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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
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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
o then, says the husband, we had as good remove the fiddle-case.
LETTER LXYI.
mOM THE SAME.
Books, my son, while they teach us to respect the interest of others, often
make vis unmindful of our own ; while they instruct the youthful reader to
grasp at social happiness, he grows miserable in detail, and attentive to uni-
versal harmony, often forgets that he himself has a part to sustain in tlie
concert. I dislike therefore the philosopher who describes the inconveniences
of life in such pleasing colours that the pupil grows enamoured of distress,
longs to try the charms of poverty, meets it without dread, nor fears its incon-
veniences till he severely feels them.
A youth, who has thus spent his life among books, new to the world, and
unacquainted with man, but by philosophic information, may be considered as a
being, whose mind is filled with the vulgar errors of the wise ; utterly unqualified
for a journey tlu-ough life, yet confident of his own skill in the direction, he
sets out with confidence, blunders on with vanity, and finds himself at last
undone.
He first has learned from books, and then lays it down as a maxim, that all
mankind are virtuous or vicious in excess ; and he has been long taught to
detest vice and love virtue : warm therefore in attachments, and stedfast in
ennaity, he treats every creature as a friend or foe ; expects from those he
loves unerring integrity, and consigns his enemies to the reproach of wanting
every virtue. On this principle he proceeds ; and here begin his disappoint-
524 THE WORKS OP OLIVER GOLDSMITlrL
mcnts : upon a closer inspection of human nature, lie perceives, that he should
hare moderated his friendship, and softened his severity ; for ho often finds
the excellences of one part of mankind clouded Avith vice, and the faults of the
other brightened with virtue ; he finds no character so sanctified that has not
its failings, none so infamous but lias somewhat to attract oiu' esteem ; he
beholds impiety in lawn, and fidelity in fetters.
He now therefore, but too late, perceives that liis regards should have been
more cool, and his hatred less violent ; that the truly wise seldom coui't
romantic friendships with the good, and avoid, if possible, the resentment even
of the wicked : every moment gives him fresh instances that the bonds of friend-
ship are broken if drawn too closely, and that those whom he has treated with
disrespect more tlian retahate the injury : at length, therefore, he is obliged to
confess, that he has declared war upon the vicious half of mankind, without
being able to form an alliance among the virtuous to espouse his quarrel.
Our book-taught philosox^her, however, is now too far advanced to recede ;
and though poverty be the just consequence of the many enemies his conduct
has created, yet ho is resolved to meet it without slu-iuking : philosophers
have described poverty in most charming colours ; and even liis vanity is
touched, in thinking, that he shall shew the world in himself one more ex-
ample of patience, fortitude, and resignation. Come then, Poverty ! for
what is there in thee dreadful to the Wise .? Temperance, Health, and Fru-
gality, walk in thy train : Cheerfulness and Liberty are ever thy comjmnions.
Shall any he ashamed of thee, of whom Cincinnatus was not ashamed? The run-
ning brook, the herbs of the field, can scarcely satisfy nature ; man v:ants but
little, nor that little long ;* come then, Poverty, ivhile kings stand by and gaze
with admiration at the true philosojj her' s resignation.
The goddess appears ; for Poverty ever comes at the call : but alas ! he
finds her by no means the charming figm*e books and his warm imagination
liad painted. As when an eastern bride, whom her fiieuds and relations had
liad long described as a model of perfection, pays her first visit, the longing
bridegroom lifts the veil to see a face he had never seen before ; but, instead
of a countenance blazing with beauty like the sun, he beholds deformity shoot-
ing icicles to his heart : such appears Poverty to her new entertainer ; all the
fabric of enthusiasm is at once demolished, and a thousand miseries rise upon
its ruins, while Contempt, with pointing finger, is foremost in the hideous
procession.
Tlie poor man now finds that he can get no kings to look at him while he is
eating ; he finds that in proportion as he growls poor, the world turns its back
upon him, and gives him leave to act the philosopher in all the majesty of
solitude : it might be agreeable enough to play the philosopher while we are
conscious that mankind are spectators ; but Avliat signifies wearing the mask
of sturdy contentment, and mounting the stage of restraint, when not one crea-
ture Avili assist at the exhibition ? Thus is he forsaken of men, while his for-
titude wants the satisfaction even of self-applause ; for either he does not feel
his present calamities, and that is natural insensibility, or he disguises his feel-
ings, and that is dissimulation.
(Spleen now begins to take up the man ; not distinguishing in his resent-
ments, he regards all mankind with detestation, and commencing man-hater
Bceks solitude to be at liberty to rail.
* Our author has repeated this thought, nearly in the same words, in his IIkiwit :
Theu, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego,
All earth-born cares are wrong :
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
It has been said, that he who retu'es to solitude, is either a beast or an \
angel ; the censure is too severe, and the praise xinnierited 5 the discontented j
being,' who retires from society, is generally some good-natured man, who has |
begun life without experience, and knew not how to gain it in his intercourse j
with mankind. Adieu t
LETTEE LXVIL
FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO TUM HOAM, FIEST PRESIDENT Or THE CERE-
MONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN, IN CHINA.
I roRMERLT acquainted thee, most grave Fum, with the excellence of the
English in the art of heal ing. The Chinese boast their skill in pulses, the
Siamesg;'-t]Teir botanical knowledge, but the English advertising-physicians
alone, of being the great restorers of health, the dispensers of youth, and the
iusui'ers of longevity. I can never enough admire the sagacity of this coun-
try for the encouragement given to the professors of this art ; with what
indulgence does she foster up those of her own growth, and kindly cherish
those that come from abroad. Like a skilful gardener, she invites them fi'om
every foreign climate to herself. Here every great exotic strikes root as soon
as imported, and feels the genial beam of favour; while the mighty metropolis,
like one vast munificent dunghill, receives them indiscriminately to her breast,
and supplies each with more than native nourishment. >^
In other countries the physician pretends to cure disorders in the lumpY h
the same doctor who combats the gout in the toe, shall pretend to prescribe for \
a pain in the head ; and he who at one time cures a consumption, shall at an- \
other give di'ugs for a dropsy. How absurd and ridiculous ! this is being a
mere jack-of»ali-trades. Is the animal machine less complicated than a brass
pin ? Not less than ten different hands are required to make a pin : and shall
the body be set right by one single operator ? I
The English are sensible of the force of this reasoning ; they have therefore I
one doctor for the eyes, another for the toes ; they have their sciatica doctors,
dud inoculating doctors ; they have one doctor who is modestly content with
securing them from bugbites, and five hundred who prescribe for the bite of
mad dogs.
The learned are not here retired with vicious modesty from public view ; for
every dead wall is covered with their names, their abilities, their amazing
cui'es, and places of abode. Few patients can escape falling into their hands
unless blasted by lightning, or struck dead with some sudden disorder : it may
sometimes happen, that a stranger who does not understand English, or a
countryman who cannot read, dies without ever hearing of the vivifying
drops, or restorative electuary : but for my part, before I was a week in town,
I had learned to bid the whole catalogue of disorders defiance, and was per-
fectly acquainted with the names and the medicines of every great man, or
great woman, of them all.
But as nothing pleases curiosity more than anecdotes of the great, however
minute or trifling, I must present you, inadequate as my abilities are to the
svibject, with some accoimt of those personages who lead in this honourable
profession.
The first upon the list of glory is doctor Richard RocJc, F. U. N. This
great man, short of stature, is fat, and waddles as he walks. He always wears
a white three-tailed wig nicely combed, and frizzed upon each cheek ; some-
times he carries a cane, but a hat never ; it is ,yideed very remarkable, that
this extraordinary personage should never wean a hat, but so it is, he never
wears a hat. He is usually di-awn at the top of his own bills, sitting in his
526 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
armchair, holding a little bottle between his finger and thumb, and surrounded
with rotten teeth, nippers, pills, pacquets and gallipots. No man can promise
fairer nor better than he ; for, as he observes, Be your disorder never so far
gone, be under no uneasiness, maJce yourself quite easy, I can cure you.
The next in fame, though by some reckoned of equal pretensions, is doctor
Timothy Franks, F. O. G-. H. living in a place called the Old-Bailey. As
Rock is remarkably squab, his great rival Franks is as remarkably tall. He
was born in the year of the Clu'istian sera 1G92, and is, while I now write,
exactly sixty-eight years, three months, and four days old. Age, however, has
no ways impaired his usual health and vivacity ; I am told, he generally walks
with his breast open. This gentleman, who is of a mixed reputation, is par-
ticularly remarkable for a becoming assurance, which carries him gently
through life ; for, except doctor Rock, none are more blest with the advantages
of face than doctor Franks.
And yet the great have their foibles as well as the little. I am almost
ashamed to mention it. Let the foibles of the great rest in peace. Yet I
must impart the whole to my friend. These two great men are actually now
at variance ; yes, my dear Fum Tloam, by the head of our grandfather, they
are now at variance like mere men, mere common mortals. The champion Rock
advises the world to beware of bog-trotting quacks j while Franks retorts the wit
and the sarcasm (for they have both a world of wit) by fixing on his rival the
odious appellation of Dumplin Dick. He calls the serious doctor Rock, Dumplin
Dick ! Head of Confucius, wdiat profanation ! Dumplin Dick ! Wliat a pity,
ye powers, that the learnccl, who were born mutually to assist in enlightening
the world, should thus differ among themselves, and make even the profession
ridiculous ! Sure the world is wide enough, at least, for two great personages
to figure in j men of science should leave controversy to the little world below
them ; and then we might see Rock and Franks walking together haud-in-
hand, smiling onward to immortality.
Next to these is doctor Walker, preparator of his own medicines. This gen-
tleman is remarkable for an aversion to quacks; frequently cautioning the
public to be careful into what hands they commit their safety j by which he
would insinuate that if they do not employ him alone, they must be undone.
His public spirit is equal to his success. Not for himself, but his country, is
the gallipot prepared and the di-ops sealed up with proper directions for any
part of the town or country. All this is for his country's good : so that he is
now grown old in the practice of physic and virtue ; and to use his ovm
elegance of expression, There is not such another medicine as his in the world
again.
This, my friend, is a formidable triumvirate ; and yet, formidable as they
are, I am resolved to defend the honour of Chinese physic against them all. I
have made a vow to summon doctor Rock to a solemn disputation in all
the mysteries of the profession, before the face of every philomath, student in
astrology, and member of the learned societies. I adhere to, and venerate
the doctrines of old Wang-shu-ho. In the very teeth of opposition I will
maintain. That the heart is the son of the liver, which has the kidneys for ite
mother, and the stomach for its wife.^ I have therefore drawn up a disputation
challenge, whicli is to be sent speedily, to this efi'ect :
I, Lien Chi Altangi, M. "N. IR,. i§. native of Honan in China, to Richard Rock,
F. U. N. native of Garbage-alley in Wapping, defiance. Though, Sir, I am per-
fectly sensible of your importance, though no stranger to your studies in the path
of natm'e, yet there may be many things in the art of physic with which you are
yet unacquainted. I know full well a doctor thou art, great Rock^ and so am
* See Du Halde, vol. II. fol. p. 185.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD, 527
I. Wherefore, I challenge, and do hereby invite you to a trial of leai-ning
upon hard problems, and knotty physical points. In this debate we "will
calmly investigate the whole theory and practice of medicine, botany, and*
chemistry; and I invite all the philomaths, with many of the lecturers in
medicine, to be present at the dispute : which, I hope, will be carried on with
due decorum, with proper gravity, and as befits men of erudition and science,
among each other. But before we meet face to face, I would thus publicly,
and in the face of the whole world, desire you to answer me one question ; I
ask it with the same earnestness with whicli you have often solicited the pub-
lic ; answer me, I say, at once, without having recourse to your physical dic-
tionary, which of those three disorders, incident to the human body, is the
most fatal, the syncope, parenthesis, or apoplexy ? I beg your reply may be as
public as this mj demand.* I am, as hereafter may be, yoiu* admirer, or
your rival. Adieu !
LETTEE LXVIII.
TO THE SAME.
lis'DULGENT nature seems to have exempted this island from many of those epi-
demic evils which are so fatal in other parts 'of the world. A want of rain
but for a few days beyond the expected season in China, spreads famine, deso-
lation, and terror over the whole country; the winds that blow from the brown
bosom of the Western desert are impregnated with death in every gale ; but
in this fortunate land of Britain, the inhabitant courts health in every breeze,
and the husbandman ever sows in joyful expectation.
But though the nation be exempt from real evils, think not, my friend, that
it is mor(! happy on this account than others. They are afflicted, it is true,
with neither famine nor pestilence, but then there is a disorder peculiar to the
country, which every season makes strange ravages among them ; it spreads
with pestilential rapidity, and infects almost every rank of people ; what is
still more strange, the natives have no name for this peculiar malady, though
well known to foreign physicians by the appellation of epidemic terror.
A season is never known to pass in which the people are not visited by this
cruel calamity in one shape or another, seemingly different, though ever the
same : one year it issues from a baker's shop in the shape of a sixpenny loaf,
the next it takes the appearance of a comet with a fiery tail, a third it
threatens like a flat-bottomed boat, and a fourth it carries consternation at the
bite of a mad dog. The people, when once infected, lose their relish for hap-
piness, saunter about with looks of despondence, ask after the calamities of
the day, and receive no comfort but in heightening each other's distress. It
is insignificant how remote or near, how weak or powerful the object of terror
may be : when once they resolve to fright and be frighted, the merest trifles
sow consternation and dismay ; each proportions his fears, not to the object,
but to the dread he discovers in the countenance of others ; for when once
the fermentation is begun, it goes on of itself, though the original cause be dis-
continued which first set it in motion.
A dread of mad dogs is the epidemic terror which now prevails, and the
whole nation is at present actually groaning under the malignity of its in-
fluence. The people sally from their houses with that circumspection which
is prudent in such as expect a mad dog at every turning. The physician
publishes his prescription, the beadle prepares his halter, and a few of unusual
bravery arm themselves with boots and buff gloves, in order to face the enemy,
* The day after this was published the editor received an answer, ia which the doctor
seems to be of opinion, that the apoplexy is most fatal.
523 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
if he should offer to attack them. In short, the whole people staiul bravely
upon then' defence, and seem by their present spirit to shew a resolution of
not being tamely bit by mad dogs any longer.
Their manner of knowing whether a dog be mad or no, somewhat resembles
the ancient European custom of trying witches. The old woman suspected
was tied hand and foot, and thrown into the water. If she swam, then she
was instantly carried off to be burnt for a witch ; if she sunk, then indeed she
was acquitted of the charge, but drowned in the experiment. In the same
manner a crowd gather round a dog suspected of madness, and they begin
by teasing the devoted animal on every side ; if he attempts to stand upon the
defensive and bite, then is he unanimously found guilty, for a mad dog always
snaps at every thing; if, on the contrary, he strives to escape by running away,
then he can expect no compassion, /or mad dogs always run straight forward
before them.
It is pleasant enough for a neutral being like me, who have no share in these
ideal calamities, to mark the stages of this national disease. The terror at
first feebly enters with a disregarded story of a little dog, tliat had gone
through a neighbouring village, that was thought to be mad by several that
had seen him. The next account comes, that a mastiff ran through a certain
town, and had bit five geese, which immediately ran mad, foamed at the bill,
and died in great agonies soon after. Then comes an affecting history of a
little boy bit in the leg, and gone clown to be dipt in the salt water ; when the
people liave sufficiently shuddered at that, they are next congealed with a
frightful account of a man who was said lately to have died from a bite he had
received some years before. This relation only prepares the way for another,
still more hideous, as how the master of a family, with seven small children,
were all bit by a mad lap-dog, and how the poor father first perceived the in-
fection by calling for a draught of water, where he saw the lap-dog swimming
in the cup.
When epidemic terror is thus once excited, every morning comes loaded
with some new disaster ; as in the stories of ghosts, each loves to hear the
account though it only serves to make him uneasy, so here each listens with
eagerness, and adds to the tidings new circumstances of peculiar horror, A
lady, for instance, in the country, of very weak nerves, has been frightened
by the barking of a dog ; and this, alas ! too frequently happens. The story
soon is improved and spreads, that a mad dog had frighted a lady of distinc-
tion. These circumstances begin to grow ten*ible before they have reached
the neighbouring village, and there the report is, that a lady of quality was
bit by a mad mastiff. Tliis account every moment gathers new strength, and
grows more dismal as it approaches the capital, and by the time it has arrived
in town, the lady is described with wild eyes, foaming mouth, running mad
upon all fours, barking like a dog, biting her servants, and at last smothered
between two beds by the advice of her doctors : while the mad mastiff is in
the meantime ranging the whole country over, slavering at the mouth, and
seeking whom he may devour.
My landlady, a good-natured woman, but a little credulous, waked me some
mornings ago, before the usual hour, with horror and astonishment in her
looks ; she desired me, if I had any regard for my safety, to keep within ; for
a few days ago so dismal an accident had happened, as to put all the woi*ld
upon their guard. A mad dog down in the country, she assured me, had bit
a farmer, who soon becoming mad, ran into his own yard, and bit a fine
brindled cow ; the cow quickly became as mad as the man, began to foam at
the mouth, and raising herself up, walked about on her hind legs, sometimes
barking like a dog, and sometimes attempting to talk like the farmer. Upon
CITIZEN OF THE WORLb. 52^
examining the grounds of tliis story, I found my landlady had it from one
tieighbour, who had it from another neighbour, who heard it from very good
authority.
Were most stories of this natiu'e thoroughly examined, it would be found
that numbers of such as have been said to suffer were no way injured, and that
of those who have been actually bitten, not one in a hundred was bit by a mad
dog. Such accoimts in general therefore only serve to make the people misera-
ble by false terrors, and sometimes fright the patient into actual plirenzy, by
creating those very symptoms they pretended to deplore.
But even allowing three or four to die in a season of this terrible death (and
four is probably too large a concession), yet still it is not considered how many
are preserved in their health and in their property by this devoted animal's
services. The midnight robber is kept at a distance ; the insidious thief is
often detected ; the healthful chace repairs many a worn constitution ; and the
poor man finds in his dog a willing assistant, eager to lessen his toil, and con-
tent with the smallest retribution.
"A dog," says one of the English poets, "is an honest creature, and I am a
friend to dogs." Of all the beasts that graze the lawn or hunt the forest, a
dog is the only animal that, leaving his fellows, attempts to cultivate the
friendship of man ; to man he looks in all his necessities with a speaking eye
for assistance ; exerts for him all the little service in his power with cheerful-
ness and pleasure ; for him bears famine and fatigue with patience and resig-
nation ; no injm'ies can abate his fidelity, no distress induce him to forsake
his benefactor ; studious to please, and fearing to offend, he is still an hiunble
steadfast dependent, and in him alone fawning is not flattery. How unkind,
then, to torture this faithful creature, who has left the forest to claim the
protection of man j how ungrateful a return to the trusty animal for all his
services ! Adieu !
LETTER LXIX.
FEOM LIEN CHI ALTANGI TO HINGPO, BY THE WAY OF MOSCOW.
The Eui'opeans are themselves blind, who describe Fortune without sight.
No first-rate beauty ever had finer eyes, or saw more clearly ; they who have
no other trade but seeking their fortune, need never hope to find her ; coquette
like, she flies from her close pursuers, and at last fixes on the j)lodding me-
chanic, who stays at home and minds his business.
I am amazed how men can call her blind, when by the company she keeps
she seems so very discerning. Wherever you see a gaming-table, be very sure
Fortune is not there ; wherever you see an house with the doors open, be very
sure Fortune is not there ; when you see a man whose pocket-holes are laced
with gold, be satisfied Fortune is not there ; wherever you see a beautiful
woman good-natured and obliging, be convinced Fortune is never there. In
short, she is ever seen accompanying industry, and as often trundling a
wheel-barrow, as lolling in a coach and six.
If you would make Fortune your friend, or to personize her no longer, if
you desire, my son, to be rich and have money, be more eager to save than to
acquire : when people say, Money is to be got here, and money is to be got there,
take no notice ; mind your own business ; stay where you are ; and secure all
you can get, without stirring. When you hear that your neighbour has picked
up a purse of gold in the street, never run out into the same street, looking
about you, in order to pick up such another ; or when you are informed, that
he has made a fortune in one branch of business, never change your own, in
order to be his rival. Do not desire to be rich all at once ; but patiently add
34
630 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
farthing to farthing. Perhaps you despise the petty siun ; and yet they who
want a fartliing, and have no friend that will lend them it, think farthings
very good things. Whang, the foohsh miller, when he wanted a farthing in
his distress, found that no friend would lend, because they knew he wanted.
Did you ever read the story of Whang in our books of Chinese learning ; he
who, despising small sums, and grasping at all, lost even what he had ?
Whang, the miller, was naturally avaricious ; nobody loved money better
than he, or more respected those that had it. When people would talk of a
rich man in com^jany. Whang would say, I know him veiy well ; he and I
have been long acquainted ; he and I are intimate ; he stood for a child of
mine : but if ever a poor man was mentioned, he had not the least knowledge
of the man ; he might be very well for aught he knew ; but he was not fond
of many acquaintances, and loved to choose his company.
Jf^hang, however, with all his eagerness for riches, was in reality poor ; he
had nothing but the profits of his mill to support him : but though these \A^ere
small, they were certain ; while his mill stood and went, he was sui-e of
eating, and his frugality was such, that he eveiy day laid some money by, which
he would at intervals count and contemplate with much satisfaction. Yet still
his acquisitions were not equal to his desires — he only found himself
above want, whereas he desired to be possessed of affluence.
One day as he was indulging these wishes, he was informed, that a neighbour
of his had found a pan of money under ground, having dreamed of it three
nights running before. These tidings were daggers to the heart of poor
Whang. Here am I, says he, toilmg and moiling from morning till night for
a few paltry farthings, while neighbom- Hunks only goes quietly to bed, and
dreams himself into thousands before morning. O that I could dream like
him ; with what pleasure would I dig round the pan ; how slily would I
oai*ry it home ; not even my wife shoidd see me ; and then, O the pleasm-e of
thrusting one's hand into a heap of gold up to the elbow !
Such reflections only served to make the miller unhappy ; he discontinued
his former assiduity, he was quite disgusted with small gains, and his cus-
tomers began to forsake him. Every day he re^Deated the wish, and every
night laid himself down in order to dream. Fortune, that was for a long time
unkind, at last, however, seemed to smile upon his distresses, and indulged
him with the wished-for vision. He dreamed, that under a certain part of the
fotmdation of his mill there was concealed a monstrous pan of gold and
diamonds, bm-ied deep in the ground, and covered with a large flat stone.
He rose up, thanked the stars that were at last pleased to take pity on his
Bufferings, and concealed his good luck from every person, as is usual in money
dreams, in order to have the vision repeated the two succeeding nights, by
which he should be certain of its veracity. His wishes in tliis also were an-
swered, he still dreamed of the same pan o£ money, in the very same place.
Now, therefore, it was past a doubt : so getting up early the thhd morning,
he repairs alone, with a mattock in his hand, to the mill, and began to un-
dermine that part of the wall which the vision dhected. The first omen of
success that he met was a broken mug ; digging stiU deeper, he turns up a
house-tile, quite new and entire. At last, after much digging, he came to the
broad flat stone, but then so large, that it was beyond one man's strength to
remove it. Here, cried he in raptm-es to himself, here it is j under this stone
there is room for a very large pan of diamonds indeed. I must e'en go home
to my wife, and teK her the whole affau", and get her to assist ms in turning it
up. Away, therefore, he goes, and acquaints his wife with every circumstance
of their good fortune. Her raptui'es on this occasion easily may be imagined j
she flew round his neck, and embraced him in an agony of joy ; but those
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 531
transports however did not delay their eagerness to know the exact sum j re-
turning, therefore, speedily together to the place where Whang had been dig-
ging, there they found — not indeed the expected treasure, but the mill, their
only support, undermined and fallen. Adieu !
LET TEE LXX.
FEOM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO FUM HOAM, PIEST PRESIDENT OP THE CEEE-
MONIAL ICADEMY AT PEKIN, IN CHINA.
The people of London are as fond of walking as our friends at Pekin of
riding ; one of the principal entertainments of the citizens here m summer is
to repair about nightfall to a garden not far from town, where they walk about,
shew their best clothes and best faces, and listen to a concert provided for the
occasion.
I accepted an invitation a few evenings ago from my old friend, the man in
black, to be one of a party that was to sup there ; and at the appointed hour
waited upon him at his lodgings. There I found the company assembled and
expecting my arrival. Our party consisted of my friend, in superlative finery,
his stockings rolled, a black velvet waistcoat which was formerly new, and a
gray wig combed down in imitation of hair : a pawnbroker's widow, of whom,
by-the-by, my friend was a professed admirer, dressed out in green damask,
with three gold rings on every finger : Mr. Tibbs, the second-rate beau I have
formerly described, together with his lady, in flimsy silk, dirty gauze instead
of linen, and a hat as big as an umbrella.
Our first difficulty was in settling how we should set out. Mrs. Tibbs had
a natural aversion to the water, and the widow being a little in flesh, as
warmly protested against walking ; a coach was therefore agreed upon, which
being too small to carry five, Mr. Tibbs consented to sit in his wife's lap.
In this manner, therefore, we set forward, being entertained by the way
Avith the bodings of Mr. Tibbs, who assured us, he did not expect to see a
single creatm'e for the evening above the degree of a cheesemonger ; that this
Avas the last night of the gardens, and that consequently we should be pes-
tered with the nobility and gentry from Thames-street and Crooked-lane, with
several other prophetic ejacvilations, probably inspired by the uneasiness of
his situation.
The illuminations began before we arrived, and I must confess, that upon
entering the gardens, I found every sense overpaid with more than expected
pleasm-e ; the lights everywhere glimmering through the scarcely-moving
trees, the full-bodied concert bursting on the stilhiess of the night, the na-
tural concert of the birds in the more retired part of the grove, vying with
that which was formed by art ; the company gaily dressed looking satisfac-
tion, and the tables spread with various delicacies, all conspired to fill my
imagination with the visionary happiness of the Arabian lawgiver, and lifted
me into an ecstacy of admiration. Head of Confucius, cried I to my friend,
this is fine ! _ this unites rural beauty with, courtly magnificence ; if we ex-
cept the virgins of immortality that hang on every tree, and may be plucked
at every desire, I do not see Ixow this falls short of Mahomefs Paradise ! As
for virgins, cries my friend, it is true, they are a fruit that do not much
abomid in our gardens here ; but if ladies, as plenty as apples in autumn, and
as complying as any ha urii of them all, can content you, I fancy we have no
need to go to Heaven for Paradise.
I was going to second his remarks, when we were called to a consultation
by Mr. Tibbs and the rest of the company to know in what manner we were
to lay out the evening to the greatest advantage. Mrs. Tibbs was for keeping
34—2
532 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
the genteel walk of the garden, where she observed there was always the very
best company ; the widow, on the contrary, who came but once a season, was
for securing a good standing-place to see the water-works, which she assured
us would begin in less than an hour at farthest ; a dispute therefore began,
and as it was managed between two of very opposite characters, it threatened
to grow more bitter at every reply. Mrs. Tibbs wondered how people could
pretend to know the polite world who had received all their rudiments of
bi'eeding behind a counter ; to which the other replied, that though some peo-
ple sat behind counters, yet they could sit at the head of their own tables too,
and carve three good dishes of hot meat whenever they thought proper, which
was more than some people could say for themselves, that hardly knew a
rabbit and onions from a green goose and gooseberries.
It is hard to say where this might have ended, had not the husband, who
probably knew the impetuosity of his wife's disposition, proposed to end the
dispute by adjourning to a box, and try if there was anything to be had for
supper that was supportable. To this we all consented, but here a new distress
arose ; Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs would sit in none but a genteel box, a box where
they might see and be seen ; one, as they expressed it, in the very focus of
public view : but such a box was not easy to be obtained, for though we
were perfectly convinced of our own gentility, and the gentility of our ap-
pearance, yet we found it a difficult matter to persuade the keepers of the
boxes to be of our opinion ; they chose to reserve genteel boxes for what they
judged more genteel company.
At last, however, we were fixed, though somewhat obscurely, and supplied
with the usual entertainment of the place. The widow found the supper
excellent, but Mrs. Tibbs thought everything detestable. Come, come, my dear,
cries the husband, by way of consolation, to be sure we can't find such dressing
here as we have at lord Crump's or lady Crimp's ; but for Yauxhall dressing it
is pretty good ; it is not their victuals indeed I find fault with, but their wine ;
their wine, cries he, drinking ofi^ a glass, indeed, is most abominable.
By this last contradiction the widow was fairly conquered in point of polite-
ness. She perceived now that she had no pretensions in the world to taste,
her very senses were vulgar, since she had praised detestable custard, and
smacked at wretched wine ; she was therefore content to yield the victory,
and for the rest of the night to listen and improve. It is true, she would
now and then forget herself, and confess she was pleased, but they soon
brought her back again to miserable refinement. She once praised the painting
of the box in which we were sitting, but was soon convinced that such paltry
pieces ought rather to excite horror than satisfaction ; she ventured again to
commend one of the singers, but Mrs. Tibbs soon let her know, in tlie style of
a connoisseur, that the singer in question had neither ear, voice, nor judgment.
Mr. Tibbs, now willing to prove that his wife's pretensions to music were
just, intreated her to favour the company with a song ; but to this she gave a
Xjositive denial, for you know very well, my dear, says she, that I am not in
voice to-day, and when one's voice is not equal to one's judgment, what signi-
fies singing ? besides, as there is no accompaniment, it would be but spoiling
music. All these excuses, however, were over-ruled by the rest of the com-
pany, who, though one would think they already had music enough, joined in
the intreaty. But particularly the widow, now willing to convince the company
of her breeding, pressed so warmly, that she seemed determined to take no
refusal. At last then the lady complied, and after humming for some minutes,
began with such a voice, and such afiectation, as I co\ild perceive gave but
little satisfaction to any except her husband. He sat with rapture in his eye,
and beat time with his haut* on the table^
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 533 !
You must observe, my friend, that it is the custom of this country, when a
lady or gentleman happens to sing, for the company to sit as mute and
motionless as statues. Every feature, every limb, must seem to correspond in
fixed attention, and while the song continues, they are to remain in a state of
universal petrifaction. In this mortifying situation we had continued for
some time, listening to the song, and looking with tranquillity ; when the
master of the box came to inform us, that the water- works were going to
begin. At this information I could instantly perceive the widow bounce
from her seat ; but correcting herself, she sat down again, repressed by mo-
tives of good breeding. Mrs. Tibbs, who had seen the water- works a hundred
times, resolving not to be interrupted, continued her song without any share
of mercy, nor had the smallest pity on our impatience. The widow's face, I
own, gave me high entertainment : in it I could plainly read the struggle
she felt between good breeding and curiosity ; she talked of the water- works
the whole evening before, and seemed to have come merely in order to see
them ; but then she could not bounce out in the very middle of a song, for that
would be forfeiting all pretensions to high life, or high-lived company, ever
after. Mrs. Tibbs therefore kept on singing, and we continued to listen, till
at last, when the song was just concluded, the waiter came to inform us that
the water- works were over.
The water- works over ! cried the widow : the water-works over already,
that's impossible, they can't be over so soon ! It is not my business, replied
the fellow, to contradict your ladyship, I'll run again and see ; he went, and
soon returned with a confirmation of the dismal tidings. No ceremony could
now bind my friend's disappointed mistress, she testified her displeasure in
the openest manner ; in short, she now began to find fault in turn, and at
last, insisted upon going home, just at the time that Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs
assured the company that the polite hours were going to begin, and that the
ladies would instantaneously be entertained with the horns. 4. THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLVSMint
I may, upon another occasion, point out what is most strikingly absurd in
other countries ; I shall at present confine myself only to France. The first
national peculiarity a trareller meets upon entering that kingdom, is an odd
sort of a staring vivacity in evei'y eye, not excepting even the children ; the
people, it seems, have got it into their heads that they have more vrit than
others, and so stare in order to look smart.
I know not how it happens, but there appears a sickly delicacy in the faces
of their finest women. This may have introduced the use of paint, and paint
produces wrinkles ; bo that a fine lady shall look like a hag at twenty-three.
But as in some measure they never appear young, so it may be equally asserted
that they actually think themselves never old j a gentle Miss shall prepare for
uew conquests at sixty, shall hobble a rigadoon when she can scai-cely hobble
out without a crutch ; she shall afi^ect the girl, play her fan and her eyes, and
talk of sentiments, bleeding hearts, and expiring for love, when dying with
age. Like a departing philosopher, she attempts to make her last moments
the most brilliant of her life.
Their civility to strangers is what they are chiefly proud of j and to confess
sincerely, their beggars are the very politest beggars I ever knew j in other
places a ti*aveller is addressed with a piteous whine, or a sturdy solemnity, but
u French beggar shall ask your charity with a very genteel bow, and thank you
for it with a smile and shrug.
Another instance of this people's breeduig I must not forget. An English-
man could not speak his native language in a company of foreigners where he
was sm-e that none understood him j a travellmg Hottentot himself would be
silent if acquainted only with the language of his country ; but a Frenchman
shall talk to you whether you understand his language or not ; never troubling
JUS head whether you have learned French, still he keeps up the conversation,
fixes his eye full in your face, and asks a thousand questions, which he answers
himself for want of a more satisfactory reply.
But their civility to foreigners is not half so great as their admiration of
themselves. Every thing that belongs to them and their nation is great,
magnificent beyond expression : quite romantic ! every garden is a paradise,
every hovel a palace, and every woman an angel. They shut their eyes close,
throAV their mouths wide open, and cry out in rapture : Sucre ! What
beauty ! O del, what taste ! mort de ma vie, what grandeur, was ever any peo-
ple like ourselves ; we are the nation of men, and all the rest no better than
l.wo-legged barbarians.
I fancy the French would make the best cooks in the world, if they had but
meat ; aa it is, they can dress you out five difierent dishes from a nettle-top,
seven from a dock-leaf, and twice as many from a frog's haiinches ; these eat
prettily enough when one is a little used to them, are easy of digestion, and
seldom overload the stomach with crudities. They seldom dine under seven
hot dishes : it is true, indeed, with all this magnificence, they seldom spread a
(jloth before the guests ; but in that I cannot be angry with them ; since those,
Avho have got no linen on their backs, may very well be excused for wanting it
upon their tables.
Even religion itself loses its solemnity among them. Upon their roads, at
about every five miles distance, you see an image of the Virgin Mary di-essed
up in grim head-cloths, painted cheeks, and an old red petticoat ; before her
a lamp is often kept burning, at which, with the saint's permission, I have
frequently lighted my pipe. Instead of the Vii'gin, you are sometimes pre-
sented with a crucifix, at other times with a wooden Saviour, fitted out in
complete garniture, with sponge, spear, nails, pincers, hammer, bees-wax, and
rinegar-bottle. Some of these images, I have been told, came down from
heaven; if bo, in heaven they have but bungling workmen.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 545
In passing through their towns you frequently see the men sitting at the
Joors knitting stockings, while the care of cultiyating the ground and pruning
the yines falls to the women. This is perhaps tlie reason why the fair sex are
granted some peculiar privileges in this country ; particularly, when they can
get horses, of riding without a side-saddle.
But I begin to think you may find this description pert and dull enough :
perhaps it is so, yet in general it is the manner in w]v.eh the French usually
describe foi'eigners ; and it is but just to force a part of that ridicule back
upon them, which they attempt to lavish on others. Adieu !
LETTER LXXYIII.
FEOM THE SAME.
The two theatres, which serve to amuse the citizens here, are again opened'
for the winter. The mimetic troops, different from those of the state, begm
tlieir campaign when all the others quit the field ; and at a time when the
Em'opeaus cease to destroy each other in reality, they are entertained with
mock battles upon the stage.
The dancing-master once more shakes his quivering feet ; the carpenter pre-
pares his paradise of pasteboard ; the hero resolves to cover his forehead with
brass, and the heroine begins to scour up her copper tail, preparative to future
operations ; in short, all are in motion, fi'om the theatrical letter-carrier in
yellow-clothes, to Alexander the G-reat, that stands on a stool.
Both houses have already commenced hostilities. War, open war, and no
quarter received or given ! Two singing women, like heralds, have begun the
contest; the whole town is divided on this solemn occasion; one has the finest
pipe, the other the finest manner; one courtesies to the ground, the other salutes
the audience with a smile ; one comes on with modesty which asks, the other
with boldness which extorts applause : one wears powder, the other has none ;
one has the longest waist, but the other appears most easy; all, all is important
and serious ; the most mature deliberation ; they continue to exhibit, and it is
very possible this town as yet perseveres in its neutrality, a cause of such
moment demands the contest may continue to please to the end of the season.
But the generals of either army, have, as I am told, several reinforcements
to lend occasional assistance. If they produce a pair of diamond buckles at
one house, wo have a pair of eyebrows that can match them at the other. If
we outdo them in our attitude, they can overcome us by a shrug ; if we can
bring more children on the stage, they- can bring more guards in red clothes,
who strut and shoulder their swords to the astonishment of every spectator.
They tell me here, that people frequent the theatre in order to be instructed
as well as amused. I smile to hear the assertion. If I ever go to one of their
play-houses, what with trumpets, hallooing behind the stage, and bawling
upon it, I am qu.ite dizzy before the performance is over. If I enter the house
with any sentiments in my head, I am sm'e to have none going away, the
whole mind being filled with a dead march, a funeral procession, a cat-call, a
jig, or a tempest.
There is perhaps nothing more easy than to write properly for the English
theatre ; I am amazed that none are apprenticed to the trade. The author,
when well acquainted with the value of thunder and lightning, when versed
in all the mystery of scene-shifting, and trap-doors ; when skilled in the pro-
per periods to introduce a wire-walker, or a water-fall ; when instructed in
every actor's peculiar talent, and capable of adapting his speeches to the sup-
posed excellence j when thus instructed, he knows all that can give a modern
audience pleasure. One player gihiues in an exclamation, another in a groan,
35
546 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
a third in a horror, a fourth in a start, a fifth in a smile, a sixth faints, and a
seventh fidgets round the stage -with peculiar vivacity ; that piece therefore
will succeed best where each has a proper opportunity of shining ; the actor's
business is not bo much to adapt himself to the poet, as the poet's to adapt
himself to the actor.
The great secret therefore of tragedy-writing at present, is a perfect ac-
quaintance with theatrical ah''s and oh's, a certain number of these interspersed
with gods ! tortures, racks, and damnation, shall distort every actor almost into
conviilsions, and draw tears from every spectator ; a proper use of these will
infallibly fill the whole house with applause. But above all, a whining scene
must strike most forcibly. I would advise, from my present knowledge of the
audience, the two favourite players of the town to introduce a scene of this
sort in every play. Towards the middle of the last act, I would have them
enter with wild looks and out-spread arms j there is no necessity for speaking,
they are only to groan at each other, they must vary the tones of exclamation
and despair through the whole theatrical gamut, wring their figures into every
shape of distress, and when their calamities have drawn a proper quantity of
tears from the sympathetic spectators, they may go off in dumb solemnity at
different doors, clasping their hands, or slapping their pocket^holes ; this
which may be called a tragic pantomime, will answer every purpose of moving
the passions, as well as words could have done, and it must save those expenses
which go to reward an author.
All modern plays that would keep the audience alive, must be conceived in
this manner ; and indeed, many a modem play is made up on no other plan.
This is the merit that lifts up the heart, like opium, into a rapture of insensi-
bility, and can dismiss tlie mind from all the fatigue of thinking : this is the
eloquence that shines iu many a long-forgotten scene, which has been reckoned
excessively fine upon acting ; this the lightning that flashes no less in the
hyperboHcal tyrant, who breakfasts on the wind than in little Norval, as harm-
less as the babe unborn. Adieu !
LETTEE LXXIX.
PEOM THE SAUE.
I HAVE always regarded the spirit of mercy which appears in the Chinese laws
with admiration. An order for the execution of a criminal is carried from
court by slow journeys of six miles a day, but a pardon is sent down with the
most rapid dispatch. If five sons of the same father be guilty of the same
offence, one of them is forgiven, in order to continue the family and comfort
his aged pai-ents in their decline.
Similar to this, there is a spmt of mercy breathes through the laws of Eng-
land, which some erroneously endeavour to suppress ; the laws however seem
unwilling to punish the offender, or to furnish the officers of justice with every
means of acting with severity. Those who arrest debtors are denied the use
of arms, the nightly watch is permitted to repress the disorders of the drunken
citizens only with clubs ; justice in such a case seems to hide her terrors, and
permits some offenders to escape rather than load any with a punishment dis-
proportioned to the crime.
Thus it is the glory of an Englishman, that Jie is not only governed by
laws, but tliat these are also tempered by mercy : a country restrained by
severe laws, and those too executed with severity (as in Japan), is under the
most terrible species of tyranny ; a royal tyrant is generally dreadful to the
great, but numerous penal laws grind every rank of people, and chiefly those
kasfc able to resist oppression, the poor.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 547
It is reiT possible thus for a people to become slaves to laws of their own
euacfcing, as the Athenians were to those of Draco. " It might first happen,"
gays the historian, " that men with peculiar talents for villany, attempted to
evade the ordinances already established ; their practices, therefore, soon
brought on a new law levelled against them ; but the same degree of cunning
which had taught the knave to evade the former statutes, taught him to evade
the latter also ; he flew to new shifts, while justice pursued with new ordi-
nances ; still, however, he kept his proper distance, and whenever one ci'ime
was judged penal by the state, he left committing it in order to practise some
unforbidden species of villany. Thus the criminal against whom the threat-
enings were denounced always escaped free; while the simple rogue alone felt
the rigour of justice. In the mean time penal laws became numerous, almost
every person in the state imknowingly at different times offended, and was
every moment subject to a malicious prosecution." In fact, penal laws, instead
of preventing crimes, are generally enacted after the commission ; instead of
repressing the growth of ingenious villany, only multiply deceit, by putting
it upon new shifts and expedients of practising with impunity.
Such laws, therefore, resemble the guards which are sometimes imposed upon
tributary princes, apparently indeed to secure them from danger, but in reality
to confirm their captivity.
Penal laws, it must be allowed, secure property in a state, but they also
diminish personal security in the same proportion : there is no positive law,
how equitable soever, that may not be sometimes capable of injustice. Wlien
a law, enacted to make theft punishable with death, happens to be equitably
executed, it can at best only guard our possessions ; but when by favour or
ignorance. Justice pronounces a wrong verdict, it then attacks our lives, since
in such a case the whole community suffers with the innocent victim : if,
therefore, in order to secure the effects of one man, I should make a law which
may take away the life of another, in such a case to attain a smaller good, I
am guilty of a greater evil ; to secure society in the possession of a bauble, I
render a real and valuable possession precarious. And indeed the experience
of every age may serve to vindicate the assertion : no law could be more just
than that called Icescb majestaiis, when Rome was governed by emperors. It
was but reasonable, that every conspiracy against the administration should
be detected and punished : yet what terrible slaughters succeeded in conse-
quence of its enactment, proscriptions, stranglings, poisonings, in almost eveiy
family of distinction ; yet all done in a legal way j every criminal had his
trial, and lost his life by a majority of witnesses.
And such will ever be the case, where punishments are numerous, and where
a weak, vicious, but above all, where a mercenary magistrate is concerned in
their execution ; such a man desires to see penal laws increased, since he too
frequently has it in his power to turn them into instruments of extortion ; in
such hands the more laws, the wider means, not of satisfying justice, but of
satiating avarice.
A mercenary magistrate, who is rewarded in proportion, not to his integrity,
but to the number he convicts, must be a person of the most unblemished,
character, or he will lean on the side of cruelty ; and when once the work of
injustice is begun, it is impossible to tell how far it will proceed ; it is said
of the hyeena, that naturally it is no way ravenous : but when once it has
tasted himaan flesh, it becomes the most voracious animal of the forest, and
continues to persecute mankind ever after : a corrupt magistrate may be con-
sidered as a human hyeena ; he begins perhaps by a private snap, he goes on
to a morsel among friends, he proceeds to a meal in public, from a meal he
advances to a surfeit, and at last sucks blood like a vampyre.
35—2
548 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Not into such hands should the administration of justice be entrusted, but
to those who know how to reward as well as to punish. It was a fine saying
of Nangfu, the emperor, who, being told that his enemies had raised an insur-
rection in one of the distant proyinces. Come then, my friends, said he, follow
me, and I promise you that we shall quickly destroy them ; he marched for-
ward, and the rebels submitted upon his approach. All now thought that he
would take the most signal revenge, bub were surprised to see the captircs
treated with mildness and humanity. How 1 cries his first minister, is this
the manner in which you fulfil your promise ? your royal word was given thai
your enemies should be destroyed, and behold you have pardoned all, and even
caressed some ! I promised, replied the emperor, with a generous air, to des-
troy my enemies ; I have fulfilled my word, for see, they are enemies no longer,
I have rxxQ.die friends of them.
