressed meal. gome merchants from Mesched, however, coming to trade with the Tartars CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 439 for slaves, he was sold among the number, and led into the kingdom of Persia, ■where he is now detained. He is there obliged to watch the looks of a Tolup- tuous and cruel master, a man fond of pleasure, yet incapable of refinement, whom many years' service in war has taught pride, but not bravery. That treasure which I still keep within my bosom, my child, my all that was left to me, is now a slave.* G-ood heavens, why was this ? Why have I been introduced into this mortal apartment, to be a spectator of my own mis- fortunes, and the misfortunes of my fellow-creatures ? Wlierevcr I turn, what a labyrinth of doubt, error and disappointment appears ! Why was I brought into being ; for what purposes made ; from whence have I come ; whither strayed ; or to what regions am I hastening ? Reason cannot resolve. It lends a ray to shew the horrors of my prison, but not a light to guide me to escape them. Ye boasted revelations of the earth, how little do you aid the inquiry ! How am I surprised at the inconsistency of the magi ! their two principles of good and evil affright me. The Indian who bathes his visage in urine, and calls it piety, strikes me with astonishment. The Christian who believes in three gods is highly absiu^d. The Jews who pretend that deity is pleased with I the effusion of blood, are not less displeasing. I am equally surprised, that ! rational beings can come from the extremities of the earth in order to kiss a I stone, or scatter pebbles. How conti-ary to reason are those! and yet all pre- ; tend to teach me to be happy. ""j^ Svu'ely all men are blind and ignorant of truth. Mankind wanders, un- knowing his way, from morning till evenmg. Wliere shall we turn after hap- piness ; or is it wisest to desist from the pursuit ? Like reptiles in a corner ! of some stupendous palace, we peep from our holes, look about us, wonder at | all we see, but are ignorant of the great architect's design : O for a revelation j of himself, for a plan of his universal system ! O for the reasons of our crea- ! 'ion ; or why were we created to be thus imhappy ! If we are to experience ! no other felicity but what this life affords, then are we miserable indeed ; if vre are born only to look about us, repine and die, then has heaven been guilty of injustice. If this life terminates my existence, I despise the blessings of Providence, and the wisdom of the giver : if this life be my all, let the follow- ing epitaph be wi'itten on the tomb of Altangi : By my father'' s crimes I re- ceived this : ly my own crimes I bequeath it to posterity. -^ LETTER XXIIL TO THE SAME. Yet, while I sometimes lament the case of humanity, and the depravity of human nature, there now and then appear gleams of greatness that serve to relieve the eye, oppressed with the hideous prospects ; and resemble those cultivated spots that are sometimes found in the midst of an Asiatic wilder- ness. I see many superior excellences among the English, which it is not in the power of all their follies to hide : I see virtues, which in other countries are known only to a few, practised here by every rank of people. I know not whether it proceeds from their superior opulence that the Eng- lish are more charitable than the rest of mankind ; whether, by being possessed of all the conveniences of hfe themselves, they have more leisure to perceive the uneasy situation of the distressed ; whatever be the motive, they are not only the most charitable of any other nation, but most judicious in distinguish- ing the properest objects of compassion. * This whole apostroplie seeing most literally translated from Ambulaaohamed, the Arabian poet. ^ 440 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Ill othei' counti'ies the giver is generally influenced by the immediate iru' pulse of pity : his generosity is exerted as much to relieve his own uneasy sen- sations, as to comfort the object in distress. In England benefactions are of a more general nature. Some men of fortune and universal benevolence propose the proper objects ; the wants and the merits of the petitioners are canvassed by the people ; neither passion nor pity find a place in the cool dis- cussion ; and charity is then only exerted when it has received the approba- tion of reason. A late instance of this finely- directed benevolence forces itself so strongly on my imagination, that it in a manner reconciles me to pleasure, and once more makes me the universal friend of man. The English and French have not only political reasons to induce them to mutual hatred, but often the more prevailing motive of private interest to widen the breach. A war between other countries is carried on collectively ; army fights against army, and a man's own private resentment is lost in that of the community ; but in England and France the individuals of each coun- try plunder each other at sea without redress, and consequently feel that animosity against each other which passengers do at a robber. They have for some time carried on an expensive war j and several captives have been taken on both sides : those made prisoners by the French have been used with cruelty, and guarded with imneeessary caution ; those taken by the English, being much more numerous, were confined in the ordinary manner ; and, not being released by their countrymen, began to feel all those inconveniences whicli arise from want of covering and long confinement. Tlieir countrymen were informed of their deplorable situation j but they, more intent on annoying tlieir enemies than relieving their friends, refused the least assistance. The EngHsh now saw thousands of their fellow-creatui'cs starving in every prison, forsaken by those whose duty it was to protect them, labouring with disease, and without clothes to keep ofi" the severity of the season. ]S"ational benevolence prevailed over national animosity; their pri- soners were indeed enemies, but they were enemies in distress : they ceased to be hateful, when they no longer continued to be formidable : forgetting, therefore, theu' national liatred, the men who were brave enough to conquer, were generous enough to forgive; and they, whom all the world seemed to have disclaimed, at last found pity and redress from those they attempted to subdue. A subscription was opened, ample charities collected, proper necessaries procured, and the poor gay sons of a merry nation were once more taught to resume their former gaiety. When I cast my eye over the list of those who contributed on this occasion, I find the names almost entirely English ; scarcely one foreigner appears among the number. It was for Englishmen alone to bo capable of such exalted virtue. I own, I cannot look over this catalogue of good men and philoso- phers without thinking better of myself, because it makes me entertain a more favourable opinion of mankind. I am particularly struck with one who writes these words upon the paper that enclosed his benefaction : The mite of an Englishman, a citizen of the ivorld, to Frenchmen, prisoners of war, and naked. I only wish that he may find as much pleasure from his virtues, as I have done in reflecting upon them ; that alone will amply reward him. Such an one, my friend, is an honour to human nature ; he makes no private distinctions of party ; all that are stamped with the divine image of their Creator are friends to him ; he is a native of the ivorld; and the emperor of China may be proud tliat he has such a countryman. To rejoice at the destruction of our enemies is a foible grafted upon hanian nature, and we must be permitted to indulge it : the true way of atoning for such an ill-founded pleasiu-e, is thus to turn our triumph into an act of CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 441 benevolence, and to testify our own joy by encleayoxiring to banish anxiety from others. Hamti, the best and wisest emperor that ever filled the throne, after having gained three signal victories over the Tartars, who had invaded his dominions, returned to ]N"ankin in order to enjoy the glory of his conquest. After he had rested for some days, the people, who are natm-ally fond of processions, impa- tiently expected the triumphant entry which emperors upon such occasions were accustomed to make : their mm-murs came to the emperor's ear ; he loved his people, and was willing to do all in his power to satisfy their just desires. He therefore assured them, that he intended, upon the next feast of tlie Lanthorns, to exhibit one of the most glorious triumphs that had ever been seen in Cliina. The people were in raptm'cs at his condescension ; and on the appointed tlay, assembled at the gates of the palace with the most eager expectations. ] lore they waited for some time Avithout seeing any of those preparations which usually precede a pageant. The lanthorn, with ten thousand tapers, was not yet brought forth ; the fireworks, which usually covered the city walls, were not yet lighted j the people once more began to murmur at this delay ; when in the midst of their impatience, the palace-gates flew open, and the emperor himself appeared ; not in splendour or magnificence, but in an ordinary habit, followed by the blind, the maimed, and the strangers of the city, all in new clothes, and each carrying in his hand money enough to supply liis necessi- ties for the year. The people were at first amazed, but soon perceived the wisdom of their king, who taught them that to make one man happy was more truly great than having ten tliousand captives groaning at the wheels of his chariot. Adieu ! LETTEE XXIY. TO THE SAME. WnATEYER may be the merits of the English in other sciences, they seem peculiarly