This, could it always succeed, were the true method of destroying the ene-
mies of a state : well it were, if rewards and mercy alone could regulate the
commonwealth ; but since punishments are sometimes necessary, let them at-
least be rendered terrible, by being executed but seldom, and let justice lift
her sword rather to terrify than revenge. Adieu !
LETTEE LXXX.
FEOM THE SAME.
I niTE as yet given you but a short and imperfect description of the ladies of
England. Woman, my friend, is a subject not easily understood, even in
China ; what, therefore, can be expected from my knoTtledge of the sex in a
country where tliey are universally allowed to be riddles, and I but a stranger ?
To confess a truth, I was afraid to begin the description, lest the sex should
undergo some new revolution before it was finished, and my picture should
thus become old before it could well be said to have ever been now. To-day
they are lifted upon stilts, to-morrow they lower their heels and raise their
heads ; their clothes at one time are bloated out with whalebone ; at present
they have laid their hoops aside, and are become as slim as mermaids. All,
all is in a state of continual fluctuation, from the mandarine's wife, who rattles
through the streets in her chariot, to the humble sempstress who clatters over
the pavement in iron-shod pattens.
What chiefly distinguishes the sex at present is the train. As a lady's
quahty or fashion was once determined here by the circumference of her hoop,
both are now measured by the length of lier tail. Women of moderate for-
tunes are contented with tails moderately long ; but ladies of true taste and
distinction set no bounds to their ambition in this particular. I am told, the
lady mayoress, on days of ceremony, carries one longer than a bell-wether of
Bantam, whose tail you know is trundled along in a wheel-barrow.
Sun of China, what contradictions do we find in this strange world! not only
the people of different countries think in opposition to each other, but the in-
habitants of a single island are often found inconsistent to themselves : would
you believe it ? this very people, my Eum, who are so fond of seeing their women
with long tails, at the same time dock their horses to the veiy rump ! ! !
But you may easily guess that I am no way displeased with a fashion which
tends to increase a demand for the commodities of the East, and is so very
beneficial to the country in which I was born. Nothing can be better calcu-
lated to increase the price of silk than the present manner of dressing. A
lady's train is not bought but at some expense, and after it has swept the
public walks for a very few evenings, is fit to be worn no longer : more silk
must be bought in order to repair the breach, and some ladies of peculiar
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 544)
economy are thus found to patch, up their tails eight or ten times in a season.
This unnecessary consumption may introduce poverty here, but then we shall
be the richer for it in China.
The man in black, ■who is a professed enemy to tliis manner of ornamenting
(lie tail, assures me, there are numberless inconveniences attending it, and
that a lady dressed up to the fashion is as much a cripple as any in Nankin.
But his chief indignation is levelled at those who dress in this manner, with-
out a proper fortune to support it. He assures me, that he has known some,
who would have a tail, though they wanted a petticoat, and others, who,
without any other pretensions, fancied they became ladies merely from the
addition of three superfluous yards of ragged silk. I know a thrifty good
woman, continues he, who thinking herself obliged to cairy a train like her
betters never walks from home without the uneasy aj)prehenBion of wearuig
it out too soon ; every excursion she makes gives her new anxiety, and her train
is every bit as importunate, and wounds her peace as much, as the bladder wo
sometimes see tied to the tail of a cat.
Nay, he ventm*es to affirm, that a train may often bring a lady into the
most critical circumstances ; for should a rude fellow, says he, offer to come up
to ravish a kiss, and the lady attempt to avoid it, in retiring she must
necessarily tread upon her train, and thus fall fairly upon her back, by which
means every one knows, — her clothes may be spoiled.
The ladies here make no scruple to laugh at the smallness of a Chinese
slipper, but I fancy our wives at China would have a more real cause of
laughter, could they but eee the immoderate length of an European train.
Head of Confucius ! to view a human being crippling herself with a great
unwieldy tail for om* diversion ; backward she cannot go, forward she must
move but slowly, and if ever she attempts to turn round, it must be in a
ch'cle not smaller than that described by the wheehng crocodile, when it
would face an assailant. And yet to think that all this confers importance
and majesty ! to think that a lady acquires additional respect from fifteen
yards of trailuig taffcty ! I cannot contain ; ha ! ha ! ha ! this is certainly a
remnant of European barbai'ity ; the female Tartar, dressed in sheep-skins, is
in far more convenient drapery. Their own writers have sometimes inveighed
against the absurdity of this fashion, but perhaps it has never been ridiculed
so well as upon the Italian theatre, where Pasquarielo being engaged to attend
on the countess of Fernambroco, having one of his hands employed in carry-
ing her muff, and the other her lap-dog, he bears her train majestically along
by sticking it in the waistband of his breeches. Adieu !
LETTER LXXXI.
FEOM THE SAME.
A DISPUTE has for some time divided the philosophers of Europe; it is
debated whether arts and sciences are more serviceable or prejudicial to man-
kind. They who maintain the cause of literature, endeavour to prove their
usefidness from the impossibility of a large number of men subsisting in a
small tract of country without them ; from the pleasure which attends the
acquisition j and from the influence of knowledge in promoting practical morality.
They who maintain the opposite opinion, display the happiness and inno-
cence of those uncultivated nations who live without learning ; uoi'ge the
numerous vices which are to be found only in polished society ; enlarge upon
the oppi'cssion, the cruelty, and the blood which must necessarily be shed, in
order to cement civil society ; and insist upon the happy equahty of conditions
in a barbarous state, preferable to the unnatural subordination of a more re-
fined constitution.
650 THE Works op oLivm goldsmith.
Tliis disputOj which has ah'eady given so much employment to speculative
indolence, has been managed with much ardour, and (not to suppress our
sentiments) with but little sagacity. They who insist that the sciences
are useful in refined society, are certainly right, and they who maintain that
barbarous nations are more happy without them, are right Iso ; but when
one side for this reason attempts to prove them as universally useful to the
solitary barbarian, as to the native of a crowded commonwealth ; or when the
other endeavours to banish them as prejudicial to all society, even from popu-
lous states as well as from the inhabitants of the wilderness, they are both
wrong ; since that knowledge which makes the happiness of a refined Euro-
pean, would be a torment to the precarious tenant of an Asiatic wild.
Let me, to prove this, ti*ansport the imagination for a moment to the midst
of a forest in Siberia. There we behold the inhabitant, poor indeed, but
equally fond of happiness with the most refined philosopher of China. The
earth lies uncultivated and uninhabited for miles around him; his little
family and he the sole and undisputed possessors. In such circumstances,
Nature and Keason will induce him to prefer a hunter's life to that of culti-
vating the earth. He will certainly adhere to that manner of living wliich is
carried on at the smallest expense of labour, and that food which is most
agreeable to the appetite ; he will prefer indolent though precarious luxury,
to a laborious though pei'manent competence ; and a knowledge of his own
happiness will determine him to persevere in native barbarity.
In like manner, his happiness will incline him to bind liimself by no law :
laws are made in order to secm*e present property ; but he is possessed of no
property which he is afraid to lose, and desires no more than will be sufficient
to sustain him ; to enter into compacts with others, would be undergoing a
voluntary obligation without the expectance of any reward. He and his
countrymen are tenants, not rivals, in the same inexhaustible forest; the
increased possessions of one by no means diminishes the expectations arising
from equal assiduity in another ; there are no need of laws, therefore, to
repress ambition, where there can be no mischief attending its most boundless
gratifications.
Our solitary Siberian will, in like manner, find the sciences not only en-
tirely useless in du'ecting his practice, but disgusting even in speculation. In
every contemplation om' curiosity must be first excited by the appearances of
things, before oiu' reason imdergoes the fatigue of investigating the causes.
Some of those appearances are produced by experiment, others by minute
inquiry ; some arise from a knowledge of foreign cHmates, and others from an
intimate study of our own. But there are few objects in comparison wliich
present themselves to the inhabitant of a barbarous country ; the game he
hunts, or the transient cottage he builds, make up the chief objects of his con-
cern ; his curiosity, therefore, must be proportion ably less ; and if that is
diminished, the I'easoning faculty will be diminished in proportion.
Besides, sensual enjoyment adds wings to ciu'iosity. We consider few
objects with ardent attention, but those which have some connexion with our
wishes, our pleasures, or our necessities, A desire of enjoyment first interests
om* passions in the pursuit, points out the object of investigation, and Reason
then comments where Sense has led the way. An increase in the number of
our enjoyments, therefore, necessarily produces an increase of scientific re-
search : but in countries where almost every enjoyment is wanting, reason
there seems destitute of its great inspirer, and speculation is the business of
fools when it becomes its own reward.
The barbarous Siberian is too wise, therefore, to exhaust his time in quest
of knowledge, which neither curiosity prompts, nor pleasui'c impels him t<"
CITIZEN OF T HE WORLD. 551
pursue. When told of the exact admeasurement of a degree upon the equator
at Quito, he feels no pleasure in the account ; when informed that such a
discovery tends to promote navigation and commerce, he finds himself no way-
interested in either. A discovery which some have pursued at the hazard, of
their lives, affects him with neither astonishment nor pleasure. He is satisfied
with thoroughly tmderstanding the few objects which contribute to his own
felicity : he knows the properest places where to lay the snare for the sable,
and discerns the value of furs with more than European sagacity. More
extended knowledge would only serve to render him unhappy ; it might lend
a ray to shew him the misery of his situation, but could not guide him in his
efforts to avoid it. Ignorance is the happiness of the poor.
The misery of a being endowed with sentiments above its capacity of frui-
tion, is most admirably described in one of the fables of Locman, the Indian
moralist. " An elephant that had been peculiarly serviceable in fighting the
battles of Wistnow, was ordered by the god to wish for whatever he thought
proper, and the desire should be attended with immediate gratification. The
elephant thanked his benefactor on bended knees, and desired to be endowed
with the reason and the faculties of a man. Wistnow was sorry to hear the
foolish request, and endeavoui*ed to dissuade him from his misplaced ambition ;
but finding it to no pm-pose, gave him at last such a portion of wisdom as
could correct even the Zendavesta of Zoroaster. The reasonmg elephant
went away rejoicing in his new acquisition, and though his body still retained
its ancient form, he found his appetites and passions entirely altered. He
first considered that it would not only be more comfortable, but also more
becoming to wear clothes j but unhappily he had no method of making them
himself, nor had he the use of speech to demand them from others, and this
was the first time he felt real anxiety. He soon perceived how much more
elegantly men were fed than he, therefore he began to loathe his usual food,
and long for those delicacies which adorn the tables of princes ; but here
again he found it impossible to be satisfied ; for though he could easily obtain
flesh, yet he found it impossible to dress it in any degree of perfection. In
short, every pleasure that contributed to the felicity of mankind, served only
to render him more miserable, as he found himself utterly deprived of
the power of enjoyment. In this manner he led a repining, discontented life,
detesting himself; and displeased with his ill-judged ambition, till at last his
benefactor Wistnow, taking compassion on his forlorn situation, restored him
to the ignorance and the happiness which he was originally formed to enjoy."
No, my friend, to attempt to introduce the sciences into a nation of wan-
dering barbai'ians, is only to render them more miserable than even Nature
designed they should be. A life of simplicity is best fitted to a state of sohtude.
The great law-giver of Eussia attempted to improve the desolate inhabitants
of Siberia, by sending among them some of the pohtest men of Europe. The
consequence has shewn that the country was as yet unfit to receive them :
they languished for a time with a sort of exotic malady, every day degenerated
from themselves, and at last, instead of rendering the coimtry more polite,
they conformed to the soil, and put on barbarity.
No, my friend, in order to make the sciences useful in any country, it must
first become populous ; the inhabitant must go through the different stages
of hunter, shepherd, and husbandman ; then when property becomes valu-
able, and consequently gives cause for injustice ; then when laws are appointed
to repress injury, and secure possession ; when men, by the sanction of those
laws, become possessed of superfluity ; when luxury is thus introduced and
demands its continual supply ; then it is that tlie sciences become necessary
and useful j the state then cannot subsist without them ; they must then bo
552 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
introduced at once to teach men to draw the greatest possible quantity of
pleasure from circumscribed possession j and to restrain them within the
bounds of moderate enjoyment.
The sciences are not the cause of luxury, but its consequence, and this
destroyer thus brings with it an antidote which resists the yirulence of its
own poison. By asserting that luxury introduces the sciences, we assert a
truth ; but if, with those who reject the utility of learning, we assert that the
sciences also introduce luxmy, we shall be at once false, absm'd, and ridi-
cidous. Adieu !
LETTER LXXXIL
PEOM: LIEJf CHI AXTANGI TO HINGPO, BY THE WAT OF MOSCOW.
You are now arrived at an age, my son, when pleasure dissuades from appli-
cation ; but rob not by present gratification all the succeeding period of life
of its happiness. Sacrifice a little pleasure at first to the expectance of
gi'eater. The study of a few years will make the rest of life completely easy.
But instead of continuing the subject myself, take the following instructions
borrowed from a modei-n philosopher of China.* " He who has begun his
fortune by study, will certainly confirm it by perseverance. The love of
books damps the passion for pleasure, and when this passion is once extin-
guished, life is then cheaply supported ; thus a man being possessed of more
than he wants, can never be subject to great disappointments, and avoids aU
those meannesses wliich indigence sometimes unavoidably produces.
" There is unspeakable pleasure attending the life of a voluntary student.
The first time I read an excellent book, it is to me just as if I had gained a
new friend. When I read over a book I have perused before, it resembles
the meeting with an old one. We ought to lay hold of every incident in life
for improvement, the trifling as well as the important. It is not one diamond
alone wliich gives lustre to another, a common coarse stone is also employed
for that purpose. Thus I ought to draw advantage from the insults and con-
tempt I meet with from a worthless fellow. His brutality ought to induce
mo to self-examination, and correct every blemish that may have given rise to
his calumny.
" Yet with all the pleasm'cs and profits which are generally produced by
learning, parents often find it difficult to induce their children to study. They
often seem dragged to what wears the appearance of apphcation. Thus being
dilatory in the beginning, all future hopes of eminence are entirely cut off.
If they find themselves obliged to write two lines more poHte than ordinary,
their pencil then seems as heavy as a mill-stone, and they spend ten years in
turning two or three periods with propriety.
" These persons are most at a loss when a banquet is almost over ; the plate
and the dice go round, that the number of little verses which each is obliged
to repeat may be determined by chance. The booby, when it comes to his
turn, appears quite stupid and insensible. The company divert themselves
with his confusion ; and sneers, winks, and whispers, are circulated at liis
expense. As for him, ho opens a pair of large heavy eyes, stares at all about
him, and even ofi'ers to join in the laugh, without, ever considering himself as
the burthen of all their good humom*.
" But it is of no importance t© read much, except you be regular in reading.
If it be interrupted for any considerable time, it can never be attended with
* A translation of this passage may also be seen in Dn Halde, vol. II. Fol. p. 47 and 58.
This extract will at least serve to show that fondness for humour which appears in the
writings of the Chinese.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 583
proper improvement. There are some who study for one day with intense
apphcation, and repose themselves for ten days after. But wisdom is a
coquette, and must be coiu-ted with unabating assiduity.
" It was a saying of the ancients, that a man never opens a book without
reaping some advantage by it. I say with them, that every book can serve to
make us more expert, except romances, and these are no better than the
instruments of debauchery. They are dangerous fictions, where love is the
ruHng passion.
.*'The most indecent strokes there pass for turns of wit; intrigue and cri-
minal liberties for gallantry and politeness. Assignations, and even viUany
are put in such strong lights, as may inspire even grown men with the
strongest -passion ; how much more therefore ought the youth of either sex to
dread them, whose reason is so weak, and whose hearts are so susceptible
passion !
" To slip in by a back-door, or leap a wall, are accomplishments that when
handsomely set off enchant a young heai't. It is true the plot is commonly
wound up by a marriage, concluded with the consent of parents, and adjusted
by every ceremony prescribed by law. But as m the body of the work there
are many passages that offend good morals, overthrow laudable customs,
violate the laws, and destroy the duties most essential to society, virtue is
thereby exposed to the most dangerous attacks.
"But, say some, the authors of these romances have nothing in view buttty
represent vice punished, and virtue rewarded. Granted. But will the
greater number of readers take notice of these punishments and rewards?
Are not their minds carried to something else ? Can it be imagined that th«^
ncart with which the author inspires the love of virtue, can overcome that
crowd of thoughts which sway them to Hcentiousness ? To be able to incul-
cate virtue by so leaky a vehicle, the author must be a philosopher of the first
rank. But in our age we can find but few first-rate philosophers.
" Avoid such performances where vice assumes the face of virtue j seek
wisdom and knowledge without ever thinking you have found them. A man
is wise, while he continues in the j)ursuit of wisdom ; but when he once
fancies that he has found the object of his inquiry, he then becomes a fool.
Learn to pursue virtue from the man that is bluid, who never makes a step
without first examining the ground with his staff.
" The world is like a vast sea, mankind like a vessel sailing on its tempes-
tuous bosom. Our pi-udence is its sails, the sciences serve us for oars, good
or bad fortune are the favourable or contrary winds, and judgment is the
rudder ; without this last the vessel is tossed by every billow, and will find
shipwreck in every breeze. In a word, obscurity and indigence are the
parents of vigilance and economy ; vigilance and economy of riches and
honour ; riches and honour of pride and luxury ; pride and luxury of impurity
and idleness ; and impurity and idleness again produce indigence and obscu-
rity. Such are the revolutions of life." Adieu !
LETTER LXXXm.
TEOM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO FUM HOAM, FIEST PRESIDENT OP THE CERE-
MONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN IN CHINA.
I FANCY the character of a poet is in every country the same, fond of enjoying
the present, careless of the future, his conversation that of a man of sense, hia
actions those of a fool! of fortitude able to stand unmoved at the bursting of
an earthquake, yet of sensibility to be affected by the breaking of a tea-cup ;
such is his character, which considered iu every light is the very opposite of
that which leads to riches.
554 THE WORKS OP OLtVER GOLt)SMITIt.
Tho poets of tlie West are as remarkable for their indigence as their genius ;
and yet among the numerous hospitals designed to relieve the poor, I have
heard of but one erected for the benefit of decayed authors. This was founded
by Pope Urban VIII. and called the Betreat of the Incurables, intimating,
that it was equally impossible to reclaim the patients who sued for reception,
from poverty or from poetry. To be sincere, were I to send you an account
of the lives of the Western poets, either ancient or modern, I fancy you would
think me employed in collecting materials for an history of human wretched-
ness.
Homer is the first poet and beggar of note among the ancients ; he was
blind, and sung his ballads about tlie streets ; but it is observed, that liis
mouth was more frequently fiUed with verses than with bread. Plautus, the
comic poet, was better off*; he had two trades, he was a poet for his diversion,
and helped to turn a mill in order to gain a livelihood. Terence was a slave,
and Boethius died in gaol.
Among the Italians, Paulo Burghese, ahnost as good a poet as Tasso, knew
fourteen different trades, and yet died because he could get employment in
none. Tasso himself, wlio had the most amiable character of all poets, has
often been obliged to borrow a crown from some friend, in order to pay for a
month's subsistence ; he has left us a pretty sonnet, addressed to his cat, in
which he begs the light of her eyes to write by, being too poor to afford him-
self a candle. But Bentivoglio, poor Bentivoglio! chiefly demands our pity. His
comedies will last with the Italian language ; he dissipated a noble fortune in
acts of charity and benevolence ; but falhng into misery in his old age, was
refused to be admitted into an hospital which he himself had erected.
In Spain, it is said, the great Cervantes died of hunger ; and it is certain,
that the famous Camoens ended his days in an hospital.
If we turn to France, we shall there find even stronger instances of the
mgratitude of the public. Yaugelas, one of the politest writers, and one of
tlie honestest men of his time, was siu'named the Owl, from his being obhged
to keep within all day, and venture out only by night, through fear of his
creditors. His last will is very remarkable ; after having bequeathed all his
worldly substance to the discharging his debts, he goes on thus ; but as there
BtiU may remain some creditors unpaid, even after all that I have shall have
been disposed of, in such a case, it is my last will, that my body should be
sold to the surgeons to the best advantage, and that the purchase should go to
the discharging those debts which I owe to society ; so that if I could not,
while living, at least when dead, I may be useful.
Cassander was one of the greatest geniuses of his time, yet all his merit
could not procure him a bare subsistence. Being by degrees driven into an
hatred of all mankind from the little pity he found amongst them, he even
ventured at last ungratefully to impute his calamities to Providence. In his
last agonies, when the priest intreated him to rely on the justice of Heaven,
and ask mercy from him that made him : If God, replies he, has sJiewn me no
iustice here, what reason have I to expect any from him hereafter? But being
answered, that a suspension of justice was no argiunent that should induce us
to doubt of its reality ; let me iutreat you, continued his confessor, by all tliat
is dear, to be reconciled to G-od, your father, your maker, and friend. No,
replied the exasperated wretch, you Jcnow the manner in which he left me to
live ; (and pointing to the straw on which he was stretched) and you see the
manner in which he leaves me to die /
But the sufferings of the poet in other countries is nothing when compared
to his distresses here ; the names of Spenser and Otway, Butler and Drydcn,
we every day mentioned as a national reproach ; some of them lived in a state
of prccai-ious indigence, and others literally died of Imngor.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 6S5
At present the few poets of England no longer depend on the great for 8ub-
sistende, they hare now no other patrons but the public, and the public, col-
lectively considered, is a good and a generous master. It is, indeed, too
frequently mistaken as to the merits of every candidate for favour ; but to
make amends, ic is never mistaken long. A performance indeed may be forced
for a time into reputation, but destitute of real merit it soon sinks ; time, the
touchstone of what is truly valuable, will soon discover the fraud, and an
author should never arrogate to himself any share of success, till his works have
been read at least ten years with satisfaction.
A man of letters at present, whose works are valuable, is perfectly sensible
of their value. Every polite member of the community, by buying what he
writes, contributes to reward him. The ridicule therefore of living in a garret,
might have been wit in the last age, but continues such no longer, because no
longer true. A writer of real merit now may easily be rich, if his heart be set
only on fortune : and for those who have no merit, it is but fit that such shoulo
remain in merited obscurity. He may now refuse an invitation to dinner,
without fearing to incur his patron's displeasure, or to starve by remaining at
home. He may now venture to appear in company with just such clothes aa
other men generally wear, and talk even to princes with all the conscious supe-
riority of wisdom. Though he cannot boast of fortune here, yet he can
bravely assert the dignity of independence. Adieu !
L E T T E E LXXXiy.
FEOM TnE SAME.
I HAVE interested myself so long in all the concerns of this people, that I am
almost become an Englishman 5 I now begin to read with pleasure of their
taking towns or gaining battles, and secretly wish disappointment to all the
enemies of Britain. Yet still my regard to mankind fills me with, concern for
their contentions. I could wish to see the disturbances of Europe once more
amicably adjusted ; I am an enemy to nothing in this good world but war ; I
hate fighting between rival states ; I hate it between man and man j I hate
fighting even between women !
I already informed you, that while Europe was at variance, we were also
tlireatened from the stage with an irreconcilable opposition, and that our sing-
ing women were resolved to sing at each other to the end of the season. O
my friend, those fears were just. They are not only determined to sing at
each other to the end of the season, but what is worse, to sing the same song,
and what is still more insupportable, to make us pay for hearing.
If they be for war, for my part I should advise them to have a public con-
gress, and there fairly squall at each other. "What signifies sounding the
trumpet of defiance at a distance, and calling in the town to fight their battles.
I would have them come boldly into one of the most open and frequented
streets, face to face, and there try their skill in quavering.
However tliis may be, resolved I am that they shall not touch one single
piece of silver more of mine. Though I have ears for music, thanks to
lleaven, they are not altogether asses' ears. What! PoUy and the Pick-pocket
to-night, Polly and the Pick-pocket to-morrow night, and Polly and the Pick-
pocket again I I want patience. I will hear no more. My soul is out of
tune, all jarring discord and confusion. Eest, rest, ye dear three clinkhig
shillings in my pocket's bottom ; the music you make is more harmonious to
my spirit, than catgut, rosin, or all the nightingales that ever chirruped in pet-
ticoats.
But what raises my indignation to the greatest degree is, that this i)ii)iug
556 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
does uot only pester me ou the stage, but is my punishment in private convex*
sation. Wliat is it to me, "whether the fine pipe of one. or the great manner of
the otlier be preferable ? What care I if one has a better top, or the other a
nobler bottom ? How am I concerned if one sings from the stomach, or the
other sings with a snap ? Yet paltry as these matters are, they make a sub-
ject of debate wherever I go, and this musical dispute, especially among the
fair sex, almost always ends in a very xmmusical altercation.
Sure the spirit of contention is mixed into the very constitution of the peo-
ple ; divisions among the inhabitants of other counti-ics arise only from their
higher concerns, but subjects the most contemptible are made an affair
of party here, the spirit is carried even into their amusements. The very
ladies, whose duty should seem to allay the impetuosity of the opposite sex,
become themselves party champions, engage in the thickest of the fight, scold
at each other, and shew their courage, even at the expense of their lovers and
their beauty.
Thei'e are even a numerous set of poets who help to keep up the contention,
and write for the stage. Mistake me not, I do not mean pieces to be acted upon
it, but panegyrical verses on the performers, for that is the most universal
method of writing for the stage at present. It is the business of the stage-
poet therefore to watch the appearance of every new player at his own house,
and so come out next day with a flaunting copy of newspaper verses. In
these nature and the actor may be set to run races, the player always coming
off victorious ; or nature may mistake him for herself; or old Shakespeare may
put on his winding-sheet and pay him a visit ; or the tuneful nine may strike
up their harps in his praise ; or should it happen to be an actress, Venus, the
beauteous queen of Love, and the naked Graces, are ever in waiting: the laiy
must be herself a goddess bred and born ; she must — but you shall have a
specimen of one of these poems, which may convey a more precise idea.
On seeing Mrs. ** perform in the character of ***.
To you, bright fair, the Nine address their lays,
And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise,
The heart-felt power of every charm divine,
Who can withstand their all-commanding sliine?
See how she moves along with every grace,
AVliile soul-brought teai's steal down eacli shining face.
She spealis, 'tis rapture all and nameless bliss,
Ye gods! what transport e'er compared to this.
As when in Paphian groves the queen of Love
With fond complaint address'd tlie listening Jove,
'Twas joy, and endless blisses all around.
And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.
Then first, at last e'en Jove was taken in,
And felt her charms, without disguise, within.
And yet think not, my friend, that I have any particular animosity against
the champions who are at the head of the present commotion ; on tlic con-
trary, I could find pleasure in their music, if served up at proper intervals ;
if I heard it only on proper occasions, and not about it wherever I go. In
fact, I could patronize them both ; and as an instance of my condescension
in this particular, they may come and give me a song at my lodging, on any
evening when I am at leisure, px'ovided they keep a becoming distance, and
stand, while they continue to entertain me, with decent humility at the door.
You perceive I have not read tl^e seventeeii books of Chinese ceremonies to
no purpose. I know the proper share of respect due to eveiy rank in society.
Stage -players, fire-eaters, singing- women, dancing dogs, wild beasts, and wire-
walkers, as their efforts are exerted for om* amusement, ought not entirely to
be despised. The laws of evei'y country shoxdd allow them to play their tricks
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 557
at least with imxiunity. They should not bo braiidecl with the ignominious
appellation of vagabonds ; at least they deserve a rank in society equal to the
mystery of barbers, or undertakers, and could my influence extend so far, they
should be allowed to earn even forty or fifty pounds a year, if eminent in their
profession.
I am sensible however that you will censure me for profusion in this respect,
bred up as you are in the narrow prejudices of Eastern frugality. You wDl
undoubtedly assert, that such a stipend is too great for so useless an employ-
ment. Yet how will your surprise increase, when told, that though the law
holds them as vagabonds, many of them earn more than a thousand a year.
You arc amazed. There is cause for amazement. A vagabond with a thou-
sand a year is indeed a curiosity in nature ; a wonder far sm'passing the flying
fish, petrified crab, or travelling lobster. However, from my great love to the
profession, I would willingly have them divested of part of theu* contempt,
and part of their finery ; the law should kindly take them imder the wing of
protection, fix them into a corporation, like that of the barbers, and abridge
their ignominy and their pensions. As to then' abilities in other respects, I
would leave that entirely to the public, who are certainly in this case the pro-
perest judges— whether they despise them or no.
Yes, my Fum, I would abridge their pensions. A theatrical warrior, who
conducts the battles of the stage, shoiild be cooped tip with the same caution
as a bantam cock that is kept for fighting. Wlien one of those animals is
taken from its native dunghill, we retrench it both in the quantity of its food
and the number of its seraglio : players should in the same manner bo fed, not
fattened ; they should be permitted to get their bread, but not to eat the peo-
ple's bread into the bargain ; and, instead of being permitted to keep four
mistresses, in conscience they should be contented only with two.
Were stage-players thus brought into bounds, perhaps we should find Iheir
admirers less sanguine, and consequently less ridiculous in patronizing them.
We should no longer be struck with the absurdity of seeing the same people,
whose valour makes such a figure abroad, apostrophizing in the pi-aise of a
bouncing blockhead, and wrangling in the defence of a copper-tailed actress
at home.
I shall conclude my letter with the sensible admonition of M6 the x^hilo-
sopher. "You love harmony," says he, "and ai'e charmed witli music. I
do not blame you for hearing a fine voice, when you are in your closet with a
lovely parterre under your eye, or in the night-time, while perhaps the moon
diffuses her silvery rays. But is a man to carry this passion so far as to let a
company of comedians, musicians, and singers grow rich upon his exhausted
fortune ? If so, he resembles one of those dead bodies, whose brains the
embalmers have picked out tln*ough its ears." Adieu !
LETTEE LXXXV.
FEOM THE SAME.
Op all the places of amusement where gentlemen and ladies are cntei'tained, I
have not been yet to visit Newmarket. This, I am told, is a large field, where
upon certain occasions three or four horses are brought together, then set a
running, and that horse which runs fastest wins the wager.
Tlxis is reckoned a very polite and fashionable amusement here, much more
followed by the nobility than partridge fighting at Java, or paper kites in
Madagascar; several of the great here, I am told, understand as much of
farriery as theu' grooms ; and a horse, with any share of merit, can never waat
a patron among the nobiUty.
558 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
We have a description of tliis entertainment almost every day in some of
the gazettes, as for instance : — " On such a day the G-ire and Taie Plate was
run for between his Grace's Crab, his Lordship's Periwinkle, and 'Squire
Smackem's Slamerkin. All rode their own horses. There was the greatest
concourse of nobihty that has been known here for several seasons. The odds
were in favour of Crab in the beginning ; but Slamerkin, after the first heat,
seemed to have the match hollow : however, it was soon seen that Periwinkle
improved in wind, which, at last, turned out accordingly ; Crab was run to a
stand-still, Slamerkin was knocked up, and Periwinkle was brought in with
universal applause." Thus you see Periwinkle received universal applause,
and no doubt his lordship came in for some share of that praise which was eo
liberally bestowed upon Periwinkle. Sun of China ! how glorious must the
senator appear in his cap and leather breeches, his whip crossed in his mouth,
and thus coming to the goal amongst the shouts of grooms, jockeys, pimps,
stable-bred dukes, and degraded generals !
From the description of this princely amusement, now transcribed, and from
the great veneration I have for the characters of its principal promoters, I
make no doubt but I shall look upon an horse-race with becoming reverence,
predisposed as I am by a similar amusement, of which I have lately been a
spectator j for just now I happened to have an opportimity of being present
at a cart-race.
Whether this contention between three carts of diflferent parishes was pro-
moted by a subscription among the nobility, or whether the grand jury, in
council assembled, had gloriously combined to encourage plaustral merit, I
cannot take upon me to determine ; but certam it is, the whole was conducted
with the utmost regularity and decorum, and the company, which made a
briUiant appearance, were imiversally of opinion that the sport was high, the
running fine, and the riders influenced by no bribe.
It was run on the road from London to a village called Brentford, between
ft turnip-cart, a dust-cart, and a dung-cart ; each of the owners condescending
to mount and be his own driver. The odds at starting were dust against dung,
five to four ; but, after half a mile's going, the knowing ones foimd themselves
all on the wrong side, and it was turnip against the field, brass to silver.
Soon, however, the contest became more doubtful ; Turnip indeed kept the
way, but it was perceived that Dung had better bottom. The road re-echoed
with the shouts of the spectators j I>ung against Turnip ! Turnip against
Dung ! was now the universal ciy ; neck and neck j one rode lighter, but the
other had more judgment. I could not but particularly observe the ardour
with which the fair sex espoused the cause of the different riders on this oc-
casion ; one was charmed with the unwashed beauties of Dung ; another was
captivated with the patibulary aspect of Turnip ; while, in the mean time,
unfortunate gloomy Dust, who came whipping behind, was cheered by the
encouragements of some, and pity of all.
The contention now continued for some time, without a possibility of de-
termining to whom "Victory designed the prize. The winning-post appeared
in view, and he who drove the turnip-cart assured himself of success ; and
successful he might have been, had his horse been as ambitious as he ; but,
upon approaching a turn from the road, which led homewards, the horse fairly
stood still, and refused to move a foot farther. The dung-cart had scarcely
time to enjoy this temporary triumph, when it was pitched headlong into a
ditch by the way-side, and the rider left to wallow in congenial mud. Dust
in the mean time soon came up, and not being far from the post, came in
amidst the shouts and acclamations of all the spectators, and greatly caressed
by all the quality of Brentford. Fortune was kind only to one, who ought to
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 559
have been favourable to all ; each had peculiar merit, each laboured hard to
earn the prize, and each richly deserved the cart he drove.
I do not know whether this description may not have anticipated that which
I intended giving of Newmarket. I am told there is little else to be seen even
there. There may be some minute differences in the dress of the spectators,
but none at all in their understandings ; the quahty of Brentford are as re-
markable for poHtenesB and delicacy as the breeders of Newmarket. The qua-
lity of Brentford drive their own carts, and the honourable fraternity of
Newmarket ride their own horses. In short, the matches in one place are as
rational as those in the other ; and it is more than probable, that turnips, dust,
and dung, are all that can be found to furnish out description in either.
Forgive me, my friend; but a person like me, bred up in a philosophic
seclusion, is apt to regard, perhaps with too much asperity, those occurrences
which sink man below his station in nature, and diminish the intrinsic Talue
of humanity.
LETTER LXXXVI.
TBOM FUM HOAM TO HEN CHI ALTANGI.
YoiT tell me the people of Europe are wise ; but where lies their wisdom ?
You say they are valiant too, yet I have some reasons to doubt of their valom*.
They are engaged in war among each other, yet apply to the Russians, their
neighbours and ours, for assistance. Cultivating such an alUance argues at
once imprudence and timidity. All subsidies paid for such an aid, is strengtli-
ening the Russians, abeady too powerful, and weakening the employers, al-
ready exhausted by intestine commotions.
I cannot avoid beholding the Russian empire as the natural enemy of the
more western parts of Europe ; as an enemy already possessed of great strength,
and, from the nature of the government, every day threatening to become more
powerful. This extensive empire, which, both in Europe and Asia, occupies
almost a third of the old world, was, about two centuries ago, divided into
separate kingdoms and dukedoms, and from such a division consequently
feeble. Since the times, however, of Johan Basilides, it has increased in
strength and extent ; and those imtrodden forests, those innumerable savage
animals which formerly covered the face of the country, are now removed, and
colonies of mankind planted in their room. A kingdom thus enjoying peace
internally, possessed of an unbounded extent of dominion, and learning the
military art at the expense of others abroad, must every day grow more pow-
erful ; and it is probable we shall hear Russia, in future times, as formerly,
called the Officina G-entium.
It was long the wish of Peter, their great monarch, to have a fort in some
of the Western parts of Europe ; many of his schemes and treaties were
directed to this end, but happily for Europe ho failed in them all. A fort in
the power of this people would be like the possession of a flood-gate, and
whenever ambition, interest, or necessity prompted, they might then be able
to deluge the whole Western world with a barbarous immdation.
Believe me, my friend, I cannot sufficiently contemn the politicians of Eu-
rope, who thus make this powerful people arbitrators in their quarrel. The
Russians are now at that period between refinement and barbarity, which
seems most adapted to military achievement j and if once they happen to get
footing in the Western parts of Europe, it is not the feeble efforts of the sons
of effeminacy and dissension that can serve to remove them. The fertile valley
and soft climate will ever be sufficient inducements to draw whole myriads
fifom their native deserts, the trackless wild, or snowy mountain.
560 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Hisfroiy, experience, reason, nature, expand the book of wisdom before the
eyes of mankind, but they will not read. We haye seen with terror a winged
phalanx of famished locusts, each singly contemptible, but from multitude be-
come hideous, coyer, like clouds, the face of day, and threaten the whole world
with rjiin. We haye seen them settling on the fertile plains of India and
Egypt, destroying in an instant the labours and the hopes of nations ; sparing
neither the fruit of the earth nor the verdure of the fields, and changing into a
frightful desert landscapes of once luxuriant beauty. We haye seen myriads of
ants issuing together from the Southern desert, like a torrent whose source was
inexhaustible, succeeding each other without end, and renewing their destroyed
forces with unwearied perseyerance, bringing desolation whereyer they came,
banishing men and animals, and, when destitute of all subsistence, in heaps
infecting the wilderness which they had made! Like these have been the
migrations of men. When as yet sayage, and almost resembling their brute
partners in the forest, subject like them only to the instincts of Nature, and
directed by hunger alone in the choice of an abode, how haye we seen whole
armies starting wild at once from their forests and their dens ; Goths, Huns,
Vandals, Saracens, Tm-ks, Tartars, myriads of men, animals in human form,
without country, without name, without laws, out-powering by numbers all
opposition, ravaging cities, oyerturning empires ; and, after haying destroyed
whole nations, and spread extensiye desolation, how haye we scon tjicm sink
oppressed by some new enemy, more barbarous, and eyen more unknown than
they ! Adieu !
LETTER LXXXYIL
FEOM LIEN CHI ALTANQI, TO FUJI HOAM, FIEST PEESIDENT OF THE CEEE-
MONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN IN CHINA.
As the instruction of the fair sex in this country is entirely committed to the
cax*e of foreigners, as their language-masters, music-masters, hair frizzers, and
goyernesses, are all from abroad, I had some mtentions of opening a female
academy myself, and made no doubt, as I was quite a foreigner, of meeting a
favourable reception.
In this I intended to instruct the ladies in all the conjugal mysteries ;
wives should be taught the art of managing husbands, and maids the skill of
properly choosing them ; I would teach a wife how far she might venture to
be sick without giving disgust ; she should be acquainted with the great be-
nefits of the cholic in the stomach, and all the thorough-bred insolence of
fashion ; maids should learn the secret of nicely distinguishing every competi-
tor; they should be able to know the difference between a pedant and a
scholar, a citizen and a iDrig, a squire and his horse, a beau and liis monkey ;
but chiefly they should be taught the art of managing their smiles, from the
contemptuous simper to the long laborious laugh.
But I have discontiniied the project ; for what would signify teaching ladies
the manner of governing or choosing husbands, when marriage is at present
BO much out of fashion, that a lady is very well ojff who can get any husband
at all. Celibacy now prevails in every rank of life, the streets are crowded
with old bachelors, and the houses with ladies who have refused good offers,
and are never likely to receive any for the future.
The only advice, therefore, I could give the fair sex, as things stand at pre-
sent, is to get husbands as fast as they can. There is certainly nothing in the
whole creation, not even Babylon in ruins, more truly deplorable than a lady
in the vu'gin bloom of sixty-three, nor a battered immarried beau, who squiba
about from place to place, shewing his pig-tail wig and his cars. The one ap-
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 6^1
peara to my imagination in tlie form of a double niglit-cap, or a roll cf po-
matum, the other in the shape of an electuary, or a box of pills.
I would once more therefore advise the ladies to get husbands. I would
desii'e them not to discard an old lover without very sufficient reasons, nor treat
tlie new with ill-nature till they know him false ; let not prudes allege the
falseness of the sex, coquettes the pleasures of long courtshij^, or parents the
necessary prehminaries of penny for penny. I have reasons that would silence
even a casuist in this particular. In the first place, therefore, I divide the
subject into fifteen heads, and then sic argumentor — but not to give you and
myself the spleen, be contented at present with an Indian tale.
In a winding of the river Amidar, just before it falls into the Caspian sea, ,
there lies an island unfrequented by the inhabitants of the Continent. In this
seclusion, blest with aU that wild uncultivated Nature could bestow, lived a
princess and her two daughters. She had been wrecked upon the coast while
her children as yet were infants, who of consequence, though grown up, were
entirely unacquainted with man. Yet, unexperienced as the young ladies were
in the opposite sex, both early discovered symptoms, the one of prudery, the i
other of being a coquette. The eldest was ever learning maxims of wisdom I
and discretion from her mamma, while the youngest employed aU her hours I
in gazing at her own face in a neighbouring fountain. I
Their usual amusement in this sohtude was fishing : then* mother had
taught them all the secrets of the art ; she shewed them which were the most
likely places to throw out the line, what baits were most proper for the va-
rious seasons, and the best manner to di'aw out the finny prey when they had
hooked it. In this manner they spent their tune, easy and innocent, till one
day, the Princess, being indisposed, desired them to go and catch her a stur-
geon or a shark for 6uppei% which she fancied might sit easy on her stomach.
The daughters obeyed, and clapping on a gold fish, the usual bait on those
occasions, went and sat upon one of the rocks, letting the gilded hook glido
down with the stream.
On the opposite shore, farther down, at the mouth of the river lived a diver
for pearls j a youth, who, by long habit in his trade, was almost grown amphi-
bious J so that he could remain whole hours at the bottom of the water,
without ever fetching breath. He happened to be at that very instant diving
when the ladies were fishuig with the gilded hook. Seeing therefore the bait,
which to him had the appearance of real gold, he was resolved to seize the
prize, but both his hands being already filled with pearl oysters, he found
himself obliged to snap at it with his mouth : the consequence is easily ima-
gined ; the hook, before imperceived, was instantly fastened in his jaw, nor
could he, with all his efibrts, or his floundermg, get free.
" Sister," cries the youngest princess, " I have certainly caught a monstrous
fish I I never perceived anything struggle so at the end of my line before ;
come, and help me to draw it in." They both now therefore assisted in fish-
ing up the diver on shore ; but nothing could equal their surprise upon seeing
hun. " Bless my eyes !" cries the prude, " what have we got here ? this is a
very odd fish, to be sm'e ; I never saw anything in my life look so queer j
what eyes, what terrible claws, what a monstrous snout : I have read of this
monster somewhere before, it certainly must bo a Tanlang, that eats womeu j I
let us throw it back into the sea where we found it." |
The diver in the mean time stood upon the beach at the end of the line, '
with the hook in his mouth, using every art that he thought could best excite |
pity, and particularly looking extremely tender, whicli is usual in such cu** {
cumstances. The coquette, therefore, in some measure influenced by the
innocence of his looks, ventured to contradict her companion. " Upon my
36 !
te THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
word, sister," says she, " I see nothing in the animal so very terrible as you
are pleased to apprehend ; I think it may serve well enough for a change.
Always shai'ks, and sturgeons, and lobsters, and crawfish, make me quite
sick. I fancy a slice of tliis, nicely grilladed, and dressed up with shrimp
sauce, would be very pretty eating. I fancy mamma would like a bit with
pickles above all things in the world ; and if it should not sit easy on her
stomach, it will be time enough to discontinue it when found disagreeable,
you know." " Horrid !" cried the prude, " would the girl be poisoned ? I
tell you it is a Tanlang ; I have read of it in twenty places. It is everywhere
described a^ the most pernicious animal that ever infested the ocean. I am
certain it is the most insidious, ravenous creature in the world ; and is cer-
tain destruction if taken internally." The youngest sister was now therefore
obHged to submit : "both assisted in drawing the hook with some violence
from the diver's jaw ; and he, finding himself at liberty, bent his breast
against the broad wave, and disappeared in an instant.
Just at this juncture the mother came down to the beach, to know the
cause of her daughters' delay j they told her every cu'cumstance, describing
the monster they had caught. The old lady was one of the most discreet
women in the world ; she was called the black-eyed jDrincess, from two black
eyes she had received in her youth, being a little addicted to boxing in her
liquor. " Alas, my children," cries she, " what have you done ! the fish you
caught was a man-fish ; one of the most tame domestic animals in the world.