excellent in the art of healing. There is scarcely a disorder incident to humanity, against which they are not possessed with a most infallible anti- dote. The professors of other arts confess the inevitable intricacy of things ; talk with doubt, and decide with hesitation ; but doubting is entirely un- known in medicine ; the advertising professors here delight in cases of diffi- culty : be the disorder never so desperate or radical, you will find numbers in every street, who, by levelling a pill at the pai't afiected, promise a certain cm'e without loss of time, knowledge of a bedfellow, or hindrance of business. When I consider the assiduity of this profession, their benevolence amazes me. They not only in general give their medicines for half value, but use the most persuasive remonstrances to induce the sick to come and be cured. Sure thei-e must be something strangely obstinate in an English patient, who refuses so much health upon such easy terms : does he take a pride in being bloated with a dropsy ? does he find pleasure in the alternations of an intermittent fever ? or feel as much satisfaction in nursing up his gout, as he foimd plca- sui'O in acquiring it ? He must, otherwise ho would never reject such repeated assurances of instant relief. What can be more convincing than the manner in which the sick are invited to be well ? The doctor first begs the most earnest attention of the public to what he is going to propose ; he solemnly affirms the pill was never found to want success ; he produces a list of those who have been rescued from the grave by taking it. Yet, notwithstandhig all this, there are many here who now and tlien think proper to be sick. Only Bick, did I say ? there are some who even think pi-oper to die ! Yes, by the j 442 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. head of Confucius ! tliey die ; though they might have purchased tlie health- restoring specific for half-a-croAvn at every corner. I am amazed, my dear Fum Iloam, that these doctors, -who know -what an obstinate set of people they have to deal with, have never tliought of attempt- ing to revive the dead. When the living are found to reject their prescrip- tions, Ihey ought in conscience to apply to the dead, from whom they can expect no such mortifying repulses ; they would find in tlie dead the most complying patients imaginable ; and what gratitude might they not expect from the patient's son, now no longer an heir, and his wife, now no longer a widow ! Think not, my friend, that there is anything chimerical in such an attempt ; they already perform cures equally strange. What can be more truly astonish- ing than to see old age restored to youth, and vigour to the most feeble con- stitutions ? yet this is performed here every day : a simple electuary effects these wonders, even without the bungling ceremonies of having the patient boiled up in a kettle, or ground down in a mill. Few physicians here go through the ordinary courses of education, but re- ceive all their knowledge of medicine by immediate inspu-ation from Heaven, Some are thus inspu'cd even in the womb ; and, what is very remarkable, understand their profession as well at three years old as at threescore. Others have spent a great part of their lives unconscious of any latent excellence, till a bankruptcy, or a residence in gaol, have called then* miraculous powers into exertion. And others still there are indebted to their superlative ignorance alone for success : the more ignorant the practitioner, the less capable is he thought of deceiving. The people here judge as they do in the East ; where it is thought absolutely requisite that a man should be an idiot before he pretend to be either a conjuror or a doctor. When a physician by inspiration is sent for, he never perplexes the patient by previous examination ; he asks very few questions, and those only foi" form sake. He knows every disorder by intuition ; he administers the pill or droj) for every distemper ; nor is more inquisitive than the farrier while lie drenches an horse. If the patient lives, then has he one more to add to the surviving list ; if he dies, then it may be justly said of the patient's disorder, that as it was not cured, the disorder ivas incurable. LET TEE XXY. FEOM THE SAME. I "WAS, some days ago, in company with a poHtician, who very pathetically declaimed u]Don the miserable situation of his country : he assui'cd.me, that the whole political machine was moving in a wrong track, and that scarcely even abilities like his own could ever set it right again. " What have we," said he, " to do Avith the wars on the continent ? we are a commercial nation ; we have only to cultivate commerce like our neighbours the Dutch ; it is our business to increase trade by settling new colonies : riches are the strength of a nation ; and for the rest, our ships, our ships alone will protect us." I found it vain to oppose my feeble arguments to those of a man who thought himself wise enough to direct even the ministry : I fancied, however, that I saw with more certainty, because I reasoned without prejudice ; I therefore begged leave, instead of argument, to relate a short history. He gave me a smile at once of condescension and contempt, and I proceeded, as follows, to describe The eise and declension op the kingdom of Lao. Northward of China, and in one of the doublings of the great wall, the fi-ujtfid province of Lao enjoyed its liberty, and a peculiar government of its CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 443 own. As tlie inhabitants were on all sides surrounded by the wall, they feared no sudden invasion from the Tartars j and, being each possessed of property, they were zealous in its defence. The natural consequence of security and affluence in any country is a love of pleasure ; when the wants of nature are supphed, we see after the conve- niences ; when possessed of these, we desire the luxuries of life : and, when every luxury is provided, it is then ambition takes up the man, and leaves liim still something to wish for : the inhabitants of the country, from primitive simplicity, soon began to aim at elegance, and from elegance j)roceeded to refinement. It was now found absolutely requisite, for the good of the state, that the people should be divided. Formerly, the same hand that was em- ployed in tilling tlie ground, or in dressing up the manufactures, was also in time of need a soldier ; but the custom was now changed : for it was per- ceived, that a man bred up from childhood to the arts of either peace or war, became more eminent by this means in his respective profession. The inhabi- tants were, therefore, now distinguished into artizans and soldiers j and while those improved the luxuries of life, these watched for the secvmty of the people. A country possessed of freedom, has always two sorts of enemies to fear ; foreign foes who attack its existence from without, and internal miscreants who betray its liberties within. The inhabitants of Lao were to guard against both. A country of artizans were most likely to preserve internal libei'ty ; and a nation of soldiers were fittest to repel a foreign invasion. Hence naturally rose a division of opinion between the artizans and soldiers of the kingdom. The artizans, ever complaining that freedom was threatened by an armed intei-nal force, were for disbanding their soldiers, and insisted that their walls, their walls alone, were sufficient to repel the most formidable in- vasion : the warriors, on the contrary, represented the power of the ncighbom*- ing kings, the combinations formed against their state, and the weakness of the wall, which every eartliquake might overturn. While this altercation continued, the kingdom might be justly said to enjoy its greatest share of vigour : every order in the state, by being watchful over each other, contri- buted to diffuse happiness equally, and balanced the state. The arts of peace flourished, nor were those of war neglected ; the neighboui'ing powers, who liad nothing to apprehend from the ambition of men whom they only saw solicitous, not for riches but freedom, were contented to traffic with them : they sent their goods to be manufactm'ed in Lao, and paid a large price for tliem upon their return. By these means this people at length became moderately rich, and their opulence naturally invited the invader ; a Tartar prince led an immense army against them, and they as bravely stood up in their ovm defence ; they were still inspired with a love of their country : they fought the barbarous enemy with fortitude, and gained a complete victory. From this moment, which they regarded as the completion of then' gloiy, historians date their downfall. They had risen in strength by a love of theii country, and fell by indidging ambition. The country possessed by the in- vading Tartars, seemed to them a prize that would not only render them more formidable for the future, but which would increase their opulence for the present ; it was unanimously resolved, therefore, both by soldiers and artizans, that those desolate regions should be peopled by colonies from Lao. When a trading nation begins to act the conqueror, it is then perfectly tmdone : it sub- sists in some measure by the support of its neighbours ; while they continue to regard it without enYj or apprehension, trade may flourish ; but when once it presumes to assert as its right what is only enjoyed as a favom*, eacli country 444 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. reclaims that part of commerce wliicli it has power to take back, and turns it into some other cliannel more honourable, though perhaps less convenient. Every neighbour now began to regard with jealous eyes this ambitious com- monwealth, and forbade their