We could have let him run and play about the garden, and he would have
been twenty times more entertaining than our squirrel or monkey." " If that
be aU," says the young eoquette, " we will fish for him again. If that be all,
I'U hold three tooth-picks to one pound of snufi", I catch him whenever I
please." Accordingly they threw in their line once more, but with all their
gilding, and paddling, and assiduity, they could never after catch the diver.
In this state of solitude and disappointment they continued for many years,
still fishing, but without success ; till, at last, the genius of the place, in pity
to their distresses, changed the prude into a shrimp, and the coquette into an
oyster. Adieu !
LETTER LXXXVIII.
TEOM THE SAME.
I AM amused, my dear Fum, with the labom-s of some of the leai'ned here.
One shall write you a whole folio on the dissection of a caterpillar ; another
shall swell his works with a description of the plumage on the wing of a but-
terfly ; a thii'd shall see a httle world on a peach leaf, and publish a book to
describe what his readei's might see more clearly in two minutes, only by
being furnished with eyes and a microscope.
I have frequently compared the understandings of such men to their own
glasses. Their field of vision is too contracted to take in the whole of any
but minute objects ; they view all natm*e bit by bit ; now the proboscis, now
the antennae, now the pinnee, of — a flea ! Now the polypus comes to break-
fast upon a worm : now it is kept up to see how long it will live without
eating ; now it is turned inside outward : and now it sickens and dies. Thus
they proceed, laborious in trifles, constant in experiment, without one single
abstraction, by which alone knowledge may be properly said to increase ; till
at last their ideas, ever employed upon minute things, contract to the size of
the diminutive object, and a single mite shall fill the whole mind's capacity.
Yet believe me, my friend, ridiculous as these men are to the world, they
are set up as objects of esteem for each other. They have particular places
appointed for theif meetings ; in which, one shews his cockle-shell, and is
CITIZEN GF THE WORLD. 5(53
praised by all the society ; another produces his powder, makes some experi-
ments that residt in nothing, and comes off with admiration and applause ; a
third comes out with the important discoTcry of some new process in the
skeleton of a mole, and is set down as the accurate and sensible ; while oul
still more fortunate than the rest, by pickling, potting, and preserving mon-
sters, rises into unbounded reputation.
The labours of such men, instead of being calculated to amuse the public,
ai'c laid out only in diverting each other. The world becomes very little the
better or the wiser, for knowing what is the peculiar food of an insect that is
itself the food of another, which in its tm*n is eaten by a third ; but there are
men who have studied themselves into a habit of investigating and admiring
such minutiae. To these such subjects arc pleasmg, as there are some who
contentedly spend whole days in endeavouring to solve enigmas, or disentangle
the puzzling sticks of children.
But of all the learned, those who pretend to investigate remote antiquity,
have least to plead in their own defence, when they carry this passion to a
faulty excess. They are generally fotmd to supply by conjectm-e the want of
record, and then by perseverance are wrought up into a confidence of tlie
truth of opinions, whicu even to themselves at first appeared foimded only in
imagination.
The Europeans have lieard much of the kingdom of Ohina : its politeness,
arts, commerce, laws and morals are, however, but very imperfectly known
among them. They have even now in their Indian warehouse niunberless
utensils, plants, minerals, and machines, of the use of which they are entirely
ignorant j nor can any among them even make a probable guess for what they
might have been designed. Yet, though this people be so ignorant of the
present real state of China, the philosophers I am describing have entered
into long, learned, laborious disputes about what China was two thousand
years ago. China and European happiness are but little connected even at
this day j but European liappiness and China two thousand years ago have
certainly no connexion at all. However, the learned have written on, and
pursued the subject through all the labyrinths of antiquity ; though the
early dews and the tainted gale be passed away, though no footsteps re-
main to direct'the doubtful chase, yet still they run forward, open upon the
uncertain scent, and though in fact they follow nothing, are earnest in the
pursuit. In this chase, however, they all take different ways : one, for example,
confidently assures us, that China was peopled by a colony from Egypt.
Sesostris, he observes, led his army as far as the G-anges ; therefore, if he went
so far, he might still have gone as ftir as China, which is but about a thousand
miles from thence ; therefore he did go to China ; therefore China was not
peopled before he went there ; therefore it was peopled by him. Besides, the
Egyptians have pyramids, the Chinese have in like manner their porcelain
tower: the Egyptians used to light up candles upon every rejoicing, the
Chinese have lanthorns upon the same occasion}, the Egyptians had their
great river, so have the Chinese ; but w]iat serves to put the matter past a
doubt is, that the ancient kings of China and those of Egypt were called by
the same names. The emperor Ki is certainly the same with king Atoes ; for,
if we only change K into A, and i into toes, we shall have the name Atoes ;
and M'ith equal ease Menes may be proved to be the same with the emperor
Yu ; therefore the Chinese are a colony from Egypt.
But another of the learned is entirely different fi'om the last ; and he will
have the Chinese to be a colony planted by Noah just after the deluge. First,
from the vast similitude there is between the name of Fohi, the founder of
the Chinese monarchy, and that of Noali, the preserver of the human race :
664 THE WORKS OF OLIVJilt GOLDSMITiL
Noah, Fohi, very like eack other tnily ; they hare each but four letters, and
only two of the four happen to differ. But to strengthen the argument, Folii,
as the Chinese chronicle asserts, had no father. Noah, it is true, had a father,
as the European Bible tells us ; but then, as this father was probably drowned
in the flood, it is just the same as if he had no- father at all ; therefore Noah
and Fohi are the same. Just after the flood, the earth M^as corered with mud ;
if it was covered with mud, it must have been incrustated mud ; if it was
incrustated, it was clothed with verdure j this was a fine unembarrassed road
for Noah to fly from his wicked children ; he therefore did fly from them, and
took a joiuTiey of two thousand miles for his own amusement ; therefore
Noah and Fohi are the same.
Another sect of literati, for they all pass among tlic vulgar for very great
scholars, assert, that the Chinese came neither from the colony of Sesostris,
nor from Noah, but are descended fi'om Magog, Meshec, and Tubal; and there-
fore neither Sesostris, nor Noah, nor Fohi, are the same.
It is thus, my friend, that indolence assumes the au's of wisdom, and while it
tosses the cup and ball with infantine folly, desu'es the world to look on, and
calls the stupid pastime philosophy and learning. Adieu !
LETTER LXXXIX.
PEOM THE SAME.
When the men of this comitry are once turned of thirty, they regulai'ly retire
every year at pi'oper intervals to lie in of the spleen. The vulgar, unfurnished
with the luxm'ious comforts of the soft cushion, down bed, and easy chair, are
obliged, when the fit is on them, to nurse it up by drinking, idleness, and ill-
humour. In such dispositions, unhappy is the foreigner who happens to cross
them ; his long cliin, tarnished coat, or pinched hat, are sure to receive no
quarter. If they meet no foreigner, however, to fight with, they are in such
cases generally content with beating each other.
The rich, as they have more sensibility, are operated upon with greater vio-
lence by this disordei'. Different from the poor, instead of becoming more
insolent, they grow totally unfit for opposition. A general here who would
have faced a cidverin when well, if the fit be on him, shall hardly find coui-age
to snuff a candle. An admiral, who could have opposed a broadside without
slu^inking, shall sit whole days in his chamber, mobbed up in double night-
caps, shuddering at the intrusive breeze, and distinguishable from his wife only
by his black beard and heavy eye-brows.
In the country this disorder mostly attacks the fair sex, in town it is most
uufavoui'able to the men. A lady, who has pined whole years amidst cooing
doves, and complaining nightingales, in rural retirement, shall resume all her
vivacity in one night at a city gambling-table ; her husband, who roared,
hunted, and got drunk at home, shall grow splenetic in town in proportion to
his wife's good humour. Upon their arrival in London, they exchange their
disorders. In consequence of her parties and excursions, he puts on the fmTed
cap and scarlet stomacher, and perfectly resembles an Indian husband, who,
when his wife is safely delivered, permits her to transact business abroad,
whiie he undergoes all the formality of keeping his bed, and receiving all the
condolence in her place.
But those who reside constantly in. town, owe this disorder mostly to the
influence of the weather. It is impossible to describe what a variety of trans-
mutations an east wind will produce ; it has been known to change a lady of
fashion into a parlour couch, an alderman into a plate of custards, and a dis-
penser of justice into a rat-trap. Even phHosopbers themselves are not ex-
empt from its influence ; it has often converted a poet into a coral and beUa,
and a patriot senator into a dumb-waiter.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 565
Some days ago I went to risit the man in black, and entered liis house with
that cheerfulness which the certainty of a favourable reception always inspires.
Upon opening the door of his apartment, I found him with the most rueful
face imaginable, in a morning gown and flannel night-cap, earnestly employed
in learning to blow the G^erman flute. Struck with the absurdity of a man
in the decline of life, thus blowing away all his constitution and spirits, even
without the consolation of being musical, I ventured to ask what could induce
him to attempt learning so difficult an instrument so late in life. To this he
made no reply, but groaning, and still holding the flute to his lip, continued
to gaze at me for some moments very angrily, and then proceeded to practise
his gamut as before. After having produced a variety of the most hideous
tones in nature, at last turning to me, he demanded whether I did not think
he had made a sm*prising progress in two days ? You see, continues he, I have
got the Ambusheer already, and as for fingering, my master tells me I shall
have that in a few lessons more. I was so much astonished with this instance
of inverted ambition, tliat I knew not what to reply, but soon discerned the
cause of all his absurdities ; my fi'iend was under a metamorphosis by the
power of spleen, and flute-blowing was unluckily become his adventitious
passion.
In order therefore to banish his anxiety imperceptibly, by seeming to in-
dulge it, I began to descant on those gloomy topics by which philosophers
often get rid of their own spleen, by communicating it : the wretchedness of
a man in this life, the happiness of some wrought out of the miseries of others,
the necessity that wretches should expire under piuiishment, that rogues might
enjoy affluence in tranquillity ; I led him on from the inhumanity of the rich
to the ingratitude of the beggar ; from the insincerity of refinement to the
fierceness of rusticity ; and at last had the good fortune to restore him to his
usual serenity of temper, by permitting him to expatiate upon all the modes
of human misery.
" Some nights ago," says my friend, "sitting alone by my fire, I happened to
look into an account of the detection of a set of men called the thief-takers.
I read over the many hideous cruelties of those haters of mankind, of their
pretended friendship to wretches they meant to betray, of their sending men
out to rob and then hanging them. I could not avoid sometimes interrupting
the narrative by crying out, Yet these are men! As I went on, I was informed
that they had lived by this practice several years, and had been enriched by
the price of blood, and yet, cried I, / have been sent into the world, and am de-
sired to call these men my brothers ! I read that the very man who led the
condemned wretch to the gallows, was he who falsely swore his life away ; and
yet, continued I, that perjurer had just such a nose, such lips, such hands, and
such eyes as Newton. I at last came to the account of the wretch that was
searched after robbing one of the thief-takers of half a crown. Those of the
confederacy knew that he had got but that single lialf-crown in the world ;
after a long search, therefore, which they knew would be fruitless, and taking
from him the half-crown, which they knew was all he had, one of the gang
compassionately cried out, Alas ! poor creature, let him keep all the rest he has
(jot, it will do him service in Newgate, where we are sending him. This was an
instance of such complicated guilt and hypocrisy, that I thi-ew down the book
in an agony of rage, and began to think with malice of all the human kind.
I sat silent for some minutes, and soon pei'ceiving the ticking of my watch
beginning to gi'ow noisy and troublesome, I quickly placed it out of hearing,
and strove to resume my serenity. But the watchman soon gave me a second
alarm. I had scarcely recovered from this when my peace was assaulted by the
wind at my window ; and when that ceased to blow, I listened for death-
f>66 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
watches in the wainscot. I now found my whole system discomposed. I strove
to find a resource in philosophy and reason : but what could I oppose, or where
direct my blow, when I could see no enemy to combat ? I saw no misery
approaching, nor knew any I had to fear, yet still I was miserable. Morning
came, I sought for tranquilHty in dissipation, sauntered from one place of pub-
lic resort to another, but found myself disagreeable to my acquaintance and
ridiculous to others. I tried at dilferent times dancing, fencing, and riding ;
I solved geometrical problems, shaped tobacco -stoppers, wrote verses, and cut
paper. At last I placed my affections on music, and find that earnest em-
ployment, if it cannot cure, at least will palliate every anxiety." Adieu !
LETTER XO.
PEOM THE SAME.
It is no unpleasing contemplation to consider the influence which soil and
climate have upon the disposition of the inhabitants, the animals, and vegeta-
bles of different countries. That among the brute creation is much more
visible than in man, and that in vegetables more than either. In some places
those plants which are entirely poisonous at home lose their deleterious quality
by being carried abroad ; there are serpents in Macedonia so harmless as to be
used as play-things for children, and we are told that in some parts of Fez
there are liona so very timorous as to be scared away, though coming in herds,
by the cries of women.
I know of no counti-y where the influence of climate and soil is more visible
than in England ; the same hidden cause which gives courage to their dogs
and cocks, gives also fierceness to their men. But chiefly this ferocity appears
among the vulgar. The polite of every country pretty nearly resemble each
other. But, as in simpling, it is among the uncultivated productions of natm*e,
we are to examine the characteristic differences of climate and soil, so in an
estimate of the genius of a people, we must look among the sons of unpolished
rusticity. The vulgar English therefore may be easily distinguished from all
the rest of the world, by superior pride, impatience, and a peculiar hardiness
of soul.
Perhaps no qualities in the world are more susceptible of a fine polish than
these ; artificial complaisance and easy deference being superinduced over
these generally form a great character ; something at once elegant and majes-
tic, affable yet sincere. Such in general are the better sort ; but they who are
left in primitive rudeness are the least disposed for society witli others, or com-
fort internally, of any people under the sun.
The poor indeed of every country are but little prone to treat each other
with tenderness ; their own miseries are too apt to engross all their pity ; and
perhaps too they give but little commiseration, as they find but little from
others. But in England the poor treat each other upon every occasion with
more than savage animosity, and as if they were in a state of open war by
nature. In China, if two porters should meet in a narrow street, they would
lay down their burthens, make a thousand excuses to each other for tlie acci-
dental interruption, and beg pardon on their knees : if two men of the same
occupation should meet here, they would first begin to scold, and at last to
beat each other. One would think they had miseries enough resulting from
penury and labour not to increase them by ill-natm-e among themselves, and
subjection to new penalties ; but such considerations never weigh with them.
But to recompense this strange absm'dity, they are in the main generous,
brave, and enterprising. They feel the slightest injuries with a degree of im-
governed impatience, but resist the greatest calamities with surprising forti- I
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 567
tude. Those miseries under which any other people in the world would sink,
they have often shewed they were capable of endm'ing ; if accidentally cast
upon some desolate coast, their perseverance is beyond what any other nation
is capable of sustaining ; if imprisoned for ci'imes, their efforts to escape are
greater than among others. The peculiar strength of their pi'isons, when com-
pared to those elsewhere, argues their hardiness ; even the strongest prisons I
have ever seen in other countries would be vei*y insufficient to confine the un-
tameable spirit of an Englishman. In short, what man dares do in circum-
stances of danger, an Enghshman will. His virtues seem to sleep in the calm,
and are called out only to combat the kindred storm.
But the greatest eulogy of this people is the generosity of their miscreants ;
the tenderness in general of their robbers and highwaymen. Perhaps no
people can produce instances of the same kind, where the desperate mix pity
with injustice ; still shew that they understand a distinction in crimes, and
even in acts of violence have still some tincture of remaining vu*tue. In every
otlier country robbery and murder go almost always together ; here it seldom
happens, except upon ill-judged resistance or pursuit. The banditti of other
countries are unmerciful to a supreme degree : the highwayman and robber
here are generous, at least in their intercourse among each other. Taking
tlierefore my opinion of the English from the rirtueg and vices practised among
the vulgar, they at once present to a stranger all their faults, and keep their
virtues up only for the inquiring eye of a philosopher.
Foreigners are generally shocked at their insolence upon first coming among
them ; they find themselves ridicxdedand insulted in every street; they meet with
none of those trifling civilities, so frequent elsewhere, which are instances of
mutual good- will without previous acquaintance ; they travel through the coun-
try either too ignorant or too obstinate to cultivate a closer acquaintance, meet
every moment something to excite their disgust, and return home to charac-
terise this as the region of spleen, insolence, and ill-nature. In short, Eng-
land wovild be the last place in the world I would travel to by way of amuse-
ment ; but the first for instruction. I would choose to have others for my
acquaintance, but Englishmen for my friends.
LETTEE XCI.
TO THE SAME.
The mind is ever ingenious in making its own distress. The wandering
beggar, who has none to protect, to feed, or to shelter him, fancies complete
happiness in labour and a full meal ; take him from rags and want, feed, clotlie,
and employ him, his wishes now rise one step above his station ; he could bo
happy were he possessed of raiment, food, and ease. Suppose his wishes gi'a-
tified even in these, his pi'ospects widen as he ascends ; he finds himself in
affluence and tranquillity indeed, but indolence soon breeds anxiety, and he
desires not only to be freed from pain, but to be possessed of pleasure ; plea-
sure is granted him, and this but opens his soul to ambition, and ambition will
be sure to taint his future happiness, either with jealousy, disappointment, or
fatigue.
But of all the arts of distress found out by nmn for his own torment, per-
haps that of philosophic misery is most truly ridiculous, a passion no where
carried to so extravagant an excess as in the country where I now reside. It
is not enough to engage all the compassion of a philosopher here, that his own
globe is hai-rassed with wars, pestilence, or barbarity ; he shall grieve for the
iiiliabitants of the m®on, if the situation of her imaginary mountains happen
to alter ; and dread the extinction of the sun if the spots on his surface hap-
66p
THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
pfen to increase : one shoxilcl imagine tliat philosophy was introduced to mate
men happy, but here it serves to mate hundreds miserable.
My landlady some days ago brought me the diary of a philosopher of this
desponding sort, who had lodged in the apartment before me. It contains the
history of a life which seems to be one continued tissue of sorrow, apprehen-
sion, and distress. A single weet will serve as a specimen of the whole.
Monday. In what a transient decaying situation are we placed, and what
various reasons does philosophy furnish to mate mantind unhappy ! A single
grain of mustard shall continue to produce its similitude tlu'ough numberless
successions ; yet what has been granted to this little seed, has been denied to
om* planetary system ; the mustard-seed is still imaltered, but the system is
growing old, and must quietly fall to decay. How terrible will it be, when
the motions of all the planets have at last become so irregular as to need re-
pairing, when the moon shall fall into frightful paroxysms of alteration, Avhen
the earth, deviating from its ancient tract, and with every other planet for-
getting its circular revolutions, shall become so eccentric, that unconflned by
the laws of system, it shall fly off into boundless space, to tnoct against some
distant world, or fall in upon the sun, either extinguishing his light, or bvu-ned
up by his flames in a moment. Perhaps while I write, this dreadful change is
begun. Shield me from universal ruin ? Yet idiot man laughs, sings, and
rejoices in the very face of the sun, and seems no way touched with his
situation.
Tuesday. Went to bed in great distress, awated and was comfoi*ted, by
considering that this change was to happen at some indefinite time, and,
therefore, lite death, thoughts of it might easily be bonie. But there is a
revolution, a fixed determined revolution, which must certainly come to pass;
yet which, by good fortune, I shall never feel, except in my posterity. The
obliquity of the equator with the eliptic is now twenty minutes less than when
it was observed two thousand years ago by Piteas. If this be the case, in six
thousand the obliquity will be still less by a whole degree. This being sup-
posed, it is evident, that our earth as Louville has clearly proved, has a motion
by which the climates must necessarily change place, and in the space of about
one million of years, England shall actually travel to the Antarctic pole. I shud-
der at the change ! How shall our unhappy grand- children endure the hideous
cHmate ! A million of years will soon be accomplished : they are but a
moment when compared to eternity ; then shall our charming country, as I
may say, in a moment of time, resemble the hideous wilderness of Nova
Zembla.
Wednesday. To-night, by my calculation, the long predicted comet is to
mate its first appearance. Heavens ! what terrors are impending over our
little dim spect of earth! Dreadful visitation ! Are we to be scorched in its
fires, or only smothered in the vapour of its tail.? That is the question!
Thoughtless mortals, go build houses, plant orchards, purchase estates, for to-
morrow you die. But what if the comet should not come ? That would be
equally fatal. Comets are servants which periodically return to supply the
sun with fuel. If our sun therefore should be disappointed of the expected
supply, and all his fuel be in the mean time burnt out, he must expire lite an
exhausted taper. What a miserable situation must our earth be in without
his enlivening ray .5* Have we not seen several neighbouring suns entirely
disappear ? Has not a fixed star near the tail of the Ram lately been quite
extinguished ?
Thursday. The comet has not yet appeared ; I am sorry for it : first, sorry
because my calculation is false ; secondly, sorry lest the sun should want fuel j
thirdly, sorry lest the wits should laugh at our erroneous predictions : and
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
fourthly, sorry because if ifc appears to-niglit, it must necessarily come within
the sphere of the earth's attraction 5 and Heaven help the unhappy county
on which it happens to fall. "^
Friday. Our whole society hare been out, all eager in search of the
comet. We have seen not less than sixteen comets in different parts of the
heavens. However, we are unanimously resolved to fix upon one only to be
the comet expected. That near Yirgo wants nothing but a tail to fit it out
completely for terrestrial admiration.
Saturday. The moon is, I find, at her old pranks. Her appulses, librationg,
and other irregularities, indeed amaze me. My daughter too is this morning
gone off Avith a gi-enadier. No way sui-prising j I was never able to give her
a relish for wisdom. She ever promised to be a mere expletive in the crea-
tion. But the moon, the moon gives me real uneasiness ; I fondly fancied I
had fixed her. I had thought her constant, and constant only to me : but
every night discovers her infidelity, and proves me a desolate and abandoned
lover ! Adieu !
LETTER XOII.
TO THE SAME.
It is surprising what an influence titles shall have upon the mind, even though
these titles be of our own making. Like children, we dress up the puppets
in finery, and then stand in astonishment at the plastic wonder. I have been
told of a rat-catcher here, who strolled for a long time about the villages near
town, without finding any employment : at last however he thought proper to
take the title of his Majesty's rat-catcher in ordinaiy, and this succeeded be-
yond his expectations ; when it was known that he caught rats at court, all
were ready to give him countenance and employment.
But of all the people, they who make books seem most perfectly sensible of
the advantage of titular dignity. All seem convinced, that a book written by
vulgar hands can neither instruct nor improve ; none but kings, chams, and
mandarines can write with any probability of success. If the titles inform me
right, not only kings and courtiers, but emperors themselves in this country
periodically supply the press.
A man here who should write, and honestly confess that he wrote for bread,
might as well send his manuscript to fire the baker's oven ; not one creature
will read him : all must be court-bred poets, or pretend at least to be court-
bred, who can expect to please. Should the caitiff fairly avow a design of
emptying our pockets and filling his own, every reader would instantly forsake
him ; even those who write for bread themselves would combine to worry
him, perfectly sensible that his attempts only served to take the bread out of
their mouths.
And yet this silly prepossession the more amazes me, when I consider, that al-
most all the excellent productions in wit that have appeared here, were purely
the offspring of necessity : their Dryd ens. Butlers, Otways, and Farquhars, were
all writers for bread. Believe me, my friend, hunger has a most amazing
faculty of sharpening the genius ; and he who with a full belly can think like
a hero, after a course of fasting, shall rise to the sublimity of a demi-god.
But what will most amaze is, that this very set of men, who are now so much
depreciated by fools, are however the very best writers they have among them
at present. For my own part, were I to buy a hat, I would not have it from
a stocking-maker, but an hatter ; were I to buy shoes, I should not go to tlio
tailor's for that purpose. It is just so with regard to wit : did I, for my life,
desire to be well served, I would apply only to those who made it their trade,
670 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH,
and liyecl by it. You smile at the oddity of my opinion ; but be assured, my
friend, that wit is in some measure mechanical, and that a man long habituated
to catch at eren its resemblance will at last be happy enough to possess the
substance : by a long habit of writing he acquires a justness of thinking, and
a mastery of manner, which holiday -writers, even with ten times his genius,
may vainly attempt to equal.
How then are they deceived, who expect from title, dignity, and exterior
circumstances, an excellence which is in some measure acquired by habit, and
sharpened by necessity. You have seen, like me, many literary reputations
promoted by the influence of fashion, which have scarceJy survived the pos-
sessor ; you have seen the poor hardly earn the little reputation they acquired,
and their merit only acknowledged when they were incapable of enjoying the
pleasures of popularity ; such, however, is the reputation worth possessing,
that which is hardly earned is hardly lost. Adieu !
LETTEE XCIII.
FEOM HINGPO IN MOSCOW, TO LIEN CHI ALTANGH IN LONDON.
Wheee will my disappointment end ? Must I still be doomed to accuse the
severity of my fortune, and shew my constancy in distress, rather than
moderation in prosperity ? I had at least hopes of conveying my charming
companion safe from the reach of every enemy, and of agam restoring her to
hor native soil. But those hopes are now no more.
Upon leaving Terki, we took the nearest road to the dominions of Russia.
We passed the Ural mountains covered witli eternal snow, and traversed the
forests of Ufa, where the prowling bear and shrieking hyena keep an undis-
puted possession. We next embarked upon the rapid river Bulija, and made
the best of our way to the banks of the Wolga, where it waters the fruitful
valleys of Casan.
There were two vessels in company, properly equipped, and armed in order
to oppose the Wolga pirates, wlio, we were informed, infested this river. Of
all mankind, these pirates are the most terrible. They are composed of the
criminals and outlawed peasants of Russia, who fly to tlie forests that lie along
the banks of the Wolga for protection. Here they join in parties, lead a
savage life, and have no other subsistence but plunder. Being deprived of
houses, friends, or a fixed habitation, they become more terrible even than the
tigei', and as insensible to all tlie feelings of humanity. They neither give
quarter to those they conquer, nor receive it when overpowered themselves.
The severity of the laws against them serve to increase their barbarity, and
seem to make them a neutral species of beings, between the wildness of the
lion, and the subtlety of the man. When taken alive, their punishment is
hideous. A floating gibbet is erected, which is let run down with the stream ;
here, upon an iron hook stuck under their ribs, and upon which the whole
weight of their body depends, they are left to expire in the most terrible
ao-onies, some being thus found to linger several days successively.
We were but three days' voyage from the confluence of this river into the
Wolga, when we perceived at a distance behind us an armed barque coming
up, with the assistance of sails and oars, in order to attack us. The dreadful
signal of death was hung upon the mast, and our captain with his glass could
easily discern them to be pirates. It is impossible to express our consternation
on tliis occasion ; the whole crew instantly came together to consult the pro-
percst means of safety. It was, therefore, soon determined to send off our
women and valuable cormnodities in one of our vessels, and that the men
should stay in the other, and boldly oppose the enemy. This resolution was
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 571
soon put into execution, and I now reluctantly parted from the beautiful Zelis
for the first time since our retreat from Persia. The vessel in which she was,
disappeared to my longing eyes in proportion as that of the pu-ates appi'oached
us. They soon came up ; but upon examining our strength, and perhaps
sensible of the manner in which we had sent oif our mostraluable effects, they
seemed more eager to pursue the vessel we had sent away than attack us.
In this manner they continued to harass us for three days, still endeavouring
to pass us without fighting. But, on the fourth day, finding it entirely im-
possible, and despairing to seize the expected booty, they desisted from their
endeavours, and left us to pursue our voyage without interruption.
Our joy on this occasion was great ; but soon a disappointment more terri-
ble, because unexpected, succeeded. The barque, in which our women and
treasure were sent off, was wrecked upon the banks of the Wolga, for want of
a proper number of hands to manage her, and the whole crew carried by the
peasants up the countiy. Of this, however, we were not sensible till our ar-
rival at Moscow ; where, expecting to meet our separated barque, we were
informed of its misfortune and our loss. Need I paint the situation of my
mind on this occasion ? Need I describe all I feel, when I despair of be-
holding the beautiful Zelis more ? Fancy had dressed the future prospect of
my life in the gayest colouring ; but one unexpected stroke of fortune has
robbed it of every charm. Her dear idea mixes with every scene of pleasure,
and without her presence to enliven it, the whole becomes tedious, insipid,
insupportable. I will confess, now that she is lost, I will confess I loved her :
nor is it in the power of time, or of reason, to erase her image from my heart.
Adieu !
• L E T T E E XCIY.
FEOM IiIEN CHI ALTANai, TO HINGPO AT MOSCOW.*
YouE misfortunes are mine ; but, as every period of life is marked with its
own, you must learn to endure them. Disappointed love makes the misery of
youth ; disappointed ambition that of manhood ; and successful avai'ice that
of age. These thi-ee attack us through life, and it is our duty to stand upon
our gviard. To love we ought to oppose dissipation, and endeavour to change
the object of the affections ; to ambition the happiness of indolence and ob-
scurity ; and to avarice the fear of soon dying. These are tlie shields with
wliich we should arm ourselves; and thus make every scene of life, if not
pleasing, at least supportable.
Men complain of not finding a place of repose. They are in the wrong ;
tliey have it for seeking. Wliat they should indeed complain of is, that the
lieart is an enemy to that very repose they seek. To themselves alone should
tliey impute their discontent. They seek within the short span of life to
satisfy a thousand desires, each of which alone is unsatiable. One month
passes ; and another comes on ; tlie year ends, and then begins ; but man is
still unchanging in folly, still blindly continuing in prejudice. To the wise
man every climate and every soil is pleasing ; to him a parterre of flowers is
the famous valley of gold ; to him a little brook the fountain of the young
peach trees ;f to such a man the melody of birds is more ravishing than the
liarmony of a full concert ; and the tincture of the cloud preferable to the
touch of the finest pencil.
Tlie life of man is a journey ; a journey that must be travelled, however
* This letter is a rhapsody from the maxims of the philosopher M6. Vide Lett, curieuso
et edifiant. Vide etiam Da Ilalde, vol. II, p. 98.
t This passage the editor does not understand.
672 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
bad the i-oads or the accommodation. If in the beginning it is found dan-
gerous, narrow, and difficult, it must either grow better in the end, or we shall '
by custom learn to bear its inequality.
But though I see you incapable of penetrating into grand principles, attend
at least to a simile adapted to every apprehension. I am mounted upon a
wretched ass. I see another man before me upon a sprightly horse, at wliich I
find some uneasiness. I look behind me and see numbers on foot stooping
imder heavy burthens : let me learn to pity their estate, and thank Heaven
for my own.
Shingfii, when xmder misfortunes, would in the beginning weep like a child ;
but he soon recovered his former tranquillity. After indulging gi'ief for a few
days, he would become as usual the most merry old man in all the province of
Shansi. About the time that his wife died, his possessions were all consumed
by fire, and his only son sold into captivity : Shingfu grieved for one day, and
the next went to dance at a mandarine's door for his dinner. The company
were surprised to see the old man so merry when sulTering such great losses,
and the mandarine himself coming out, asked him how he, who had grieved so
much, and given way to the calamity the day before, could now be so cheerful ?
"You ask me one question," cries the old man, "let me answer by asking
another : "Whicli is the most durable, a hard thing, or a soft thing, that which
resists, or that which makes no resistance ?" A hard thing, to be sure, replied
the mandarine. " There you are wrong," retm'ned Shingfu, " I am now four-
score years old ; and if you look in my mouth you will find that I have lost
all my teeth, but not a bit of my tongue."
LETTEE XCV.
FEOM LIEN Cni AXTANGI, TO FUM HOAM, PIEST PRESIDENT OP THE CEEE-
MONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN, IN* CHINA.
The manner of grieving for our departed friends in China is very different from
that of Europe. The mourning colour of Europe is black ; that of China
white. Wlien a parent or relation dies here, for they seldom mom'n for
friends, it is only clapping on a suit of sables, grimacing it for a few days, and
all soon forgotten, goes on as before ; not a single creature missing the
deceased, except perhaps a favourite house-keeper or a favourite cat.
On the contrary, with us in China it is a very serious affair. The piety with
which I have seen you behave on one of these occasions should never be for-
gotten. I remember it was upon the death of thy gi'andmother's maiden
sister. The coffin was exposed in the principal hall in public view. Before it
were placed the figures of eunuchs, horses, tortoises, and other animals in atti-
tudes of grief and respect. The more distant relations of the old lady, and I
among the number, came to pay our compliments of condolence, and to salute
the deceased after the manner of our country. We had scarcely presented our
wax candles and perfumes, and given the howl of departiu-e, when, crawling
on his belly from under a cm'tain, out came the reverend Fum Hoam himself,
in all the dismal solemnity of distress. Your looks were set for sorrow ; your
clothing consisted of an hempen bag tied round the neck with a string. For
two long months did this mourning continue. By night you lay stretched on
a single mat, and sat on the stool of discontent by day. Pious man ! who
could thus set an example of sorrow and decorum to our country. Pious
counti'y ! where, if we do not grieve at the departm-e of ovu' friends for tlieir
sakes, at least we are taught to regret them for our own.
All is very diffei*ent hei'e j amazement all ! What sort of a people am I got
amongst ? Fum, thou son of Fo, what sort of people am I got amongst ? Ifo
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 573
crawling round the coffin ; no dressing up in hempen bags ; no lying on mats,
or sitting on stools. Grentlemen here shall put on first mourning with as
sprightly an air as if preparing for a bu*th -night ; and widows shall actually,
dress for another husband in their weeds for the former. The best jest of all
is, that om' merry mourners clap bits of muslin on their sleeves, and these are
called weepers. Weeping muslin ! alas ! alas ! very sorrowful truly. These
w^eepers then, it seems, are to bear the whole burthen of the distress.
But I have had the strongest instance of this contrast, this tragi-comical
behaviour in distress, upon a recent occasion. Their king, whose departure
though sudden was not unexpected, died after a reign of many years. His
age and uncertain state of health served in some measure to diminish the
sorrow of his subjects ; and then* expectations from his successor seemed to
balance their minds between uneasiness and satisfaction. But how ought
they to have behaved on such an occasion ? Surely, they ought rather to
have endeavoured to testify their gratitude to their deceased friend, than to
proclaim their hopes of the future. Surely even the successor must suppose
their love to wear the face of adulation, which so quickly changed the object.
However, the very same day on which the old king died, they made rejoicing
for the new.
For my part I have no conception of this new manner of mourning and re-
joicing in a breath ; of being merry and sad ; of mixing a funeral procession
with a jig and a bonfii*e. At least, it would have been just, that they who
flattered the king while living for vu'tues which he had not, should lament
him dead for those he really had.
In this universal cause for national distress, as I had no interest myself, so
it is but natural to suppose, I felt no real affliction. In all the losses of our
friends, says an European philosopher, we first consider how much our own
welfare is affected by their departure, and moderate our real grief just in the
same proportion. Now, as I had neither received, nor expected to receive
favours from kings or their flatterers ; as I had no acquaintance in particular
with their late monarch ; as I knew that the place of a king is soon supplied j
and as the Chinese proverb has it, that though the world may sometimes want
cobblers to mend then' shoes, there is no danger of its wanting emperors to
rule their kingdoms ; from such considerations I could bear the loss of a king
with the most philosophic resignation. However, I thought it my duty at
least to appear sorrowful ; to put on a melancholy aspect, or to set iny face by
tliat of the people.
The first company I came amongst after the news became general, was a set
of jolly companions, who were drinking prosperity to the ensuing reign. I
entered the room with looks of despair, and even expected applause for the
supei'lative misery of my countenance. Instead of that I was universally con-
demned by the company for a grimacing son of a whore, and desired to take
away my penitential ]phiz to some other quarter. I now corrected my former
mistake, and with the most sprightly air imaginable entered a company where
they were talking over the ceremonies of the approaching funeral. Here I sat
for some time with an air of pert vivacity, when one of the chief mourners
immediately observing my good humour, desired me, if I pleased, to go and
grin somewhere else ; they wanted no disafiecfced scoundrels there. Leaving
tliis company, therefore, I was resolved to assume a look perfectly neutral, and
have ever since been studying the fashionable air ; something between jest
and earnest ; a complete virginity of face, uncontaminated with the smallest
symptom of meaning.
Bat though grief be a very slight affair here, the mourning, my friend, is a
very important concern. When an emperor dies in China, the whole expense of
B74> THE Works of oliver goldsmith.
the solemnities is defrayed from the royal coffers. When the great die here,
Hiaudarines are ready enough to order moiiming ; but I do not see they are
so ready to pay for it. If they send me down from court the gray undress
•frock, or the black coat without pocket-holes, I am villing enough to comply
with their commands, and wear both ; but by the head of Confucius ! to be
obliged to wear black, and buy it into the bargain, is more than my tran-
quillity of temper can bear. What, order me to wear mourning before they
know whether I can buy it or no ! Fum, thou son of Fo, what sort of a
people am I amongst ? where being out of black is a certain symptom of
poverty ; where those who hare miserable faces cannot haye mourning, and
those who hare mourning will not wear a miserable face !
LETTER XCVI.
TEOM THE SAME.
It is usual for the booksellers here, when a book has given universal pleasure
upon one subject, to bring out several more upon the same plan ; which are
sure to have purchasers and readers from that desire wliich all men have to
view a pleasing object on every side. The first perfownance serves rather to
awaken than satisfy attention, and when that is once moved, the slightest
effort serves to continue its progression ; the merit of the fii'st diffuses a light
sufficient to illuminate the succeeding efforts ; and no other subject can be
relished till that is exhausted. A stupid work coming thus immediately in
the train of an applauded performance, weans the mind from the object of its
pleasure, and resembles the sponge thrust into the mouth of a discharged
culverin, in order to adapt it for a new explosion.
This manner, however, of drawing off a subject, or a pecuhar mode of
writing to the dregs, effectually precludes a revival of that subject or manner
for some time for the future ; the sated reader tiuTis from it with a kind of
literary nausea j and though the titles of books are the part of them most
read, yet he has scarcely perseverance enough to wade through the title-page.
Of this number I own myself one ; I am now grown callous to several sub-
jects, and different kinds of composition; whether such originally pleased I
will not take upon me to determine ; but at present I spurn a new book merely
upon seeing its name in an advertisement ; nor have the smallest curiosity to
look beyond the first leaf, even though in the second the author promises his
own face neatly engraved on copper.
I am become a perfect epicm-e in reading ; plain beef or solid mutton will
never do. I am for a Chinese dish of bears' claws and birds' -nests. I am for
sauce strong with asafoetida, or fuming with garlic. For this reason there
are a hundied very wise, learned, virtuous, well-intended productions that
have no charms for me. Thus, for the soul of me, I could never find courage
nor gi-ace enough to wade above two pages deep into Thoughts upon God and
Nature^ or Thoughts upon Providence, or Thoughts upon Free Grace, or indeed
into thoughts upon any thing at all. I can no longer meditate with Medita-
tions for every day in the year. Essays upon divers subjects cannot allure me,
though never so interesting ; and as for Fimeral Sermons, or even Thanks-
giving Sermons, I can neither weep with the one, nor rejoice with the other.
But it is chiefly in gentle poetry, where I seldom look farther than the
title. The truth is, I take up books to be told something new: but here, as
it is now managed, the reader is told nothing. He opens the book, and there
finds very good words truly, and much exactness of rhyme, but no informa-
tion. A parcel of gaudy images pass on before his imagination like the figm'es
m a dream ; but curiosity, induction, reason, and the whole train of affections, *
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 576
are fast asleep. The jucunda et idonea vitce, those sallies which mend the
heart while they amuse the fancy, are quite forgotten j so that a reader who
would take up some modern applauded performances of this kind, must, in
order to be pleased, first leave his good sense behind him, take for his recom-
pense and guide bloated and compound epithet, and dwell on paintings, just
indeed, because laboured with minute exactness.
If we examine, however, our internal sensations, we shall find om'selves but
little i)leased with such laboured vanities ; we shall find that our applause
rather proceeds from a kind of contagion caught up from others, and which
we contribute to diifuse, than from what we privately feel. There are some
subjects of which almost all the world perceive the futility ; yet all combine
in imposing upon each other, as worthy of praise. But chiefly this impo-
sition obtains in literature, where men publicly contemn what they reUsh with
raptm'c in private, and approve abroad what has given them disgust at home.
The truth is, we deliver those criticisms in public which are supposed to be
best calculated not to do justice to the author, but to impress others with au
opinion of our superior discernment.
But let works of this kind, which have already come off with such applause,
enjoy it all. It is neither my wish to diminish, as I was never considerable
enougk to add to their fame. But for the future I fear there are many poems,
of which I shall find spirits to read but the title. In the first place, all odes
upon winter, or summer, or autumn ; in short, all odes, epodes, and monodies,
whatsoever, shall hereafter be deemed too poHte, classical, obscure, and refined
to be read, and entirely above human compreliension. Pastorals are pretty
enough — for those that hke them — but to me Thyrsis is one of the most insipid
fellows I ever conversed with, and as for Cory don, I do not choose his com-
pany. Elegies and epistles are very fine to those to whom they are addressed ;
and as for epic poems, I am generally able to discover the whole plan in
reading the two first pages.
Tragedies, howevel*, as they are now made, are . good instructive moral
sermons enough j and it would be a fault not to be x^leased with good things.
There I learn several great truths ; as, that it is impossible to see into the
ways of futurity ; that pimishment always attends the villain ; that love is the
fond soother of the human breast ; that we should not resist heaven's will, for
in resisting heaven's will heaven's will is resisted j with several other senti-
ments equally new, delicate, and striking. Every new tragedy therefore I shall
go to see ; for reflections of this nature make a tolerable harmony when mixed
up with a proper quantity of drum, trumpet, thunder, lightning, or the scene -
shifter's whistle. Adieu !
LETTEE XCVII.
FEOil LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO FTJM HOAM, FIEST PEESIDENT OE THE CEEE-
MONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN IN CHINA.
I HAD some intentions lately of going to visit Bedlam, the place where those
who go mad are confined. I went to wait upon the man in black to be my
conductor, but I found him preparing to go to Westminster hall, where the
English hold their courts of justice. It gave me some surprise to find my
friend engaged in a law-suit, but more so when he informed me that it had
been depending for several years. How is it possible, cried I, for a man who
knows the world to go to law ? I am well acquainted with the coicrts 0/ justice in
China ; they resemble rat-trajjs every one of them, nothing more easy than to get
in, but to get out again is attended with some difficulty, and more cunning than
rats are generally found to possess !
576 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Faith, replied my friend, I should not have gone to law, but that I was as
sured of success before I began ; things were presented to me in so alluring e
light, tliat I thought by barely declaring myself a candidate for the prize, I
bad nothing more to do than to enjoy the fruits of the victory. Thus have I
been upon the eve of an imaginary triumph every term these ten years, have
travelled forward with victoiy, ever in my view, .but ever out of reach j how-
ever, at present I fancy we have hampered our antagonist in such a manner,
that without some unforeseen demur, we shall this day lay him fairly on his
back.
If things he so situated, said I, / do not care if I attend you to the courts, and
partake in the pleasure of your success. But prithee, continued I, as we set
forward, lohat reasons have you to think an affair at last concluded, which has
given so many former disappointments ? My lawyer tells me, returned he, that
I have Salkeld and Yentris strong in my favour, and that there are no less
than fifteen cases in point. / understand, said I, those are two of your judges
who have already declared their opinions. Pardon me, replied my friend, Sal-
keld and Ventris are lawyers who some hundred years ago gave their opinions
on cases similar to mine j these opinions which make for me my lawyer is to
cite, and those opinions which look another way are cited by the lawyer em-
ployed by my antagonist ; as I observed, I have Salkeld and Yentris for me,
ho has Coke and Hale for him, and he that has most opinions is most likely to
carry his cause. But where is the necessity, cried I, of ])rolonging a suit by
citing the opinions and reports of others, since the same good sense which deter-
mined lawyers in former ayes may serve to guide your judges at this day ?
They at that time gave their opinions only from the light of reason, your judges
have the same light at present to direct them, let me even add a greater, as in
former ages there were many prejudices from which the present is happily free
If arguing from authorities be exploded from every other branch of learning, why
should it be particularly adhered to in this ? I plainly foresee how such a method
of investigation must embarrass every suit, and even perplex the student ; cere-
monies will be multiplied, formalities must increase, and more time ivill thus be
spent in learning the arts of litigation than in the discovery of right.
I see, cries my friend, that you are for a speedy administration of justice, but
all the world will grant that the more time that is taken up in considering any
subject, the better it will be understood. Besides it is the boast of an En-
glishman, that his property is secm*e, and all the world will grant that a de-
liberate administration of justice is the best way to secure his property. Wliy
have we so many lawyers, but to secure our property ? Why so many formali-
ties, but to secure our property ? Not less than one hundred thousand fomilies
live in opulence, elegance, and ease, merely by securing our property.