subjects any future intercourse with them. The inhabitants of Lao, however, still pursuecl the same ambitious maxims ; it was from their colonies alone they expected riches : and riches, said they, are strength, and strength is security. K'umberless were the migrations of tlie desperate and enterprising of this coimtry, to people the desolate dominions lately possessed by the Tartar. Between these colonies and the mother coun- try, a very advantageous traffic was at first carried on ; the republic sent their colonies large quantities of the manufactures of tlie coixntry, and they in retm*n provided the republic with an equivalent in ivory and ginseng. By this means the inhabitants became immensely rich, and this produced an equal degree of voluptuousness ; for men who have much money will always find some fan- tastical modes of enjoyment. Ilonr shall I mark the steps by which they declined ? Every colony in process of time spreads over the whole counti-y wlicre it first was planted. As it grows more populous, it becomes more polite ; and those manufactures for which it was in tlio beginning obliged to others, it learns to dress up itself; such was the case witli tlie colonies of Lao ; they, in less than a century, became a powerfid and a polite people, and the more polite thny grew, the less advantageous was the commerce which still subsisted between them and others. By this means the mother coimtry, being abridged in its comm.n'ce, grew poorer, but not less luxurious. Their former wealth had introduced luxury ; and wherever luxury once fixes, no art can either lessen or remove it. Their commerce with their neighbours was totally destroyed, and that with their colonies was every day naturally and necessarily declining ; they still, however, preserved the insolence of wealth, without a power to support it, and persevered in being luxurious, while contemptible from poverty. Li short, the state resembled one of those bodies bloated with disease, whose bulk is only a symptom of its wretchedness. Their former opulence only rendered tliem more impotent, as those indivi- duals who are reduced from riches to poverty, are of all men the most mi- fortunate and helpless. TJiey had imagined, because then* colonies tended to make them rich upon the first acquisition, they would still continue to do so ; they now found, however, that on themselves alone they should have depended for support ; that colonies ever afforded but temporary affluence, and when cultivated and polite, are no longer useful. From such a concm*rencc of cir- cumstances, they soon became contemptible. The emperor Ilonti invaded them Avith a powerful army. Historians do not say whether tlieir colonies were too remote to lend assistance, or else were desirous of shaking off their dependence, but certain it is, they scarcely made any resistance ; their Avails were now found but a Aveak defence, and they at length Avere obhged to ac- knowledge subjection to the empire of China. Happy, very happy might they have been, had they knoAvn when to bound their riches and their glory : had they known, that extending empu*e is often diminishing poAver ; that countries are ever strongest which are internally powerful ; that colonies, by draining away the brave and enterprising, leave the country in the hands of the timid and the avaricious ; that walls give little protection, unless manned with resolution ; that too much commerce may injm*c a nation, as well as too little ; and that there is a wide difference betu-ecn a conquering and a flourishing empire. Adieu! CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 44$ LETTER XXy*. TO THE SAME. TirouGH fond of many acquaintances, I desire an intimacy only "with a few Tlic man in black, whom I bare often mentioned, is one whose friendship I could wish to acquire, because he possesses my esteem. His manners, it is true, are tinctured with some strange inconsistencies ; and he may be justly termed an humoui'ist in a nation of hrmiourists. Though he is generous eren to j)i'ofusion, he affects to be thought a pi'odigy of parsimony and prudence ; though his conversation be replete with the most sordid and selfish maxims, his heart is dilated with the most unbounded love. I have kno\\"n him profess himself a man-hater, while his cheek was glowing with compassion 5 and, while his looks were softened into pity, I have heard him vise the language of the most unbounded ill-nature. Some affect humanity and tenderness ; others boast of having such dispositions from Nature ; but he is the only man I ever knew who seemed ashamed of his natural benevoleiicc. ' He takes as much paiiis tohideriits feelings, as any hypocrite would to conceal his indifference ; but on every unguarded moment the mask drops off, and reveals him to the most superficial observer. In one of our late excursions into the countiy, happening to discom'se upon the provision that was made for the poor in England, he seemed amazed how any of his coiuiti'ymen could be so foolishly weak as to relievo occasional objecta of charity, when the laws had made such ample provision for their support. In every parish house, says he, the poor are supplied with food, clothes, fire, and a bed to lie on ; they want no more, I desire no more myself ; yet still they seem discontented. I am surprised at the inactivity of our magistrates, in not taking up such vagrants, who are only a weight upon the industrious ; I am surprised that the people are found to relieve them, when they must be at the same time sensible that it, in some measure, encourages idleness, ex- travagance, and imposture. Were I to advise any man for whom I had the least I'egard, I would caution him by all means not to be imposed upon by their false pi'etences : let me assure you, Sir, they are impostors, every one of them, and rather merit a prison than relief. He was proceedmg in this strain earnestly, to dissuade me from an impru- dence of which I am seldom guilty, when an old man, who etill had about him the remnants of tattered finery, implored our compassion. He assured us that he was no common beggar, but forced into the shameful profession to support a dying wife and five hungry children. Being prepossessed against such falsehoods, his story had not the least influence upon me 3 but it was quite otherwise with the man in black; I could see it visibly operate upon his countenance, and effectually interrupt his harangue. I could easily perceive, that his heart burned to relieve the five starving children, but he seemed ashamed to discover his weakness to me. While he thus hesitated between compassion and pride, I pretended to look another way, and he seized this op- portunity of giving the poor petitioner a piece of silver, bidduig him at the same time, in order that I should not hear, go work for his bread, and not tease passengers with such impertinent falsehoods for the future. As he had fancied himself quite unperccived, he continued, as we proceeded, to rail against beggars with as much animosity as before : he threw in some episodes on his own amazing prudence and economy, with his profound skill in discovering impostors ; he explained the manner in which he would deal with beggars were he a magistrate, hinted at enlarging some of the prisons fof their reception, and told two stories of ladies that were robbed by beggarmcn. 446 THE WORKS OP OLIVER GOLDSMITH. He was beginning a third to the same purpose, when a sailor with a wooden leg once more crossed our walks, desiring our pity, and blessing our limbs. I was for going on without taking any notice, but my friend looking wislifully upon the poor petitioner, bade me stop, and he would show me with how much ease he could at any time detect an impostor. He now therefore assumed a look of importance, and in an angry tone began to examine the sailor, demanding in what engagement he was thus disabled and rendered unfit for service. The sailor replied in a tone as angrily as he, that he had been an officer on board a prirate ship of war, and that he had lost his leg abroad in defence of those who did notliing at home. At this re- ply, all my friend's importance vanished in a moment ; he had not a single question more to ask : he now only studied what method he should take to relieve him unobserved. He had, however, no easy part to act, as he was obliged to preserve the appearance of ill-natm-e before me, and yet relieve him- self by relieving the sailor. Casting, therefore, a furious look upon some bundles of chips which the fellow carried in a string at his back, my friend demanded how he sold his matches; but, not waiting for a reply, desu'ed in a surly tone to have a shilling's worth. The sailor seemed at first surprised at his demand, but soon recollected himself, and presenting his whole bundle, " Here, master," says he, " take all my cargo, and a blessing into the bargain." It is impossible to describe with what an air of triumph my friend marched off with his new purchase ; he assured me, that he was firmly of opinion that those fellows must have stolen their goods, who could thus afford to seU them for half value. He infoimed me of several different uses to which those chips might be applied ; he expatiated largely upon the savings that would result from lighting candles with a match, instead of thrusting them into the fire. He averred, that he would as soon have parted with a tooth as his money to those vagabonds, unless for some valuable consideration. I cannot tell how long this panegyric upon fi-ugality and matches might have continued, had not his attention been called off by another object more distressful than either of the former. A woman in rags, with one child in her arms and another on her back, was attempting to sing ballads, but with such a mournful voice, that it