To embarrass justice, returned I, by a multiplicity of laws, or to hazard it
by a confidence in our judges, are I grant the opposite rocks on which legisla-
tive wisdom has ever split ; in one case the client resembles that emperor, who
is said to have been suffocated with the bed-clothes which were only designed
to keep him warm ; in the other, to that town which let the enemy take pos-
session of its walls, in order to shew the world how little they depended upon
aught but courage for safety : But bless me, what numbers do I see here —
all in black — how is it possible that half this multitude find employment ?
iNothing so easily conceived, returned my companion; they live by watching
each other. For instance, the catchpole watches the man in debt, the attorney
watches the catchpole, the counsellor watches the attorney, the solicitor the
counsellor, and all find sufficient employment. I conceive you, interrupted I j
they watch each other, but it is the cUent that pays them all for watchmg ; it
puts me in mind of a Chinese fable, which is intituled. Five animals at a meal.
CITIZEN OF TItE WORLD. 577
A grasshopper filled witli dew, was merrily singing under a sliade; a
wliangam tliat eats grasshoppers liad marked it for its prey, and was just
etretchiug fortli to derour it : a serpent tliat had for a long time fed only oe
whan gams, was coiled up to fasten on the whangam j a yellow bird was just
upon the wing to dart upon the serpent ! a hawk had just stooped from above
to seize the yellow bird ; all were intent on their jprey, and unmindfid of their
danger : so the whangam eat the grasshopper, the serpent cat the whangam,
the yellow bird the sex-pent, and the hawk the yellow bu'dj when sousing from
on high, a yulture gobbled up the hawk, grasshopper, whangam, and all in a
moment.
I had scarcely finished my fable, when the lawyer came to inform my friend,
that his cause was put off till another term, that money was wanted to retain,
and that all the world was of opinion, that the very next hearing would bring
him off victorious. If so then, cries my friend, I believe it will be vaj wisest
way to continue the cause for another term, and in the mean time my friend
here and I will go and see Bedlam. Adieu !
LETTER XOVIII.
TEOM THE SAME.
I LATELY received a visit from the little beau, who I found had assmiicd anew
flow of spirits with a new suit of clothes. Our discourse happened to turn
upon the different treatment of the fair sex here and in Asia, with the influence
of beauty in refining our manners and improving our conversation.
I soon perceived he was strongly prejudiced in favour of the Asiatic method
of treating the sex, and that it was impossible to persuade him but that a man
was happier who had fom- wives at his command, than he who had only one.
" It is true," cries he, " yom' men of fashion, in the East are slaves, and under
some teri'ors of having their throats squeezed by a bow-string ; but what then,
they can find ample consolation in a seraglio ; thoy make, indeed, an indif-
ferent figure in conversation abroad, but then they have a seraglio to console
them at home. I am told they have no balls, drums, nor operas, but then they
have got a seraglio ; they may be deprived of wine and French cookery, but
they have a seraglio ; a seraglio, a seraglio, my dear creature, wipes off every
iuconvenience in the world.
" Besides, I am told, your Asiatic beauties are the most convenient women
alive, for they have no souls ; positively there is nothing in Nature I should
like so much as ladies without souls ; soul here is the utter ruin of half the
sex. A girl of eighteen shall have soul enough to spend an hvindred pounds
in the turning of a trump. Her mother shall have soul enough to ride a
sweepstake match at a horse-race ; her maiden aunt shall have soul enough to
piu'chase the furniture of a whole toy-shop ; and others shall have soul enougli
to behave as if they had no souls at all."
With respect to the soul, interrupted I, the Asiatics are much kinder to the
fair sex than you imagine ; instead of one soul, Fohi, the idol of Chiiia, gives
every woman three ; the Bramins give them fifteen ; and even Mahomet him -
self no where excludes the sex from Paradise. Abulfeda reports, that an old
woman one day importuning him to know what she ouglit to do in order to
gain Paradise ? My good lady, answered the prophet, old tuomen never get
there. What, never get to Paradise ! returned the matron, in a fury. Never,
says he, /or they always grow young by the way.
No, Sir, continued I, the men of Asia behave with more deference to the
sex than you seem to imagine. As you of Europe say grace upon sitting down
to diuncr, so it is the custom in China to say grace when a man goe? to bed to
37
578 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
liis wife. And may I die, returued my companion, but a very preity cp.remony s
for seriously, Sir, I see no reason why a man should not he as grateful in one
situation as in the other. Upon honour, I always find myself much more disposed
to gratitude on the couch of a fine woman, than upon sitting down to a sirloin of
beef. .
Another ceremony, said I, resuming the conversation, in favour -of the sex
amongst us, is the bride's being allowed, after marriage, her three days of free-
dom. During this interval, a thousand extravagancies are practised by either
sex. The lady is placed upon the nuptial bed, and numberless monkey tricks
are played I'ound to divei't her. One gentleman smells her perfumed hand-
kerchief, another attempts to untie her garters, a third pulls off her shoe to
play hunt the slipper, another pretends to be an idiot, and endeavours to raise
a laugh by grimacing ; in the mean time the glass goes briskly about, till
ladies, gentlemen, wife, husband, and all, are mixed together in one inundation
of arrack punch.
" Strike me dumb, deaf, and blind ! " cried my companion, " but very pretty j
there is some sense in your Chinese ladies' condescensions ; but among us,
you shall scarcely find one of the whole sex that shall hold her good humour
for three days together. No later than yesterday I happened to say some
civil things to a citizen's wife of my acquaintance, not because I loved, but
because I had charity ; and what do you think was the tender creature's
reply ? Only that she detested my pigtail wig, high heeled shoes, aiid sallow
complexion. That is all. Nothing more ! Yes, by the heavens, though she
was more ugly than an unpainted actress, I found her more insolent than a
tliorough bred woman of quality."
ITe was proceeding in this wild manner, when his' invective was interrupted
by the man in black, who entered the apartment, introducing his niece, a
young lady of exquisite beauty. Her very appearance was sufficient to silence
the severest satirist of the sex : easy without pride, and free without impu-
dence, she seemed capable of suj)plying every sense with pleasm*e ; her looks,
her conversation, were natural and unconstrained ; she had neither been
taught to languish nor ogle, to laugh without a jest, or sigh without sorrow.
I found that she had just returned from abroad, and had been conversant iyi
the manners of the world. Curiosity prompted me to ask several questions,
but she declined them all. I own I never found myself so strongly prejudiced
in favour of apparent merit before ; and could willingly have prolonged our
conversation, but the company after some time withdrew. Just, however,
before the little beau took his leave, he called me aside, and requested'I would
change him a twenty pound bill, which as I was incapable of doing, he was
contented with borrowing half-a-crown. Adieu !
LETTER XCIX.
PEOM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO HINGPO, BY THE WAT OF MOSCOW.
Few virtues have been more praised by moralists than generosity ; every
prEictical treatise of Ethics tends to increase our sensibility of the distresses of
others, and to relax the grasp of frugality. Philosophers that are poor praise
it because they are gainers by its effects ; and the opulent Seneca himself has
written a treatise on benefits, though he was known to give nothing away.
But among the many who have enforced the duty of giving, I am surprised
there are none to inculcate the ignominy of receiving, to shew that by every
favour we accept, we in some measm-e forfeit our native freedom, and . that a
state of continual dependence on the generosity of others is a life of gradual
debasement.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 579
Were men taiiglit to despise the receiving obligations with the same force
of reasoning and declamation that they are instructed to confer them, we
might then see* every person in society filling up the requisite duties of his
station with cheerfvd industry, neither relaxed by hope, nor sullen from dis-
appointment.
Every favour a man receives, in some measure sinks him below his dignity :
and in proportion to the value of the benefit, or the frequency of its accept-
ance, he gives up so much of his natural independence. He, therefore, who
thrives upon the unmerited bounty of another, if he has any sensibility, suffers
the worst of servitude ; the shackled slave may murmur without reproach, but
the humble dependent is taxed with ingratitude upon every symptom of dis-
content ; the one may rave round the walls of his cell, but the other lingers
in all the silence of mental confinement. To increase his distress, every new
obligation but adds to the former load which kept the vigorous mind from
rising ; till at last, elastic no longer, it shapes itself to constraint, and puts on
habitual servility.
It is thus with the feeling mind ; but there are some who, born without
any share of sensibility, receive favour after favour, and still cringe for more ;
who accept the ofier of generosity with as little reluctance as the wages of
merit, and even make thanks for past benefits an indirect petition for new ;
such, I grant, can suffer no debasement from dependence, since they were
originally as vile as was possible to be : dependence degrades only the in-
genuous, but leaves the sordid mind in pristine meanness. In this manner,
therefore, long continued generosity is misplaced, or it is injurious ; it either
finds a man worthless, or it makes him so ; and true it is, that the person
who is contented to be often obliged, ought not to have been obliged at all.
Yet while I describe the meanness of a life of continued dependence, I
would not be thought to include those natural or political subordinations which
subsist in every society, for in such, though dependence is exacted from the
inferior, yet the obligation on either side is mutual. The son must rely upon
his parent for support, but the parent lies under the same obligations to give,
that the other has to expect ; the subordinate officer must receive the com-
mands of his superior, but for this obedience the former has a right to de-
mand an intercourse of favour ; such is not the dependence I would depreci-
ate, but that where every expected favour must be the result of mere benevo-
lence in the giver, where the benefit can be kept without remorse, or transferred
without injustice. The character of a legacy -hunter, for instance, is detestable
in some countries, and despicable in all ; this universal contempt of a man
Avho infringes upon none of the laws of society, some moralists have arraigned
as a popular and unjust prejudice, never considering the necessary degrada-
tions a wretch must undergo, who previously expects to grow rich by benefits
without having either natural or social claims to enforce his petitions.
But this intercourse of benefaction and acknowledgment is often injurious
even to the giver as well as the receiver ; a man can gain but little knowledge
of himself, or of the world, amidst a circle of those whom hope or gratitude has
gathered round him : their unceasing humiliations must necessarily increase
his comparative magnitude, for all men measure their own abilities by those of
their company ; thus being taught to over-rate his merit, he in reality lessens
it ; increasing in confidence, but not in power, his professions end in empty
boast, his undertakings in shameful disappointment.
It is perhaps one of the severest misfortunes of the great, that they are,
in general, obliged to live among men whose real virtue is lessened by depend-
ence, and whose minds are enslaved by obligation. The humble companion
37—2
580 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
may have at first accepted patronage -with generous ridws, but soon lie feel?
the mortifying influence of conscious inferiority, by degrees sinks into a flat-
terer, and from flattery at last degenerates into stupid veneration. To remedy
this the great often dismiss their old dependents, and take new. Such
changes are falsely imputed to levity, falsehood, or caprice in the patron,
since they may be more justly ascribed to the client's gradual deterioration.
No, my son, a Hfe of independence is generally a life of virtue. It is that
which fits the soul for every generous flight of humanity, freedom and friend-
ship. To give should be om* pleasure, but to receive our shame ; serenity,
health, and afiluence attend the desire of rising by labour ; misery, repentance,
and disrespect, that of succeeding by extorted benevolence ; the man who can
thank himself alone for the happiness he enjoys is truly blest ; and lovely,
far more lovely, the sturdy gloom of laborious indigence than the fawning
simper of tlmving adulation. Adieu !
LETTER C.
FROM LIEN CHI ALTAXGI, TO PUM HOAM, FIRST PRESIDENT OF THE CEREMONIAL
ACADEMY AT PEKIN, IN CHINA.
In every society some men are born to teach, and others to receive instruction ;
some to work, and others to enjoy in idleness the fruits of their industry ;
some to govern, and others to obey. Every people, how free soever, must be
contented to give up part of their liberty and judgment to those who govern,
in exchange for their hopes of security ; and the motives which first influenced
their choice in the election of their governors should ever be weighed against
the succeeding apparent inconsistencies of their conduct. All cannot be
rulers, and men are generally best governed by a few. In making way through
the intricacies of business, the smallest obstacles are apt to retard the execu-
tion of what is to be planned by a multiplicity of counsels ; the judgment of
one alone being always fittest for winding thi'ough the labyrinths of intrigue,
and the obstructions of disappointment. A serpent, which, as the fable ob-
serves, is furnished with one head and many tails, is much more capable of
subsistence and expedition than another which is furnished with but one tail
and many heads.
Obvious as these truths are, the people of this country seem insensible of
their force. Not satisfied with the advantages of internal peace and opulence,
they still murmur at their governors, and interfere in the execution of their
designs ; as if they wanted to be something more than happy. But as the
Eui'opeans instruct by argument, and the Asiatics mostly by narration, were I
to address them, I should convey my sentiments in the following story.
Takupi had long been prime minister of Tipartala, a fertile country that
sti-etches along the Western confines of China. During his administration,
whatever advantages could be derived from arts, learning, and commerce, were
seen to bless the people ; nor were the necessary precautions of providing for
the security of the state forgotten. It often happens, however, that when men
are possessed of all they want, they then begin to find torment from imaginary
afflictions, and lessen their present enjoyments, by forboding that those enjoy-
ments are to have an end. The people now therefore endeavoured to find
out grievances ; and after some search, actually began to think themselves
aggrieved. A petition agahist the enormities of Takupi was carried to the
throne in due form ; and the queen who governed the country, wilHng to
satisfy her subjects, appointed a day, in- which his accusers should be heard,
and the minister should stand upon his defence.
_ The day being arrived, and the minister brought before the tribunal, a car-
rier, who supplied the city with fish, appeared among the number of his
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 581
accusers. He exclaimed, tliafc it was the custom time immemorial for carriers
to bring their fish upon a horse in a hamper ; which being placed on one
side, and balanced by a stone on the other, was thus conyeyed with ease and
safety : but that the prisoner, moved either by a spirit of mnovation, or per-
haps bribed by the hamper-makers, had obliged all carriers to use the stone
no longer, but balance one hamper with another ; an order entirely repugnant
to tlie customs of all antiquity, and those of the kingdom of Tipartala in par-
ticular.
The carrier finished j and the whole court shook their heads at the inno-
Tating minister : when a second witness appeared. He was inspector of the
city buildings, and accused the disgraced favourite of having given ordei's for
the demolition of an ancient ruin which obstructed the passage through one of
the principal streets. He observed, that such buildings were noble monuments
of barbarous antiquity ; conti'ibuted finely to shew how little their ancestors
understood of architecture ; and for that reason such monuments should bo
held sacred, and suffered gradually to decay.
The last witness now appeared. This was a widow, who had laudably at-
tempted to burn herself upon her husband's funeral pile. But the innovating
minister had prevented the execution of her design, and was insensible to her
teai'3, protestations, and intreaties.
The queen could have pardoned the two former offences ; but this last was
considered as so gross an injury to the sex, and so du'ectly contrary to all the
customs of antiquity, that it called for immediate justice. " What," cried the
queen, " not suffer a woman to burn herself when she thinks proper ? The
sex are to be very prettily tutored, no doubt, if they must be restrained from
entertaining their female friends now and then with a fried wife, or roasted
acquaintance. I sentence the criminal to be banished my presence for ever for
his injurious treatment of the sex."
Takupi had been hitherto silent, and spoke only to shew the sincerity of his
resignation. " G-reat queen," cried he, " I acknowledge my crime ; and since
I am to be banished, I beg it may be to some ruined town, or desolate village,
in the country I have governed. I shall find some pleasure in improving the
soil, and bringing back a spirit of industry among the inhabitants." His re-
quest appearing reasonable, it was immediately complied with ; and a courtier
had oi'ders to fix upon a place of banishment, answering the minister's descrip-
tion. After some months' search, howevei*, the inquiry proved fruitless 5
neither a desolate village, nor a ruined town, was found in the kingdom.
Alas! said Takupi then to the queen, how can that country be ill governed
which has neither a desolate village, nor a ruined town in it ? The queen per-
ceived the justice of his expostulation, and the minister was received into
more than former favours.
LETTER CI.
PEOM THE SAME.
The ladies here are by no means such ardent gamesters as the women of
Asia. In this respect I must do the English justice ; for I love to praise
where applause is justly merited. Nothing is more common in China, than to
see two women of fashion continue gaming till one has won all the other's
clothes, and stripped her quite naked ; the winner thus marching off in a
double suit of finery, and the loser slu-iuking behind in the primitive simplicity
of natiu'c.
No doubt, you remember when Shang our maiden aunt, played with a
sharper. First, her money went; then her trinkets were produced; her
583 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
clothes followed piece by piece soon after ; -when she had thus played herself
quite naked, being a woman of spirit, and wilHng to pursue Iter own, she staked
her teeth ; fortune was against her even here, and her teeth followed her
clothes ; at last she played for her left eye, and, oh, hard fate, this too she
lost ; however, she had the consolation of biting the sharper, for ho never
perceived that it was made of glass till it became his own.
How happy, my friend, are the English ladies, who never rise to such an
inordinance of passion ! Though the sex here are generally fond of games of
chance, and are taught to manage games of skill from their infancy, yet they
never pursue ill-fortune with such amazing intrepidity. Indeed I may entirely
acquit them of ever playing — I mean of playing for their eyes or their teetii.
It is true, they often stake their fortune, their beauty, health, and reputa-
tions at a gaming-table. It even sometimes happens, that they play their
husbands into a gaol ; yet still they preserve a dcconun imknoAvn to our wives
and daughters of China. I have been present at a rout in this country, where
a woman of fashion, after losing her money, has sat vn^ithing in all the agonies
of bad luck ; and yet, aftei* all, never once attempted to strip a single petti-
coat, or cover the board, as her last stake, with her head-clothes.
However, though I praise their moderation at play, I must not conceal
their assiduity. In China, our women, except upon some great days, are never
permitted to finger a dice box ; but here every day seems to be a festival : and
night itself, which gives others rest, only serves to increase the female gamester's
industry. I have been told of an old lady in the country, who being given
over by the physicians, played with the curate of her parish to pass the time
away : having won all his money, she next proposed playing for her funeral
charges ; the proposal was accepted : but imfortunately the lady expired just
as she had taken in her gnme.
Tliere are some passions, which though differently pursued, are attended
with equal consequences in every country : here they game with some perse-
verance, there with greater fury : hero they strip their families, tliere they strip
tliemselves naked. A lady in China, who indulges a passion for gaming, often
becomes a drunkard ; and by flourishing a dice-box in one hand, she generally
comes to brandish the dram cup in the other. Far be it from me to say there
are any who drink drams in England ; but it is natural to suppose, that when
a lady has lost everything else but her honour, slie will be apt to toss that into
the bargain : and grown insensible to nicer feelings, behave like tlie Spaniard,
who, when all his money was gone, endeavoured to borrow more by oflering to
pawn his whisker. Adieu !
LETTEE CII.
FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI TO * * *, MEECHANT IN AMSTEEDAM.
I HAYE just received a letter from my son, in which he informs me of the fruit-
lessncss of his endeavours to recover the lady with whom he fled from Persia.
He strives to cover under the appearance of fortitude a heart torn with anxiety
and disappointment. I have offered little consolation, since that but too fre-
quently feeds tlie sorrow which it pretends to deplore, and strengthens the
impression, which nothing but the external rubs of time and accident can
thoroughly efface.
He informs me of his intentions of quitting Moscow the first opportunity,
and travelling by land to Amsterdam. I must therefore, upon liis arrival, in-
treat the continuance of your friendship ; and beg of you to provide him with
proper directions for finding me in London. You can scarcely be sensible of
the joy I expect upon seeing him once more: the ties between the father and
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 583
the son among us of China are much more closely drawn than with you of
Europe.
Tlie remittances sent me from Argun to Moscow cante in safety. I cannot
sufficiently admu'e that spirit of honesty which prevails through the whole
country of Siberia : perhaps the savages of that desolate region are the only
untutored people of the globe that cultivate the moral virtues, even without
knowing that their actions merit praise. I have been told surprising things
of their goodness, benevolence, and generosity; and the uninterrupted com-
merce between China and Russia serves as a collateral confirmation.
Let us, says the Chinese-lawgiver, admire the rude virtues of the ignoranty but
rather imitate the delicate morals of the polite. In the country where I reside,
though honesty and benevolence be not so congenial, yet art supplies the place
of nature. Though here every vice is carried to excess, yet every virtue is
practised also with unexampled superiority. A city like this is the soil for
great virtues and great vices : the villain can soon improve here in the deepest
mysteries of deceiving ; and the practical philosopher can every day meet new
incitements to mend his honest intentions. There are no pleasures, sensual or
sentimental, which this city does not produce 5 yet, I know not how, I could
not be content to reside here for life. There is something so seducing in that
spot in which we first had existence, that nothing but it can please ; whatever
vicissitudes we experience in life, however we toil, or wheresoever we wander,
our fatigued wishes still return to home for tranquillity ; we long to die in
that spot which gave us birth, and in that pleasing expectation opiate every
calamity.
You now, therefore, perceive that I have some intentions of leaving this
country ; and yet my designed departure fills me with reluctance and regret.
Though the friendships of travellers are generally more transient than vernal
snows, still I feel an uneasiness at breaking the connexions I have formed
since my arrival ; particularly, I shall have no small pain in leaving my usual
companion, guide and instructor.
I shall wait for the arrival of my son before I set out. He shall be my
companion in every intended journey for the future ; in his company I can
support the fatigues of the way with redoubled ardom', pleased at once with
conveying instruction and exacting obedience. Adieu !
LETTER cm.
PROM LIEN CHI ALTANai, TO ITTM HOAM, FIEST PEESIDENT OP THE CERE-
MONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN, IN CHINA.
Our scholars in China have a most profound veneration for forms. A first-
rate beauty never studied the decorums of dress with more assiduity ; they
may properly enough be said to be clothed with wisdom from head to foot ;
they have their philosophical caps and philosophical whiskers, their philo-
sophical slippers and philosophical fans ; there is even a philosophical standard
for measuring the nails ; and yet with all this seeming wisdom, they are often
found to be mere empty pretenders.
A philosophical beau is not so frequent in Europe : yet I am told that such
cliaracters are found here. I mean such as punctually support all the deco-
rums of learning without being really viry profound, or naturally possessed of
a fine understanding ; who laboiu' hard to obtain the titular honours attending
literary merit ; who flatter others in order to be flattered in turn, and only
study to bo thought students.
A character of this kind generally receives company in his study, in all the
pensive formality of slippers, niglit-gown, and easy-chair. The table is covered
I 584 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
with a large book, wliicli is always kept open, and never read ; his solitary
hours being dedicated to dozing, mending pens, feeling his pulse, peeping
through the microscope, and sometimes reading amusing books, which he con-
demns in company. His library is preserved with the most religious neat-
; ness ; and is generally a repository of scarce books, which bear an high price,
, because too dull or useless to become common by the ordinary methods of
! publication.
I Such men are generally candidates for admittance into literary clubs, aca-
demies, and institutions, where they regidarly meet to give and receive a little
instruction and a great deal of praise. In conversation they never betray igno-
rance, because they never seem to receive information. OlFer a new observation,
they have heard it before ; pinch them in an argument, and they reply witli a
sneer.
Yet how trifling soever these little arts may appear, they answer one valu-
able purpose, of gaining the practisers the esteem they wish for. The bounds
of a man's knowledge are easily concealed, if he has but prudence ; but all can
readily see and admire a gilt libraiy, a set of long nails, a silver standish, or a
well-combed whisker, who are incapable of distinguishiug a dunce.
When Father Matthew, the first European missioner, entered China, the
court was informed that he possessed great skill in astronomy ; he was there-
fore sent for and examined. The established astronomers of state undertook
this task ; and made their report to the emperor, that his skill was but very
superficial, and no way comparable to then* own. The missioner, however,
appealed from their judgment to experience, and challenged them to calculate
an eclipse of the moon that was to happen a few nights following. " What,"
said some, " shall a Barbarian without nails pretend to vie with men in as-
tronomy, who have made it the study of their lives ; witli men who know half
the knowable characters of words, who wear scientiilcal caps and slippers, and
who have gone through every literaiy degree with applause ?" They accepted
the challenge, confident of siiccess. The eclipse began ; the Chinese produced
a most splendid apparatus, and Avere fifteen minutes Avrong ; the missioner,
with a single instrument, was exact to a second. This was convincing ; but
the court astronomers were not to be convinced ; instead of acknowledging
their eri-or, they assured the emperor that their calculations were certainly
exact, but that the stranger without nails had actually bewitched the moon.
Well then, cries the good emperor, smilmg at their ignorance, you shall slill
continue to be servants of the moon, but I constitute this man her controller.
China is thus replete with men whose only pretensions to knowledge arise
from external circumstances ; and in Europe every country abounds with them
in proportion to its ignorance. Spain and Flanders, who are behind the rest
of Europe in learning at least three centuries, have twenty literary titles and
marks of distinction unknown in France or England ; they have their Claris-
nimi and Preclarissimi, their Accuratissimi and Minutissimi ; a round cap
entitles one student to argue, and a square cap permits another to teach ;
while a cap with a tassel almost sanctifies the head it happens to cover. But
where true knowledge is cultivated, these formalities begin to disappear ; the
ermined cowl, the solemn beard, and sweeping train, are laid aside ; x^^ii^o^o-
phers dress, and talk, and think like other men ; and lamb-skin dressers, and
cap-makers, and tail-carriers now deplore a literary age.
For my own part, my friend, I have seen enough of presuming ignorance,
never to venerate wisdom but where it actually appears. I have received
literary titles and distinctions myself: and, by the quantity of my own wis-
dom, know how very little wisdom they can confer. Adieu!
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. .^36
JDETTEE CIY.
FiJOM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO FUM HOAM, FIEST PRESIDENT OF THE CERE-
MONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN IN CHINA.
The time for tlie young king's coronation approaches : the great and the little
world look forward with impatience. A knight from the country, who has
brought up his family to see and be seen on this occasion, has taken all tlie
lower part of the house wliere I lodge. His wife is laying in a large quantity
of silks, which the mercer tells her ai'e to-be fashionable next season ; and
Miss, her daugliter, has actually had her ears bored previously to the cere-
mony. In all this bustle of preparation I am considered as mere lumber, and
have been shoved up two stories higher, to make room for others my landlady
seems perfectly convinced are my betters ; but whom before me she is con-
tented with only calling very good company.
The little beau, who has now forced himself into my intimacy, was yesterday
giving me a minute detail of the intended procession. All men are eloquent
upon their favourite topic ; and this seemed pecuharly adapted to the size and
tm'n of his understanding. His whole mind was blazoned over with a variety
of glittering images ; coronets, escutcheons, lace, fringe, tassels, stones, bugles,
and spun glass. " Here," cried he, " G-arter is to walk ; and there Bouge
Dragon marches with the escutcheons on his back. Here Clarenceux moves
forward ; and there Blue Mantle disdains to be left behind. Here the alder-
men march two and two ; and there the undaunted champion of England, no
way terrified at the very numerous appearance of gentlemen and ladies, rides
forward in complete armour, and with an intrepid air throws down his glove.
Ah," continued he, "should any be so hardy as to take up that fatal^ glove,
and so accept the challenge, we should see fine sport ; the champion would
shew him no mercy ; he would soon teach him all his passes with a witness.
However, I am afraid we shall have none wilKng to try it with him upon tlie
approaching occasion, for two reasons ; first, because his antagonist would
stand a chance of being killed in the single combat ; and secondly, because if
he escapes the champion's arm, he would certainly be hanged for treason.
No, no, I fancy none would be so hardy as to dispute it with a champion like
him, iniu'ed to arms ; and we shall probably see him prancing unmolested
away, hohling his bridle thus in one hand, and brandishing his dram-cup in
the other."
Some men have a manner of describing, whicli only wraps the subject in
more than former obscurity ; thus was I unable, with all my companion's
volubility, to form a distinct idea of the intended procession. I was certain
that the inauguration of a king should be conducted with solemnity and re-
ligious awe ; and I could not be persuaded that there was much solemnity in
this description. If this be true, cried I to myself, the people of Europe
surely have a strange manner of mixing solemn and fantastic images together ;
pictures at once replete with burlesque and the sublime. At a time when the
king enters into the most solemn compact witli his people, nothing surely
should be admitted to diminish from the real majesty of the ceremony. A
ludicrous image brought in at such a time, throws an air of ridicule upon the
whole. It some way resembles a picture I have seen, designed by Albert
Purer, where, amidst all the solemnity of that awful scene, a deity judging,
and a trembling world awaiting the decree, he has introduced a merry mor'^al
trundling his scolding wife to hell in a wheelbarrow.
My companion, who mistook my silence, during this interval of reflection
for the rapture of astonishment, proceeded to describe those frivolous ]3arfc8 of
586 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
the show that mostly struck his imagination ; and, to assure me, that it" 1
Btaid in this country some months longer, I should see fine things. " For my
own part," continued he, " I know already of fifteen suits of clothes that would
stand on one end with gold lace, all designed to be first shewn there ; and as
for diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and pearls, we shall see them as thick as brass
nails in a sedan-chair. And then we are all to walk so majestically thus ;
this foot always behind the foot before. The ladies are to fling nosegays ; the
court poets to scatter verses ; the spectators are to be all in full dress ; Mrs.
Tibbs in a new sacque, ruflles, and Frenched hair ; look where you will, one
thing finer than another ! Mrs. ''^^ibbs courtesies to the Duchess ; her Grace
retm-ns the compHment with a bow. Largess ! cries the Herald. Make room,
cries the Grentleman Usher. Knock him down, cries the guard. Ah !" con-
tinued he, amazed at his own description, "what an astonishing scene of
grandeur can art produce from the smallest circumstance, when it thus actually
turns to wonder one man putting on another man's hat!"
I now found his mind was entirely set upon the fopperies of the pageant,
and quite regardless of the real meaning of such costly preparations. Pa-
geants, says Bacon, are pretty things ; hut we should rather study to make them
elegant than expensive. Processions, cavalcades, and all that fimd of gay frip-
pery, fiu-nished out by tailors, barbers, and tire-women, mechanically influence
the mind into veneration : an emperor in his niglit-cap would not meet with
half the respect of an emperor with a glittering crown. Politics resemble
religion ; attempting to divest either of ceremony is the most certain method
of bringing either into contempt. The weak must have their inducements to
admiration as well as the wise, and it is the business of a sensible government
to impress all ranks with a sense of subordination, whether this be effected by
a diamond buckle or a virtuous edict, a sumptuary law or a glass necklace.
This interval of reflection only gave my companion spu'its to begin his de-
scription afresh ; and as a greater inducement to raise my curiosity, he in-
formed me of the vast sums that were given by the spectators for places.
" That the ceremony must be fine," cries he, " is very evident from the fine
price that is paid for seeing it. Several ladies have assured me, they vrould
willingly part with one eye, rather than be prevented from looking on with
tlie other. Come, come," continues he, " I have a friend, who for my sake wiU
supply us with places at the most reasonable rates ; I will take care you shall
not be imposed upon ; and he will inform you of the use, finery, rapture,
splendour, and enchantment of the whole ceremony better than I."
Follies often repeated lose their absurdity, and assume the appearance of
reason : his arguments were so often and so strongly enforced, that I had
actually some thoughts of becoming a spectator. We accordingly went
together to bespeak a place ; but guess my surprise, when the man demanded
a purse of gold for a single seat ; I could hardly believe him serious upon
making the demand. " Prithee, friend," cried I, " after I have paid twenty
pounds for sitting here an horn* or two, can I bring a part of the Coronation
back ?" No, Sir. " How long can I live upon it after I have come away."
Not long, Sir. " Can a coronation clothe, feed, or fatten me ?" Sir, replied
the man, you seem to be under a mistake ; all that you can bring away is the
pleasure of having it to say, that you saw the coronation. " Blast me," cries
Tibbs, " if that be all, there is no need of paying for that, since I am resolved
to have that pleasure, whether I am there or no !"
I am conscious, my friend, that this is but a very confused description of the
intended ceremony. You may object, that I neither settle rank, precedency,
nor place ; that I seem ignorant whether Grules walks before or behind Q-arter ;
that I have neither mentioned the dimensions of a lord's cap, nor measured
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. '587
the length of a lady's tail. I know your delight is in minute description ;
and this 1 am unhappily disquahfled from furnishing ; yet upon the whole I
fancy it will he no way eompai-ahle to the magnificence of our late emperor
Whangti's procession, when he was married to the moon, at which Fum Hoam
himself presided in person. Adieu !
LETTER Cy.
TO THE SAME.
It was formerly the custom here, when men of distinction died, for their sur-
viving acquaintance to throw each a slight present into the grave. Several
things of little value were made use of for that purpose ; perfumes, reliques,
spices, hitter herbs, camomile, wormwood, and verses. This custom however
is almost discontinued ; and notliing but verses alone ai*e now lavished on such
occasions ; an oblation whicli they suppose may be interred with the dead,
without any injmy to the living.
Upon the death of the great, therefore, the poets and undertakers are sure
of employment. While one provides the long cloak, black stafi", and mourning
coach, the other produces tlic pastoral or elegy, the monody or apotheosis.
The nobility need be under no apprehensions, but die as fast as they think
proper, the poet and undertaker are ready to supply them ; these can find
metaphorical tears and family escutcheons at half an hour's warning; and
Vi\\en the one has soberly laid the body in the grave, the other is ready to fix
it figm'ativcly among the stai-s.
There are several Avays of being poetically sorrowful on such occasions. The
bard is now some pensive youth of science, who sits deploring among the
tombs ; again he is Thyrsis complaining in a ch'cle of harmless sheep. Now
Britannia sits upon her own shore, and gives a loose to maternal tenderness ;
at another time, Pai*nassus, even the momitain Parnassus, gives way to sorrow,
and is bathed in tears of distress.
But the most usual manner is this : Damon meets Menalcas, who has got a
most gloomy countenance. The shepherd asks his friend, whence that look of
distress ? To which the otlier replies that Pollio is no more. If that be the
case then, cries Damon, let us retire to yonder bower at some distance oiF,
where the cypress and the jessamine add fi-agranee to the breeze ; and let us
weep altei'nately for Pollio, the friend of shepherds, and tlie patron of every
muse. Ah ! returns his fellow shepherd, what think you rather of that grotto
by the fountain side ; the murmuring stream will help to assist our com-
plaints, and a nightingale on a neighbouring tree will join licr voice to tlie con-
cert. When the place is thus settled, they begin ; the brook stands still to
hear their lamentations ; the cows forget to graze ; and the very tigers start
from the forest witli sympathetic concern. By the tombs of our ancestors,
my dear Fum, I am quite tinaffected in all this distress : the whole is liquid
laudanum to my spirits ; and a tiger of common sensibility has twenty times
more tenderness than I.
But thougli I could never weep with the complaining shepherd, yet I am
sometimes induced to pity the poet, whose trade is thus to make demi-gods
and heroes for a dinner. There is not in nature a more dismal figui-e than a
man who sits down to premeditated flattery : every stanza ho writes tacitly
reproaches the meanness of his occupation, till at last his stupidity becomes
more stupid, and his dulness more diminutive.
I am amazed, therefore, that none have yet found out the secret of flattering
the wortldess, and yet of preserving a safe conscience. I have often wished
for some method by which a man might do himself and his deceased patron
588 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
justice, without being tmder the hateful reproach, of self-conyiction. After
long lucubration I hare hit upon such, an expedient, and send you the speci-
men of a poem upon the decease of a great man, in -which the flattery is
perfectly fine, and yet the poet perfectly innocent.
ON THE DEATH OP THE EIOnT nONOTJEAELE * * *
Ye muses, pour the pitying tear
For PoUio snatched away ;
O had he liv'd another year!
— He had not died to-day.
I were he bom to bless mankind
In virtuous times of y.^re,
Heroes themselves had fallen behind
— Whene'er he went hefore.
How sad the groves and plains appear,
And sympathetic sheep :
Ev'n pitying hills would drop a tear!
— If hills could learn to v:eep.
His bounty in exalted stiain
Each bard might well display :
Since none implor'd relief in vain!
— That went relieved away.
And hark 1 I hear the tuneful throng
His obsequies forbid ;
He still shall live, shall live as long
— As ever dead mail did.
LET TEE CVI.
TO THE SAME.
It is the most usual metliod, in every report, first to examine its probability,
and then act as the conjuncture may require. The English, however, exert a
dilTerent spirit in such circumstances ; they first act, and when too late, begin
to examine. From a knowledge of this disposition, there are several here wlio
make it their business to frame new reports at every convenient interval, all
tending to denounce ruin both on their contemporaries and their posterity.
This denimeiation is eagerly caught up by the public; away they fling to
propagate the dlsti*ess ; sell out at one place, buy in at another, grumble at
their governors, shout in mobs, and when they have thus for some time be-
haved like fools, sit down coolly to ai*guo and talk wisdom, to puzzle each
other with syllogism, and j)i'epare for the next report that prevails, which is
always attended with the same success.
Thus are they ever rising above one report only to sink into another. They
resemble a dog in a well pawing to get free. When he has raised his upper
parts above water, and every spectator imagines him disengaged, his lower
parts drag him down again and sink him to the nose ; he makes new eflbrts
to emerge, and every efibrt increasing his weakness, only tends to sink him the
deepei".
There are some here who, I am told, make a tolerable subsistence by the
credulity of their contrymen ; as they find the public fond of blood, wounds,
and death, they contrive political ruins suited to every month in the year ;
this month the people are to be eaten up by the French in flat-bottomed
boats ; the next by the soldiers, designed to beat the French back ; now the
people are going to jump down the gulph of luxury, and now nothing but a
herring subscription can fish them up again. Time passes onj the report
proves false ; new circumstances produce new changes, but the people never
change, they are persevering in folly.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 559
In otlier countries these boding politicians would be left to fret orer their
own scbemes alone, and grow spli-netic without hopes of infecting others ; but
England seems to be the very region where spleen delights to dwell ; a man
not only can give an unbounded scope to the disorder in himself, but may, if
he pleases, propagate it over the whole kingdom with a certainty of success.
He has only to cry out that the govei'nment, the government is all wrong,
that their schemes are leading to rum, that Britons are no more ; erery good
member of the commonwealth thinks it his duty, in such a case, to deplore
tJie universal decadence with synapathetic sorrow, and by fancying the constitu-
tion in a decay, absolutely to impair its vigom*.
This people would laugh at my simplicity, should I advise them to be less
eanguine in harbom*ing gloomy predictions, and examine coolly before they
attempted to complain. I have just heard a story, which, though transacted in
a private family, serves very well to describe the behaviour of the whole nation,
in cases of threatened calamity. As there are public, so there are private in-
cendiaries here. One of the last, either for the amusement of his friends, or
to divert a fit of the spleen, lately sent a threatening letter to a worthy family
in my neighbourhood, to this efiect :
"Sm, — Knowing you to be very rich, and finding myself to be very poor, I
think proper to infoi'm you, that I have learned the secret of poisoning man,
woman, and child, without danger of detection. Do not be uneasy, Sir, you
may take your choice of being poisoned in a fortnight, or poisoned in a month,
or poisoned in six weeks : you shall have full time to settle all your affairs.
Though I am poor, I love to do things like a gentleman. But, Sir, you nuist
die ; I have determined it within my own breast that you must die. Blood,
Sir, blood is my trade : so I could wish you would this day six weeks take
leave of your friends, wife, and family, for I cannot possibly allow you longer
time. To convince you more certainly of the power of my art, by whicli you may
know I speak truth, take this letter ; when you have read it, tear off the seal,
fold it up, and give it to your favourite Dutch mastiff that sits by the fire ; lie
will swallow it. Sir, Hke a buttered toast : in three hours four minutes after he
has taken it, he will attempt to bite off his own tongue, and half an hour after
burst asunder in twenty pieces. Blood, blood, blood ! so no more at present
from, Sir, your most obedient, most devoted humble servant to command till
death."
You may easily imagine the consternation into which this letter threw the
whole good-natured family. The poor man, to whom it was addressed, was
the more sm-prised, as not knowing how he could merit such inveterate malice.
All the friends of the family were convened ; it was universally agreed, that it
was a most terrible afiair, and that the government should be solicited to offer a
reward and a pardon : a fellow of this kind woidd go on poisoning family
after family ; and it was impossible to say where the destruction would end.
In pursuance of these determinations the government was applied to ; strict
search was made after the incendiary, but all in vain. At last, therefore, they
recollected that the experiment was not yet tried upon the dog ; the Dutch
mastiff was brought up, and placed in the midst of the friends and relations,
the seal was torn off, the pacquet folded up with care, and soon they found,
to the great surprise of all-— that the dog Avould not eat the letter.
Adieu !
LETTER CYII.
TO THE SAME.
I HIVE frequently been amazed at the ignorance of almost all the European
travellers, who have penetrated any considerable way eastward into Asia.
690 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
They have been iufluenced either by motives of commerce or piety, and their
accounts are such as might reasonably be expected from men of very narrow or
very prejudiced education, the dictates of superstition or the result of igno-
rance. Is it not surprising, that in such a variety of adventurers not one
single philosopher should be found? for as to the travels of Gremelli, the
learned are long agreed that the whole is but an imposture.
There is scarcely any country, how rude or uncultivated soever, where the
inhabitants arc not possessed of some peculiar secrets either in nature or art,
which might be transplanted with success ; in Siberian Tartary, for instance,
the natives extract a strong spu'it from milk, which is a secret probably un-
known to the chemists of Europe. In the most savage parts of India they
are possessed of the secret of dying vegetable substances scarlet ; and of re-
fining lead into a metal which for hardness and colour is little inferior to
silver ; not one of which secrets but would in Europe make a man's fortune.
The power of the Asiatics in producing winds, or bringing down rain, the
Europeans are apt to treat as fabulous, because they have no instances of the
like natm-e among themselves ; but they would have treated the secrets of gun-
powder and the mariner's compass in the same manner, had they been told
the Chinese used such arts before the invention was common with themselves
at home.
Of all the English philosophers I most reverence Bacon, that great and
hardy genius : he it is who allows of secrets yet unknown ; who, undaunted
by the seeming difficulties that oppose, prompts human curiosity to examine
every part of Nature, and even exhorts man to try whether he cannot subject
the tempest, the thunder, and even earthquakes, to human controul ! O did
a man of his daring spirit, of his genius, penetration and learning, travel to
those countries which have been visited only by the superstitious and mer-
cenary, what might not mankind expect : how would he enlighten the regions
to which he travelled ! And what a variety of knowledge and useful improve-
ment would he not bring back in exchange!
There is probably no country so barbarous, that would not disclose all it
knew, if it received from the traveller equivalent information ; and I am apt
to think, that a person who was ready to give more knowledge than he re-
ceived, would be welcome wherever he came. All his care in travelling should
only be to suit his intellectual banquet to the people with whom he conversed ;
he should not attempt to teach the unlettered Tartar astronomy, nor yet in-
struct the polite Chinese in the ruder arts of subsistence ; he should endeavour
to improve the Barbarian in the secrets of living comfortably ; and the in-
habitant of a more refined country in the speculative pleasures of science.
How much more nobly would a philosopher thus employed spend his time,
than by sitting at home earnestly intent upon adding one star more to his
catalogue, or one monster more to his collection ; or still, if possible, more
triflingly sedulous in the incatenatiou of fleas, or the sculpture of a cherry-
stone !
I never consider this subject, without being surprised that none of those
societies so laudably established in England for the promotion of arts and
learning, have ever thought of sending one of their members into the most
eastern parts of Asia, to make what discoveries he was able. To be conviaiced
of the utility of such an undertaking, let them but read the relations of their
own travellers. It will be there found, that they are as often deceived them-
selves, as they attempt to deceive others. The merchant tells us pei'haps the
price of different commodities, the methods of baling them up, and the pro-
perest manner for an Eiu'opean to preserve his health in the country. The
missioner, on the other hand, informs us, with what pleasure the countiy to
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 591
wbicli lie wa3 sent embraced Cliristianitj, and the numbers be converted ;
■R liat metbods be took to keep Lent in a region wbere tbere was no fish, or tbe
sbifts be made to celebrate tbe rites of bis religion, in places "wbere tbere was
neitber bread nor wine. Sucli accounts, witb tbe usual appendage of mar-
riages and funerals, inscriptions, rivers, and mountains, make up tbe wbole of
an European traveller's diary ; but as to all tbe secrets of wbicb tlie inbabi-
tants are possessed, tbose are luiiversally attributed to magic j and wben tbe
traveller can give no other accovmt of tbe wonders be sees performed, very
contentedly ascribes them to tbe power of tbe devil.
It was an usual observation of Boyle, the English chemist, that if every
artist wovdd but discover what new observations occmred to him in the ex-
ercise of bis trade, philosophy would thence gain innumerable improvements.
It may be observed, witb still greater justice, that if the useful knowledge of
every country, howsoever barbarous, was gleaned by a judicious observer, tbe
advantages would be inestimable. Arc tbere not even in Europe many viseful
inventions known or practised but in one place ? Tbe instrument, as an ex-
ample, for cutting down corn in Grermany, is much more bandy and expedi-
tious, in my opinion, than the sickle used in England. The cheap and ex-
peditious manner of making vinegar, without previous fermentation, is known
only in a part of France. If such discoveries, therefore, remain still to bo
known at home, what funds of knowledge might not be collected in countries
yet unexplored,. or only passed through by ignorant travellers in hasty caravans.
Tbe caution with which foreigners are received in Asia may be alleged as an
objection to such a design. But how readily have several European merchants
found admission into regions tbe most suspecting, under tbe character of
Sanjapins, or Northern pilgrims ; to such not even China itself denies access.
To send out a traveller, properly qualified for these purposes, might be an
object of national concern ; it would in some measure repair the breaches made
by ambition ; and might show that there were still some who boasted a
greater name than that of patriots, who professed themselves lovers of me u
The only difficulty would remain in choosing, a proper person for so arduous an
enterprise. He should be a man of a philosophical turn, one apt to deduce
consequences of general utility from particular occurrences j neither swollen
with pride, nor hardened by prejudice ; neither wedded to one particular sys-
tem, nor instructed only in one particular science ; neitber wholly a botanist,
nor qtdte an antiquarian ; bis mind should be tinctured with miscellaneous
knowledge, and bis manners humanized by an intercom-se witb men. He
shovdd be in some measure an enthusiast in tbe design j fond of travelling,
from a rapid imagination and an innate love of change ; furnished witb a body
capable of sustaining every fatigue, and an heart not easily terrified at danger.
Adieu !
LETTEE Cyill.
FEOM THE SAME.
One of the principal tasks I bad proposed to myself on my arrival here, was
to become acquainted witb the names and characters of tbose now living, who,
as scholars or wits, had acquired the greatest share of reputation. In order to
succeed in this design, I fancied tbe sin-est method would be to begin my in-
quu'y among tbe ignorant, judging that his fame would be greatest, wbicb
Avas loud enough to be heard by tbe vulgar. Thus predisposed, I began tlie
search, but only went in quest of disappointment and pei-plexity. I found
every district had a peculiar famous man of its own. Here tbe story-telling
shoemaker had engrossed the admiration on one side of the street, while the
592 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
bellman, wlio cxcelletli at a catcli, was in quiet .possession of the other. At
one end of a lane, the sexton was regarded as the greatest man alive ; but I
had ftot travelled half its length, till I found an enthusiast teacher had divided
his reputation. My landlady, perceiving my design, was kind enough to offer
me her advice in this affair. It was true, she observed, that she was no judge,
but she knew what pleased herself ; and, if I would rest upon her judgment,
I should set down Tom Collins as the most ingenious man in the world ; for
Tom was able to take off all mankind, and imitate besides a sow and pigs to
perfection.
I now perceived that taking my standard of reputation among the vulgar
would swell my catalogue of great names above the size of a Court Calendar ;
I therefore discontinued this method of pm-suit, and resolved to prosecute my
inquiry in that usual residence of fame, a bookseller's shop. In consequence
of this, I intreated the bookseller to let me know who were they who now
made the greatest figure either in morals, wit, or learning. Without giving
me a direct answer, he pulled a pamphlet from the shelf, the Young Attornei/s
Guide ; there. Sir, cries he, there is a touch for you ; fifteen hundred of these
moved off in a day : I take the author of this pamiDhlet, eitlier for title, pre-
face, plan, body, or index, to be the completest hand in England. I found it
was vain to prosecute my inquiry, where my informer appeared so incompe-
tent a judge of merit ; so paying for the Young Attorney's Guide, which good
manners obliged me to buy, I walked off.
My pursuit after famous men now brought me into a print-shop. Here,
thought I, the painter only reflects the pviblic voice. As every man who de-
served it, had formerly his statue placed up in the Roman forum, so here
probably the pictures of none but such as merit a place in om' affections are
held up for public sale. But guess my surprise when I came to examine this
depository of noted faces ; all distinctions were levelled here, as in the grave,
and I could not but regard it as the catacomb of real merit. The brick-dust
man took up as much room as the truncheoned hero, and the judge was el-
bowed by the thief-taker ; quacks, pimps, and buffoons increased the group,
and noted stallions only made room for more noted whores. I had read the
works of some of the moderns, j)i'eviously to my coming to England, with
delight and approbation, but I found their faces had no place here ; the waUs
were covered with the names of authors I had never known, or had endea-
voured to forget ; with the little scK-advertising things of a day, who had
forced themselves into fashion, but not into fame ; I could read at the bottom
of some pictures the names of * *, and * * *, and *'***, all equally candi-
dates for the vulgar shout, and foremost to propagate their unblushing faces
upon brass. My uneasiness, therefore, at not finding my few favourite names
among the number was now changed into congratulation ; I could not avoid
reflecting on the fine observation of Tacitus on a similar occasion. In this
cavalcade of flattery, cries the historian, neither the pictures of Brutus, Cassius,
nor Cato were to be seen, eo clariores quia imagines eorum non defer ebantur,
their absence being the strongest proof of their merit.
It is in vain, cried I, to seek for true greatness amoDg these monuments of
the imburied dead ; let me go among the tombs of those who are confessedly
famous, and see if any have been lately deposited there, who deserve the at-
tention of posterity, and whose names may be transmitted to my distant
friend, as an honour to the x^i'esent age. Petermined in my pui'suit, I paid a
second visit to Westminster-abbey. There I found several new monuments
erected to the memory of several great men ; the names of the great men I
absolutely forget, but I well remember that RoubiUac was the statuary who
carved them. I could not help smiling at two modern epitaphs in particidar,
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 593
oue of which praised the deceased for being ortus ex antiqud stirpe; the other
commended the dead, because hanc cedem s-uis sumptibus reeedificavit : the
greatest merit of one consisted in liis being descended from an illustrious
house ; tlie chief distinction of the other that he had propped up an old house
that was falling. Alas ! alas ! cried I, such monuments as these confer honoui*,
not upon the great men, but upon little Koubillac.
Hitherto disappointed in my inquiry after the great of the present age, I
was resolved to mix in company, and try what I could learn among critics
in coffee-houses ; and here it was that I heard my favom'ite names talked of
even with inverted fame. A gentleman of exalted merit as a writer was
branded in general terms as a bad man ; another of exquisite delicacy as a
poet was reproached for wanting good-nature ; a third was accused of free-
thinking j and a fourth of having once been a player. Strange, cried I ; how
unjust are mankind in the distribution of fame ! the ignorant among whom I
sought at first were willing to grant, but incapable of distinguishing the
virtues of those who deserved it ; among those I now converse with, they
know the proper objects of admiration, but mix envy with applause.
Disappointed so often, I was now resolved to examine those characters in
person of whom the world talked so freely ; by conversing with men of real
merit I began to find out those characters which really deserved, though they
strove to avoid, applause. I found the vulgar admiration entirely misplaced,
and malevolence without its sting. The truly great, possessed of ntunerous
small faults and shining virtues, preserve a sublime in morals as in writing.
They who have attained an excellence in either commit numberless trans-
gressions, observable to the meanest understanding. The ignorant critic and
dull remarker can readily spy blemishes in eloquence or morals, whose senti-
ments are not sufiiciently elevated to observe a beauty ; but such are judges
neithei' of books nor of life ; they can diminish no solid reputation by their
censure, nor bestow a lasting character by their applause : in short I found
by my search, that such only can confer real fame upon others who have
merit themselves to deserve it. Adieu !
LETTER CIX.
TO THE SAME.
Theee are numberless employments in the courts of the Eastern monarchg
utterly unpractised and unknown in Europe. They have no such officers, for
instance, as the emperor's ear-tickler, or tooth-picker ; they have never intro-
duced at the courts the mandarine appointed to bear the royal tobacco-box, or
the grave director of the imperial exercitations in the seraglio. Yet I am sur-
prised that the English have imitated us in none of these particulars, as they
are generally pleased with every thing that com^s from China, and excessively
fond of creating new and useless employments. They have filled their houses
with our furniture, their public gardens with our fireworks, and their very
ponds with our fish ; our courtiers, my friend, are the fish and the furniture
they should have imported ; our courtiers wovdd fill up the necessary cere-
monies of a court better than those of Europe, would be contented with re-
ceiving large salaries for doing little, whereas some of this country are at
present discontented though they receive large salaries for doing nothing.
I lately therefore had thoughts of publishing a proposal here, for the ad-
mission of some new Eastern offices and titles into their court register. As I
consider myself in the light of a cosmopolite, I find as much satisfaction in
scheming for the countries in which I happen to reside, as for that in which I
\ras born,
38
594 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
The finest apartments in the palace of Pegu are frequently infested with
rats. These the religion of the country strictly forbids the people to kill. In
Buch circumstances therefore they are obliged to have recourse to some great
man of the court, •who is willing to free the royal apartments even at the
hazard of his salvation. After a weak monarch's reign the quantity of court
vermin in every corner of the palace is sm'prising, but a prudent king and a
vigilant officer soon drive them from their sanctuaries behind the mats and the
tapestry, and effectually free the coiu't. Such an officer in England would, in
my opinion, be serviceable at this juncture ; for if, as I am told, the palace be
old, much vermin must undoubtedly have taken refuge behind the wainscot
and hanging. A minister should therefore be invested with the title and
dignities of court-vermin-killer : he should have full j)Ower either to banish,
take, poison, or destroy them, with enchantments, traps, ferrets, or ratsbane.
He might be permitted to brandish his besom withovit remorse, and brush
down every part of the fm*niture, without sparing a single cobweb, hoAvever
sacred by long prescription. I communicated this proposal some days ago in
a company of the first distinction, and enjoying the most honourable offices of
the state. Among the number were the inspector of Gi-reat Britain, Mr. Hen-
riques the director of the ministry, Ben Victor, the treasurer, John Lockman,
the secretary, and the conductor of the imperial magazine. They all acqvuesced
in the utiKty of my proposal, but were apprehensive it might meet with some
obstructions from com*t upholsterers and chamber-maids, who would object to
it from the demolitions of the furniture, and the dangerous use of ferrets and
ratsbane.
My next proposal is rather more general than the former, and might pro-
bably meet with less opposition. Though no people in the world flatter each
other more than the English ; I know none who vmderstand the art less, and
flatter with such little refinement. Their panegyric, like a Tartar feast, is in-
deed served up with profusion, but their cookery is insupportable. A client
here shall dress up a fricassee for his patron, that shall offend an ordinary
nose before it enters the room. A town shall send up their address to a great
minister, which shall prove at once a satire on the minister and themselves.
If the favourite of the day sits, or stands, or sleeps, there are poets to put it
into verse, and priests to preach it in the pulpit. In order therefore to free
both those who praise, and those who are praised from a duty probably disa-
greeable to both, I would constitute professed flatterers here as in several courts
of India. These are appointed in the courts of their princes, to instruct the
people where to exclaim with admiration, and where to lay an emphasis of
praise. But an officer of this kind is always in waiting when the emperor
converses in a familiar manner among his Rajas and other nobility. At every
sentence, when the monarch pauses, and smiles at what he has been saying,
the Karamktman, as this officer is called, is to take it for granted, tliat his
majesty has said a good thing. Upon which he cries out Karamat ! Karamat !
a miracle, a mii-aele, and throws up his hands and his eyes in ecstacy. Tliis is
echoed by the courtiers around, while the emperor sits all this time in suUeii
satisfaction, enjoying the triumph of his joke, or studying a new repartee.
I would have such an officer placed at every great man's table in England.
By frequent practice he might soon become a perfect master of the art, and in
time wouW turn out pleasing to his patron, no way troublesome to himself,
and might prevent the nauseous attempts of many more ignorant pretenders.
The clergy Jiere, I am convinced, would rehsh this proposal. It would pro-
vide places for several of them ; and indeed, by some of their late productions,
Anany appeared to have qualified themselves as candidates for this office already.
But my last proiDOsal I take to be of the utmost importance. Our neigh-
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 595
hour the empress of Eussia, has, you may remember, instituted an order of
female knighthood. The empress of G-ermany has also instituted another;
the Chinese have had such an order time immemorial. I am amazed the English
liave never come into such an institution. When I consider what kin^ of men
are made knights here, it appears strange that they have never conferred this
lionour upon women. They make cheesemongers and pastrycooks knights ;
tlicn why not their wives ? They have called up tallowchandlers to maintain
tlie hardy profession of chivalry and arms ; then why not their wives ? Haber-
dashers are sworn, as I suppose all knights must be sworn, never to fly in time
ofmellay or battle, to maintain and uphold the noble estate of chivalry, with horse
harnishe and other knightlye habiliments. Haberdashers, I say, are sworn to
all this ; then why not their wives? Certain I am their wives understand
lighting and feats of mellay and battle better than they, and as for knightly
horse and harnishe, it is probable both know nothing more than the harness of
a one-horse chaise. No, no, my friend j instead of conferring any order upon
tlic husbands, I would knight their wives. However, the state should not be
troubled with a new institution upon this occasion. Some ancient exploded
order might be revived, which would fiu'nish both a motto and a name ; tlie
ladies might be permitted to choose for themselves. There are, for instance,
the obsolete oi'ders of the Dragon in Q-ermany, of the Rue in Scotland, and the
Porcupine in France, all well-sounding names, and very applicable to my
intended female institution. Adieu !
LETTER ex.
TO THE SAME.
Religiotts sects in England are far more numerous than in China. Every
man who has interest enough to hire a conventicle here may set up for him-
self, and sell off a new religion. The sellers of the newest pattern at present
give extreme good bargains j and let their disciples have a great deal of confi-
dence for very little money.
Their shops are much frequented, and their customers every day increasing,
for people are naturally fond of going to Paradise at as small expense as»
possible.
Yet you must not conceive this modem sect as differing in opinion from
those of the established religion : difference of opinion indeed formerly divided
their sectaries, and sometimes drew their armies to the iield. White gowns
and black mantles, flapped hats and cross pocket-holes, were once the obvious
causes of quarrel ; men then had some reason for fighting, they knew what
they fought about : but at present they are arrived at such refinement in
religion-making, that they have actually formed a new sect without a new
opinion ; they quarrel for'opinions they both equally defend ; they hate each
otlier, and that is all the difference between them.
But though their principles are the same, their practice is somewhat dif-
ferent. Those of the established religion laugh when they are pleased, and
tlieir groans are seldom extorted but by pain or danger. The new sect on the
contrary, weep for their amusement, and use little music except a chorus of
sighs and groans, or tunes that are made to imitate groaning. Laughter is
their aversion ; lovers court each other from the Lamentations j the bride-
groom approaches the nuptial couch in sorrowful solemnity, and the bride
looks more dismal than an undertaker's shop. Dancing round the room is
with them running in a direct line to the devil ; and as for gaming, though
but in jest, they would sooner play with a rattle-snake's tail, than finger a
dice-box.
38—2
596 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
By this time you perceive that I am describing a sect of enthusiasts, and
you have abeady compared them with the Faquirs, Bramins, and Talapoins of
the East. Among thoee, you know, are generations that liave been never
known to smile, and vokmtary aflliction makes up all the merit tliey can boast
of. Entliusiasms in every country produce the same effects ; stick the Faquir
with pins, or confine the Bramin to a vermin hospital, spread the Tala]3oin on
the ground, or load the sectary's brow witli contrition 5 those worshippers
who discard the light of reason, are ever gloomy ; their fears increase in \)\'o-
portion to their ignorance, as men are continually imder ai)prehensions who
walk in darkness.
Yet there is still a stronger reason for the enthusiast's being an enemy to
laughter, namely, his being himself so proper an object of ridicule. It is re-
markable that the propagators of false doctrines have ever been averse to mirtli,
and always begin by recommending gravity, when they intended to dissemi-
nate imposture. Fohi, the idol of China, is repi'esented as having never
laughed ; Zoroaster, the leader of the Bi'amins, is said to have laughed but
twice, upon his coming into the world, and upon his leaving it ; and Maliomct
himself, though a lover of pleasure, was a professed opposer of gaiety. Upon
a certain occasion, telling his followers that they would all appear naked at the
resurrection, his favourite wife represented such an assembly as immodest and
unbecoming. Foolish woman, cried the grave prophet, though the whole assem-
bly be naked, on that day they shall have forgotten to laugh. Men like him
opposed ridicule, because they knew it to be a most formidable antagonist,
and preached up gravity, to conceal their own want of importance.
Ridicule has ever been the most powerful enemy of enthusiasm, and pro-
perly the only antagonist that can be opposed to it with success. Persecution
only serves to propagate new religions ; they acquire fresh vigom* beneath tlie
executioner and the axe, and like some vivacious insects, multiply by dissection.
It is also impossible to combat enthusiasm with reason, for though it makes
a show of resistance, it soon eludes the pressure, refers you to distinctions not
to be understood, and feelings which it cannot explain. A man who would
endeavour to fix an enthusiast by argument, might as Avell attempt to spread
quicksilver with his fingers. The only way to conquer a visionary is to despise
him ; the stake, the faggot, and the disputing doctor in some measure ennoble
the opinions they are brought to oppose ; they are harmless against innovating
pride ; contempt alone is truly dreadful. Hunters generally know the most
vulnerable part of the beasts they pursue, by the care which every animal
takes to defend the side which is weakest ; on what side the enthusiast is most
vulnerable, may be known by the care which he takes in the beginning to work
his disciples into gravity, and guard them against the power of ridicule.
When Philip the Second was king of Spain, there was a contest in Salamanca
between two orders of friars for superiority. The legend of one side contained
more extraordinary miracles, but the legend of the other was reckoned most
authentic. They reviled each other, as it is usual in disputes of divinity, the
people were divided into factions, and a civil war appeared unavoidable. In
order to prevent such an imminent calamity, the combatants were prevailed
upon to submit their legends to the fiery trial, and that which came forth un-
touched by the fire was to have the victory, and to be honom'ed with a double
share of reverence. Whenever the people flock to see a miracle, it is an hun-
dred to one but that they see a miracle ; incredible therefore were the num-
bers that were gathered round upon this occasion ; the friars on each side ap-
proached, and confidently threw their respective legends into the flames, when
lo ! to the utter disappointment of all the assembly, instead of a miracle, both
legends were consumed. Nothing biit thus tm-ning both parties into contempt
ClTIzm OP THE WOULD. 59^
could hare pveyented the effusion of blood. The i)eople now laughed at their
former folly, and wondered why they fell out. Adieu !
LETTEE CXI.
TO THE SAME.
The English are at present employed in celebrating a feast which becomes
general every seventh year ; the parliament of the nation being then dissolved
and another appointed to be chosen. This solemnity falls infinitely short of
our feast of the lanterns in magnificence and splendour ; it is also surpassed by
others of the East in unanimity and pure devotion; but no festival in the
Avorld can compare with it for eating. Their eating indeed amazes me ; had I
five hundred lieads, and were each head furnished with brains, yet would they
all be insufficient to compute the number of cows, pigs, geese, and turkeys,
which upon this occasion die for the good of their coimtry !
To say the truth, eating seems to make a grand ingredient in all English
pai'ties of zeal, business, or amusement. When a church is to be built, or an
hospital endowed, the directors assemble, and instead of consulting upon it,
they cat upon it ; by which means the business goes forward with success.
When the poor are to be relieved, the officers appointed to dole out public
charity, assemble and eat upon it : nor has it ever been known that they filled
the bellies of the poor till they had previously satisfied their own. But in tlic
election of magistrates, the people seem to exceed all bounds : the merits of
a candidate are often measured by the number of his treats ; his constituents
assemble, eat upon him, and lend their applause, not to his integrity or sense,
but the qualities of his beef and brandy.
And yet I could forgive this people their plentiful rneals on this occasion, as
it is extremely natural for every man to eat a great deal when he gets it for
nothing ; but what amazes me is, that all this good living no way contributes
to improve their good-humour. On the contrary, they seem to lose their
temper as they lose their appetites ; every morsel they swallow, and every glass
they pour down serves to increase their animosity. Many an honest man,
before as harmless as a tame rabbit, when loaded Avith a single election dinner,
has become more dangerous than a charged culverin. Upon one of tliese oc-
casions, I have actually seen a bloody-minded man-milliner sally forth at the
head of a mob, determined to face a desperate pastry-cook, who was general of
the opposite party.
But you must not suppose they are without a pretext for thus beating each
otlicr. On the contrary, no man here is so uncivilized as to beat his neighboiu*
without producing very sufficient reasons. One candidate, for instance, treats
Avith gin, a spirit of their own manufacture ; another always drinks brandy
imported from abroad. Brandy is a wholesome liquor ; gin a liquor wholly
their own. This then furnishes an obvious cause of quarrel, whether it be
most reasonable to get drunk with gin, or get drunk witli brandy ? The mob
meet upon the debate ; fight themselves sober ; and then draw off to get
driuik again, and charge for another encounter. So that the Englisli may now
properly be said to be engaged in war ; since while tliey are subduing their
enendes abroad, they arc breaking each other's heads at home.
I lately made an excursion to a neighbouring village, in order to be a spec-
tator of the ceremonies practised upon this occasion. I left town in company
with tlu-ee fiddlers, nine dozen of hams, and a corporation poet, which were
designed as reinforcements to the gin-drinking party. We entei'cd the town
witli a very good face ; the fiddlers, no way intimidated by the enemy, kept
handling their arms up the principal street. By this prudent manoeuvre they
698 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
took peaceable possession of their bead quarters, amidst tlie sbouts of midti-
tudes, wbo seemed perfectly rejoiced at bearmg their music, but abore all at
seeing their bacon.
I must omi I could not avoid being pleased to see all ranks of people, on
this occasion, levelled into an equality, and the poor, in some measure, enjoy
the primitive privileges of Natm-e. If there was any distinction shewn, the
lowest of the people seemed to receive it from the rich. I could perceive a
cobbler with a levee at his door, and an haberdasher giving audience from be-
hind his counter. But my reflections were soon interrupted by a mob, who
demanded whether I was for the distillery, or the brewery ? As these were
terms with which I was totally unacquainted, I chose at first to be silent ;
however, I know not what might have been the consequence of my reserve,
had not the attention of the mob been called oif to a skirmish between a
brandy-drinker's cow, and a gin-drinker's mastiff, which turned out greatly to
the satisfaction of the mob in favour of the mastiff.
The spectacle, which afforded high entertainment, was at last ended by the
appearance of one of the candidates, who came to harangue the mobj he
made a very pathetic speech upon the late excessive importation of foreign
drams, and the downfall of the distillery : I could see some of the audience
shed tears. He was accompanied in his procession by Mrs. Deputy and Mrs.
Mayoress. Mrs. Deputy was not in the least in liquor j and for Mi*s.
Mayoress, one of the spectators assured me in my ear that, — She was a very
fine woman before she had the small-pox.
Mixing with the crowd, I was now conducted to the hall where the magis-
trates are chosen ; but what tongue can describe this scene of confusion ? the
whole crowd seemed equally inspired with anger, jealousy, politics, patriotism,
and punch ; I remai'ked one figure that was carried up by two men upon this
occasion. I at first began to pity his infinnities as natm'al, but soon found the
fellow so drunk that he could not stand ; another made his appearance to give
his vote, but though he could stand, he actually lost the use of his tongue, and
remained silent ; a third, who though excessively drunk could both stand and
speak, being asked the candidate's name for whom he voted, could be prevailed
upon to make no other answer, but tobacco and brandy. In short, an election-
hall seems to be a theatre where eveiy passion is seen without disguise ; a
school where fools may readily become worse, and where philosophers may
gather wisdom. " Adieu !
LETTEE CXII.
FEOM THE SAME.
The disputes among the learaed here are now earned on in a much more
compendious manner than formerly. There was a time when folio was brought
to oppose folio, and a champion was often listed for life under the banners of
a single sorites. At present the controversy is decided in a summary way ;
an epigram or an acrostic finishes the debate, and the combatant, like the in-
cursive Tartar, advances, and retires with a single blow.
An important literary debate at present engrosses the attention of the town.
It is cai'ricd on with sharpness, and a proper share of this epigrammatical
fury. An author, it seems, has taken an aversion to the faces of several play-
ers, and has written verses to prove his dislike ; the players fall upon the au-
thor, and assure the town he must be duU, and their faces must be good, be-
cause he wants a dinner ; a critic comes to the poet's assistance, asserting that
the verses were perfectly original, and so smart that he could never have
written them without the assistance of friends ; the friends upon this arraipai
CITIZEN OF THE WOULD. g99
the critic, and plainly prove the verses to be all the author's own. So at it
That caus'd his putrid kennel to o'erflow." j
The last lines are certaiuly executed in a very masterly manuer. It is of
that species of argumentation, called the perplexing. It effectually flings the
antagonist into a mist ; tlierc is no answering it : the laugh is raised against
him while he is endeavouring to find out the jest. At once he shews, that the
author has a kennel, and fchat this kennel is putrid, and that this putrid kennel
overfloAvs. But why does it overflow? It overflows, because the author hap-
pens to have low pockets !
There was also another new attempt in this way ; a prosaic epigram whioli
came out upon this occasion. This is so full of matter that a critic might split
it into fifteen epigrams, each properly fitted with its sting. You shall see it.
TO G. C. AND E. L.
" 'Twas you, or I, or he, or all together,
'Twas one, both, three of them, they know not whether
This I believe, between us great or small, *
You, I, he, wrote it not— 'twas Churchill's all."
There, there is a perplex ! I could have wished, to make it quite perfect, the
autlior, as in the case before, had added notes. Almost every Avord admits a
scholium, and a long one too. I, YOU, HE ! Suppose a stranger should ask,
and who are you ? Here are three obscure persons spoken of, that may in a
short time be utterly forgotten. Their names should have consequently been
mentioned in notes at the bottom. But when the reader comes to the words
great, and small, the maze is inextricable. Here the stranger may dive for a
mystery, without ever reaching the bottom. Let him know then that small is
a word purely introduced to make good rhyme, and great was a very proper
word to keep small company.
Yet by being thus a spectator of other's dangers, I must own I begin to
tremble in this literary contest for my own. I begin to fear that my challenge
to Doctor Rock was unadvised, and has procured me more antagonists than
I had at first expected. I have received private letters from several of the
literati here that fill my soul with apprehension. I may safely aver, that 1
never gave any creature in this good city offence, except only my rival Doctor
Rock, yet by the letters I every day receive, and by some I have seen printed,
I am arraigned at one time as being a dull fellow, at another as being pert ; I
am here petulant, there I am heavy ; by the head of my ancestors, they treat
me with more inhumanity than a flying fish. If I dive and run my nose to
the bottom, there a devoui'ing shark is ready to swallow me up ; if I skim tlie
surface, a pack of dolphins are at my tail to snap me ; but when I take wing
and attempt to escape them by flight, I become a prey to eve)*y ravenous bird
that winnows the bosom of the deep. * Adieu !
LETTER CXin.
TO THE SAME.
The formalities, delays, and disappointments, that precede a treaty of mar-
riage here, are usually as numerous as those previous to a treaty of peace.
Charity
* Charity.
\ Settled at one shilling, the price of the poem.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 601
The laws of this country are finely calculated to promote all commerce, but
the comraerco between the sexes. Their encouragements for propagatiug
hemp, madder, and tobacco, are indeed admirable ! Marriages are the only
commodity that meet with. none.
Yet from the vernal softness of the air, tlie verdure of the fields, tlie trans-
parency of the streams, and the beauty of the women, I know few countries
more proper to invite to courtship. Here love might sport among painted
lawns and warbling groves, and revel upon gales, wafting at once both fra-
gi'ance and hannony. Yet it seems he has forsaken the island ; and when a
couple are now to be married, mutual love or an union of minds is the last
and most trifling consideration. If their goods and chattels can be brought to
unite, their sympathetic souls are ever ready to guarantee the treaty. Tlie
gentleman's mortgaged lawn becomes enamoured of the lady's marriageable
grove ; the match is struck up, and both parties are piously in love — according
to act of parliament.
Thus they who have fortune, are possessed at least of something that is
lovely ; but I actually pity tliose that have none. I ain told there was a
time when ladies, with no other merit but youth, virtue, and beauty, had a
chance for husbands, at least among the ministers of the churcli, or the officers
of the army. The blush and innocence of sixteen was said to have a powerful
influence over these two professions. But of late, all the little traffic of blushing,
ogling, dimpling, and smiling, has been forbidden by an act, in tliat case wisely
made and provided. A lady's whole cargo of smiles, sighs, and whispers, is de-
clared utterlj' contraband till she arrives in the warm latitudes of twenty-two,
where commodities of this nature are too often found to decay. She is then
permitted to dimple and smile, when the dimples and smiles begin to forsake
her ; and when perhaps grown ugly, is charitably entrusted with an unlimited
use of her charms. Her lovers, however, by this time have forsaken her ; the
captain has changed for another mistress ; the priest himself leaves her in
solitude to bewail her virginity, and she dies even without benefit of clergy.
Thus you find the Europeans discouraging love with as much earnestness
as the rudest savage of Sofala. The genius is surely noAV no more. In every
region I find enemies in arms to oppress hiin. Avarice in Em-ope, jealousy in
Persia, cei'cmony in China, poverty among the Tartars, and lust in Circassia,
are all prepared to oppose his power. The Genius is certainly banished from
earth, though once adored under such a variety of forms. He is no whCre to
be found ; and all that the ladies of each country can produce, are but a few
trifling relics as instances of his former residence and favoiu'.
The Genius of Love, says the Eastern apologue, had long resided in the
happy plains of Abra, where every breeze was health, and every sound pro-
duced tranquillity. His temple at first was crowded, but every age lessened
the number of his votaries, or cooled their devotion. Perceiving, therefore,
his altars at lengtli quite deserted, he was resolved to remove to some more
propitious region, and he apprised the fair sex of every country, where he
could hope for a proper reception, to assert their right to his presence among
them. In return to this proclamation, embassies were sent from the ladies of
every part of the world to invite him, and to display the superiority of their
claims.
And £jf8t the beauties of China appeared. No coimtry could compare with
them for modesty, either of look, dress, or behaviour ; their eyes were never
lifted from tlie ground ; their robes, of the most beautiful silk, hid their hands,
bosom, and neck, while their faces only were left uncovered. They indulged
no airs tliat might express loose desire, and they seemed to study only the
graces of inanimate beauty. 'Their black teetli and plucked eye-brows, were,
602 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
however, alleged by the Greiiius aganist them, but he set them entirely aside
"when he came to examine their little feet.
The beauties of Circassia next made their appearance. They advanced
hand-in-hand, singing the most immodest airs, and leading up a dance in the
most luxurious attitudes. Tlieu' dress was but half a covering ; the neck, the
left breast, and all the limbs, were exposed to view, which after some time
seemed rather to satiate than inflame desire. The lily and the rose contended
in forming their complexions ; and a soft sleepiness of eye added irresistible
poignance to their charms ; but their beauties were obtruded, not offered, to
their admirers ; they seemed to give rather than receive courtship ; and the
G-enius of Love dismissed them as imworthy his regai'd, since they exchanged
the duties of love, and made themselves not tlie pursued, but tlie pursuing
sex.
The kingdom of Kashmire next produced its charming deputies. This
happy region seemed peculiarly sequestered by Natm-e for his abode. Shady
mountains fenced it on one side from the scorching sun ; and sea-bom breezes,
on the other, gave peculiar luxuriance to the air. Their complexions were
of a bright yellow, that appeared almost transparent, while the crimson tulip
seemed to blossom on their cheeks. Their features and limbs were delicate
beyond the statuary's power to express ; and their teeth whiter than their
own ivory. He was almost persuaded to reside among them, when un-
fortunately one of the ladies talked of appointing his seraglio.
In this procession the naked inhabitants of Southern America would not be
left behind ; their charms were found to surpass whatever the warmest imagi-
nation could conceive ; and served to shew, that beauty could be perfect, even
with the seeming disadvantage of a brown complexion. But their savage
education rendei'cd them utterly unqualified to make the proper use of their
power, and they were rejected as being incapable of uniting mental with sen-
sual satisfaction. In this manner the deputies of other kingdoms had their
suits rejected : the black beauties of Benin, and the tawny daughters of
Borneo, the women of Wida with well-scarred faces, and the hideous virgins of
CafTraria ; the squab ladies of Lapland, three feet high, and the giant fair ones
of Patagonia.
The beauties of Europe at last appeared : grace was in their steps, and sen-
sibility sat smiling in every eye. It was the universal opinion while they
were approaching, that they would prevail ; and the Genius seemed to lend
them his most favourable attention. They opened their pretensions with the
utmost modesty ; but unfortunately as their orator proceeded she happened to
let fall the words house in towTi, settlement, and pin-money. These seemingly
harmless terms had instantly a smprising effect : the G-enius with ungovern-
able rage burst from amidst the circle ; and waving his youthful pinions, left
this earth, and flew back to those ethereal mansions from which he descended.
The whole assembly was struck with amazement : they now justly appre-
hended, that female power would be no more, since love had forsaken them.
They continued some time thus in a state of torpid despair, when it was pro-
posed by one of the number, that, since the real genius had left them, in order
to continue their power, they should set up an idol in his stead ; and that the
ladies of every country should furnish them with what each liked best. This
proposal was instantly relished and agreed to. An idol was formed by uniting
the capricious gifts of all the assembly, though no way resembling the de-
parted Genius. The ladies of China furnished the monster with wings ; those
of Kashmire supplied him with horns ; the dames of Europe clapped a purse
in his hand ; and the virgins of Congo furnished him with a tail. Since that
time, all the vows addi'cssed to Lore are in reality paid to the idol ; but, as in
CITIZEN OF WE WORLD. 605
other false religious, the adoration seems most fervent, where the heart is least
sincere. Adieu !
LETTER CXIY.
TO THE SAME.
Mankind have ever been prone to expatiate on the praise of human nature.
The 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 liaving a partial audience ; they have obtained
victories, because there were none to oppose. Yet from all I have ever read
or seen, men appear more apt to err by having too high, than by having too
despicable, an opinion of their natm-e ; 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 of
themselves. The Deity has ever been thought peculiarly concerned in their
gloiy and preservation ; to have fought theu* battles, and inspired their
teachers ; their wizards are said to bo familiar with heaven ; and every hero
has a guard of angels as well as men to attend him. When the Portuguese
first came among the wretched inhabitants of the coast of Africa, these savage
nations readily allowed the strangers more skill in navigation and war j yet
still considered them at best but as useful servants, brought to their coast, by
their guardian serpent, to supply them with luxuries they could have 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 wai-riors able to conquer armies, and his sages
acquainted with more than possible knowledge : human nature is to liim an
unknown 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 conjectm*es must have been done. He never
measures 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 own incapacity. He is satisfied to be one of a country
where mighty things have been ; and imagines the fancied power of others
reflects a lustre on himself. Thus by degrees he loses the idea of his own
insignificance in a confused notion of the extraordinary powers of hiunanity,
and is willing to gi*ant extraordinary gifts to every pretender, because unac-
quainted 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 hviman natiu'e, 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 j that ignorant
nations are not more proud of building a tower to reach heaven, or a pyramid
to last for ages, than of raisuag vip a demi-god of theu* own country and ci'ea-
tion. 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, he
can exalt the hero not one inch above the standard of humanity ; incapable,
therefore, of exalting the idol, he debuses himself, and falls prostrate before
hi in.
When man has thus acquired an erroneous idea of the dignity of his speciea,
GOi THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
ho and the gods become perfectly intmiate ; men are but angels, angels are
but men, nay but servants that stand in waiting to execute human commands.
TJie Persians, for instance, thus address their prophet Haly :* " I salute thee,
glorious Creator, of whom the sun is but the shadow. Masterpiece of the
Lord of human creatures, Grreat Star of Justice and Religioij. 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 tliy
nature. T\\g jirimum 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 Gabriel, messenger of truth, every day kisses the
groundsel of thy gate. Were there a place more exalted than the most high
tln*one of Grod, I would affirm it to be thy place, O Master of the faithful ! Gab-
riel, 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 a degree of satirical contemj)t must they listen to the
songs of little mortals thus fluttering each other! thus to see ci-eatures, wiser
indeed than the monkey, and more active than the oyster, claiming to them-
eelves the mastery of heaven ! Minims, the tenants of an atom, thus arrogat-
ing a partnership in the creation of universal heaven ! Surely heaven is kind,
that launches no thunder at tliose guilty heads ; but it is kind, and regards
their folhes 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 generally
liave 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, which had their existence in times of obscurity ; their weak-
ness being forgotten, while nothing but their poAver and their miracles were
remembered. The Chinese, for instance, never had a god of their own country :
the idols, which the vulgar worsliip at this day, were brought from the bar-
barous nations around them. The Roman emperors, who pi-etended to divinity,
were generally taught by a poiguard that they were mortal ; and Alexander,
though he passed among bai'barous countries for a real god, could never per-
suade his polite countrymen into a similitude of thinking. The Lacedemonians
shrewdly complied with his commands by the following sarcastic edict :
_ Et AXefai/3p09 ^aX^Tai eivai Oeop, 0eo9 ecrrco. _
Adieu!
LETTER CXV.
TO THE SAME.
There is something in'esistibly pleasing in the conversation of a fine woman ;
even though her tongue be silent, the eloquence of lier eyes teaches wisdoin.
The mind sympathises with the regularity of the object in view, and, struck
with external grace, vibrates into respondent harmony. In this agreeable
disposition, I lately found myself in company with my friend and his niece.
Our conversation turned upon love, which she seemed equally capable of de-
fending and inspii'ing. We were each of different opinions upon this subject ;
the lady insisted that it was a natural and universal passion, and produced the
liappiness of those who cultivated it with proper precaution. My friend denied
it to be the work of nature, but allowed it to have a real existence, and
atHnned that it was of infinite service in refining society ; while I, to keep iip
* Chardin's Travels, p. 402.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
tlie dispute, affirmed it to be merely a name, first used bj the cunning part of
the fair sex, and admitted by the silly part of ours, tlicrefore no way more
natural than taking snuflF, or chewing opium.
"How is it possible," cried I, "that such a passion can be natm-al, when
our opinions even of beauty, which inspires it, are entirely the result of fashion
and caprice ? The ancients, who pretended to be connoisseurs in the art, have
praised narrow foreheads, red hair, and eye-brows that joined each other above
the nose. Such were the charms that once captivated Catullus, Ovid, and
Anacreon. Ladies would at present be out of humour if their lovers praised
them for such graces ; and should an antique beauty now revive, her face
would certainly be put under the discipline of the tweezer, forehead-cloth, and
lead comb, before it covdd be seen in public company,
" But the difference between tlie ancients and moderns is not so great as
between the different countries of the present world. A lover of Gongora, for
instance, sighs for thick lips ; a Cliinese lover is poetical in praise of thin.
In Circassia a straight nose is thought most consistent with beauty : cross but
a mountain which separates it from the Tartars, and there flat noses, tawny
skins, and eyes three inches asunder, are all the fashion. In Persia and some
other countries, a man when he marries chooses to have his bride a maid ; in
the Philippine Islands, if a bridegroom happens to perceive on the first night
that he is put off with a virgin, the marriage is declared void to all intents
and purposes, and the bride sent back with disgrace. In some parts of the
East, a woman of beauty, properly fed up for sale, often amounts to one hun-
dred crowns ; in the kingdom of Loango, ladies of the very best fashion are
sold for a pig, queens however sell better, and sometimes amomit to a cow. In
short, turn even to England, do not I there see the beautiful part of the sex
neglected ; and none now marrying or making love but old men and old
women that have saved money ? Do not I see beauty from fifteen to twenty-
one rendered null and void to all intents and purposes, and those six precious
years of womanhood put under a statute of virginity ? What ! shall I call
that rancid passion love, which passes between an old bachelor of fifty-six and
a widow lady of forty-nine ? Never ! never ! What advantage is society to
reap from an intercourse, where the big belly is oftenest on the man's side ?
Would any persuade me that such a passion was natural, unless the human
race were more fit for love as tliey approached the decline, and, like silk-
worms, became breeders just before they expired ?"
Whether love be natural or no, replied my friend gravely, it contributes to
the happiness of every society into which it is introduced. All our pleasures
are short, and can only charm at intervals ; love is a method of protracting our
greatest pleasure ; and surely that gamester who plays the greatest stake to the
best advantage, will at tlie end of life rise victorious. This was the opinion
of Vanini, who affirmed, that everrj hour was lost which was not spent in love.
His accusers were unable to comprehend his meaning, and the poor advocate
for love was burned in flames, alas ! no way metaphorical. But whatever
advantages the individual may reap from this passion, society will certainly be
refined and improved by its introduction : all laws calculated to discourage it
tend to embrute the species and weaken the state. Though it cannot plant
morals in the human breast, it cultivates them when there : pity, generosity,
and honour receive a brighter polish from its assistance j and a single amour
is sufficient entirely to brush off the clown.
But it is an exotic of the most delicate constitution ; it requires the greatest
art to introduce it into a state, and the smallest discouragement is sufficient to
repress it again. Let us only consider with what ease it was formerly extin-
guished in Rome, and with what difficulty it was lately revived in Europe :
606 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
it seemed to sleep for ages, and at last fought its way among us, tlu'ougli tilts,
tournaments, dragons, and all the dreams of chiyahy. The rest of the world,
China only excepted, are, and have ever been, utter strangers to its delights
and advantages. In other countries, as men find themselves stronger than
women, they lay a claim to a rigorous superiority ; this is natural, and love
whicli gives up this natural advantage must certainly be the effect of art : an
art calcidated to lengthen out our happier moments, and add new graces to
society.
I entirely acquiesce in your sentunents, says the lady, with regard to the
advantages of this passion, but cannot avoid giving it a nobler origin than you
have been pleased to assign. I must think, that those countries, where it is
rejected, are obliged to have recourse to art to stifle so natural a production ;
and those nations, where it is cultivated, only make nearer advances to nature.
The same elibrts that are used in some places to suppi-ess pity and other
natural passions, may have been employed to extinguish love. No nation,
however unpolished, is remarkable for innocence, that is not famous for pas-
sion ; it has flourished in the coldest as well as the warmest regions. Even
in the sultry wilds of Southern America, the lover is not satisfied with pos-
sessing his mistress's person without having her mind.
In all my Enna's beauties blest,
Amidst profusion still I pine
For thougii she gives me up her breast,
Its panting tenant is not mine.*
But the effects of love are too violent to bo the result of an artificial pas-
sion. Nor is it in the power of passion to force the constitution into those
changes which we every day observe. Several have died of it. Few lovers are
unacquamted with the fate of the two ItaHan lovers, Da Corsin and Julia Bel-
lamauo, who, after a long separation, expired with pleasure in each other's
arms. Sucli instances are too strong confirmations of the reality of the pas-
sion, and serve to shew that suppressing it is but opposing the natm-al dictates
of the heart. Adieu !
LETTER CXYI.
TO THE SAME.
The clock just struck two ; the expiring taper rises and sinks in the socket, the
watchman forgets the hour in slumb'^r, the laborious and the happy are at
rest, and nothing wakes but meditation, guilt, revelry, and despair. The
drunkard once more fills the destroymg bowl, the robber walks his midnight
round, and the suicide lifts his guilty arm against his own sacred person.
Let me no longer waste the night over the page of antiquity, or the sallies
of contemporary genius, but pursue the solitary walk where Vanity, ever
changing, but a few hours past walked before me ; where she kept up the pa-
geant, and now, like a froward child, seems hushed with her own importunities.
What a gloom hangs all around ! the dying lamp feebly emits a yeUow
gleam j no sound is heard but of the chiming clock or the distant watch-dog.
All the bustle of human pride is forgotten : an hour like this may well display
the emptiness of human vanity.
There will come a time wlien this temporary solitude may be made continual,
and the city itself, Uke its inhabitants, fade away, and leave a desert in its
room.
What cities as great as this have once triumphed in existence, had their
* Translation of a South American ode.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 607
rictories as great, joy as just and as unbounded, and, with sliort-siglited pre-
sumption, promised themselves immortality. Posterity can hardly trace the
situation of some. The sorrrowful trareller wanders over the awlid ruins of
others ; and as lie beholds he learns -wisdom, and feels the transience of every
sublunary possession.
Here, he cries, stood their citadel, now grown over with weeds ; there their
senate-house, but now the haunt of every noxious reptile j temples and theatres
stood here, now only an undistinguished heap of ruin. They are fallen, for
luxury and avarice first made them feeble. Tlie rewards of the state were
conferi'ed on amusing, and not on usefid, members of society. Their riches
and opulence invited the invaders, who, though at first repulsed, returned
again, conquered by perseverance, and at last swept the defendants into undis-
tinguished destruction.
How few appear in those streets, which but some few hours ago were
crowded ; and those who appear, now no longer wear their daily mask, nor
attempt to hide their lewdness or their misery.