was difiicult to determine whether she was singing or crying. A wretch, who in the deepest distress still aimed at good-humour, was an object my friend was by no means capable of withstanding : his vivacity and his discourse were instantly interrupted ; upon this occasion his very dissimulation had forsaken him. Even in my presence he immediately applied his hands to his pockets, in order to relieve her ; but guess his confusion when he found he had ah'eady given away all the money he carried about him to former objects. The misery painted in the woman's visage was not half so strongly expressed as the agony in liis. He continued to search for some time, but to no purpose, till, at length recollecting himself, with a face of ineffable good-natui'e, as he had no money, he put into her hands his shilling's worth of matches. LETTER XXVI. TO THE SAME. As there appeared something reluctantly good in the character of my com- panion, I rnust own it surprised me what could be his motives for thus concealing virtues which others take such pains to display. I was unable to repress my desire of knowing the history of a man who thus seemed to act under continual restraint, and whose benevolence was rather the effect of ap- petite than reason. It was not, however, till after repeated solicitations he thought proper to CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 447 gratify uy cui'iosity, " If you are fond," says lie, " of hearing hair-lreadth escapes, my history must certainly please : for I hare been for twenty yeai's upon the very verge of starving, without ever being tarved. " My father, the younger son of a good family, was possessed of a small living in the church. His education was above his fortune, and his generosity greater than his education. Poor as he was, he had his flatterers still poorer than himself; for every dinner he gave them, they returned an equivalent in ! praise ; and this Avas all he wanted. The same iinibition that actuates a ! monarch at the head of an anny, influenced my father at the head of his 1 table ; he told the story of the ivy-tree, and that was laughed at ; he repeated I the jest of the two scholars and one pair of breeches, and the company I laughed at that ; but the story of Tafly in the sedan chair, was sure to set the table in a roar : thus his pleasure increased in proportion to the pleasiu'c he gave ; he loved all the world, and he fancied all the world loved him. " As his fortime was but small, he lived up to the very extent of it ; he had no intentions of leaving his children money, for that was dross ; he was resolved they should have learning ; for learning, he used to observe, was better than silver or gold. For this purpose he iindertook to instruct us himself; and took as much pains to form om' morals as to improve om* under- standing. We were told that universal benevolence was what first cemented society ; we were taught to consider all the wants of mankind as our own ; to regard the human face divine with afiection and esteem ; he wound us up to be mere machines of pity, and rendered us incapable of withstanding the slightest impulse made either by real or fictitious distress ; in a word, we were perfectly instructed in the art of giving away thousands, before we were taught the more necessary qualifications of getting a farthing. " I cannot avoid imagining, that thus refined by his lessons out of all my suspicion, and divested of even all the little cunning which Nature had given me, I resembled, upon my first entrance into the busy and insidious world, one of those gladiators who were exposed with armour in the amphitheatre at Rome. My father, however, who had only seen the world on one side, seemed to triumph in my superior discernment ; though my whole stock of wisdom consisted in being able to talk like himself upon subjects that once were useful, because they were then topics of the busy world ; but that now were utterly useless, because connected with the busy world no longer. *"* The first oppoi'tunity he had of finding his expectations disappointed, was at the veiy middling figure I made in the universityj^ he had flattered himself that he should* soon see .ne rising'Sito lEeTforemost rank in literary reputation, but was mortified to find me utterly unnoticed and unknown. His disappointment might have been partly ascribed to his having over-rated my talents, and partly to my dislike of mathematical reasonings at a time when my imagination and memory, yet unsatisfied, were more eager after new ob- jects, than desirous of reasoning upon those I knew. This did not, however, please my tutors, who observed indeed, that I was a little dull ; but at the same time aUowed^ that_I seemed^ bg_Ypry good-natured, and had no harm 'TAJfter T had resided at college seven years, my father died, and left me — his blessing. Thus shoved from shore without ill-nature to protect, or cun- ning to guide, or proper stores to subsist me in so dangerous a voyage, I was obliged to embark in the wide world at twenty-two. But, in order to settle in life, my friends advised (for they always advise when they begin to despise us), they advised me, I say, to go into orders. " To be obliged to wear a long wig, when I liked a short one, or a black coat, when I generally dressed in brown, I thought was such a restraint upon 448 THE WORKS OF OLiVEtl GOLDSMITH. my libel'ty, that I absolutely rejected the proposal. A priest in England is not the same mortified creature with a bonze in China ; with us, not ho that fasts best, but eats best, is reckoned the best liver ; yet I rejected a life of luxury, indolence, and ease, from no other consideration but that boyish one of dress. So that my friends were now perfectly satisfied I was undone ; and yet they thought it a pity for one who had not the least hann in him, and was so very good-natured. '* Poverty natui-ally begets dependence, and I was admitted as flatterer to a great man. At first I was surprised tlfaniie situation of a flatterer at a great ]nan's table could be thought disagreeable : there was no great trouble in listening attentively when his lordship spoke, and laughing wheli he looked rouiid for applause. This even good manners might have obliged me to per- form. I found, however, too soon, that his lordship was a greater dimce than myself j and from that very moment flattery was at an end. I now rather aimed at setting him right, than at i-eceiving his absm-dities with submission : to flatter those we do not know is an easy task ; but to flatter our intimate acquaintances, all whose foibles are strongly in our eye, is drudgery insup- portable. Every time I now opened my lips in praise, my falsehood went to my conscience ; his lordship soon perceived me to be very unfit for service : I was therefore discharged, my patron at the same time being graciously pleased to observe, that he believed I was tolerably good-natured, and had not the least harm in me. / ^ " Disappointed in ambition, I had recourse^t o love. A young lady, who lived with her aunt, and was possessed of a pretty fortune in her own disposal, had given me, as I fancied, some reason to expect success. The symptoms by wliich I was guided were striking. She had always laughed with me at her awkward acquaintance, and at her aunt among the number ; she always ob- served, that a man of sense would make a better husband than a fool, and I as constantly applied the observation in my own favom*. She continually talked, in vaj company, of friendship and the beauties of tlie mind, and spoke of Mr. Shrimp my rival's . high-heeled shoes with detestation. These were circumstances which I thought strongly in my favour j so, after i*esolving and re-resolving, I had courage enough to tell her my mind. Miss heard my pro^JOsal with serenity, seeming at the same time to study the figm*esof her fan. Out at last it came. There was but one small objection to complete our happiness ; which was no more than that she was married three months before to Mr. Shrimp, with high-heeled shoes ! By way of consola- tion, however, she observed, that, though I was disappointed in her, my ad- dresses to her aunt would probably kindle her into sensibility j as the old lady always allowed me to be very good-natured, and not to have the least share of harm in me. " Yet, still I had friends, numerous friends, and to them I was resolved to apply. O Eriendsliip ! thou fond soother'of "Oie human breast, to thee we fly in every calamity ; to thee the wretched seek for succour ; on thee the care- tired son of misery fondly relies ; from thy kind assistance the unfortunate always hopes relief, and may be ever sure of — disappointment. My first appli- cation was to a city-scrivener, who had frequently offered to lend me money when he knew I did not want it. I informed him, that now was the time to put his friendship to the test ; that I wanted to borrow a couple of hundreds for a certain occasion, and was resolved to take it up from him. 