But who are those wlio make the streets their couch, and find a short repose
from wretchedness at the doors of the opulent ? These are strangers, wan-
derers, and orphans, whose circumstances are too humble to expect redress, and
whose distresses are too great even for pity. Then* wretchedness excites
rather horror than pity. Some are without the covering even of rags, and
otliers emaciated with disease ; the world has disclaimed them ; society turns
its back upon their distress, and has given them up to nakedness and liunger.
These poor shivering females have once seen happier days, and been flattered
into beauty. They have been prostituted to the gay luxurious villain, and are
now turned out to meet the severity of winter. Perhaps, now lying at the
doors of their betrayers, they sue to wretches whose hearts ai*e insensible, or
debauchees, who may curse, but will not relieve them.
Why, why was I born a man, and yet see the sufferings of wretches I cannot
relieve ? Poor houseless creatures ! the world will give you reproaches, but
will not give you relief. The slightest misfortunes of the great, the most
imaginary uneasinesses of tlie rich, are aggravated with all the power of elo-
quence, and held up to engage our attention and sympathetic sorrow. The
poor weep unheeded, persecuted by every subordinate species of tyranny j and
every law, which gives others security, becomes an enemy to them.
Wliy was this heart of mine formed with so much sensibility ? or why was
not my fortune adapted to its impulse ? Tenderness, without a capacity of
relieving, only makes the man who feels it more wretched than the object
which sues for assistance. Adieu !
LETTER CXVII.
PUM HOAM TO LIEN CHI ALTANGI, THE DISCONTENTED WANDEKEE, BY THE
WAY OF MOSCOW.
I have been just sent upon an embassy to Japan ; my commission is to be
dispatched in four days, and you can hardly conceive the pleasure I shall find
upon revisiting my native country. I shall leave with joy this proud, bar-
barous, inhospitable region, where every object conspires to diminish my
satisfaction and increase my patriotism.
But though I find the inhabitants savage, yet the Dutch merchants who are
permitted to trade hither, seem still more detestable. Tliey have raised my
dislike to Europe in general; by them I learn how low avarice can degrade
human nature ; how many indignities an European will suffer for gain.
I was present at an audience given by the emperor to the Dutch envoy, who
G08 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
had sent several presents to all the courtiers some days previous to his aduiis*
siou ; but lie was obliged to attend those designed for the emperor himself.
From the accounts I had heard of this ceremony, my curiosity prompted me
to be a spectator of the whole.
First went the presents, set out on beautiful enamelled tables, adorned with
flowers, borne on men's shoulders, and followed by Japanese music and
dancers. From so great respect paid to the gifts themselves, I had fancied
the donors must have received almost divine honours. But about a quarter of
an hour after the presents had been carried in triumph, the envoy and his
train were brought forward. They were covered from head to foot with long
black veils, which prevented their seeing, each led by a conductor, cliosen from
tlie meanest of the people. In this dishonourable manner having traversed the
city of Jedo, they at length arrived at the palace-gate, and after waiting half-
an-hour, were admitted into the guard-room. Here their eyes were uncovered,
and in about an hour tlie gentleman-usher introduced them into the hall of
audience. The emperor was at length shewn sitting in a kind of alcove at the
upper end of the room, and the Dutch envoy was conducted towards the
throne.
As soon as he had approached within a certain distance, the gentleman-
usher cried out with a loud voice, Holanda Capitan ; u])on these words the
envoy fell flat upon the ground, and crept upon his hands and feet towards
the throne. Still approaching, he reared himself upon his knees, and then
bowed his forehead to the gi'ound. These ceremonies being over, he was
directed to withdraw, still grovelling on his belly, and going backward like a
lobster.
Men must be excessively fond of riches when they are earned with such
circumstances of abject submission. Do the Europeans worship heaven itself
with marks of more profound respect ? Do they v^tonfer those honours on the
Supreme of beings, which they pay to a barbarous king, who gives them a
permission to purchase trinkets and porcelain ? What a glorious exchange,
to forfeit their national liouom', and even their title to humanity, for a screen
or a snuff-box I
If these ceremonies essayed in the first audience appeared mortifying, those
which are practised in the second are infinitely more so. In the second au-
dience, the emperor and the ladies of the court were placed behind lattices in
such a manner as to see without being seen. Here all the Europeans were
directed to pass in review, and grovel and act the serpent as before : with
this spectacle the whole court seemed highly delighted. The strangers were
asked a thousand ridiculous questions : as their names and their ages ; they
were ordered to write, to stand upright, to sit, to stoop, to compliment each
other, to be drunk, to speak the Japanese language, to talk Dutch, to sing, to
eat ; in short, they were ordered to do all that could satisfy the curiosity of
women.
Imagine, my dear Altangi, a set of grave men thus transformed into buffoons,
and acting a part every whit as honourable as that of those instructed animals
which are shewn in the streets of Pekin to the mob on a holiday. Yet the
ceremony did not end here, for every great lord of the court was to be visited
in the same manner ; and their ladies, who took the whim from their hus-
bands, were all equally fond of seeing the strangers perform j even the chil-
dren seemed highly diverted with the dancing Dutchmen.
Alas ! cried I to myself, upon returning from such a spectacle, is this the
nation which assumes such dignity at the coiu*t of Pekin ? is tliis that people
that appear so proud at home, and in every country where they have the least
authority ? How does a love of gain transform the gravest of mankmd into
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 609 !
the most contonptible and ridiculous ? I had rather continue poor all my life
than become rich at such a rate. Perish those riches which are acquired at
the expense of my honour or my himianity ! Let me quit, said I, a coimtry
where tliere are none but such as treat all others like slaves, and more de-
testable still, in suffering sucli treatment. I hare seen enough of this nation
to desire to see more of others. Let me leave a people suspicious to excess,
whose morals are corrupted, and equally debased by superstition and vice ;
where the sciences are left uncultivated, where the great are slaves to the
prince, and tyrants to the people, where the women are chaste only when de-
barred of the power of transgression ; where the true disciples of Confucius
are not less persecuted than those of Christianity : in a word, a country where
men are forbidden to think, and consequently labour under the most miserable
slavery, that of mental servitude. Adieu !
LETTER CXYIIL
FEOM HEN CHI ALTANGI TO FUM HOAM, FIEST PEESIDENT OF THE CEEE-
MONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN IN CHINA.
The misfortunes of the great, my friend, are held up to engage our attention,
are enlarged upon in tones of declamation, and the world is called upon to
gaze at the noble sufferers j they have at once the comfort of admiration and
Yet where is the magnanimity of bearing misfortunes when the whole world
is looking on ? Men in such circvimstances can act bravely even from motives
of vanity. He only who, in the vale of obscurity, can brave adversity, who,
without friends to encourage, acquaintances to pity, or even without hope to
alleviate his distresses, can behave with tranquillity and indifference, is truly
great : whether peasant or courtier, he deserves admiration, and should bo
held up for ovur imitation and respect.
The miseries of the poor are however entu'ely disregarded; though some
undergo more real hardships in one day, than the great in their whole lives.
It is indeed inconceivable what dilHculties the meanest English sailor or soldier
endures without murmuring or regret. Every day is to him a day of misery,
and yet he bears his hard fate without repining.
With what indignation do I hear the heroes of tragedy complain of misfor-
tunes and hardships, whose greatest calamity is founded in arrogance and
pride ! Their severest distresses are pleasures, compared to what many of the
adventuring poor every day sustain, without murmuring. These may eat,
drink, and sleep, have slaves to attend them, and are sure of subsistence for
life ; while many of their fellow-creatm'es are obliged to wander, without a
friend to comfort or to assist them, find enmity in every law, and are too poor
to obtain even justice.
I have been led into these reflections from accidentally meeting some days
ago a poor fellow begging at one of the outlets of this town, with a wooden
leg. I was curious to learn what had reduced him to his present situation ;
and after giving him what I thought proper, desired to know the history of his
life and misfortunes, and the manner in which he was reduced to his present
distress. The disabled soldier, for such he was, with an intrepidity truly
British, leaning on his crutch, put himself into an attitude to comply with my
request, and gave me his history as follows : r -
" As for misfortunes. Sir, I cannot pretend to have gone through more than
others. Except the loss of my limb, and my being obliged to beg, I don't know
any reason, thank Heaven, that I have to complain : there are some who have
lost both legs and an eye : but, thank Heaven, it is not quite so bad with me.
610 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
" My father was a laboiu'er in the country, and died when I was five years
old J so I was put upon the parish. As he had been a wandering sort of a
man, the parishioners were not able to tell to what parish I belonged, or where
I was born j so they sent me to another parish, and that parish sent me to
a third ; till at last it was thought I belonged to no parish at aU. At length,
however, they fixed me. I had some disposition to be a scholar, and had
actually learned my letters ; but the master of the workhouse put me to busi-
ness as soon as I was able to handle a mallet.
" Here I lived an easy kind of a life for five years ; I only wrought ten hours
in the day, and had my meat and drink provided for my labour. It is true, I
was not suffered to stir far from the house, for fear I should run away : but
what of that ? I had the liberty of the whole house, and the yard before the
door, and that was enough for me.
" I was next bound out to a farmer, where I was up both early and late,
but I ate and drank well, and liked my business well enough, till he died.
Being then obliged to provide for myself, I was resolved to go and seek
my fortune. Thus I lived, and went from town to town, working when T
could get employment, and starving when I could get none ; and might have
lived so still ; but happening one day to go through a field belonging to a
magistrate, I spied a hare crossing the path just before me. I believe
the devil put it in my head to fling my stick at it : well, what will you
have on it ? I killed the hare, and was bringing it away in triumph, when the
Justice himself met me : he called me a villain, and collaring me, desired I
would give an account of myself. I began immediately to give a full account
of all that I knew of my breed, seed, and generation ; but though I gave a
very long account, the Justice said, I could give no account of myself : so I
was indicted, and found guilty of being poor, and sent to Newgate, in order to
be transported to the Plantations.
" People may say this and that of being in gaol ; but for my part I found New-
gate as agreeable a place as ever I was in, in all my life. I had my belly-full
to eat and drink, and did no work ; but alas, this kind of life was too good to
last for ever ! I was taken out of prison after five months, put on-board
of a ship, and sent off with two hundred more. Our passage was but indifferent,
for we were all confined in the hold, and died very fast, for want of sweet air
and provisions ; but for my part, I did not want meat, because I had a fever
all the way : Providence was kind j when provisions grew short, it took away
my desire of eating. When we came ashore, we were sold to the planters. I
was bound for seven years, and as I was no scholar, for I had forgot my letters, I
was obliged to work among the negroes ; and served out my time, as in duty
bound to do.
" When my time was expired, I worked my passage home, and glad I was to
see Old England again, because I loved my country. O liberty, liberty, liberty,
that is the property of every Englishman, and I will die in its defence ; I was
afraid, however, that I shoidd be indicted for a vagabond once more, so did
not much care to go into the country, but 'kept about town, and did little jobs
when I could get them. I was very happy in this manner for some time ; till
one evening, coming home from work, two men knocked me down, and then
desired me to stand still. They belonged to a press-gang j I was carried be-
fore the Justice, and as I could give no account of myself ( that was the thing
that always hobbled me), I had my choice left, whether to go on board a man-
of-war, or list for a soldier. I chose to be a soldier ; and in this post of a gen-
tleman I served two campaigns, was at the battle in Flanders, and received but
one wound through the breast, which is troublesome till this day.
" When the peace came on, I was discharged ; and as I could not work, be-
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 611
cause my wound was sometimes painful, I listed for a landman in the East
India Company's service. I here fought the French in six pitched battles;
and verily believe, that if I could read or write, our captain would have given
me promotion, and have made me a corporal. But that was not my good for-
tune ; I soon fell sick, and when I became good for nothing, got leave to
return home again with forty pounds in my pocket, which I saved in the ser-
vice. This was at the beginning of the present war, so I hoped to be set on
shore, and to have the pleasure of spending my money ; but the government
wanted men, and I was pressed again, before ever I could set foot on shore.
" The boatswain found me, as he said, an obstinate fellow : he swore that I
understood my business perfectly well, but that I pretended sickness merely to
be idle : God knows, I knew nothing of sea-business ; he beat me without
considering what he was about. But still my forty pounds was some comfort
to me under every beating : the money was my comfort, and the money I
might have had to this day ; but that our ship was taken by the French, and
so I lost it all.
*' Our crew was carried into a French prison, and many of them died, because
they were not used to live in a gaol : but for my part, it was nothing to me,
for I was seasoned. One night, however, as I was sleeping on the bed of
boards, with a warm blanket about me (for I always loved to lie well) I was
awaked by the boatswain, who had a dark lantern in his hand. ' Jack,' says he
to me, ' will you knock out the French sentry's brains ?' 'I don't care,' says
I, striving to keep myself awake, * if I lend a hand.' * Then follow me,' says
he, ' and I hope we shall do business.' So up I got, and tied my blanket,
which was all the clothes I had, about my middle, and went with him to fight
the Frenchman : we had no arras ; but one Englishman is able to beat five
French at any time ; so we went down to the door, where both the sentries
were posted, and rushing upon them, seized their arms in a moment and
knocked them down. From thence, nine of us ran together to the key, and
seizing the first boat we met, got out of the harbour, and put to sea : we had
not been here three days before we were taken up by an English privateer,
who was glad of so many good hands ; and we consented to run our chance.
However we had not so much luck as we expected. In three days we fell-in
with a French man-of-war, of forty-guns, while we had but twenty-three ; so
to it we went. The fight lasted for three hom's, and I verily believe we should
have taken the Frenchman, but unfortunately, we lost almost all our men, just
as we were going to get the victory. I was once more in the power of the
French, and I believe it would have gone hard with me, had I been brought
back to my old gaol in Brest : but by good fortune, we were re-taken, and
carried to England once more.
" I had almost forgot to tell you, that in this last engagement I was wounded
in two places ; I lost four fingers of the left hand, and my leg was shot off.
Had I the good-fortune to have lost my leg and use of my hand on-board a
king's ship, and not a privateer, I should have been entitled to clothmg and
maintenance during the rest of my life, but that was not my chance ; one man
is born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and another with a wooden ladle.
However, blessed be G-od, I enjoy good health, and have no enemy in this
world that I know of, but the French, and the Justice of Peace."
Thus saying, he limped off, leaving my friend and me in admiration of his
intrepidity and content ; nor could we avoid acknowledging, that an habitual
acquaintance with misery, is the truest school of fortitude and philosophy.
Adieu !
39-2
612 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
LETTER CXIX.
FEOM THE SAME.
The titles of European prmces are ratlier more numerous than om's of Asiaj
but by no means so sublime. The king of Yisapour or Pegu, not satisfied
with claiming the globe and all its appurtenances to him and his heu*s, asserts
a property even in the firmament, and extends his orders to the milky -way.
The monarchs of Em-ope, with more modesty, confine their titles to earth, but
make up by number what is wanting in their sublimity. Such is their passion
for a long list of these splendid trifles, that I have known a German prince
with more titles than subjects, and a Spanish nobleman with more names than
shirts.
Contraiy to this, " the English monarchs," says a writer of the last century,
" disdain to accept of such titles, which tend only to increase their pride, with-
out improving their glory ; they are above depending on the feeble helps of
hei'aldry for respect, perfectly satisfied with the consciousness of acknowledged
power." At present, however, these maxims are laid aside; the Englisli
monarchs have of late assumed new titles, and have impressed their coins with
the names and arms of obscure dukedoms, petty states, and subordinate em-
ployments. Their design in this, I make no doubt, was laudably to add new
lustre to the British throne ; but in reality, paltry claims only serve to
diminish that respect they are designed to secure.
There is in the honours assumed by kings, as in the decorations of archi-
tecture, a majestic simplicity, which best conduces to inspire our reverence
and respect ; numerous and trifling ornaments in either, are strong indications
of meanness in the designer, or of concealed deformity : should, for instance,
the Emperor of China, among other titles, assume that of Deputy Mandarine
of Maccau, or the monarch of Grreat Britain, France, and Ireland, desire to be
acknowledged as Duke of Brentford, Lunenburgh, or Lincoln, the obsei'ver
revolts at this mixture of important and paltry claims, and forgets the emperor
in his familiarity with the duke or the deputy.
I remember a similar instance of this inverted ambition, in the illustrious
king of Manacabo, upon his first treaty with the Portuguese. Among tlie
presents that were made him by the ambassador of that nation, was a sword,
with a brass hilt, on which he seemed to set a peculiar value. This he thought
too great an acquisition to his glory, to be forgotten among the number of his
titles. He therefore gave orders, that his subjects should style him for the
future. Talipot, the immortal Potentate of Manacabo, Messenger of Mor^iing,
Enlightener of the Sun, Possessor of the whole Earth, and mighty Monarch of the
brass-handled Sword.
This method of mixing majes'.ic and paltry titles, of quartering the arms of
a great empire, and an obscure province, upon the same medal here, had its
rise in the virtuous partiality of their late monarchs. Willing to testify an
affection to their native country, they gave its name and ensigns a place upon
their coins, and thus in some measure ennobled its obscurity. It was indeed
but just that a people which had given England up their king, should receive
some honorary equivalent in return ; but at present these motives are no
more ; England has now a monarch wholly British, and has some reason to
hope for British titles upon British coins.
However, were the money of England designed to circulate in Oermany, there
would be no flagrant impropriety in impressing it with German names and
arms ; but though this might have been so upon former occasions, I am told
there is no danger of it for the future ; as England, therefore, designs to keep
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 618
back its gold, I candidly think Lunenburg, Oldenburg, and the rest of them,
may very well keep back their titles.
It is a mistaken prejudice in princes to think that a number of loud sounding
names can give new claims to respect. The truly great have ever disdained
them : when Timur the Lame had conquered Asia, an orator by profession
came to compliment him upon the occasion. He began his harangue, by
styling him the most omnipotent, and the most glorious object of the creation.
The emperor seemed displeased with his paltry adulation, yet stiU he went on,
complimenting him as the most mighty, the most valiant, and the most perfect
of beings. Hold there, my friend, cries the lame emperor; hold there, till I
liave got another leg. In fact, the feeble or the despotic alone find pleasure
in midtiplying these pageants of vanity, but strength and freedom have nobler
aims, and often find the finest adulation in majestic simplicity.
The young monarch of this country has already testified a proper contempt
for several unmeaning appendages on royalty ; cooks and scullions have been
obliged to quit their fires ; gentlemen's gentlemen, and the whole tribe of
necessary people, who did nothing, have been dismissed from further services.
A youth, who can thus bring back simplicity and frugality to a court, wiU soon
probably have a true respect for his own gloiy, and while he has dismissed all
useless employments may disdain to accept of empty or degrading titles.
Adieu !
LETTEE CXX.
FEOM THE SIME.
Whenever I attempt to characterise the Englisli in general, some unforeseen
difficulties constantly occur to disconcert my design ; I hesitate between cen-
sure and praise : when I consider them as a reasoning, philosophical people,
tliey have my applause ; but when I reverse the medal, and observe their
inconstancy and irresolution, I can scarcely persuade myself that I am
observing the same people.
Yet upon examination, this very inconstancy, so remarkable here, flows from
no other source than their love of reasoning. The man who examines a com-
plicated subject on every side, and calls in reason to his assistance, will frequently
change ; will find himself distracted by opposing probabilities and contending
proofs ; every alteration of place will diversify the prospect, will give some
latent argument new force, and contribute to maintain an anarchy in the mind.
On the contrary, they who never examine with their own reason, act with
more simplicity. Ignorance is positive, instinct perseveres, and tlie human
being moves in safety within the narrow circle of brutal uniformity. What is
true with regard to individuals, is not less so when applied to states. A
reasoning government like this is in continual fluctuation, while those king-
doms where men are taught not to controvert but obey continue always tlie
same. In Asia, for instance, where the monarch's authority is supported by
force, and acknowledged through fear, a change of government is entirely un-
known. All the inhabitants seem to wear the same mental complexion, and
remain contented with hereditary possession. The sovereign's pleasure is the
ultimate rule of duty, every branch of the administration is a perfect epitome
of the whole : and if one tyrant is deposed, another stai'ts up in his room, to
govern as his predecessor. The English, on the contrary, instead of being led
by power, endeavour to guide themselves by reason ; instead of appealing
to the pleasui'e of the prince, appeal to the original rights of mankind. What
one rank of men asseit is denied by others, as the reasons on opposite sides
happen to come home with greater or less conviction. The people of Asia
are directed by precedent, which never alters j the English by reason which
is ever changing its appearance.
614, THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLdSMITti,
The disadrantagea of an Asiatic goTernment acting in this manner by pre-
cedent are evident; original errors are thus continued, without hopes of
redress, and all marks of genius are lerelled down to one standard, since
no superiority of thinking can be allowed its exertion in mending obvious
defects. But to recompense those defects, their governments undergo no
new alterations, they have no new evils to fear, nor no fermentations in
the constitution that continue : the struggle for power is soon over, and
all becomes tranquil as before : they are habituated to subordination, and
men are taught to form no other desires, than those which they are allowed
to satisfy.
The disadvantages of a government acting from the immediate influence of
reason, like that of England, are not less than those of the former. It is ex-
tremely difficult to induce a number of free beings to co-operate for their
mutual benefit ; every possible advantage will necessarily be sought, and every
attempt to procure it must be attended with a new fermentation ; various
reasons will lead diiferent ways, and equity and advantage will often be out-
balanced by combination of clamour and prejudice. But though such a people
may be thus in the wrong, they have been influenced by a happy delusion ;
tlieir errors are seldom seen till they are felt ; each man is himself the tyrant
he has obeyed, and such a master he can easily forgive. The disadvantages
he feels may in reality be equal to what is felt in the most despotic govern-
ment ; but man will bear every calamity with patience, when he knows himself
to be the author of his own misfortunes. Adieu !
LETTER CXXI.
FEOM THE SAME.
My long residence here begins to fatigue me ; as every object ceases to be new,
it no longer continues to be pleasing ; some minds are so fond of variety that
pleasure itself, if permanent, would be insupportable, and we are thus obliged
to solicit new happiness even by courting distress. I only therefore wait the
arrival of my son to vary tliis trifling scene, and borrow new pleasure from
danger and fatigue. A life, I own, thus spent in wandering from place to
place is at best but empty dissipation. But to pursue trifles is the lot of
hmnanity ; ajid whether we bustle in a pantomime, or strut at a coronation ;
whether we shout at a bonfii'c, or harangue in a senate house ; whatever object
we follow, it will at last surely conduct us to futility and disappointment.
The wise bustle and laugh as they walk in the pageant, but fools bustle and
are important ; and this probably is all the difierence between them.
This may be an apology for the levity of my former correspondence ; I
talked of trifles, and I knew that they were trifles ; to make the things of tliis
life ridiculous, it was only sufficient to call them by their names.
In other respects, I have omitted several striking circumstances in the de-
scription of this country, as supposing them either akeady known to you, or
as not being thoroughly known to myself: but there is one omission for which
I expect no forgiveness, namely, by being totally silent upon their buildings,
roads, rivers, and mountains. This is a branch of science on which all other
travellers are so veiy prolix, that my deficiency will appear the more glaring.
With what pleasure, for instance, do some read of a traveller in Egypt,
measuring a fallen column with his cane, and finding it exactly five feet nine
inches long ; of his creeping through the mouth of a catacomb, and coming
out by a different hole from that he entered ; of his stealing the finger of an
antique statue, in spite of the janizary that watched him ; or his adding a new
conjecture to the hundred and fourteen conjectures already published, upon the
names of Osiris and Isis.
Methinks I hear some of my Mends in China demanding a similar account
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 615 ^
of London and the adjacent villages j and if I remain here much longer, it is
probable I may gratify their curiosity. I intend, when run dry on other
topics, to take a serious sui'vey of the city -wall ; to describe that beautiful
building the mansion-house : I will enumerate the magnificent squares, in
which the nobility chiefly reside, and the royal palaces appointed for the
reception of the English monarch j nor will I forget the beauties of Shoe-lane,
in which I myself have resided since my arrival. You shall find me no way
inferior to many of my brother travellers in the arts of description. At present
however, as a specimen of this way of writing, I send you a few hasty remarks,
collected in a late journey I made to Kentish Town, and this in the manner of
modern voyagers.
" Having heard much of Kentish Town, I conceived a strong desire to see
that celebrated place. I could have wished indeed to satisfy my curiosity
without going thither ; but that was impracticable, and therefore I resolved to
go.^ Travellers have two methods of going to Kentish Town ; they take coach,
which Costs nine-pence, or they may go a foot, which costs nothing ; in my
opinion, a coach is by far the most eligible convenience ; but I was resolved
to go on foot, having considered with myself, that going in that manner would
be the cheapest way.
" As you set out from Dog-house bar, you enter upon a fine level road railed
in on both sides, commanding on the right a fine prospect of groves, and
fields, enamelled with flowers, which would wonderfully charm the sense of
smelling, were it not for a dunghill on the left, which mixes its effluvia with
their odours : this dimghill is of much greater antiquity than the road : and I
must not omit a piece of injustice I was going to commit upon this occasion.
My indignation was levelled against the makers of the dunghill for having
brought it so near the road ; whereas it should have fallen upon the makers of
the road for having brought that so near the dunghill.
" After proceeding in this manner for some time, a building, resembling
somewhat a triumphal arch, salutes the traveller's view. This structure how-
ever is peculiar to this country, and vulgarly called a turnpike-gate : I could
perceive a long inscription in large characters on the front, probably upon the
occasion of some triumph, but being in haste I left it to be made out by some
subsequent adventurer who may happen to travel this way ; so continuing my
course to the west, I soon arrived at an unwalled town called Islington.
" Islington is a pretty neat town, mostly built of brick, with a church and
bells : it has a small lake, or rather pond in the midst ; though at present
very much neglected. I am told it is dry in summer ; if this be the case, it
can be no very proper receptacle for fish, at which the inhabitants themselves
seem sensible, by bringing all that is eaten there from London.
** After having surveyed the curiosities of this fair and beautiful town, I
proceeded forward, leaving a fair stone building, called the White Conduit
House, on my right : here the inhabitants of London often assemble to cele-
brate a feast of hot rolls and butter ; seeing such numbers, each with their little
tables before them, employed on this occasion, must no doubt be a very amusing
sight to the looker-on, but stiU more so to those who perform in the solemnity.
" From thence I parted with reluctance to Pancras, as it is written, or Pan-
cridge as it is pronounced ; but which should be both pronounced and written
Pangrace: this emendation I will venture meo arbitrio : Ilaf in the G-reek lan-
guage signifies all, which added to the English word grace maketh all grace, or
Pangrace ; and indeed this is a very proper appellation to a place of so much
sanctity as Pangrace is universally esteemed. However this be, if you except
the parish church and its fine bells, there is little in Pangrace worth the atteu'
tion of the curious observer.
BIG THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
** 'From Pangrace to Kentish Town is an easy journey of one mile and a quar-
ter ; the road lies through a fine champain country, well Avatcred with beautiful
drains, and enamelled with flowers of all kinds, which might contribute to
charm every sense, were it not that the odoriferous gales are often more im-
pregnated with dust than perfume.
" As you enter Kentish Town, the eye is at once presented with the shops of
artificers, such as renders of candles, small-coal, and hair-brooms ; there are
also several august buildings of red brick, with numberless sign-posts, or rather
pillars, in a pecuUar order of architecture ; I send you a drawing of several,
vide A. B. G. This pretty town probably borrows its name from its vicinity
to the county of Kent ; and indeed it is not unnatural that it should, as there
are only London and the adjacent villages that lie between them. Be this as
it will, perceiving night approach I made a hasty repast on roasted mutton,
and a certain dried fruit called potatoes, resolving to protract my remarks upon
my return : and this I would very willingly have done ; but was prevented
by a circumstance which in truth I had for some time foreseen, for night
coming on, it was impossible to take a proper survey of the country, as I was
obliged to return home in the dark." Adieu!
LETTEE CXXII.
TO THE SAME.
Aftee a variety of disappointments, my wishes are at length fully satisfied. My
son so long expected is arrived : at once, by his presence banishing my anxiety,
and opening a ncAv scene of unexpected pleasure. His improvements in mind
and person have far surpassed even the sanguine expectations of a father. , I
left him a boy, but he is retui-ned a man : pleasing in his person, hardened by
travel, and polished by adversity. His disappointment in love, however, had
infused an air of melancholy into his conversation, which seemed at intervals
to interrupt our mutual satisfaction. I expected that this could find a cure
only from time ; but fortune, as if willing to load us with her favom's, has in a
moment repaid every uneasiness with rapture.
Two days after his arrival, the man in black, with his beautiful niece, camo
to congratulate us upon this pleasing occasion ; but, guess oiu* surprise, when
my friend's lovely kinswoman was found to be the very captive my son had
rescued from Persia, and who had been wrecked on the Wolga, and was carried
by the Russian peasants to the port of Archangel. Were I to hold the pen of
a novelist, I might be prolix in describing their feelings at so unexpected an
interview ; but you may conceive their joy without my assistance ; words
were unable to express their transports, then how can words describe it ?
When two yomig persons are sincerely enamoured of each other, nothing
can give me such pleasure as seeing them man-ied : whether I know the parties
or not, I am happy at thus binding one link more in the universal chain.
Natiu'e has, in some measure, formed me for a match-maker, and given me a
soul to sympathize with every mode of human felicity. I instantly, therefore,
consulted the man in black, whether we might not crown their mutual wishes
by marriage ; his soul seems formed of similar materials witli mine, he instantly
gave his consent, and the next day was appointed for the solemnization of
their nuptials.
All the acquaintance which I had made since my arrival were present at
this gay solemnity. The little beau was constituted master of the ceremonies,
and his wife, Mrs. Tibbs, conducted the entertainment with proper decorum.
The man in black and the pawnbroker's widow were very sprightly and tender
upon this occasion. The widow was dressed up under the direction of Mrs.
Tibbs ; and as for her lover, his face was set ofi" by the assistance of a pig-tail
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. Qll
wig, "whicli was lent by the little beau, to fit him for making love with proper
formality. The whole company easily parceived that it would be a double
wedding before all was over, and indeed my friend and the widow seemed to
make no secret of their passion ; he even called me aside in order to know my
candid opinion, whether I did not think him a little too old to be married.
As for my own part, continued he, I know I am going to play the fool, but all
my friends will praise my wisdom, and produce me as the very pattern of
discretion to others.
At dinner every thing seemed to run on with good humour, harmony, and
satisfaction. Every creature in company thought themselves pretty, and every
jest was laughed at : the man in black sat next his mistress, helped her plate,
chimed her glass, and jogging her knees and her elbow, he whispered some-
thing arch in her ear, on which she patted his cheek ; never was antiquated
passion so playful, so harmless, and amusing, as between this reverend couple.
The second course was now called for, and among a variety of other dishes, a
fine turkey was pkced before the widow. The Europeans^ you know, carve as
they eat : my friend therefore begged his mistress to help him to a part of the
turkey. The widow, pleased with an opportunity of showing her skill in
carving, an art upon which it seems she piqued herself, began to cut it up by
first taking off the leg. Madam, cries my friend, if I mUjht he permitted to
advise, I would leg in by cutting off the wing, and then the leg will come off more
easily. Sir, replies the widow, give me leave to understand cutting up a fowl,
I always begin with the leg. Yes, Madam, replies the lover, lut if the wing be the
most convenient manner, I would begin ivith the wing. Sir, interrupts the lady,
when you have fowls of your own, begin witli the wing if you please, but give
me leave to take off the leg ; I hope I am not to be taught at this time of day.
Madam, interrupts he, we are never too old to be instructed. Old, Sir, inter-
rupts the other, who is old. Sir ? when I die of age, I know of some that will
quake for feai»j if the leg does not come off, take the turkey to yourself.
Madam, replied the man in black, / do not care a farthing whether the leg or th/9
iving comes off; if you are for the leg first, why you shall have the argument^
even thov.g}i it be as I say. As for the matter of that, cries the widow, I do
not care a fig whether you are for the leg off or on : and, friend, for the future,
keep your distance. O ! replied the other, that is easily done, it is only re-
moving to the other end of the table, and so, Madam, your most obedient humble
^servant.
Thus was this courtship of an age destroyed in one moment ; for this dia-
logue effectually broke off the match between this respectable couple, that
had been just concluded. The smallest accidents disappoint the most im-
portant treaties : however, though it in some measure interrupted the general
satisfaction, it no ways lessened the happiness of the youthful couple ; and by
the young lady's looks I could perceive, she was not entu'cly displeased with
this interruption.
In a few hours the whole transaction seemed entirely forgotten, and wo
have all since enjoyed those satisfactions which result from a consciousness of
making each other happy. My son and his fair partner are fixed here for
life : the man in black has given them up a small estate in the country, which, .
added to what I was able to bestow, will be capable of supplying all the real \
but not the fictitious demands of happiness. As for myself, the world being |
but one city to me, I do not much care in which of the streets I happen to I
reside ; I shall therefore spend the remainder of my life in examining the man- I
ners of different countries, and have prevailed upon the man in black to be my /
companion. They must often change, says Confucius, who would be constant in — L
I k^piness or ivisdom. Adieu! I
(lis THE WORKS OP OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
THE VICAE OF WAKEFIELD.
ADVERTISEMENT.
Theee ai'e a hundi'ed faults in this thing, aaad a hundred things might be said
to prore them beauties. But it is needless. A book may be amusing with
nimierous errors, or it may be rery dull without a single absurdity. The hero
of this piece unites in himself the three greatest characters upon earth ; he ia
a priest, an husbandman, and the father of a family. He is drawn as ready
to teach, and ready to obey ; as simple in affluence, and majestic in adrersity.
In this age of opulence and refinement, whom can such a character please ?
Such as are fond of high life will turn with disdain from the simplicity of his
country fire-side. Such as mistake ribaldry for humour, will find no wit in his
harmless conversation ; and such as hare been taught to deride rehgion, wiU
laugh at one whose chief stores of comfort are drawn from futurity.
OlIYEB GrOlDSMITH.
CHAPTER I.
THE DESCBIPTION OF THE FAMILY OP WAKEFIELD, IN WHICH A KINDEED
LIKENESS PKETAILS AS WELL OF MINDS AS OF PEESONS.
I WAS eyer of opinion, that the honest man who married and brought up a
large family, did more service than he who continued single and only talked of
population. From this motive, I had scarcely taken orders a year before I
began to think seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife as she did her wed-
ding-gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but such quahties as would wear well.
To do her justice, she was a good-natured notable woman ; and as for breeding,
there were few country ladies who could shew more. She could read any
EngUsh book without much spelling ; but for pickling, preserving, and cookery,
none could excel her. She prided herself also upon being an excellent con-
triver in housekeeping ; though I could never find that we grew richer with
all her contrivances.
However, we loved each other tenderly, and om* fondness increased as we
grew old. There was in fact nothing that could make us angry with the world
or each other. We had an elegant liouse, situated in a fine country, and a
good neighbourhood. The year was spent in moral or rural amusements, in
visiting our rich neighbours, and reheving such as were poor. We had no
revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo ; all our adventvu'es were by the
fire-side, and all our migrations from the blue bed to the brown.
As we lived near the road, we often had tlic traveller or stranger visit us to
taste our gooseberry wine, for which we had great reputation ; and I profess
with the veracity of an historian, that I never knew one of them find fault
with it. Our cousins too, even to the fortieth remove, all remembered their
affinity, without any help from the heralds' office, and came very frequently
to see lis. Some of them did us no great honour by these claims of kindred ;
as we had the blind, the maimed, and the halt, amongst the number. How-
ever, my wife always insisted that, as they were the same flesh and blood, they
should sit with us at the same table. So that, if we had not very rich, wo
generally had very happy, friends about us ; for this remai'k will hold good
through life, that the poorer the guest, the better pleased he ever is with being
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 619
h*eated : and as some men gaze with admiration at tlie colours of a tulip, or
the wing of a butterfly, so I was by nature an admirer of happy human mces.
However, when any one of our relations was found to be a person of very
bad character, a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid of, upon his
leaving my house, I ever took care to lend him a riding-coat, or a pair of
boots, or sometimes an horse of small value, and I always had the satisfaction
of finding he never came back to return them. By tliis the house was cleared
of such as we did not like ; but never was the family of Wakefield known to
turn the traveller, or the poor dependent, out of doors.
Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness ; not but that we
sometimes had those little rubs which Providence sends to enhance the value
of its favours. My orchard was often robbed by schoolboys, and my wife's
custards plundered by the cats or the children. The 'Squire would sometimes
fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his lady return my
wife's civilities at church with a mutilated courtesy. But we soon got over
the uneasiness caused by such accidents, and usually in three or four days
began to wonder how tliey vexed us.
My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were educated without
feoftuess, so they were at once well-formed and healthy ; my sbns hardy and
active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. When I stood in the midst of
the little circle, which promised to be the supports of my declining age, I
could not avoid repeating the famous story of Count Abensberg, who, in Henry
II.'s progress through Q-ermany, while other courtiers came with their treasures,
brought his thirty-two children, and presented them to his sovereign as the
most valuable offering he had to bestow. In this manner, though I had but
six, I considered them as a very valuable present made to my countiy, and
consequently looked upon it as my debtor. Our eldest son was named Greorge,
after his uncle, who left us ten thousand pounds. Our second child, a girl, I
intended to call after her aunt G-rissel ; but my wife, who, during her preg-
nancy, had been reading romances, insisted upon her being called Olivia. In
less than another year we had another daughter, and now I was determined
that Q-rissel should be her name ; but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand
godmother, the girl was, by her directions, called Sophia : so that we had two
romantic names in the family ; but I solemnly protest, I had no hand in it.
Moses was our next, and after an interval of twelve years we had two sons more.
It would be fruitless to deny exviltation when I saw my little ones about
me ; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my wife were even greater than
mine. When our visitors would say, " Well, upon my word, Mrs. Primrose,
you have the finest children in the Avhole country." — " Ay, neighbour," she
Would answer, " they are as heaven made them, handsome enough, if they be
good enough ; for handsome is that handsome does." And then she would
bid the girls hold up their heads ; who, to conceal nothing, were certainly very
liandsome. Mere outside is so very trifling a circumstance with me, that I
should scarcely have remembered to mention it, had it not been a general topic
of conversation in the country. Olivia, now about eighteen, had that luxuri-
ancy of beauty with which painters generally draw Hebe ; open, sprightly, and
commanding. Sophia's features were not so striking at first ; but often did
more certain execution ; for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one
vanquished by a single blow, the other by efforts successfully repeated.
The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of her features,
at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers, Sopliia
to secure one. Olivia was often affected from too great a desire to please.
Sophia even repressed excellence from her fears to offend. The one entertained
me with her vivacity when I was gay, the other with her sense when I was
THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
serious. But these qualities were never carried to excess in either, and I
have often seen thcni exchanf^e characters for a whole day together. A suit of
mourning has transformed my coquette into a prude, and a new set of ribands
has given her younger sister more than natural vivacity. My eldest son,
G-corge, was bred at Oxford, as I intended him for one of the learned pro-
fessions. My second boy, Moses, whom I designed for business, received a
sort of a miscellaneous education at home. But it is needless to attempt de-
scribing the particular characters of young people that had seen but very little
of the world. In short, a family likeness prevailed through all ; and, properly
speaking, they had but one character, that of being all equally generous, cre-
dulous, sun pie, and inoflfensive.
CHAPTER 11.
FAMILY MISFOETUNES. THE LOSS OF FOETUNE ONLY SEETES TO IKCEEASB
THE PEIDE OF THE WOETHY.
The temporal concerns of our family were chiefly committed to my wife's
management ; as to the spiritual, I took them entirely under my own direction.
The profits of my living, which amoimted to but thirty-five pounds a year, I
made over to the orphans and widows of the clergy of our diocese ; for, having
a fortune of my own, I was careless of temporalities, and felt a secret pleasure
in doing my duty without reward. I also set a resolution of keeping no cu-
rate, and of being acquainted with every man in the parish, exhorting the
married men to temperance, and the bachelors to matrimony ; so that in a few
years it was a common saying, that there were three strange wants at Wake-
field, a parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, and ale-houses want-
ing customers.
Matrimony was always one of my favourite topics, and I -WTote several
ccrmons to prove its happiness : but there was a peculiar tenet which I made
a point of supporting ; for I maintained with Whiston, that it was unlawful
for a priest of the church of England, after the death of his first wife, to take
a second, or, to express it in one word, I valued myself upon being a strict
monogamist.
I was eaiiy initiated into this important dispute, on which so many laborious
volumes have been written. I published some tracts upon the subject myself,
which, as they never sold, I have the consolation of thinking are read only by
the happy Few. Some of my friends called this my weak side ; but alas ! they
had not like me made it the subject of long contemplation. The more I re-
flected upon it, the more important it appeared ; I even went a step beyond
Whiston in displaying my principles : as he had engraven upon his wife's
tomb that she was the only wife of William Wliiston ; so I wrote a similar
epitaph for my wife, though still hving, in which I extolled her prudence,
economy, and obedience, till death ; and having got it copied fair, with aL
elegant frame, it was placed over the chimney-piece, where it answered several
very useful pm'poses. It admonished my wife of her duty to me, and my
fidelity to her ; it inspired her with a passion for fame, and constantly put her
in mind of her end.
It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often recommended, that my
eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his affections upon the daughter of
a neighbouring clergyman, who was a dignitary in the church, and in circum-
stances to give her a large fortune : but fortune was her smallest accomplish-
ment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all (except my two daughters) to
be completely pretty. Her youth, health, and innocence, were still heightened
by a complexion so transparent, and such an happy sensibihty of look, as even
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 621
age could not gaze on with indifference. As Mr. Wilmot knew tliat I could
make a very handsome settlement on my son, he was not arerse to the match ;
so both families lived together in all that harmony which generally precedes an
expected alliance. Being convinced by experience that the days of courtship
are the most happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen the period ;
and the various amusements which the young couple every day sliared in
each other's company, seemed to increase their passion. We were generally
awaked in the morning by mvisic, and on fine days rode a hunting. The hours
between breakfast and dinner the ladies devoted to dress and study : they
usually read a page, and then gazed at themselves in the glass, which even
philosophers might own often presented the page of greatest beauty. At din-
ner my wife took the lead; for as she always insisted upon carving every thing
herself, it being her mother's way, she gave us upon these occasions the his-
tory of every dish. When we had dined, to prevent the ladies leaving us, I
generally ordered the table to be removed ; and sometimes, with the music-
master's assistance, the girls would give us a very agreeable concert. Walking
out, drinking tea, country-dances, and forfeits, shortened the rest of the
day, without the assistance of cards, as I hated all manner of gaming, except
backgammon, at which my old friend and I sometimes took a twopenny hit.
Nor can I here pass over an ominous circumstance that happened the last time
we played together ; I only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw deuce-
ace five times running.
Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at last it was thought
convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the yovmg couplcj who seemed
earnestly to desire it. During the preparati£>ns for the wedding, I need not
describe the busy importance of my wife, nor the sly looks of mj daughters :
in fact, my attention was fixed on another object, the completing a tract which
I intended shortly to publish in defence of my favourite principle. As I looked
upon this as a master-piece, both for argument and style, I could not in the
pride of my heart avoid shewing it to my old friend Mr. Wilmot, as I made
no doubt of receiving his approbation ; but not till too late I discovered that
he was most violently attached to the contrary opinion, and with good reason ;
for he was at that time actually courting a fourth wife. This as may be ex-
pected, produced a dispute attended with some acrimony, which threatened to
interrupt our intended alliance ; but on the day before that appointed for the
ceremony, we agreed to discuss the subject at large.
It was managed with ^Droper spirit on both sides ; he asserted that I
was heterodox, I retorted the charge : he replied, and I rejoined. In the
mean time, while the controversy was hottest, I was called out by one of my
relations, who, with a face of concern, advised me to give up the dispute, at
least till my son's wedding was over. "How!" cried I, " relinquish the cause
of truth, and let him be an husband, already driven to the very verge of ab-
surdity! You might as well advise me to give up my fortune, as my
argument. " " Your fortune," returned my friend, " I am now sorry to inform
you, is almost nothing. The merchant in town, in whose hands your money
was lodged, has gone off, to avoid a statute of bankruptcy, and is thought not
to have left a shilling in the pound. I was unwilling to shock you or the
family with the account till after the wedding : but now it may serve to
moderate your warmth in the argument ; for, I suppose, your own prudence
will enforce the necessity of dissembling, at least till your son has the young
lady's fortune secure." '■ " WeU," returned I, " if what you tell me be
true, and if I am to be a beggar, it shall never make me a rascal, or induce me
to disavow my principles. I '11 go this moment and inform the company of
my oircumstances j and as for the argument, I even here retract my former
622 TtlE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
concessions in the old gentleman's fayour, nor will I allow him now to be
an husband in any sense of the expression.