'And pray. Sir,' cried my friend, * do you want all this money ?' Indeed I never wanted it more, returned I. * I am sorry for that,' cries the scrivener, * with all my heart j for they who want money when they come to borrow, will always want money when they should come to pay.' " iVom him I flew with indignation to one of the best friends I had in the CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 449 world, and made the same request. ' Indeed, Mr. Drybone,' cries my friend, ' I always tliouglit it would come to this. You know, Sir, I wotJd not advise you but for your own good ; but your conduct has hitherto been ridiculous in the highest degree, and some of your acquaintance always thought you a very silly fellow. Let mo see — you want two hundred pomids. Do you only •want two himdred. Sir, exactly.' To confess a truth, returned I, I shall want three hundred ; but then I have another friend, from whom I can borrow the rest. ' Why, then,' replied my friend, ' if you would take my advice (and you know I should not presume to advise you but for your own good), I would recommend it to you to borrow the whole sum from that other friend ; and then one note will serve for all, you know.' " Poverty now began to come fast upon me ; yet instead of growing more provident or cautious as I grew poor, I became every day moi'e indolent and simple. A friend was arrested for fifty pounds ; I was unable to extricate liim except by becoming his bail. When at Ubertj he fled from his creditors, and left me to take his place : in prison I expected greater satisfactions than I had enjoyed at large. I hoped to converse with men in this new world, simple and believing like myself, but I found them as cunning and as cautious as those in the world I had left behind. They spunged up my money whilst it lasted, borrowed my coals and never paid for them, and cheated me when I played at cribbage. All this was done because they believed me to be very good-natured, and knew that I had no harm in me. " Upon my first entrance into this mansion, which is to some the abode of despair, I felt no sensations different from those I experienced abroad. I was now on one side of the door, and those who were unconfined were on the other : this was all the difference between us. At first, indeed, I felt some uneasiness, in considering how I should be able to provide this week for the wants of the week ensuing ; but after some time, if I found myself sure of eating one day, I never troubled my head how I vras to be supplied another. I seized every precarious meal with the utmost good humour ; indulged no rants of spleen at my situation ; never called doAvn heaven and all the stars to behold me dining upon an halfpenny-worth of radishes ; my very companions were taught to believe that I liked salad better than mutton. I contented myself with thinking, that all my life I should either eat white bread or brown ; con- sidered that all that happened was best j laughed when I was not in pain ; took the world as it went, and read Tacitus often, for want of more books and company. " How long I might have continued in this torpid state of simplicity I cannot teU, had I not been roused by seeing an old acquaintance, whom I knew to be a prudent blockhead, preferred to a place in the government. I now found tliat I had pursued a wrong track, and that the true way of being able to relieve others, was first to aim at independence myself: my immediate care, therefore, was to leave my present habitation, and make an entire refor- mation in my conduct and behaviour. For a free, open, undesigning deport- ment, I put on that of closeness, prudence, and economy. One of the most heroic actions I ever performed, and for which I shall praise myself as long as I live, was the refusing half-a-crown to an old acquaintance, at the time wlien ho "wanted it, and I had it to'sp^are ; for this alone I deserve to be de- creed, an ovation. " I now, therefore, pursued a course of uninterrupted frugality, seldom wanted a dinner, and was consequently invited to twenty. I soon began to get the character of a saving hunks that had money, and insensibly grew into esteem. Neighbours have asked my advice in the disposal of their daughters, and I have always taken care not to give any. I have contracted a friendship 29 J.50 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. I with, an alderman, only by observing, that if we take a farthing from a thou- sand pounds, it will be a thousand pounds no longer. I have been invited to a pawnbroker's table, by pretending to hate gravy ; and am now actually upon treaty of marriage with a rich widow, for only having observed that the bi'ead was rising. If ever I am asked a questiou,_-vvhether I know it or not, instead of answering, I only smile and look wise. If a charity is proposed, I go about with the hat, biit put notliing in myself. If a wretch solicits my pity, I observe that the world is filled with impostors, and take a certain method of not being deceived, by never relieving. In short, I now find t]^_ truest way of finding esteem, even from the indigent, is to j/iveaivay nothing^ and thus have much in our imwer to give.** ' ~~ LETTER XXVII. TO THE SAME. Lately in company with my friend in black, whose conversation is now both my amusement and instruction, I could not avoid obser\^ing the great numbers of old bachelors and maiden ladies with which this city seems to be over-run. Sui'e," marriage, said I, is not sufficiently encoiu'aged, or we should never be- hold such crowds of battered beaux and decayed coquettos still attempting to drive a trade they have been so long unfit for, and swarming npon the gaiety of the age. I behold an old bachelor in the most contemptible light, as an animal that lives upon the common stock without contributing his share : lie is a beast of prey, and the laws should make use of as many stratagems, and as much force, to drive the reluctant savage into the toils, as the Indians when they hunt the rhinoceros. The mob should be permitted to halloo after him, boys might play tricks on him with impunity, every well-bred company should laugh at him j and if, when turned of sixty, he offered to make love, his mis- tress might spit in his face, or, what would be perhaps a greater punishment, should fairly grant the favour. As for old maids, continued I, they should not be treated with so much severity, because I suppose none would be so if they could. No lady in her senses would choose to make a subordinate figure at christenings and lyings- in, when she might be the pi'incipal herself ; nor curry favour with a sister-in- law, when she might command an husband : nor toil in preparing custards, when she might lie a-bed and give directions how they ought to be made ; nor stifle all her sensations in demm-e formality, when she might with matri- monial freedom shake her acquaintance by the hand, and wink at a double entendre. No lady could be so very silly as to live single, if she could help it. I consider an unmarried lady declining into the vale of years, as one of those charming countries bordering on China that lies Waste for want of jiroper inhabitants. We are not to accuse the country, but the ignorance of its neighbours, who are insensible of its beauties, though at liberty to enter and cultivate the soil. "Indeed, Sir," replied my companion, "you are very little acquainted with the English ladies, to thiak they are old maids against their wifl. . ~T~aitre ^ venture to affirm that you can hardly select one of them all, but has had fre- quent ofiers of marriage, which either pride or avarice has not made her reject. Instead of thinking it a disgrace, they take every occasion to boast of their former cruelty ; a soldier does not exult more when he counts over the womids he has received, than a female veteran when she relates the wounds she has formerly given : exhaustless when she begins a narrative of the former death- dealing power of her eyes. She tells of the knight in gold lace, who died with a single frown, and never rose again till — he was married to his maid ; of the squire, who being cruelly denied, in a rage flew to the window, and lifting up CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 451 tlic sash, threw himself in an agony — into his arm chair ; of the person who, crossed in love, resolutely swallowed opimn, which banished the stings of despised love by — making him sleep. In short, she talks over her former losses with pleasure, and like some tradesmen, finds consolation in the many bankruptcies she has suffered. " For this reason, whenever I see a superannuated beauty still unmarried, I ,, tacitly accuse her_ eitlier j)f_j)ridej avarice, coquetry, or affectation. There's Htgs" tTeiiuy Tmderbox : I once remember her to have had some beauty, and a moderate fortune. Her elder sister happened to marry a man of quality, and tliis seemed as a statute of virginity against poor Jane. Because there was one lucky hit in the family, she was resolved not to disgrace it by introducing a tradesman. By thus rejecting her equals, and neglected or despised by her superiors, she now acts in the capacity of tutoress to her sister's children, and imdergoes the drudgery of three servants, without receiving the wages of one. " Miss Squeeze was a pawnbi'oker's daughter ; her father had early taught lier that money was a very good thing, and left her a moderate fortune at his death. She was so perfectly sensible of the value of what slie had got, that she was resolved never to part with a farthing without an equality on the part of her suitor : she thus refused several offers made her by people who wanted to better themselves, as the saying is ; and grew old and ill-natured, without ever considering that she should liave made an abatement in her pretensions, from lier face being pale, and marked with the small-pox. " Lady Betty Tempest, on the contrary, liad beauty, with fortune and family. But fond of conquest, she passed from triumph to triumph ; she had read plays and romances, and there had learned that a plain man of common sense was no better than a fool : such she refused, and sighed only for the gay, giddy, inconstant, and thoughtless ; after she had thus rejected hundreds who liked her, and sighed for hundreds who despised her, she found herself insensibly de- serted : at ^r^nt she is company only for her aunts and cousins, and some- times makes one in a country-dance, with only one of the chairs for a partner, casts off round a joint-stool, and sets to a corner cupboard. In a word she is treated with civil contempt from every