It would be endless to describe the different sensations of both families
when I divulged the news of our misfortune ; but what others felt was slight
to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr. Wilmot, who seemed before
sufficiently inclined to break off the match, was by this blow soon determined ;
one virtue he had in perfection, which was prudence, too often the only one
that is left us at seventy-two.
CHAPTER III.
A MJGEATIOIT. THE rOETTTNATE CIRCUMSTANCES OP OITE LIVES AEE GENE-
EALLY FOrND AT LAST TO BE OF OTTE OWN PEOCTTEINa.
The only hope of our family now was, that the report of our misfortune
might be malicious or premature : but a letter from my agent in town soon
came with a confii'mation of every particulai*. .The loss of fortune to myself
alone would have been trifling ; the only uneasiness I felt was for my family,
who were to be humble without an education to render them callous to
contempt,
Near a fortnight had passed befoi'e I attempted to restrain their affliction ;
for premature consolation is but the remembrancer of sorrow. Dmnng this in-
terval, my thoughts were employed on some future means of supporting them ;
and at last a small cure of fifteen pounds a year was offered me in a different
neighbourhood, where I could still enjoy my principles without molestation.
With this proposal I joyfully closed, having determined to increase my
salary by managing a little farm.
Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get together the wrecks
of my fortune ; and all debts collected and paid, out of fourteen thousand
poimds we had but four hundred remaining. My chief attention therefore
was now to bring down the pride of my family to their cu'cumstances ; for I
well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness itself. "You cannot be
ignorant, my children," cried I, " that no prudence of ours could have
prevented our late misfortune ; but prudence may do much in disappointing its
effects. We are now poor, my fondlings, and wisdom bids us conform to our
humble situation. Let us then, without repining, give up those splendours
with which numbers are wi*etched, and seek in humbler circumstances that
peace with which all may be happy. The poor live pleasantly without our
help, why then should not we learn to live without theu's ? No, my children,
let us from this moment give up all pretensions to gentility ; we have still
enough left for happiness if we are wise, and let us draw upon content for the
deficiencies of fortune."
. As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send him to town,
where his abilities might contribute to our support and his own. The separa-
tion of friends and families is, perhaps, one of the most distressful circumstances
attendant on penury. The day soon arrived on w^hich we were to disperse
for the first time. My son, after taking leave of liis mother and the rest, who
mingled their tears with their kisses, came to ask a blessing from me. This I
gave him from my heart, and which, added to five guineas, was all the patri
mony I had now to bestow. " You ai'e going, my boy," cried I, " to London
on foot, in the manner Hooker, yom* great ancestor, travelled there before you.
Take from me the same horse that was given him by the good Bishop
Jewel, this staff, and take this book too, it will be your comfort on the way :
tliese two lines in it are worth a million, I have been young ^ and now am old;
yei never saw I the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging their Iread. Let
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 628
this be your consolation as you trayel on. Go, my boy ; whatever be thy for-
tune let me see thee once a year ; still keep a good heart, and farewell." As
he was possessed of integrity and honour, I was under no apprehensions from
Throwing him naked into the ampliitheatre of life ; for I knew ho would act a
good part whether vanquished or victorious.
His departure only prepared the way for our own, which arrived a few days
afterwards. The leaving a neighbourhood in which we had enjoyed so many
hours of tranquilUty, was not without a tear which scarcely fortitude itself could
suppress. Besides, a jom-ney of seventy miles to a family that had hitherto
never been above ten from home, filled us with apprehension, and the cries
of the poor, who followed us for some miles, contributed to increase it. The
first day's journey brought us in safety within thirty miles of our future retreat,
and we put up for the night at an obscure inn in a village by the way. When
we were shewn a room, I desired the landlord, in my usual way, to let us have
his company, with which he compKed, as what he drank would increase the
bill next morning. He knew, however, the whole neighbourhood to which I
was removing, particularly 'Squire Thornhill, who was to be my landlord, and
who lived within a few miles of the place. This gentleman he described as one
who desu'ed to know little more of the world than its pleasures, being particu-
larly remarkable for his attachment to the fair sex. He observed that no virtue
was able to resist his arts and assiduity, and that scarcely a farmer's daughter
within ten miles round but what had found him successful and faithless.
Though this account gave me some pain, it had a very difierent efiect upon my
daughters, whose features seemed to brighten with the expectation of an ap-
proaching triumph ; nor was my wife less pleased and confident of their al-
lurements and virtue. While our thoughts were thus employed, the hostess
entered the room to inform her husband, that the strange gentleman, who had
been two days in the house, wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his
reckoning, " Want money !" replied the host, " that must be impossible ; for
it was no later than yesterday he paid three guineas to our beadle to spare an
old broken soldier that was to be whipped through the town for dog-stealing."
The hostess, however, still persisting in her first assertion, he was preparing
to leave the room, swearing that ho would be satisfied one way or another,
when I begged the landlord would introduce me to a stranger of so much
charity as he described. With this he complied, shewing-in a gentleman who
seemed to be about thirty, dressed in clothes that once were laced. His per-
son was well-formed, and his face marked with the lines of thinking. He had
something short and dry in his address, and seemed not to understand cere-
mony, or to despise it. Upon the landlord's leaving the room, I could not
avoid expressing my concern to the stranger at seeing a gentleman in such
circumstances, and ofiered him my purse to satisfy the present demand. " I
take it with all my heart, Sir," replied he, " and am glad that a late oversight
in giving what money I had about me, has shewn me that there are still some
men like you. I must, however, previously intreat being informed of the
name and residence of my benefactor, in order to repay him as soon as pos-
sible." In this I satisfied him fully, not only mentioning my name and late
misfortimes, but the place to which I was going to remove. " This," cried he,
"happens still more luckily than I hoped for, as I am going the same way
myself, having been detained here two days by the floods, which, I hope, by
to-morrow will be found passable." I testified the pleasure I should have in
his company, and, my wife and daughters joining in intreaty, he was prevailed
upon to stay supper. The stranger's conversation, which was at once pleasing
and instructive, induced me to wish for a continuance of it ; but it was now high
time to retire and take refreshment against the fatigues of the following day.
624 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
The next morning we all set forward together : my family on horseback,
while Mr. Burchell, our new eomiDanion, walked along the foot-path by tho
road-side, observing with a smile, that, as we were ill-mounted, he would be
too genei'ous to attempt leaving us behind. As the floods were not yet sub-
sided, we were obliged to hire a guide, who trotted on before, Mr. Burchell and
I bringing up the rear. We lightened the fatigues of the road with philoso-
phical disputes, which he seemed to understand perfectly. But what surprised
me most was, that though he was a money-borrower, he defended his opinions
with as much obstinacy as if he had been my patron. He now and then also
informed me to whom the different seats belonged that lay in our view as we
travelled the road. " That," cried he, pointing to a very magnificent house
which stood at some distance, " belongs to Mr. Thornhill, a young gentleman
who enjoys a large fortmie, though entirely dependent on the will of his uncle,
Sh* Wniiam Thornhill, a gentleman, who, content with a little himself, permits
his nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town." " What !" cried
I, " 13 my young landlord then the nephew of a man whose virtues, generosity,
and singulai'ities, are so universally known? I have heard Sir William
Thornhill represented as one of the most generous, yet whimsical men in tho
kingdom ; a man of consummate benevolence." " Something, perhaps, too
much so," replied Mr. Burchell, " at least he carried benevolence to an excess
when young ; for his passions were then strong, and as they were all upon the
side of virtue, they led it up to a romantic extreme. He eaiiy began to aim
at the qualifications of the soldier and scholar ; was soon distinguished in the
army, and had some reputation among men of learning. Adulation evei* fol-
lows the ambitious ; for such alone receive most pleasure from flattery. Ha
was surrounded with crowds, who shewed him only one side of their charac-
ter; so that he began to lose a regard for private interest in universal sympa-
thy. He loved all mankind ; for fortune prevented him from knowing that
there were rascals. Physicians tell us of a disorder in which the whole body
is so exquisitely sensible, that the slightest touch gives pain : what some have
tlius suffered in their persons, this gentleman felt in his mind. The slightest
distress, whether real or fictitious, touched liim to the quick, and liis soul
laboured under a sickly sensibility of the miseries of others. Thus disposed
to relieve, it will be easily conjectured, he found numbers disposed to solicit :
his profusions began to impair his fortune, but not his good-nature ; that, in-
deed, was seen to increase as the other seemed to decay ; he grew improvident
as he grew poor j and though he talked like a man of sense, his actions were
those of a fool. Still, however, being surrounded with importunity, and no
longer able to satisfy every request that was made him, instead of money he
gave promises. They were aU he had to bestow, and he had not resolution
enough to give any man pain by a denial. By this he di-ew round him crowds
of dependents, whom he was sure to disappoint, yet wished to relieve. These
hung upon him for a time, and left him with merited reproaches and contempt.
But, in proportion as he became contemptible to others, he became despicable
to himself. His mind had leaned upon their adulation, and, that support
taken away, he could find no pleasure in the applause of his heart, which he
had never learned to reverence. The world now began to wear, a different
aspect ; the flattery of his friends began to dwindle into simple approbation.
Approbation soon took the more friendly form of advice, and advice when re-
jected produced then* reproaches. He now therefore found that such friends
OS benefits had gathered round liim, were little estimable : he now foimd that
a man's own heart must be ever given to gain that of another. I now found,
that that 1 forget what I was going to observe : in short, Sir, he re-
solved to respect himself, and laid down a plan of restoring liis falling fortune.
THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD.
Tor this jJurpose, in his own whimsical manner, he travelled through Europe
on foot, and now, though he has scarcely attained the age of thirty, his cir-
cumstances are more affluent than ever. At present, his bounties are more
rational and moderate than before ; but still he preserves the character of an
humourist, and finds most pleasure in eccentric virtues."
My attention was so much taken up by Mr. Burchell's account, that I
scarcely looked forward as he went along, till we were alarmed by the cries of
my family, when turning, I perceived my youngest daughter in the midst of a
rapid stream, thrown from her horse, and struggHng with the torrent. She
had sunk twice, nor was it in my power to disengage myself in time to bring
lier relief. My sensations were even too violent to permit my attempting her
rescue ; she must have certainly perished had not my companion, perceiving
her danger, instantly plimged in to her relief, and, with some difficulty, brought
her. in safety to the opposite shore. By taking the current a little farther up,
the rest of the family got safely over ; where we had an opportimity of joining
our acknowledgments to hers. Her gratitude may be more readily imagined
than described : she thanked her deliverer more with looks than words, and
continued to lean upon his arm, as if still willing to receive assistance. My
wife also hoped one day to have the pleasure of returning his kindness at her
own house. Thus, after we were refreshed at the next inn, and had dined
together, as Mr. BurcheU was going to a different part of the country, he took
leave, and we pm'sued our journey : my wife observing as he went, that she
liked him extremely, and j)rotesting, that if he had birth and fortune to entitle
him to match into such a family as om*s, she knew no man she would sooner
fix upon. I could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty strain ; but I
was never much displeased with those harmless delusions that tend to make
us more happy.
CHAPTEE IV.
A PEOOF THAT EVEN THE HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAY GtRANT HAPPINESS,
WHICH DEPENDS NOT ON CIECUMSTANCES BUT CONSTITUTION.
The place of our retreat was in a little neighbourhood, consisting of farmers,
who tilled their own grounds, and were equal strangers to opulence and
poverty. As they had almost all the conveniences of life within themselves,
they seldom visited towns or cities in search of superfluity. Remote from the
pohte, thoy still retained the primaeval simphcity of manners ; and frugal by
habit, they scarcely knew that temperance was a virtue. They wrought with,
cheerfulness on days of labour ; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness
and pleasm'e. They kept up the Christmas carol,- sent true love knots on
Valentine morning, eat pancakes on Shrove-tide, shewed their wit on the first
of April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being apprised of
our approach, the whole neighbourhood came out to meet their minister,
dressed in their finest clothes, and preceded by a pipe and tabor : A feast also
was provided for om* reception, at which we sate cheerfully down : and what
the conversation wanted in wit, was made up in laughter.
Om* little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping hill, sheltered with
a beautiful underwood behind, and a prattling river before : on one side a
meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted of about twenty acres of
excellent land, having given an hundred pounds for my predecessors' good-
will. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my little enclosures : the elms
and hedge -rows appearing with inexpressible beauty. My house consisted of
but one story, and was covered with thatch, which gave it an air of great
snuguess ; the walls on the inside were nicely white-washed, and my daughters
undertook to adorn them with pictures of their own designing. Though the
40
626 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
same room served us for parlour and kitclien, tliat only made it tlxe warmer.
Besides, as it •was kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and cop-
pers, being well scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the
eye was agreeably relieved, and did not want richer f amitiire. There were three
other apartments, one for my wife and me, another for our two daughters,
within our own, and the third, with two beds, for the rest of the children. ; \\
The little republic to which I gave laws, was regulated in the following
manner : by sun-rise we all assembled in our common apartment j the fire
being previously kindled by the servant. After we had saluted each other
with proper ceremony, for I always thought fit to keep up some mechanical
forms of good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys friendship, we
aU bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another day. This duty being
performed, my son and I went to pursue om' usual industi'y abroad, while my
wife and daughters employed themselves in providing breakfast, which was
always ready at a certain time. I allowed half an hour for this meal, and an
hour for dinner j which time was taken up in innocent mu*th between my
wife and daughters, and in philosopliical arguments between my son and me.
As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued om* labours after it was gone
down, but retm-ned home to the expecting family ; where smiling looks, a neat
hearth, and pleasant fire, were prepared for om' reception. Nor were we
without guests : sometimes farmer Flamborough, our talkative neighbour, and
often the blind piper, would pay us a visit, and taste om' gooseberry wine ; for
the making of which we had lost neither the receipt nor the reputation. These
harmless peo^Dle had several ways of being good company j while one played
the other would sing some soothing baUad, Johnny Armstrong's last good
night, or the cruelty of Barbara AUen. The night was concluded in the man-
ner wo began the morning, my youngest boys being appointed to read the
lessons of the day, and he that read the loudest, distinctest, and best, was to
have an halfpenny on Sunday to put in the poor's box.
When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, which all my sumptuary
edicts coidd not restrain. How well soever I fancied my lectures against pride
had conquered the vanity of my daughters ; yet I still found them secretly
attached to all their former finery : they still loved laces, ribands, bugles, and
catgut ; my wife herself retained a passion for her crimson paduasoy, because
I formerly happened to say it became her.
The first Sunday, in particular, their behaviom* served to mortify me : I
had desired my girls the preceding night to be dressed early the next day ;
for I always loved to be at church a good while before the rest of the congre-
gation. They punctually obeyed my directions j but when we were to
assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters,
dressed out in all their former splendom" : their hair plastered up with poma-
tmn, their faces patched to taste, their trains bimdled up in a heap behind,
and rustling at every motion. I could not help smiling at their vanity, par-
ticularly that of my wife, from whom I expected more discretion. In this
exigence, therefore, my only resom'ce was to order my son, with an important
air, to call cm" coach. The girls were amazed at the command ; but I repeated
it with more solemnity than before. "Sarely, my dear, you jest," cried
my wife, " we can walk it perfectly well : we want no coach to carry us now."
"You mistake, child," returned I, "we do want a coach ; for if we walk to
church in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot after us."
" Indeed," replied my wife, " I always imagined that my Charles was fond of
seeing his children neat and handsome about him." " You may be as neat
as you please," interrupted I, " and I shall love you the better for it ; but uU
this is not neatness, but Mppery. These rufflings, and pinkings, and patch-
THE VICAR Of WAKEFlELp. m
ings, will only mate us liated by all tlie wiyes of all oiu* neighbours. No, my
cliildren," continued I, more gravely, " those gowns may be altered into
something of a plainer cut ; for finery is very imbecoming in us, who want the
means of decency. I do not know whether such flouncing and shredding is be-
coming even in the rich, if we consider, upon a moderate calculation, that the
nakedness of the indigent world may be clothed from the trimmings of the vain."
This remonstrance had the proper effect ; they went with great composure,
that very instant, to change their dress ; and the next day I had the satisfac-
tion of finding my daughters, at their own request, employed in cutting up their
trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two little ones, and what was
still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved by this curtailing.
CHAPTER Y.
A NEW AND GEEAT ACQUAINTANCE INTEODUCED. — WHAT WE PLACE MOST
HOPES UPON, GENEEALLY PEOTES MOST PATAL.
At a small distance from the house my predecessor had made a seat, over-
shaded by an hedge of hawthorn and honeysuckle. Here, when the weather
was fine and oxir labour soon finished, we usually sat together, to enjoy an ex-
tensive landscape, in the calm of the evening. Here too, we drank tea which
was now become an occasional banquet ; and as we had it but^ seldom, it
diffused a new joy, the preparations for it being made with no small share of
bustle and ceremony. On these occasions our two little ones always read to
us, and they were regularly served after we had done. Sometimes, to give a
variety to our amusements, the gu*ls sung to the guitar ; and while they thus
formed a little concert, my wife and I would stroR down the sloping field, that
was embellished with blue bells and centaury, talk of our children with rap-
ture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both health and harmony.
In this manner we began to find that every situation in life might bring its
own peculiar pleasm'es : every morning waked us to a repetition of toil ; but
the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity.
It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holiday, for I kept such as in-
tervals of relaxation from labour, that I laad drawn out my family to our usual
place of amusement, and our young musicians began their usual concert. As we
were thus engaged, we saw a stag boimd nimbly by, within about twenty paces
of where we were sitting, and by its panting it seemed pressed by the hunters.
We had not much time to reflect upon the poor animal's distress, when we
perceived the dogs and horsemen come sweeping along at some distance be-
hind, and making the very path it had taken. I was instantly for returning
in with my family ; but either curiosity or sm'prise, or some more hidden
motive, held my wife and daughters to their seats. The huntsman, who rode
foremost, passed us with great swiftness, followed by four or five persons
more, who seemed in equal haste. At last, a young gentleman of a more
genteel appearance than the rest, came forward, and while regarding us, in-
stead of pm'suing the chace, stopped short, and giving his horse to a servant
who attended, approached us with a careless superior air. He seemed to want
no introduction, but was going to salute my daughters as one certain of a
kind reception ; but they had early learned the lesson of looking presumption
out of countenance. Upon which he let us know his name was Thornhill and
that he was owner of the estate that lay for some extent round us. He
again therefore offered to salute the female part of the family ; and such was
the power of fortune and fine clothes, that he found no second repulse. As
his address, though confident, was easy, we soon became more familiar ; and
perceiving musical instruments lying near, he begged to be favoured with a
40—2
fHE rVORKS OP OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Bong. As I did not approve of such disproportioned acquaintances, I winked
upon my daughters in order to prevent their comphance ; but my hint "was
counteracted by one from their mother ; so that, with a cheerful air, they
gave us a favourite song of Dryden's. Mr. Thomhill seemed highly delighted
with their performance and choice, and then took up the guitar himself. He
played but very indifferently ; however, my eldest daughter repaid his former
applause with interest, and assured him that his tones were louder than even
those of her master. At this comphment he bowed, which she returned with
a courtesy. He praised her taste, and she commended his understanding : an
age could not have made them better acquainted. While the fond mother,
too, equally happy, insisted upon her landlord's stepping in, and tasting a
glass of her gooseberry. The whole family seemed eai-nest to please him : my
girls attempted to entertain him with topics they thought most modem, while
Moses, on the contraiy, gave him a question or two from the ancients, for
which he had the satisfaction of being laughed at : my little ones were no less
busy, and fondly stuck close to the stranger. AU my endeavours could
scarcely keep their dirty fingers from handling and tarnishing the lace on his
clothes, and lifting up the flaps of his pocket-holes, to see what was there. At
the approach of evening he took leave ; but not till he had requested permission
to renew his visit, which, as he was our landlord, we most readily agreed to.
As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council on the conduct of the day.
Slie was of opinion, that it was a most fortunate hit ; for that she had known
even stranger things at last brought to bear. She hoped again to see the day
in which we might hold up our heads with the best of them ; and concluded,
she protested she could see no reason why the two Miss Wrinkles should
marry great fortunes, and her children get none. As this last argument was
directed to me, I protested I could see no reason for it neither, nor why Mr.
Simkius got the ten thousand pound prize in the lottery, and we sate dovm
with a blank. " I protest, Charles," cried my wife, " this is the way you
always damp my girls and me when we are in spirits. Tell me Sophy, my
dear, what do you think of our new visitor ? Don't you think he seemed to
be good-natured ? " — " Immensely so indeed, mamma," replied she. " I think
he has a great deal to say upon every thing, and is never at a loss : and the more
trifling the subject, the more he has to say." — "Yes," cried Olivia, "he is well
enougli for a man : but for my part, I don't much like him, he is so extremely
impudent and familiar; but on the guitar he is shocking." These two
last speeches I interpreted by contraries. I found by this, that Sophia in-
ternally despised, as much as OHvia secretly admired him. " Whatever
may be your opinions of him, my children," cried I, " to confess a truth, he
has not prepossessed me in his favoiu'. Disproportioned friendships ever ter-
minate in disgust ; and I thought, notwithstanding all his ease, that he seemed
perfectly sensible of the distance between us. Let lis keep to companions of
our own rank. There is no character more contemptible than a man that is a
fortune -hxmter ; and I can see no reason why fortune -hunting women should
not be contemptible too. Thus, at best, we shall be contemptible if his views
be honourable ; but if they be otherwise ! I should shudder but to think of
that ! It is true I have no apprehensions fi'om the conduct of my children,
but I think there are some from his character." — I would have proceeded, but
for the interruption of a servant from the 'squire, who, with his compliments,
sent us a side of venison, and a promise to dine with us some days after.
This well-timed present pleaded more powerfully in his favour, than anything
I had to say could obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied with just
haviag pointed out danger, and leaving it to their own discretion to avoid it.
That virtue which requires to be ever guarded, is scarcely worth the sentinel.
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD,
CHAPTEE YI.
THE HAPPINESS OP A COUNTEY PIEE-SIDE.
As we carried on the former dispute witli some degree of "warmtli, in order to
accommodate matters, it was universally agreed, that we shoidd have a part of
the venison for supper, and the girls undertook the task with alacrity. " I am
sorry," cried I, "that we have no neighbour or stranger to take a part in this
good cheer : feasts of this kind acquire a double relish from hospitality." —
*' Bless me," cried my wife, " here comes om: good friend Mr. Burchell, that
saved our SojDhia, and that run you down fairly in the argument." — " Confute
me in argument, child ! " cried I. " You mistake there, my dear. I believe
there are but few that can do that : I never dispute your abilities at making a
goose-pie, and I beg you'll leave argument to me." — As I spoke, poor Mr.
Burchell entered the house, and was welcomed by the family, who shook him
heartily by the hand, while little Dick officiously reached him a chair.
I was pleased with the poor man's friendship for two reasons : because I
knew that he wanted mine, and I knew him to be friendly as far as he was
able. He was known in our neighbourhood by the character of the Poor Gren-
tleman that would do no good when he was young, though he was not yet
thirty. He wovdd at intervals talk with gi'eat good sense ; but in general he
was fondest of the company of children, whom he used to call harmless little
men. He was famous, I foimd, for singing them ballads, and telling them
stories j and seldom went out without something in his pockets for them, a
piece of gingerbread, or an halfpenny whistle. He generally came for a few
days into our neighbourhood once a year, and lived upon the neighbours' hos-
pitality. He sate down to supper among us, and my wife was not sparing of
her gooseberry wine. The tale went round ; he sung us old songs, and gave
the children the story of the Buck of Beverland, with the history of Patient
Grissel, the adventures of Catskin, and then fair Eosamond's Bower. Our
cock, which always crew at eleven, now told us it was time for repose ; but an
unforeseen difficulty started about lodging the stranger : all our beds were al-
ready taken up, and it was too late to send him to the next alehouse. In this
dilemma, little Dick offered him his part of the bed, if his brother Moses
would let him lie with him ; " And I," cried Bill, " will give Mr. Burchell my
part, if my sisters wHl take me to theirs." — "Well done, my good children."
cried I, " hospitality is one of the first Christian duties. The beast retires to
its shelter, and the bu'd flies to its nest ; but helpless man can only find refuge
from his fellow-creature. The greatest stranger in this world was He that
came to save it. He never had an house, as if willing to see what hospitality
was left remaining amongst us. Deborah, my dear," cried I, to my wife,
" give those boys a lump of sugar each, and let Dick's be the largest, because
he spoke first."
In the morning early I called out my whole family to help at saving an
after- growth of hay, and our guest offering his assistance, he was accepted a-
mong the number. Our labom^s went on lightly, we turned the swath to the
wind, I went foremost, and the rest followed in due succession. I could not
avoid, however, observing the assiduity of Mr. Burchell in assisting my daugh-
ter Sophia in her part of the task. When he had finished his own, he would
join in hers and enter into Or close conversation : but I had too good an
opinion of Sophia's understanding, and was too well convinced of her ambitioi^
to be under any uneasiness from a man of broken fortune. When we were
finished for the day, Mr. Burchell was invited as on the night before j but he
rpfliged, as he was to lie that night at a neighbour'a, to whose child he
s,r»— — — T— — — — i ... . ■ — • — ■ ■ ." .u. :;. • ■ ■ ■ .-' • -:-• •• . ' . ■ ' - ; ' ■ -^ ' —--'-^. ' ^A.'.^- ' ^-^
6uO THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
was carrying a whistlo. When gone, our convei'sation at supper turned upon
om* late unfortunate guest. " What a strong instance," said I, " is that poor
man of the miseries attending a youth of levity and extravagance. He by no
means wants sense, which only serves to aggravate his former folly. Poor for-
lorn creature, where are now the revellers, the flatterers, that he could once
inspire and command ! Q-one, perhaps, to attend the bagnio pander, grown
rich by his extravagance. They once praised him, and now they applaud
the pander : their former raptures at his wit are now converted into sarcasms
at his folly : he is poor, and perhaps deserves poverty ; for he has neither the
ambition to be independent, nor the skill to be useful." Prompted perhaps
by some secret reasons, I delivered this observation with too much acrimony,
which my Sophia gently reproved. "Whatsoever his former conduct may
have been. Papa, his circumstances should exempt him from censure now. His
present indigence is a sufficient punishment for former folly ; and I have heard
my papa himself say, that we should never strike our unnecessary blow at a
victim over whom Providence holds the scourge of its resentment." — "You
are right, Sophy," cried mj son Moses, "and one of the ancients finely represents
so mahcious a conduct, by the attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas, whose skin,
the fable tells us, had been wholly stripped off by another. Besides I don't
know if this poor man's situation be so bad as my father would represent it.
We are not to judge of the feelings of others by what we might feel if in
their place. However dark the habitation of the mole to our eyes, yet the
animal itself finds the apartment sufficiently lightsome. And to confess a
truth, this man's mind seems fitted to its station ; for I never heard any one
more sprightly than he was to-day, when he conversed with you." — This was
said without the least design ; however it excited a blush, which she strove to
cover by an affected laugh, assuring him, that she scarcely took any notice of
what he said to her ; but that she believed he might once have been a
very fine gentleman. The readiness with which she undertook to vindicate
herself, and her blushing, were symptoms I did not internally approve j but
I repressed my suspicions.
As we expected our landlord the next day, my wife went to make the veni-
son pasty ; Moses sate reading, while I taught the little ones : my daughters
seemed equally busy with the rest ; and I observed them for a good while cooking
something over the fire. I at first supposed they were assisting their mother ;
but little Dick informed me in a whisper, that they were making a wash for the
face. Washes of all kinds I had a natural antipathy to ; for I knew that in-
stead of mending the complexion they spoiled it. I therefore approached my
chair by sly degrees to the fire, and grasping the poker, as if it wanted mend-
ing, seemingly by accident, overturned the whole composition, and it was too
late to begin another.
CHAPTER VII.
A TOWN WIT DESCEIBED. THE DULLEST FELLOWS MAY LEAEN TO BE
COMICAL EOE A NIGHT OB TWO.
W HEN the morning arrived on which we were to entertain our young land-
loi'4 is maybe easily supposed what provisions were exhausted to make an ap-
pearance. It may also be conjectured that my wife and daughters expanded
their gayest plumage upon this occasion. Mr.- Thornhill came with a couple
of friends, his cliaplain and feeder. The servants, who were numerous, he
politely ordered to the next alehouse : but my wife, in the triumph of lier heart
insisted on entertaining them all ; for which, by the bye, our family was
pinched for three weeks after. As Mr. Burchell had hinted to us tbe day before.
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 631 1
_ _ I
that he was making some proposals of marriage to Miss Wilmot, my sou
George's former mistress, this a good deal damped the heartiness of his recep-
tion : but accident, in some measure, reheved our embarrassment ; for one of
the company happening to mention her name, Mr. Thoruhill observed with an
oatli, that ho never knew any thing more absm*d than calling such a fright a
beauty : " For strike me ugly," continued he, " if I should not find as much
pleasure in choosing my mistress by the information of a lamp under the clock
at St. Dunstan's." At this he laughed, and so did we : — the jests of the rich
are ever successful. OUvia too could not avoid whispering loud enough to be
heard, that he had an infinite fund of humour.
After dinner, I began with my usual toast, the Church ; for this I was
thanked by the chaplain, as he said the Church was the only mistress of his
affections. " Come tell us honestly, Frank," said the 'sqmi'e, with his
usual archness, " suppose the Church, your present mistress, drest in lawn
sleeves, on one hand, and Miss Sophia, with no lawn about her, on the other,
which would you be for?" "For both, to be sure," cried the chaplain. —
" Eight, Frank," cried the 'squire j " for may this glass suffocate me but a
fine girl is worth all the priestcraft in the creation. For what are tithes and
tricks but an imposition, all a confounded imposture, and I can prove it."
" I wish you would," cried my son Moses, " and I think," continued he, " that
I should be able to answer you.-' — " Yery well, sir," cried the 'squire, who
immediately smoked him, and winking on the rest of the company, to prepare
us for the sport, " if you are for a cool argument upon that subject, I am ready
to accept the challenge. And first, whether are you for managing it, analo-
gically, or, dialogically ?" " I am for managing it rationally," cried Moses,
quite happy at being permitted to dispute. " Good again," cried the 'squhe,
" and firstly of the first. I hope you'll not deny that whatever is, is. If you
don't gi'ant me that, I can go no further." " Why," returned Moses, "I
thmk I may grant that, and make the best of it." — " I hope too," returned the
other, " you'll grant that a part is less than the whole." " I grant that too,"
cried Moseo, "it is but just and reasonable." "I hope," cried the 'squire,
" you'll not deny, that the two angles of a triangle are equal to two right
ones." — " Nothing can be plainer," returned the other, and looked round with
his usual importance. — " Very well," cried the 'squire, speaking very quick,
" the premises being thus settled, I proceed to observe, that the concatenation
of self-existences, proceeding in a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally produce
a problematical dialogism, which in some measure proves that the essence of
spirituality may be referred to the second predicable," '' Hold, hold,"
cried the other, " I deny that : Do you think I can thus tamely submit to
such heterodox doctrines ?" — " What," replied the 'squu-e, as if in a passion,
" not submit ! Answer me one plain question : Do you think Aristotle right
when he says, that relatives are related ?" " Undoubtedly," replied the other.
" If so then," cried the 'squire, " answer me directly to what I propose :
Whether do you judge the analytical investigation of the first part of my
enthymem deficient secundum quoad, or quoad minus, and give me your
reasons : give me your reasons, I say, directly." — " I protest," cried Moses, " I
don't rightly comprehend the force of your reasoning ; but if it be reduced to
one simple proposition, I fancy it may then have an answer." " O, sir,"
cried the squire, " I am your most humble servant, I find you want me to
furnish you with argument and intellects too. No, sir, there I protest you are
too hard for me." This effectually raised the laugh against poor Moses, who
sate the only dismal figure in a group of merry faces : nor did he offer a
single syllable more during ihe whole entertainment.
But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a veiy different effect upon
633 THE WORKS OF OLH'ER GOLDSMITH.
; Oliria, who mistook it for humour, though but a mere act of the memory.
: She thought him therefore a very fine gentleman ; and such as consider what
i powerful ingredients a good figm'c, fine clothes, and fortune, are in that cha-
' racter, will easily forgive her. Mr. ThornhiU, notwithstanding his real igno-
j ranee, talked with ease, and could expatiate upon the common topics of con-
versation with fluency. It is not surpi-ising then that such talents should win
the affections of a girl, who by education was taught to value an appearance in
herself, and consequently to set a value upon it in anotlier.
Upon his departure, we again entered into a debate upon the merits of our
young landlord. As he directed his looks and conversation to Olivia, it was
no longer doubted but that she was the object that induced him to be our
visitor. Nor did she seem to be much displeased at the innocent raillery of
her brother and sister upon this occasion. Even Deborah herself seemed to
share the glory of the day, and exulted in her daughter's victory as if it were
her own. " And now, my dear," cried she to me, " I'll fairly own, that it was
I that instructed my girls to encourage our landlord's addresses. I had
always some ambition, and now you see that I was right ; for who knows how
this may end?" " Aye, who knows that indeed!" answered I, with a groan :
'* for my part I don't much like it ; and I could have been better pleased with
one that was poor and honest, than this fine gentleman with his fortune and
infidelity ; for depend on't, if he be what I suspect him, no free-thinker shall
ever have a child of mine."
"Sure, father," cried Moses, "you are too severe in this; for Heaven will
never arraign him for what he thinks, but for what he does. Every man
has a thousand vicious thoughts, which arise without his power to suppress.
Thinking freely of religion may be involuntary with this gentleman : so that
allowing his sentiments to be wrong, yet as he is purely passive in liis assent,
he is no more to be blamed for his errors, than the governor of a city without
walls for the shelter he is obliged to afford an invading enemy."
" True, my son," cried I ; " but, if the governor invites the enemy there, he
is justly culpable. And such is always the case with those who embrace error.
The vice does not lie in assenting to the proofs they see ; but in being blind
to many of the proofs that offer. So that, though our erroneous opinions be
involuntary when formed, yet as we have been wilfully corrupt, or very negli-
gent in forming them, we deserve punishment for our vice, or contempt for
our foUy."
My wife now kept up the conversation, though not the argument : she ob-
served, that several very prudent men of our acquaintance were free-thinkers,
and made very good husbands j and she knew some sensible girls that had
skill enough to make converts of their spouses : "And who knows, my dear,"
continued she, " what Olivia may be able to do. The girl has a great deal to
say upon every subject, and to my knowledge is very well skilled in con-
troversy."
" Why, my dear, what controversy can she have read ?" cried I. " It does
not occur to me that I ever put such books into her hands : you certainly
over-rate her merit." " Indeed, papa," replied Olivia, " she does not : I have
read a great deal of controversy. I have read the disputes between Thwackum
and Square ; the controversy between Robinson Crusoe and Friday the savage,
and I am now employed in reading the controversy in Religious Courtship."
— " Yery well," cried I, " that's a good gu4, I find you are perfectly qualified
for making converts, and so go help your mother to make the goosebeny-
pie."
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.. 633
CHAPTER yill.
Alf AMOUE, "WHICH PEOMISES LITTLE GOOD PORTTTNE, YET MAY BE PEODTJCTIVB
OE MUCH.
The next morning we were again visited by Mr. Burcliell, though I began, for
certain reasons, to be displeased with, the frequency of his return ; but I could
not refuse him my company and my fire-side. It is true his labour more
than requited his entertainment ; for he wrought among us with vigour, and
either in the meadow or at the hay-rick put himseK foremost. Besides, he
had always something amusing to say that lessened our toil, and was at once
so out of the way, and yet so sensible, that I loved, laughed at, and pitied
him. My only dislike arose from an attachment he discovered to my
daughter : he would, in a jesting manner, call her his little mistress, and
when he bought each of the girls a set of I'ibands, hers was the finest. I knew
not how, but he every day seemed to become more amiable, his wit to im-
prove, and his eimpUcity to assume the superior airs of wisdom.
Our family dined in the field, and we sate, or rather reclined, round a tem-
perate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while Mr, Burchell gave cheerful-
ness to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction, two blackbirds answered each
other from opposite hedges, the familiar red-breast came and pecked the
crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of tranquillity.
" I never sit thus," says Sophia, " but I think of the two lovers, so sweetly de-
scribed by Mr. GUy, who were struck dead in each other's arms. There is some-
thing so pathetic in the description, that I have read it an hundred times with
new rapture." " In my opinion," cried my son, " the finest strokes in that
description are much below those in the Acis and G-alatea of Ovid. The
Eoman poet understands the use of contrast better, and upon that figure art-
fully managed all strength in the pathetic depends." " It is remarkable,"
cried Mr. Burchell, " that both the poets you mention have equally contri-
buted to introduce a false taste into their respective countries, by loading all
their lines with epithet. Men of httle genius found them most easily imitated
in their defects, and English poetry, hke that in the latter empire of Rome, is
nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant images, without plot or con-
nexion ; a string of epithets that improve the sound, without carrying out the
sense. But, perhaps, madam, while I thus reprehend others, you'll think it
just that I should give them an opportunity to retaliate, and indeed I have
made this remark only to have an opportunity of introducing to the company
a ballad, which, whatever be its other defects, is, I think, at least free from
those I have mentioned."*
A BALLAD.
" TTrEN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely -way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale,
With hospitable ray.
" For here forlorn and lost I tread.
With fainting steps and slow ;
Where wilds immeasurably spread,
Seem leugth'ning as I go."
• We have introdaced this beautiful poem in this place, because it appears to be to) In-
timately connected with the stoiy, to be omitted with any propriety, though it ia iuaertod
among the rest of the Doctor's poetical productions.
684 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH,
" Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries,
To tempt the dangerous gloom ;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
" Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still j
And though my portion is but scant,
I gire it with good wiU.
" Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows ;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.
" No flocks that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn ;
Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them :
" But from the momitain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring ;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd.
And water from the spring.
" Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ;
All earth-bom cares are wrong ;
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long,"
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell :
The modest stranger lowly bends.
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay,
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its himible thatch.
Kequir'd a master's care ;
The wicket, op'ning with a latch,
Eeceiv'd the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their ev'ning rest.
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest :
And spread his vegetable store.
And gaily press'd, and smil'd j
And skill'd in legendary lore
The ling'ring hours beguil'd.
Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups in the hearth.
The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe j
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, G35
His rising cares the Hermit spy'd,
With ansVring care opprest :
" And whence, imhappy youth," he cry'd,
" The sorrows of thy breast ?
" From better habitations spurn'd,
Eeluctant dost thou rove ?
Or griere for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded lore ?
" Alas ! the joys that fortune brings,
Are trifling, and decay ;
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.
" And what is fx'iendship but a name,
A charm that luUs to sleep ;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep ?
" Attd love is still an emptier sound,
The modem fair-one's jest :
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.
" For shame, fond youth, thy son'ows hush,
And spurn the sex," he said :
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.
Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view ;
Like colours o'er the morning ssies.
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms :
The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid in all her charms.
** And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude,
" A wretch forlorn," she cry'd ;
" Wliose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where Heav'n and you reside.
" But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray :
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.
" My father liv'd beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he :
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine.
He had but only me.
" To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumber'd suitors came ;
Wlio prais'd me for imputed charms.
And felt, or feign'd a flame.
** Each horn* a mercenary crowd
With richest profiers strove ;
Amongst the rest young Edwin boVd,
3iit never talk'd of love.
THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
" In humble, simplest liabit clad,
No wealth nor power had he ;
Wisdom and worth were all ho had,
But these were all to me.
" And when, beside me in the dale,
He carol'd lays of love.
His breath lent fragrance to tlie gale,
And music to the grove.*
" The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of Heav'n refin'd.
Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind.
' " The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine ;
Their charms were his, but woe to me.
Their constancy was mine.
*' For still I try'd each fickle art,
Importimate and vain j
And while his passion touch'd my heart,
I triumph'd in his pain.
" Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride ;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret where he died.
" But mine the sorrow, mine the fault.
And well my life shall pay ;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me wliere he lay,
" And there forlorn despairing hid,
I'll lay me down and die ;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did.
And so for him will I."
" Forbid it Heav'n !" the Hermit cry'd.
And clasp'd her to his breast :
The wond'ring fair one turu'd to chide, —
'Twas Edwin's self that press'd.
" Tm*n, Angelina, ever dear.
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here.
Eestor'd to love and thee.
/• ^* Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign :
And shall we never, never part,
My life, — my all that's mine ?
" No, never from this hour to part.
We'll live and love so true ;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart,
Shall break thy Edwin's too."
• This stanza, never before printed, was communicated by Richard Archdal, Esq. who
recolvad it from the author himself.
TRP. VICAR OF WAKEPlELt). ml
While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an air of tenderness
^\\\^\ her approbation. But our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the report
of a gun just by us, and immediately after a man was seen bui'sting through
the hedge, to take up the game he had killed. This sportsman was the
'Squire's chaplain, who had shot one of the blackbirds that so agreeably enter-
tained us. So loud a report, and so near, startled my daughters ; and I could
perceive that Sophia in the fright had tlu'own herself into Mr. Burchell's arms
for protection. The gentleman came up, and asked pardon for having dis-
turbed us, affirming that he was ignorant of om* being so near. He therefore
sate down by my youngest daughter, and sportsman-hke, offered her what he
had killed that morning. She was going to refuse, but a private look from
her mother soon induced her to correct the mistake, and accept his present,
though with some reluctance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride in a
whisper, observing that Sophy had made a conquest of the chaplain, as well as
her sister had of the 'Squire. I suspected, however, with more probability,
that her affections were placed upon a different object. The chaplain's errand
was to inform us, that Mr. Thornhill had provided music and refreshments,
and intended that night giving the young ladies a ball by moonlight, on the
grass-plot before our door. " Nor can I deny," continued he, " but I have an
interest in being first to deliver this message, as I expect for my reward to be
honom'ed with Miss Sophy's hand as a partner." To this my girl replied, that
she should have no objection, if she could do ib with honour ; " But here,"
continued she, " is a gentleman," looking at Mr. Burchell, " who has been my
companion in the task for the day, and it is fit he should share in its amuse-
ments." Mr. Burchell returned her a compliment for her intentions ; but
resigned her up to the chaplain, adding that he was to go that night five
miles, being invited to an harvest supper. His refusal appeared to me a little
extraordinary, nor could I conceive how so sensible a girl as my youngest,
cou^ld thus prefer a man of broken fortunes to one whose expectations were
much greater. But as men are most capable of distinguishing merit in
women, so the ladies often form the truest judgments of us. The two sexes
seem placed as spies upon each other, and are furnished with different abilities,
adapted for mutual inspection.
CHAPTER IX.
TWO LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTEODIJCED. SUPEEIOR TINEET EVER
SEEMS TO CONFEE SUPEEIOE BREEDING.
Mb. Burchell had scarcely taken leave, and Sophia consented to dance with
the chaplain, when my little ones came running out to tell us that the 'Squii-e
was come, with a crowd of company. Upon our return, we found our landlord,
with a couple of under-gentlemen and two young ladies richly dressed, whom
he introduced as women of very great distinction and fashion from town. We
happened not to have chairs enough for the whole company ; but Mr. Thorn-
hill immediately proposed that every gentleman should sit in a lady's lap.
This I positively objected to, notwithstanding a look of disapprobation from
my wife. Moses was therefore dispatched to borrow a couple of chairs ; and
as we were in want of ladies to make up a set at country-dances, the two gen-
tlemen went with him in quest of a couple of partners. Chairs and partners
were soon provided. The gentlemen returned with my neighbour Flambo-
rough's rosy daughters, flaunting with red top-knots ; but an unlucky cu'cum-
stance was not adverted to : though the Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned
the very best dancers in the parish, and understood the jig and the round-
about to perfection j yet they were totally unacquainted with country-dances.
THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
This at first discomposed us -, liowerer, aftei' a little shoving and dragging,
the}' at last went merrily on. Our music consisted of two fiddles, with a pipe
and tabor. The moon shone bright ; Mr. ThomhiU and my eldest daughter
led up the ball, to the great dehght of the spectators j for the neighbours,
hearing what was going forward, came flocking about us. My girl moved
with so much grace and vivacity, that my wife could not avoid discovering the
pride of her heart by assuring me, that though ihe little chit did it so cleverly,
all the steps were stolen from herself. The ladies of the town strove hard to
be equally easy, but without success. They swam, sprawled, languished, and
frisked j but all would not do : the gazers indeed owned that it was fine ; but
neighbour Flamborough observed, that Miss Livy's feet seemed as pat to the
music as its echo. After the dance had continued about an hour, the two
ladies, who were apprehensive of catching cold, moved to break up the ball.