quartei', and placed, like a piece of old-fashioned lumber, merely to fiU up a corner. "But Soplu'onia, the sagacious Soplu'onia, how shall I mention her? She was taught to love Grreek, and hate the men from her very infancy ; she has rejected fine gentlemen because they were not pedants, and pedants because they were not fine gentlemen ; her exquisite sensibility has taught her to dis- cover every fault in every lover, and her inflexible justice has prevented her pardoning them : thus she rejected several offers, till the wrinkles of age had overtaken her: and now, without one good feature in her face, she talks in* — cessantly of the beauties of the mind." Farewell ! LETTEE XXYIII. TEOir THE SAME. Weee we to estimate the learning of the English by the number of books that are every day pubUshed among them, perhaps no country, not even China itself, could equal them in this particular. I have reckoned not less than twenty-three new books published in one day ; which upon computation, makes eight thousand three hundred and ninety-five in one year. Most of these are not confined to one single science, but embrace the whole circle. His- tory, pohtics, poetry, mathematics, metaphysics, and the philosophy of nature, are all comprised in a manual not larger than tliat in which our children are 4.52 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. taught the letters. If then we suppose the learned of England to read but an eiglith part of the works which daily come from the press (and surely none can pretend to learning upon less easy terms), at this rate erery scholar will read a thousand books in one year. From such a calculation you may conjecture what an amazing fund of literature a man must be possessed of, wlio thus reads three new books every day, not one of which but contains all the good things that ever were said or written. And yet I know not how it happens, but the Euglish ai'e not in reality so learned as would seem from this calcidation. We nieet but few Avho know all arts and sciences to perfection : whether it is that the generality are incapable of such extensive knowledge, or that the autliors of those books are not ade- quate instructors. In China the emperor himself takes cognizance of all the doctors in the kingdom who profess authorship. In England every man may be an author that can write; for they have by law a liberty not onlyof saying what they please, \mt of being also as dull, as they. please. Yesterday I testified my surprise to the man in black, where writers could be found in sufficient numbers to throw off the books I daily saw crowding from the press. I at first imagined that their learned seminaries might take this method of instriicting the world. But to obviate this objection, my com- panion assured me, that the doctors of colleges never wi'ote, and that some of them had actually forgot their reading ; but if you desire, continued he, to see a collection of authors, I fancy I can introdu.ce you this evening to a club, wliich assembles every Saturday at seven, at the sign of the Broom near Islington, to talk over the business of the last, and the entertainment of the week ensuing. I accepted his invitation, we walked together, and entered the house some time before the usual hour for the company assembling. jMy friend took this opportunity of letting me into the characters of the principal members of the club, not even the host excepted ; who, it seems, was once an author himself, but preferred by a bookseller to this situation as a reward for his former services. The first person, said he, of oxu* society, is doctor N'on-entity, a meta- physician. Most people think him a profound scholar ; but as he seldom speaks, I cannot be positive in tliat particular : he generally spreads himself before the fire, sucks his pipe, talks little, drinks much, and is reckoned very good company. I am told he writes indexes to perfection, he makes essays on the origin of evil, philosophical inquii-ies upon any subject, and draws up an answer to any book upon twenty-four hours' warning. You may distinguish him from the rest of the company by his long gray wig, and the blue handker- chief round his neck. The next to him in merit and esteem is Tim Syllabub, a droll creature : he sometimes shines as a star of the first magnitude among the choice spirits of the age : he is reckoned equally excellent at a rebus, a riddle, a bawdy song, and an hymn for the tabernacle. Y'ou will know him by his shabby finery, his powdered wig, dirty shirt, and broken silk-stockings. After him succeeds Mr. Tibs, a very useful hand ; he writes receipts for the bite of a mad dog, and throws off an eastern tale to perfection : he imderstands the btisiness of an author as well as any man, for no bookseller alive can cheat him. You may distinguish him by the peculiar clumsiness of his figure, and the coarseness of his coat : however, though it be coarse, (as he frequently tells the company) he has paid for it. Lawyer Squint is the politician of the society ; he makes speeches for par- liament, writes addresses to his fellow-subjects, and letters to noble com- manders ; he gives the history of every new play, and finds seasonable thoughts upon every occasion. — My companion was pi'oceeding in his de- VlTiZEN OF THE WORLD. 453 Boriptio]!, when tlie host came runnhig in witli terror on his countenance to tell ns, that the door was beset with, bailiffs. If that be the case tlien, says my companion, wc had as good be going ; for I am positive we shall not see one of the company this night. Wherefore, disappointed we were both obliged to return home, he to enjoy the oddities wliich compose his character alone, and I to write as usual to my friend the occiu'rences of the day. Adieu ! LETTEE XXIX. I-EOil THE SAME. By my last advices from Moscow, I find the caravan has not yet departed from China : I still continue to Avrite, expecting that you may receive a large number of my letters at once. In them you will find rather a minute detail of English peculiarities, than a general picture of their manners or dispo- sition. Happy it were for manlind if all travellers would thus, instead of characterising^Trpcoplc in general terms, "lead us into a detail of those minute circunist'anrcs^vlTrcli first influenced their opinion :_ the genius of a country should be inrcstigatcd Avitli a kind of experimental inquiry : by this means wc should have more precise and just notions of foreign nations, and detect travellers themselves when they happened to form wrong conclusions. My friend and I repeated our visit to the club of'anthoTs ; where, upon our entrance, wc foiuid the members all assenrWcct-'tcmtTi'i^aged" in a loud debate. The poet in shabby finery, holding a manuscript in his hand, was caimestly endeavom'ing to persuade the company to hear him read the first book of an hei'oic poem, which he had composed the day before. Eat against this all the members very warmly objected. They knew no reason why any member of the club should be indulged with a particular hearing, when many of tliem had published whole volumes which had never been looked in. They insisted that the law should be observed, where reading in company was expressly noticed. It was in vain that the poet pleaded the peculiar merit of his piece : he spoke to an assembly insensible to all his remonstrances ; the book of laws was opened, and read by the secretary, where it was expressly enacted, " That whatsoever poet, speech-maker, critic, or historian should presume to engage the company by readhig his owai works, he was to lay down sixpence previous to opening the manuscript, and should be charged one shilling an hour while he continued reading : the said shilling to be equally distributed among the company as a recompense for their trouble. Our poet seemed at first to shrink at the penalty, hesitating for some time whether he should deposit the fine, or shut up the poem ; but looking round, and perceiving two strangers in the room, his love of fame outweighed his ])rudence, and laying down the sum by law established, he insisted on his pre- rogative. A i:)rofound silence ensuing, he began by explaining his design. " Grentle- men," says he, " the present piece is not one of your common epic poems, wliich come from tne pi'css like paper-kites in summer: there are none of your Turnus's or Dido's in it ; it is an heroical description -of nature. I only beg you'll endeavoTu- to make your souls unison with mine, and hear with the same enthusiasm with which I have written. The poem begins with the descrip- tion of an author's bed-chamber : the picture was sketched in my own apart- ment ; for you must know, gentlemen, that I am myself the hero." Then putting himself into the attitude of an orator, with all the emphasis of voice and action, he proceeded ' Where tlie Red Lion flaring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; 454 THE Works oe oliver gold smith. Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne, Ifegale the drabs and bloods of Drnry-lare ; There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The Muse found Scroggen stretched beneath a rug, A window^ patched with paper lent a ray, That dimly shev/'d the state in which he lay: The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; The royal game of goose was there in view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew: The seasons fram'd with listing found a place, And brave prince William shew'd his lamp-black face; Tlie morn was cold, he views with keen desire, 1'he rusty grate, unconscious of a fire ; With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor'd. And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney board. A niglit-cap deck'd liis brows instead of bay, A cap by niglit — a stocking all the day!" With this last line he seemed so much elated, that lie was unable to proceed, *' There gentlemen," cries he, " there is a description for you; Eabelais's bed- chamber is but a fool to it : " '-4 cap ly night— a stoclclng till the day /' " there is sound and sense, and truth, and natiu-e in the trifling compass of ten syllables." He was too much employed in self-admiration to observe the company; who by nods, winks, shrugs, and stifled laughter, testified every mark of contempt. He turned severally to each for their opinion, and found all however ready to applaud. One swore it was inimitable ; another said it was damn'd fine ; and a third cried out in a rapture, Carissimo. At last addressing himself to the presi- dent, "And pray, Mr. Squint," says he, " let us have yoiu: opinion." " Mine," answered the president, (taking the manuscript out of the author's hand) " may this glass sufibcate me, but I think it equal to any tlimg I have seen ; and I fancy," (continued he, doubling up the poem and forcing it into the author's pocket), "that you will get great honour when it comes out; sol sliall beg leave to put it in. We will not intrude upon your good-nature, in desiring to hear more of it at present ; ex ungue Herculem, we are satisfied, perfectly satisfied." The author made two or three attempts to pull it out a second time, and the president made as many to prevent him. Thus, though with reluctance, he was at last obliged to sit down, contented with the com- mendations for which he had paid. When this tempest of poetry and praise was blown over, one of the com- pany changed the subject, by wondering how any man can be so dull as to wi'ite poetry at present, since prose itself woidd hardly pay. " Would you think it, gentlemen," continued he, *' I have actually written last week sixteen prayers, twelve bawdy jests, and three sermons, all at the rate of sixpence a-piece ; and Avhat is still more extraordinary, the bookseller has lost by the bargain. Such sermons would once have gained me a prebend's stall ; biit now, alas : we have neither piety, taste, nor humour among us. Positively if this season does not turn out better than it has begun, unless the ministry commit some blunders to furnish us with a new topic of abuse, I shall resume my old business of woi'king at the press, instead of finding it employment." The whole club seemed to join in condemning the season, as one of the worst that had come for some time ; a gentleman particularly observed, that the no- bility were never known to subscribe worse than at present. " I know not how it happens," said he, " though I follow them up as close as possible, yet I can hardly get a single subscription in a week. The houses of the great are as inaccessible as a frontier garrison at midnight. I never see a nobleman's CITIZEN Of THE WORLD. 455 door half-opened tliat some surly porter or footman does not stand full in the breach. I ^vas yesterday to wait with a subscription-proposal upon my Lord Squash the Creolin. I had posted myself at his door the whole morning, and just as he was getting into his coach, thrust my proposal snug into his hand, folded up in the form of a letter from myself He just glanced at the super- scription, and not knowing the hand, consigned it to his yalet-de-chambre j \\\\s respectable personage treated it as his master, and put it into the hands of the porter ; the porter grasped my proposal frowning ; and measurmg my figure from top to toe, put it back into my own hands unopened." " To the devil I pitch all the nobility," cries a little man in a peculiar ac- cent : *' I am sure they hare of late used me most scurvily. You must know, gentlemen, some time ago, upon the arrival of a certain noble duke from his travels, I set myself down, and vamped up a fine flaunting poetical panegyric, which I had Avritten in such a strain, that I fancied it would have even wlieedled milk from a mouse. In this I represented the whole kingdom wel- coming his grace to his native soil, not forgetting the loss France and Italy would sustain in tlieir arts by his departure. I expected to touch for a bank- bill at least ; so folding up my verses in gilt paper, I gave my last half-crown to a genteel servant to be the bearer. My letter was safely conveyed to his grace, and the servant after four hours' absence, during which time I led the life of a fiend, returned with a letter four times as big as mine. Guess my ccstacy at the prospect of so fine a return. I eagerly took the pacquet into my liands, that trembled to receive it. I kept it some tune unopened before me, brooding over the expected treasure it contained ; when opening it, as I hope to be saved, gentlemen, his grace had sent me in payment for my poem no bank bills, but six copies of verse, each longer than mine, addressed to him upon the same occasion." "A nobleman," cries a member, who had hitherto been silent, "is created as much for the confusion of us authors as the catchpole. I'll tell you a story, gentlemen, which is as true as tliat this pipe is made of clay. When I was delivered of my first book, I owed my tailor for a suit of clothes, but tliat is nothing new, you know, and may be any man's case as well as mine. Well, owing hun for'a suit of clothes, and hearing that my book took very well, he sent for his money, and insisted upon being paid immediately : though I was at that time rich in fame, for my book run like wild-fire, yet I was vei-y short in money, and being unable to satisfy his demand, prudently resolved to keep my chamber, preferring a prison of my own choosing at home, to one of my tailor's clioosing abroad. In vain the bailiifs used all tlieir arts to decoy mc fi'om my citadel, in vain they sent to let me know that a gentleman wanted to speak with me at the next tavern, in vain they came with an lu-gent message fi-om my aunt in tlie country ; in vain I was told that a particular friend was at the point of death, and desired to take his last farewell ; I was deaf, insen- sible, rock, adamant ; the bailiffs could make no impression on my hard heart, for I effectually kept my liberty, by never stirring out of the room. " This was very well for a fortnight ; when one morning I received a most splendid message from the Earl of Doomsday, importing that he had read my book, and was in raptures with every line of it ; he impatiently longed to see the author, and had some designs which might turn out greatly to my advan- tage. I paused upon the contents of this message, and found there could be no deceit, for the card was gilt at the edges, and the bearer, I was told, had quite the looks of a gentleman. Witness, ye powei's, how my heart triumphed at my own importance ; I saw a long perspective of felicity before mc ; 1 ap- plauded the taste of the times, which never saw genius forsaken ; I had pre- pared a set introductory speech for the occasion, five glaring complimenta for 456 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. liis lordship, and two more modest for myself. Tlie next morning, iliercfore, in order to be punctual to ray appointment, I took coach, and ordered the fellow to drive to the street and house mentioned in his lordship's address. I had the precaution to pidl up the window as T went along, to keep oiF the busy part of mankind ; and, big with expectation, fancied the coach neyer went fast enough. At length, however, the wished-for moment of its stopping arrived ; this for some tiiiie I impatiently expected, and letting down the door in a transport, in order to take a previous view of liis lordship's magnificent palace and situation, I found, poison to mj sight ! I found myself, not in an elegant street, but a paltry lane ; not at a nobleman's door, but the door of a spunging-house ; I found the coachman had all this while been just di-iviug me to jail, and I saw the baililFwith a devil's face coming out to secure me." To a philosopher no circumstance, however trifling, is too minute ; he finds instruction and entertainment in occurrences wliich are passed over by the rest of mankind as low, trite, and indifferent ; it is from the number of these par- ticulars, which to many appear insignificant, that he is at last enabled to form general conclusions ; this, therefore, must be my excuse for sending so far as China accounts of manners and follies, which, though minute in their own nature, serve more truly to characterise this people than histories of their pub- lic treaties, coiu-ts, ministers, negotiations, and ambassadors. Adieu ! LETTER XXX. FEOM THE SAME. /The English have not yet brought the art of_gardening to the same perfection /with the Chinese, but have lately begmrtS'imitatelliclJrf nature is now fol- /lowed with gi*eater assiduity than formerly ; the trees are suffered to shoot out j into the utmost luxuriance ; the streams, no longer forced from their native j beds, are permitted to wind along the valleys : spontaneous flowers take place I of tlie finished pai'terre, and the enamelled meadow of the shaven green. Yet still the English are far behind us in this charming art ; their designers have not yet attained a power of uniting instruction with beauty. An Euro- pean will scarcely conceive my meaning, when I say that there is scarcely a garden in China which does not contain some fine moral, couched under the general design, where one is not taught wisdom as he walks, and feels the force of some noble truth, or delicate precept, resulting from the disposition of the groves, streams, or grottoes. Permit me to illustrate what I mean by a description of my gardens at Q.uamsi. My heart still hovers round those scenes of former Jiappiness with pleasure ; and I find a satisfaction in enjoying them at this distance, though but in imagination. You descended from the house between two groves of trees, planted in such a manner, that they were impenetrable to the eye : while on each hand the way was adorned with all that was beautiful in porcelaine, statuary, and paint- ing. This passage from the house opened into an area surrounded with rocks, flowers, trees and shrubs, but all so disposed as if eacli was the spontaneous pi'oduction of nature. As you proceeded forward on this lawn, to your right I and left hand were two gates, opposite each other, of yery difFerent architec- ! ture and design ; and before you lay a temple, built rather with minute ele- ■ gance than ostentation. The right hand gate was planned with the utmost simplicity, or rather rude- ness J ivy clasped round the pillars, the baleful cypress hung over it ; time seemed to have destroyed all the smoothness and regularity of the stone : two champions with lifted clubs appeared in the act of guarding its access : dj'agons nnd serpents were seen in the most hideous attitudes, to deter the spectator CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 457 from ap])r()aclimg ; aud tlio perspective view that lay behind, seemed dark and gloomy to the last degree ; the stranger was tempted to enter only from the motto : Pervia Yirtuti. The opposite gate was formed in a very different manner ; the arcliitecturo was light, elegant, and inviting ; flowers hung in wreaths round tlie pillars ; all was finished in the most exact and masterly manner ; the very stone of which it was built, still preserved its polish ; nymplis, ■m.'ought by the hand of a master, in the most alluring attitudes, beckoned the stranger to approach ; while all that lay behind, as far as tlie eye could reach, seemed gay, luxuriant, and capable of affording endless pleasure. The motto itself contnbuted to invite him ; for over the gate were written these words, Facilis Descensus,,. By this time, I fancy, you begin to perceive that the gloomy gate was de- signed to represent the road to virtue ; the opposite, the more agreeable pas- sage to vice. It is but natural to suppose, that the spectator was always tempted to enter by the gate which offered him so many allurements. I always in these cases left him to his choice ; but generally found that he tookfj to the left, which promised most entertainment. Immediately upon his entering the gate of Yice, the trees and flowers were disposed in sucltta manner as to make the most pleasing impression ; but as he Avalked farther on, he insensibly found the garden assume the air of a wil- derness, the landscapes began to darken, the paths grew more intricate, he appeared to go downwards, frightful i^ocks seemed to hang over his head, gloomy caverns, imexpected precipices, awful ruins, heaps of unburicd bones, and terrifying sounds, caused by unseen waters, began to take place of w^hat at first appeared so lovely ; it was in vain to attempt returning, the labyrinth was too much perplexed fur any but myself to find the way back. In short, when sufficiently impressed with the horrors of what he saw, and the impru- dence of fiis choice, I brought him by an hidden door a shorter way back into the ai'ea from whence at first he liad strayed. The gloomy gate now presented itself before the stranger ; and though there seemed little in its appearance to tempt his curiosity, yet encouraged by the motto, he generally proceeded. The darkness of tlie entrance, the frightful figui'cs that seemed to obstruct his way, the trees of a moui'nful green, con- spired at first to disgust him : as he went forward, however, all began to open and wear a more pleasing appearance, beautiful cascades, beds of flowers, trees loaded with fruit or blossoms, and unexpected brooks, improved the scene : he now found that he was ascending, and, as he proceeded, all nattu-e grew more beautiful, the prospect widened as he went liighcr, even the air itself seemed to become more pure. Thus pleased, and happy from unexpected beauties, I at last led him to an ai'bour, from whence he could view the garden, and the Avhole country around, and where he might own, that the road to Virtue terminated m Happiness. Thongh from this-elesmption you may imagine, that a vast tract of ground was necessary to exliibit such a pleasing variety in, yet be assured I liave seen several gardens in England take up ten times the space which mine did, witli- out half tlie beauty. A very small extent of gi'ound is enough for an elegant taste ; the greater room is required if magnificence is in view. Tliere is no spot, though ever so little, which a skilful designer miglit not thus improve, so as to convey a delicate allegory, and impress the mind with truths the most useful and necessary. Adieu ! LETTEE XXXI. , PEOM THE SAME. . | In a late excursion with my friend into the country, a gentleman with a blue \ \ 45S THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. ribbon tied round his shoulder, and in a chariot drawn by six ho]'ses, passed swiftly by us, attended with a numei'ous train of captains, lacquies, and coaches filled with women. When we were recovered from the dust raised by this cavalcade, and could continue our discourse without danger of suffocation, I observed to my companion, that all this state and equipage, which lie seemed to despise, would in China be regai'ded with the utmost reverence, because such distinctions were always the reward of merit ; the greatness of a man- darine's retinue being a most certain mark of the superiority of his abiUties or virtue. The gentleman who has now passed us, replied my companion, has no claims from his own merit to distinction ; he is possessed neither of abiUtics nor virtue : it is enough for him that one of his ancestors was possessed of these qualities two hundred years before him. There was a time, indeed, when liis family deserved their title, but they are long since degenerated, and his anccs- toi*s for more than a century have been more and more solicitous to keep up the breed of their dogs and horses, than that of their children. This very nobleman, simple as he seems, is descended from a race of statesmen and heroes ; but unluckily his great-grandfather mai'rying a cook-mp,id, and she having a trifling passion for his lordship's gi'oom, they someiiow crossed the strain, and produced an heir, who took after his mother in his great love to good-eating, and his father in a violent affection for horse-flesh. Tliese passions have for some generations passed on from father to son, and arc now become the characteristics of the family, his present lordship being equally remarkable for his kitchen and his stable. But such a nobleman, cried I, desci-ves our pity, thus placed in so high a sphere of life, wliich only the more exposes to contempt. A king may confer titles, but it is personal merit alone that insures respect. I suppose, added I, tliat such men are despised by their equals, neglected by their inferiors, and condemned to live among involuntary dependents in irksome solitude. You are still under a mistake, replied my companion ; for thougli this noble- man is a stranger to generosity; though he takes twenty opportuuities in a day of letting his guests know how much he despises them ; though he is possessed neither of taste, wit, nor wisdom ; though incapable of improving others by liis conversation, and never known to enrich any by his boimty ; yet, for all this, his company is eagei'ly sought after : he is a lord, and that is as much as most people desire in a companion. QuaHty and title have such allurements, that hundreds are ready to give iip all their own importance, to cringe, to flatter, to look little, and to pall every pleasure in constraint, merely to be among the great, though without the least hopes of improving their under- standing, or sharing their generosity ; they might be happy amoiig their equals, but those are despised for company where they arc despised in turn. You saw what a crowd of humble cousins, card-ruined beaux, and captams on half-pay, were wilhng to make vip this great man's retinue down to his country- scat. Not one of all these that could not lead a more comfortable life at home in their little lodging of three shillings a week, with their lake-warm dinner, served up between two pewter plates from a cook's shop. Yet, poor devils, they are willing to undergo the impertinence and pride of their entertainer, merely to be thought to live among the gi'cat : they are willing to pass the summer in bondage, though conscious tliey are taken down only to approve liis lordship's taste upon every occasion, to tag all his stupid obsei'vations with a very true, to praise his stable, and descant upon his claret and cookery. The pitiful hmuiliations of the gentlemen you are now describing, said I, puts me in mind of a custom among the Tartars of Koreki, not entirely dissi- CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 459 miliar to this we are now considering.* The Russians, who trade with them, carry thither a kind of mushrooms, which they exchange for furs of squiiTels, ermines, sables, and foxes. These mushrooms the rich Tartars lay up in large quantities for the winter ; and when a nobleman makes a mushroom feast, all the neighbours around are invited. The mushrooms are prepared by boiling, by which the water acquires an intoxicating quality, and is a sort of drink which the Tartars prize beyond all otlier. When tlie nobility and ladies are assembled, and the ceremonies usual between people of distinction over, the mushroom-broth goes freely round ; they laugh, talk double-entendre, grow fuddled, and become excellent company. The poorer sort, who love mush- room-broth to distraction as well as the rich, but cannot afford it at the first band, post themselves on these occasions round the huts of the rich, and watch