One of them, I thought, expressed her sentiments upon this occasion in a
very coarse manner, when she observed that by the living jingo she was aU of a
muck of sweat. Upon our return to the house, we found a very elegant cold
supper, whicli Mr. ThornhiU had ordered to be brought with him. The con-
versation at this time was more reserved than before. The two ladies threw
my girls quite into the shade ; for they would talk of nothing but high life,
and high-lived company; with other fashionable topics, such as pictures,
taste, Shakespear, and the musical glasses. 'Tis true they once or twice mor-
tified us sensibly by slipping out an oath ; but that appeared to me as the
surest symptom of their ^stinction (though I am since informed that swearing
i-s perfectly unfashionable.) Their finery, however, threw a veil over any
grossness in their conversation. My daughters seemed to regard their superior
accomplishments with envy ; and what appeared amiss was ascribed to tip-top
quality breeding. But the condescension of the ladies was still superior to
their other accomplish.ments. One of them obsei'ved, that had Miss Olivia
seen a little more of the world, it would greatly improve her. To which the
other added, that a single winter in town would make her little Sophia quite
another thing. My wife warmly assented to both ; adding, that there wad
nothing she more ardently wished than to give her girls a single winter's
polishing. To this I could not help replying, that their breeding was already
superior to their fortune ; and that greater refinement would only serve to
make their poverty ridiculous, and give them a taste for pleasures they had no
right to possess. — " And what pleasures," cried Mr. Thornhill, " do they not
deserve to possess, who have so much in their power to bestow ? As for my
part," continued he, "my fortune is pretty large ; love, liberty, and pleasure,
are my maxims ; but, curse me, if a settlement of half my estate could give
my charming Olivia pleasure, it should be hers ; and the only favoiu; I would
ask in return would be to add myself to the benefit." I was not such a
stranger to the world as to be ignorant that this was the fashionable cant to
disguise the insolence of the basest proposal ; but I made an effort to suppress
my resentment. " Sir," cried I, " the family which you now condescend to
favour with your company, has been bred with as nice a sense of honour as
you. Any attempts to injure that, may be attended with very dangerous
consequences. Honour, Su*, is our only possession at present, and of that last
treasure we must be particularly careful." — I was soon sorry for the warmth
with which I had spoken this, when the young gentleman, grasping my hand,
swore he commended my spii'it, though he disapproved my suspicions. " As
to your present liint," continued he, " I protest nothing was fai'ther from my
heart than such a thought. No, by all that's tempting, the vu-tue that will
stand a regular siege was never to mv taste ? for all my amours are carried by
a coup de main."
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 639
The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of the rest, seemed highly dis-
pleased with this last stroke of freedom, and began a very discreet and
serious dialogue upon virtue: in this my wife, the chaplain, and I, soon
joined ; and the 'Squire himself was at last brought to confess a sense of sor-
row for his former excesses. "We talked of the pleasures of temperance, and
of the sun- shine in the mind unpolluted with gmlt. I was so well pleased,
that my little ones were kept up beyond the usual time to be edified by so
much good conversation. Mr. Thornhill even went beyond me, and demanded
if I had any objection to giving prayers. I joyfully embraced the proposal,
and in this manner tlie night was passed in a most comfortable way, till at last
the company began to think of retui-niug. The ladies seemed very unwiUing
to part with my daughters j for whom they had conceived a particular affec-
tion, and joined in a request to have the pleasure of their company home.
The 'Squire seconded the proposal, and my wife added her entreaties ; the
girls too looked upon me as if they wished to go. In this perplexity I made
two or three excuses, which my daughters as readily removed ; so that at last
I was obliged to give a peremptory refusal j for which we had nothing but sul-
len looks and short answers the whole day ensuing.
CHAPTER X.
THE FAMILY ENDEAVOUES TO COPE WITH THEIE BETTERS. THE MISERIES
OE THE POOR WHEN THEY ATTEMPT TO APPEAR ABOVE THEIR CIRCUM-
BTANCES.
I NOW began to find that all my long and painful lectures upon temperance
simplicity, and contentment, were entirely disregarded. The distmctions
lately paid us by our betters awaked that pride which I had laid asleep, but
not removed. Our windows again, as formerly, were filled with washes for
the neck and face. The sun was dreaded as an enemy to the skin without
doors, and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion within. My wife observed,
that rising too early would hurt her daughter's eyes, that working after dinner
would redden their noses, and she convinced me that the hands never looked
so white as when they did nothing. Instead therefore of finishing Q-eorge's
shirts, we now had them new modelling their old gauzes, or flourishing upon
catgut. The poor Miss Flamboroiighs, their former gay companions, were
cast off* as mean acquaintance, and the whole conversation ran upon high life
and high-lived company, with pictures, taste, Shakespear, and the musical
glasses.
But we could have borne all this, had not a fortune-teUing gipsy come to
raise us into perfect subhmity. The tawny sibyl no sooner appeared, than my
girls came running to me for a shilling apiece to cross her hand with silver. To
say the truth, I was tii'ed of being always wise, and could not help gratifying
their request, because I loved to see them happy. I gave each of them a
shilling ; though, for the honour of the family, it must be observed, that they
never went without money themselves, as my wife always generously let them
have a guinea each, to keep in their pockets ; but with strict injunctions never
to change it. After they had been closeted up with the fortune-teller for some
time, I knew by their looks, upon their returning, that they had been promised
something great. — *' Well, my girls, how have you sped ? TeU me, Livy, has
the fortune-teller given thee a penny-worth ? " — " I protest, papa," says the
girl, *' I believe she deals with somebody that's not right ; for she positively
declared, that I am to be mariied to a 'squire in less than a twelvemonth ! "
— "Well, now Sophy, my child," said I, " and what sort of a husband are you
to have ?" " Sh-," replied she, " I am to hare a lord soon after my sister has
640 THE WOkKB OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
married the 'squire."—" How," cried I, " is that all you are to have for your
two shillings ! Only a lord and a 'squire for two shillings ! You fools, I could
have promised you a Prince and a Nabob for half the money."
This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with very serious effects, we
now began to think ourselves designed by the stars to something exalted, and
already anticipated our future grandeur.
It has been a thousand times observed, and I must observe it once more
that the hours we pass with happy prospects in view, are more pleasing than
those crowned with fruition. In the first case we cook the dish to our own
appetite ; in the latter, nature cooks it for us. It is impossible to repeat the
train of agreeable reveries we called up for our entertainment. We looked iip-
on our fortunes a sonce more rising j and as the whole parish asserted that the
'squire was in love with my daughter, she was actually so with him ; for they
persuaded her into the passion. In this agreeable interval, my wife had the
most lucky dreams in the world, which she took care to tell us every morning,
with great solemnity and exactness. It was one night a coffin and cross bones,
the sign of an approaching wedding : at another time she imagined her daugh-
ters' pockets filled with farthings, a certain sign of their being shortly stuffed
with gold. The girls themselves had their omens. They felt strange kisses on
their lips 5 they saw rings in the candle, purses bounced from the fire, and true
love knots Im'ked in the bottom of every tea-cup.
Towards the end of the week we received a card from the town ladies j in
which, with their compliments, they hoped to see all our family at church the
Sunday following. AU Saturday morning I could perceive, in consequence of
this, my wife and daughters in close conference together, and now and then
glancing at me with looks that betrayed a latent plot. To be sincere, I had
strong suspicions that some absurd proposal was preparing for appearing with
splendour the next day. In the evening they began their operations in a very
regular manner, and my wife undertook to conduct the siege. After tea, when
I seemed in spirits, she began thus " I fancy, Charles, my dear, we shall
have a great deal of good company at our church to-morrow." — Perhaps we
may, my dear," returned I ; " though you need be under no uneasiness about
that, you shall have a sermon whether there be or not." — " That is what I ex-
pect," returned she ; " but I think, my dear, we ought to appear there as de-
cently as possible, for who knows what may happen ?" " Your precautions,"
replied I, " are higlily commendable. A decent behaviour and appearance in
church is what charms me. We should be devout and humble, cheerful aud
serene." — " Yes," cried she, " I know that ; but I mean we should go there
in as proper a manner as possible ; not altogether like the scrubs about us."
— " You are quite right, my dear," returned I, *' and I was going to make the
very same proposal. The proper manner of going is, to go there as early as
possible, to have time for meditation before the service begins." — " Phoo,
Charles," interrupted she, '' all that is very true ; but not what I would be at.
I mean we should go there genteelly. You know the church is two miles off,
and I protest I don't like to see my daughters trudging up to their pew
all blowzed and red with walking, and looking for all the world as if they had
been winners at a smock-race. Now, my dear, my proposal is this : there are
our two plough-horses, the colt that has been in our family these nine
years, and his companion. Blackberry, that has scarcely done an eartlily thing
for this month past. They are both grown fat and lazy. Why should not they
do something as weU as we ? And let me tell you, when Moses has trimmed
them a little, they will cut a very tolerable figure."
To this proposal I objected, that walking would be twenty times more gen-
teel than such a paltry conveyance, as Blackberry was wall-eyed, and the colt
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.. 6£i
wanted a tail : tliat tlicy had neycr been broke to tlie rein ; but had an hun-
dred vicious tricks ; and that we had but one saddle and pillion in the whole
house. All these objections, however, were overruled ; so that I was obliged
to comply. The next morning I perceived them not a little busy in collecting
such materials as might be necessary for the expedition ; but as I foimd it
would be a business of time, I walked on to the church before, and they pro-
mised speedily to follow. I waited near an hour in the reading-desk for their
arrival ; but not finding them come as expected, I was obhged to begin, and
went through the service not without some uneasiness at finding them absent.
This was increased when all was finished, and no appearance of the family.
I therefore walked back by the horse-way, which was five miles round, though
the footway was but two, and when got about half way home perceived the
procession marching slowly forward towards the church ; my son, my wife and
the two little ones exalted on one horse, and my two daughters upon the other.
I demanded the cause of their delay ; but I soon found by their looks they
liad met with a thousand misfortunes on the road. The horses had at first re-
fused to move from the door, till Mr. Burchell was kind enough to beat them
forward for about two himdred yards with his cudgel. Next, the straps of my
wife's pilHon broke down, and they were obliged to stop to repair them before
they could proceed. After that, one of the horses took it into his head to stand
still, and neither blows nor entreaties could prevail with him to proceed. Ho
was just recovering from this dismal situation when I found themj but perceiv-
ing every thing safe, I own their present mortification did not much displease
luc, as it would give me many opportunities of future triumph, and teach m^
daughters more humility.
CHAPTEE XL
THE FAMILY STILL EESOLTE TO HOLD TP THEIE HEADS.
JMiCHAELMAS eve happening on the next day, we were invited to bm'n nuta
and play tricks at neighbour Flamborough's. Our late mortifications had
humbled us a little, or it is probable we might have rejected such an invita-
tion with contempt : however, we suffered ourselves to be happy. Our honest
neighbom-'s goose and dumplings were fine, and the lamb's wool, even in the
opinion of my wife, who was a connoissem', was excellent. It is true, his man-
ner of telling stories was not quite so well. They were very long, and very
dull, and all about himself, and we had laughed at them ten times before :
however, wo were kind enough to laugh at them once more.
Mr. Burchell, who was one of the party, was always fond of seeing some in-
nocent amusement going forward, and set the boys and girls to blind man's
buff. My wife too was persuaded to join in the diversion, and it gave me
pleasure to think she was not yet too old. In the mean time, my neighbour
and I looked on, laughed at every feat, and praised our own dexterity when
we were young. Hot cockles succeeded next, questions and commands fol-
lowed that, and last of all, they sate down to hunt the slipper. As every
person may not be acquainted with this primaeval pastime, it may be necessary
to observe, that the company at this play plant themselves in a ring upon the
ground, all. except one who stands in the middle, whose business it is to catch
a shoe, whicli the company shove about under their hams from one to another,
something like a weaver's shuttle. As it is impossible, in this case, for the lady
who is up to face all the company at once, the gi'eat beauty of the play lies in
hitting her a thump with the heel of the shoe on that side least capable of making
a defence. It was in this manner tha.t my eldest daughter was hemmed in, and
thumped about, all blowzed, in spirits, and bawling for fau' T)lay, fair play,
41
642 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
witk a voice that might deafen a ballad-siiiger, wheu, confusion on confusion,
who should enter the room but our two great acquaintances from town, Lady
Blarney and Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs ! Description woidd
but beggar, therefore it is mmecessary to describe this new mortification.
Death ! To be seen by ladies of such high breeding in such vulgar attitudes !
Nothing better could ensue from such a vulgar play of Mr. Flamborough's pro-
posing. We seemed stuck to the ground for some time, as if actually petrified
with amazement.
The two ladies had been at om' house to see us, and finding us from home,
came after us hither, as they were uneasy to know what accident could have
kept us from chm*ch the day before. Ohvia undertook to be om* prolocutor,
and delivei'ed the whole in a summaiy way, only saying, " We were tlii*own
from our horses." At which account the ladies were greatly concerned ; but
being told the family received no hurt, they were extremely glad ; but being
informed that we were almost killed by the fright, they were vastly sorry ; but
hearing that we had a very good night, they were extremely glad again.
Nothing could exceed their complaisance to my daughters j then- professions
the last evening were warm, but now they were ardent. They protested a
desire of having a more lasting acquaintance. Lady Blarney was particularly
attached to Olivia j Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs (I love to give
the whole name) took a greater fancy to her sister. They supported the con-
versation between themselves, while my daughters sate silent, admiring their
exalted breeding. But as every reader, however beggarly himself, is fond of high-
lived dialogues, with anecdotes of lords, ladies, and knights of the garter, I
must beg leave to give him the concluding part of the present conversation.
"All that I know of the matter," cried Miss Skeggs, "is this, that it may
be true, or it may not be true : but this I can assm'e your Ladyship, that the
whole route was in amaze ; his Lordship turned all manner of colom*s, my
Lady fell into a sound, but Sir Tomkyn, drawing liis eword, swore he was hers
to the last drop of his blood."
" Well," replied our Peeress, " this I can say, that the Duchess never told
me a syllable of the matter, and I believe her Gri'ace would keep nothing, a
eecret from me. This you may depend upon as a fact, that the next morning
my Lord Duke cried out three times to his valet de chambre, Jernigan, Jer-
nigan, Jernigan, bring me my garters."
But previously I should have mentioned the very impolite behaviour of
Mr. Bm'chell, who, dm'ing this discom'se, sate with his face tm-ned to the fire,
and at the conclusion of every sentence would cry out Fudge ! an expression
which displeased us all, and in some measure damped the rising s^jii'lt of the
conversation.
" Besides, my dear Skeggs," continued our Peeress, " there is nothing of this
in the copy of verses that Dr. Burdock made upon the occasion." Fudge !
"I am sm'prised at that," cried Miss Skeggs; "for he seMom leaves any
thing out, as he writes only for his own amusement. But can your Ladyship
favour me with a sight of them ?" Fudge !
" My dear creattu-e," rephed om' Peeress, " do you think I carry such things
about me ? Though they are very fine to be sure, and I think myself some-
thing of a judge ; at least I know what pleases myself. Indeed I was ever an
admirer of all Doctor Bm'dock's little pieces ; for except what he does, aad
our dear Countess at Hanover-square, there's nothing comes out but the most
lowest stufi" in natm^e ; not a bit of high life among them." Fudge !
"Your Ladyship should except," says t'other, "yom' own things in the
Lady's Magazine. I hope you'll say there's nothing low-lived there? But
I suppose wo are to have no more fi'om that quarter ?" Fudge !
THE VICAk OF WAKEFIELD. 643
" Why, my dear," says the Lady, " you know that my reader and com-
panion has left me, to be married to Captain Eoach, and as my poor eyes
won't suffer me to write mysehP, I have been for some time looking out for
another. A pi-oper person is no easy matter to find, and to be sure thirty
pounds a year is a small stipend for a well-bred girl of character, that can
read, write, and behave in company j as for the cliits about town, there is no
bearing them about one." Fudge !
'* That I know," cried Miss Skeggs, " by experience. For of the tlu'ee com-
panions I had this last half year, one of them refused to do plain work an hour
in the day, another thought twenty-five guineas a year too small a salaiy, and
I was obliged to send away the third, because I suspected an intrigue with the
chaplain. Virtue, my dear Lady Blarney, virtue is worth any price; but
where is that to be found ?" Fudge !
My wife had been for a long time all attention to this discourse ; but was
particularly struck with the latter part of it. Thirty pounds and twenty-five
guineas a year made fifty-six poimds five shillings English money, all which was
in a manner going a-begging, and might easily be secured in the family. She for
a moment studied my looks for approbation ; and to own a truth, I was of
opinion, that two such places would fit our two daughters exactly. Besides,
if the 'squire had any real affection for my eldest daughter, this would be the
way to make her every way qualified for her fortune. My wife therefore was
relsoved that we should not be deprived of such advantages for want of
assurance, and undertook to harangue for the f^imily. " I hope," cried she,
" your Ladyships will pardon my present presumption. It is true, we have no
right to pretend to such favours ; but yet it is natural for me to wish putting
my children forward in the world. And I will be bold to say my two girls
have had a pretty good education, and capacity, at least the country can't
shew better. They can read, write, and cast accompts ; they understand their
needle, breadstitch, cross and change, and all manner of plain-work ; they can
pink, point, and frill ; and know something of music j they can do up small
clothes, work upon catgut ; my eldest can cut paper, and my youngest has a
very pretty manner of telling fortunes upon the cards." Fudge!
AVhen she had delivered this pretty piece of eloquence, the two ladies looked
at each other a few minutes in silence, with an air of doubt and importance.
At last. Miss Caroluaa Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs condescended to observe,
that the young ladies, from the opinion she could form of them from so slight
an acquaintance, seemed very fit for such employments ; " but a thing of this
kind, Madam," cried she, addressing my spouse, " requires a .thorough exami-
nation into charactei's, and a more perfect knowledge of each other. Not,
Madam," continued she, " that I in the least suspect the young ladies' vii-tue,
prudence and discretion : but there is a form in these things, Madam, there is
a form."
My wife approved her suspicions very much, observing, that she was very
apt to be suspicious herself ; but referred her to all the neighbom's for a cha-
i-acter : but tliig our Peeress declined as unnecessary, alleging that her cousin
Thornhill's recommendation would be sufficient, and upon this wo rested our
petition.
CHAPTEE XIL
rORTTTKE Si^EMS EESOLVED TO HUMBLE THE IfAMILY OP WAEEEIELD. MOETI-
riCATIONS AEE orXEN MOEE PAINEUL THAN EEAL CALAMITIES.
When we were returned home, the night was dedicated to schemes of future
conquest. Deborah exerted much sagacity in conjecturing which of the two girls
41—2
d44 THE IVORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMim.
v,'ns likely to have the best place, and most opportunities of seeing good com-
pany. The only obstacle to ovir preferment was in obtaining the 'squire's recom-
mendation ; but he had already shown us too many instances of his friendship
to doubt of it now. Even in bed my wife kept up the usual theme : " Well,
faith, my dear Charles, between ourselves, I think we have made an excellent
day's work of it." " Pretty well," cried I, not knoAving what to say.
"What, only pretty well !" returned she. " I tlnnk it is very wclL Suppose
the girls should come to make acquaintances of taste in town ! This I am
assured of, that London is the only place in the world for all manner of hus-
bands. Besides, my dear, stranger thiugs happen every day : and as ladies of
quality are so taken with my daughters, what will not men of quality be !
Kntre nous, I protest I like my Lady Blarney vastly, so very obliging. How-
ever, Miss Carolina Wilelmina Ameha Skcggs has my wai*m heart. But yet,
wlicn they came to talk of places in town, you saw at once how I nailed them.
Tell me, my dear, don't you think I did for my children there?" "Ay,"
returned I, not knowmg avcU what to think of the matter, " heaven grant they
may be both the better for it this day three months !" Tliis was one of those
observations I usually made to impress my Avife with an opinion of my saga-
city ; for if the girls succeeded, then it was a pious wish fulfilled j but if any
thing unfortunate ensued, then it might be looked upou as a prophecy. All
this conversation, however, was only preparatory to another scheme, and indeed
I dreaded as much. This was nothing less than that, as we were now to hold
up our heads a little higher in the world, it would be proper to sell the colt,
which was grown old, at a neighbouring fair, and buy us an horse that woidd
carry single or double iipon an occasion, and make a pretty appearance at
church or upon a visit. This at first I opposed stoutly ; but it was as stoutly
defended. However, as I weakened, my antagonists gained strength, till at
last it was resolved to part with him.
As the fair happened on the following day, I had intentions of going my-
iclf; but my wife persuaded me that I had got a cold, and nothing could
prevail upon her to permit me from home. " No, my dear," said she, " our
son Moses is a discreet boy, and can buy and sell to very good advantage ;
yo« knoAv all our great barganis are of his purchasing. He always stands out
and higgles, and actually tires them till he gets a bargain."
As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I was willing enough to en-
trust him with this commission ; and the next morning I perceived his sisters
mighty busy in fitting out Moses for the fair j trimming his hair, brushing his
buckles, and cocking his hat Avith pins. The business of the toilet being over,
Ave had at last the satisfaction of seeing him mounted upon the colt, Avitli a
deal box before him to bring home groceries in. He had on a coat made of
that cloth they call tlmnder and lightning, which, though groAvii too sliort,
was much too good to be thrown away. His waistcoat Avas of gosling green,
and his sisters had tied his hair with a broad black riband. We all followed
him several paces from the door, bawling after hun good luck, good hick, till
we could see him no longer.
He was scarcely gone, Avlien Mr. Thorniiill's butler came to congratulate us
upon our good fortune, saying, that he overheard his young master mention
our names with great commendation.
Grood fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. Another footman from
the same family followed, with a card for my daughters, importing, that the
two ladies had received such x^leasing accounts from Mr. Thornhill of us all,
that, after a few previous inquiries, they hoped to be perfectly satisfied.
" Ay," cried my wife, " I now see it is no easy matter to get into the families
of the great ; but wlwu one once gets in, then, as Moses says, one may go to
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 645
sleep." To this piece of Immoxir, for she intended it for wit, my daiigliters
assented with a loud laugh of pleastire. In short, such was her satisfaction at
this message, tliat she actually put her hand in her pocket, and gare the mes-
senger seven-pence halfpenny.
This was to be our visiting-day. The next that came was Mr. Burchcll, who
had been at the fair. He brought my little ones a pennyworth of gingerbread
each, which my wife undertook to keep for them, and give them by letters at
a time. He brought my daughters also a couple of boxes, in which tliey might
keep wafers, snuiF, patclies, or even money, when they got it. My wife was
Lisiially fond of a weasel skin purse, as being the most lucky ; but this by tlie
bye. We had still a regard for Mr. Burchell, though his late rude behaviour
was in some measm-e displeasing ; nor could we now avoid communicating our
liappiness to him, and asking his advice : although we seldom followed advice,
we were all ready enough to ask it. When he read the note from the two
ladies, lie shook his head, and observed, that an affair of this sort demanded
the utmost circumspection. This air of diflldence higlily displeased my
wife. "I never doubted, Sii*," cried she, "your readiness to be against my
daughters and me. You have more circumspection than is wanted. How-
ever, I fancy when we come to ask advice, we wiW. apply to persons wJio seem
to have made use of it themselves." " Whatever my own conduct may
have been. Madam," replied lie, " is not the present question ; though ns I
have made no use of advice myself, I should in conscience give it to those tliat
will." As I was apprehensive this answer might di*aw on a repartee,
making up by abuse what it wanted in wit, I changed the subject, by seemin"'
to wonder what could keep our son so long at the fair, as it was now almost
nightfall. "Never mind our son," cried my wife, "depend upon it ho
knows what he is about. I'll warrant we'll never see him sell his hens of a
rainy day. I have seen him buy such bargains as would amaze one. I'll tell
you a good story about that, that will make you split your sides with laufhiu"-
But as I live, yonder comes Moses, without an horse, and the box at
liis back."
As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating under the deal box,
wliich he had strapped round his shoulders like a pedlar — " Welcome, Avel-
come, Moses ; well, my boy, what have you brought us from the fair ?"
'' I have brought you myself," cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting the
box on the dresser. — " Ah, Moses," cried my wife, " that we know, but where
is the lioi'se ?" "I have sold him," cried Moses, "for three pounds five shil-
lings and two-pence." "Well done, my good boy," returned she, "I kncAv
you would touch them off. Between oui'selves, three pounds five shillings and
two-pence is no bad day's work. Come, let us have it then." " I liave
brought back no money," cried Moses again, " I have laid it all out in a
bargain, and here it is," pulling out a bundle from his breast: "here they
are ; a gross of green spectacles, with silver rims and shagreen cases." '-
" A gross of green spectacles !" repeated my wife in a faint voice. " And you
have parted with the colt, and brought us back nothing but a gross of green
paltry spectacles !" — " Dear mother," cried the boy, " why won't you listen to
reason ? I had them a dead bargain, or I should not liaA^e bought them. The
silver rims alone will sell for double the money." — "A fig for the silver rims,"
cried my wife in a passion : I dare swear they won't sell for above half the
money at the rate of broken silver, five shillings an ounce." — " You need be
imder no uneasiness," cried I, " about selling the rims ; for they are not worth
sixpence, for I perceive they are only copper varnished over." — " VYhat,"
cried my wife, " not silver, the rims not silver!" "No," ci'ied I, "no moi-e
B;lver than your saucepan." — " And so," returned she, " we have parted with
616 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
the colt, and hare only got a gross of green spectacles with copper rims and
Bhagreeu cases ! A miuTain take such trumpery ! The blockhead has been
imposed upon, and should hare known his company better." "There, my
dear," cried I, "you are wrong, he should not have known them at all." —
" Marry, hang the idiot," returned she, " to bring me such stuff! if I had
them I would throw them in the fire." " There again you are wrong, my
dear," cried I ; " for though they be copper, we will keep them by us, as cop-
per spectacles, you know, are better than nothing."
By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceiyed. He now saw that he
had indeed been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing his
figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I therefore asked the circumstances
of his deception. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked the fair in search of
anotlier. A reverend looking-man brought him to a tent, under pi-etence of
having one to sell. " Here," continued Moses, " we met another man, very
well dressed, who desired to bori-ow twenty pounds upon these, saying, tliat
he wanted money, and would dispose of them for a third of tlie value. The
first gentleman, who pretended to be my friend, whispered me to biiy them,
and cautioned me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent for Mi*. Flambo-
rough, and they talked him up as finely as they did me, and so at last we were
persuaded to buy the two gross between us."
CHAPTER XIII.
MR. BTJECHELL IS TOUXD TO BE AN ENEMY ; POE HE HAS THE CONFIDENCE
TO GIVE DISAGREEABLE ADVICE.
Ofr family had now made several attempts to be fine ; but some unforeseen
disaster demolished each as soon as projected. I endeavoured to take the
advantage of every disappointment, to improve their good sense in proportion
as they were frustrated in ambition, "You see, my children," cried I, "how
little is to be got by attempts to impose upon the world, in coping with our
betters. Such as are poor, and will associate with none but the rich, are hated
by those they avoid, and despised by those they follow. Unequal combinations
are always disadvantageous to the weaker side : the rich having tlie pleasure,
and the poor the inconveniences that result from them. But come, Dick, my
boy, and repeat the fable that you were reading to-day, for the good of th?
company."
" Once upon a time," cried the child, " a G-iant and a Dwarf were friends,
and kept together. They made a bargain that they would never forsake each
other, but go seek adventures. The first battle they fouglit was with two
Saracens, and the Dwarf, who was very courageous, dealt one of the champions
a most angry blow. It did tlie Saracen very little injury, who, lifting up liis
sword, fairly struck off the poor Dwarf's ai*m. He was now in a wofal plight ;
but the G-iant coming to his assistance, in a short time left the two Saracens
dead on the plain, and the Dwarf cut off tlie dead man's head out of spite.
They then travelled on to another adventure. This was against three bloody-
minded Satyrs, who were cai'rying away a damsel in distress. The Dwarf was
not quite so fierce noAV as befoi'e ; but for all that, struck the first blow, whicli
was returned by another, that knocked out his eye ; but tlie Griant was soon
up with them, and had they not fled, Avould certainly have killed them every
one. They were all very joyful for this victory, and the damsel who was re-
lieved, fell in love with the Griant, and married him. They now travelled far,
and farther than I can tell, till tliey met with a company of robbers. The
Q-iant, for the first time, was foremost now ; but the Dwarf was not far behind.
The battle was stout and long. Wlierever the Giant came, all f«ll before him j
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 647
but the Dwarf had like to hare been killed more than once. At last the Tictory
declared for the two adrenturers ; but the Dwarf lost his leg. The Dwarf was
now without an arm, a leg, and an eye, while the G-iant was without a single
wound. Upon which he cried out to his little companion, My little hero, this
is glorious sport ; let us get one victory more, and then we shall have honour
for ever. No, cries the Dwarf, who was by this time grown wiser, no, I declare
off; I'll fight no more ; for I find in every battle that you get all the honour
and rewards, but all tlie blows fall upon me."
I was going to moralize this fable, when our attention was called off to a
warm dispute between my wife and Mr. Burchell, upon my daughters' intended
expedition to town. My wife very strenuously insisted upon the advantages
tliat would result from it. Mr. Burchell, on the contrary, dissuaded her with
great ardour, and I stood neuter. His present dissuasions seemed but the
second part of those which were received with so ill a grace in the morning.
The dispute grew high, while poor Deborah, instead of reasoning stronger,
talked louder, and at last was obliged to take shelter from a defeat in clamour.
The conclusion of her harangue, however, was highly displeasing to us all : she
knew, she said, of some who had their own secret reasons for what they ad-
vised J but, for her part, she wished such to stay away from her house for the
future. — "Madam," cried Burchell, with looks of great composure, which
tended to inflame her the more, " as for secret reasons, you are right : I have
secret reasons, which I forbear to mention, because you are not able to answer
those of which I make no secret : but I find my visits here are become trou-
blesome : I'll take my leave therefore now, and perhaps come once more to
take a final farewell when I am quitting the country." Thus saying, he took
up his hat, nor cotdd the attempts of Sophia, whose looks seemed to upbraid
his precipitancy, prevent his going.
When gone, we all regarded each other for some minutes with confusion.
My wife, who knew herself to be the cause, strove to hide her concern with a
forced smile, and an air of assurance, which I was willing to reprove : " How,
woman," cried I to her, " is it thus we treat strangers ? Is it thus we retui-n
their kindness ? Be assured, my dear, that these were the harshest words,
and to me the most nnpleasing, that have escaped yomr lips !" — " Wliy would
he provoke me then?" repHed she; "but I know the motives of his advice
perfectly well. He would prevent my girls from going'to town, that he may
have the pleasure of my yoimgest daughter's company here at home. But
whatever happens, she shall choose better company than such low-lived fellows
as he." — " Low-lived, my dear, do you call him ?" cried I ; " it is very possible
we may mistake this man's character, for he seems upon some occasions the
most finished gentleman I ever knew. Tell me, Sophia, my girl, has he
ever given you any secret instances of his attachment?" — "His conversation
with me. Sir," replied my daughter, "has ever been sensible, modest, and
pleasing. As to aught else, no never. Once, indeed, I remember to have
licard him say he never knew a woman who could find merit in a man that
seemed poor." " Such, my dear," cried I, " is the common cant of all the
unfortunate or idle. But I hope you have been taught to judge properly of
such men, and that it would be even madness to expect happiness from one
wlio has been so very bad an economist of liis own. Your mother and I have
now better ]prospects for you. The next winter, which you will probably
spend in town, will give you opportunities of making a more prudent choice."
Wliat Sophia's reflections were upon this occasion, I can't pretend to deter-
mine ; but I was not displeased at the bottom, that we were rid of a guest
from Avhom I had much to fear. Our breacli of hospitahty went to my con-
science a little I but I quickly ei^nced that monitor by two or three specious
848 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
reasons, ivliicli sei-red to satisfy and reconcile me to myself. Tlie pain which
i conscience gives llie man who has already done wrong, is soon got over. Con-
science is a coward ; and those faults it has not strength enougli to prevent, it
■ seldom has justice enough to accuse.
j CHAPTER XIV.
i TRESn MORTIFICATIONS, OR A DEMONSTRATION THAT SEEMING!- CALAMITIES
MAY BE REAL BLESSINGS.
The journey of my daughters to town was now resolved upon, Mr. Thornhill
liaving kindly promised to inspect their conduct himself, and inform us by
letter of their behaviour. But it was thought indispensably necessary that
their appearance should equal the greatness of their expectations, which could
not be done Avithout expense. We debated therefore in full council, wliafc
were the easiest methods of raising money, or, more properly speaking, what
we could most conveniently sell. The deliberation was soon finished ; it was
found that our remaining horse was uttei'ly useless for the plough, without his
companion, and equally imfit for the road, as wanting an eye ; it was therefore
determined that we should dispose of liim, for the purposes above-mentioned,
at the neighbouring imv, and, to prevent imposition, that I should go with
him myself. Though this was one of the first mercantile transactions of my
life, yet I had no doubt about acquitting myself with reputation. The opinion
a man forms of his own prudence is measured by that of the company lie
keeps ; and as mine was mostly in the family way, I had conceived no un-
favoui'able sentiments of my worldly wisdom. My wife, however, next
morning, at parting, after I had got some paces from tlie door, called me back,
to advise me, in a whisper, to have all my eyes about mo.
I had, in the usual forms, when I came to tlie fair, put my horse through all
his paces; but for some time had no bidders. At last a chapman ap-
proached, and, after he had for a good while examined the horse round, find-
ing him blind of one eye, he would have nothing to say to him : a second camo
up ; but observing he had a spavin, declared lie would not take him for the
driving home : a third perceived lie had a windgall, and would bid no money ;
a foiu-th knew by his eye that he had the botts : a fifth wondered wliat a
plague I could do at the fair with a blind, spavined, galled hack, that was only
iit to be cut up for a dog-kennel. By this time I began to have a most hearty
contempt for the poor animal myself, and was almost ashamed at the approach
of every customer ; for though I did not entirely believe all the fellows told
me, yet I reflected that the number of witnesses was a strong presumption tlicy
were right, and St. Grregory, upon good works, professes himself to be of tlie
same opinion.
I was in this mortifying situation, when a brother clergyman, an old acquaint-
ance, who had also business at the fair, came up, and shaking nic by the hand,
proposed adjourning to a public-house and taking a glass of whatever we could
get. I readily closed with the ofier, and entering an ale-house, we were shewn
into a little back room, where there was only a venerable old man, wlio sat
wholly intent over a large book, wliich he was reading. I never in my life saw
a figure tliat prepossessed me more favourably. His locks of silver gray ven-
erably shaded his teinjjles, and his green old age seemed to bo the result
of health and benevolence. However, his presence did not interrupt our con-
versation ; my friend and I discoursed on the various turns of fortune we had
met : the Whistonian controversy, my last pamphlet, the archdeacon's reply,
and the hard measure that was dealt me. But our attention was in a short
time taken off by the appearance of a youth, 'who, entering tho room, respect*
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 649
fully said soractliing softly to the old stranger. "Make no apologies, mycliild,"
said the old man ; "to do good is a duty -we owe to all our fellow-creatures : tako
this, I wish it were more ; but live pounds will reliere your distress, and you
are welcome." The modest youth shed tears of gratitude, and yet his gratitude
was scarcely equal to mine. I could have hugged the good old man in my arms,
his benevolence pleased me so. He continued to read, and we resumed our con-
versation, until my companion, after some time, recollecting that he had busi-
ness to transact in the fair, promised to bo soon back ; adding, that he always
desired to have as much of Dr. Primrose's company as possible. The old gen-
tleman, hearing my name mentioned, seemed to look at me with attention for
some time, and Avlicn my friend was gone, most respectfully demanded if I was
any way related to the great Primrose, that courageous monogamist, who had
been the bulwark of the church. Never did my heart feel sincerer rapture
tlian at that moment. " Sir," cried I, " the applause of so good a man, as I
am sure you are, adds to that happiness in my breast which your benevolence
has abeady excited. You behold before you, sir, that Dr. Primrose, the mono-
gamist, whom you have been pleased to call great. You here see that unfor-
tunate Divine, who has so long, and it would ill become me to say, successfully,
fought against the deuterogamy of the age." " Sir," cried the stranger, struck
witlx awe, " I fear I have been too famihar; but you'll forgive my ciu'iosity, sir :
I beg pardon." "Sir," cried I, grasping his hand, "3'ou are so far from displeas-
ing me by your familiarity, tliati must beg you'll accept my friendship as you
already have my esteem." " Then with gratitude I accept the offer," cried
he, sqvicezing me by the liand, " thou glorious pillar of unshaken or-
thodoxy ; and do I behold — " I here interrupted wliat lie was going to
say ; for thougli, as an author I could digest no small share of flattery, yet
now my modesty would permit no more. However no lovers in romance
ever cemented a more instantaneous friendship. We talked upon several
subjects ; at first I thought he seemed rather devout than learned, and began
to think he despised all human doctrines as dross. Yet tliis no way less-
ened him in my esteem ; for I had for some time begun privately to har-
bour such an opinion myself. I therefore took occasion to observe, that the
world in general began to be blameably indifferent as to doctrinal matters, and
followed human speculations too much. "Ay, sir," replied he, as if he had
reserved all liis learning to that moment, "Ay, sir, the world is in its dotage, and
yet the cosmogony or creation of the world has puzzled pliilosophers of all ages.
What a medley of opinions have they not broached upon the creation of the
world ? Saiichoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lueauus, have all at-
tempted it in vain. Tlie latter has these words, Anarchon ara Jcai atelutaion
to pan, which imply that all things have neither beguming nor end, Manetho
also, who lived about the time of Nebuchadon-Asser, Asser being a Syi-iac word
iTsually applied as a surname to the kings of that country, as Tcglat Phael-Asser,
Nabon-Asser, he, I say, formed a conjecture equally absurd : for as we usually
say, ek to hihlion kulernetes, Avhich implies that books will never teach the world ;
so he attempted to investigate — But, sir, I ask pardon, I am straying from
the question." That he actually was ; nor could I for ray life see liow
the creation of the world had any thing to do with the business I was talking
of ; but it was suflicient to shew me that he was a man of letters, and I now
reverenced him the more. I Avas resolved tlierefore to bring him to the touch-
stone ; but he was too mild and«too gentle to contend for victory. Whenever
I I made any observation that looked like a challenge to controversy, he would
! smile, shake his head, and say nothing ; by which I understood he could say
I much if he thought proper. The subject therefore insensibly changed from
I the business of antiquity to that which brought us both to the fair ; mine, I
650 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
told him, was to sell an horse, and, rery luckily indeed, his was to buy one for
one of his tenants. My horse was soon produced, and in fine we struck a bar-
gain. Nothing now remained bvit to pay me, and he accordingly pulled oiit a
thirty-pound note, and bid me change it. Not being in a capacity of complying
with this demand, he ordered his footman to be called up, who made his ap-
pearance in a very genteel livery. " Here, Abraham," cried he, " go and get
gold for this ; you'll do it at neighbour Jackson's, or any where." While tlie
fellow was gone, he entertained me with a patlietic harangue on the great
scarcity of silver, which I undertook to improve, by deploring also the great
scarcity of gold ; so that by the time Abraham returned, we had both agreed
that money was never so hard to be come at as now. Abraham returned
to inform us, that he had been over the whole fair, and could not get change,
though lie had oifered half a crown for doing it. This was a very great disap-
pointment to us all ; but the old gentleman having paused a little, asked mo
if I knew one Solomon Flamborough, in my part of the country : upon reply-
ing that he was my next-door neighbom*, " If that be the case then," returned
he, " I believe we shall deal. You shall have a draught upon him, payable at
sight J and let me tell you he is as warm a man as any within five miles round
him. Honest Solomon and I have been acquainted for many years together.
I remember I always beat him at three jumps ; but he could hop on one leg
farther than I." A draught upon my neighbour was to me the same as money;
for I was sufficiently convinced of his ability : the di'aught was signed and put
into my hands, and Mr. Jenkinson, the old gentleman, his man Abraham, and
my horse, old BlackbeiTy, ti-otted oif very well pleased with each other.
After a short interval, being left to reflection, I began to recollect that I had
done wrong in taking a draitght from a stranger, and so prudently resolved
upon following the purchaser, and having back my horse. But this was now
too late : I therefore made directly homewards, resolving to get the draught
changed into money at my friend's as fast as possible. I found my honest
neighbour smoking his pipe at his own door ; and informing him that I liad a
small bill upon him, he read it twice over. " You can read tlie name, I sup-
pose," cried I, " Ephraim Jenkinson." " Yes," returned he, " the name is writ-
ten plain enough, and I know the gentleman too, the greatest rascal under the
canopy of heaven. Tliis is the very same rogue who sold us the spectacles. Was
he not a venerable-looking man, with grey hair, and no flaps to his pocket-holes ?
And did he not talk a long string of learning about Greek and cosmogony, and the
world ?" To tills I replied with a groan. "Ay," continued he, " he has but that
one piece of learning in the world, and he always talks it away whenever he finds
a scliolar in company ; but I know the rogue, and will catch him yet."
Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my greatest struggle was to come,
in facing my wife and daughters. No truant was ever more afraid of returnin g to
school, thei'e to behold the master's visage, than I was of going home. I was de-
termined, however, to anticipate their fury, by first falling into a passion myself.
But alas ! upon entering, I found the family no way disposed for battle.
Zvly wife and girls were all in tears, Mr. Thornhill having been there that day
to inform them, that their journey to town was entirely over. The two ladies,
having heard reports of us from some malicious person about us, were that
day set out for London. He could neither discover the tendency, nor the
author of these ; but whatever they might be, or whoever might have broached
them, he continued to assure our family of Ijis friendship and protection. I
found, therefore, that they bore my disappointment with great resignation, as
it was eclipsed in the greatness of their own. But what perplexed us most was
to think who could be so base as to asperse the character of a family so harmless
as purs, too humble to excite envy, and too inoffensive to create disgust.
TllK VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 651
CHAPTER XT.
ALL MB. BTJRCHELL'S TILLAINY AT ONCE DETECTED. THE FOLLY OP BEINQ
OVEE-WISE.
That evening and a part of the following day was employed in fruitless at-
tempts to discorer our enemies ; scarcely a family in the neighbourhood but
incui'red oiu* suspicions, and each of us had reasons for our opinion best known
to ourselves. As we were in this ^Derplexity, one of our little boys, who had
been playing abroad, brought in a letter-case, which he found on the green.
It was quickly known to belong to Mr. Bui'chell, with whom it had been seen,
and, upon examination, contained some hints upon different subjects ; but
wliat particularly engaged our attention was a sealed note, superscribed, the
copy of a letter to be sent to the tivo ladies at Thornhill-castle. It instantly
occurred that he was the base informer, and we deliberated whether the note
sliould not be broke open. I was against it ; but Sophia, who said she was sure
that of all men he would be the last to be guilty of so much baseness, insisted
upon its being read. In this she was seconded by the rest of the family, and,
at their joint solicitation, I read as follows : —
" Ladies,
" The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to the person from wliom this
comes : one at least the friend of innocence, and ready to prevent its being
scdviced. I am informed for a truth, that you have some intention of bringing
two young ladies to tovra, whom I have some knowledge of, imder the character
of companions. As I would neither have simplicity imposed itpon, nor virtue
contaminated, I must offer it as my opinion, that the impropriety of such a
step will be attended with dangerous consequences. It has never been xi\j
way to treat the infamous or the lewd with severity ; nor should I now have
taken this method of explaining myself, or reproving folly, did it not aim at
guilt. Take therefore the admonition of a friend, and seriously reflect on the
consequences of introducing infamy and vice into retreats where peace and
innocence have hitherto resided."
Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed indeed sometlu'ng applicable
to both sides in this letter, audits censures might as well be referred to those
to whom it was written, as tons ; but the malicious meaning was obvious, and
we went no fartlier. My wife had scarcely any patience to hear me to the
end, but railed at the writer witli unrestrained resentment. Olivia was
equally severe, and Sophia seemed perfectly amazed at his baseness. As for
my part, it appeared to mo one of the vilest instances of unprovoked ingrati-
tude I liad met with. Nor could I account for it in any other manner than
by imputing it to liis desire of detaining my youngest daughter in the country,
to have the more frequent opportunities of an interview. In this manner we
all sate ruminating upon schemes of vengeance, when our other little boy
came running in to tell us that Mr. Burchell was appi'oaching at the other
end of the field. It is easier to conceive than describe the complicated sensa-
tions which arc felt from the pain of a recent injury, and the pleasure of ap-
proaching vengeance. Though our intentions were only to upbraid him with
]iis ingratitude ; yet it was resolved to do it in a manner that would be per-
fectly cutting. For this purpose we agi'eed to meet him with our usual smiles,
to chat in the beginning with more than ordinary kindness, to amuse him a
little ; and then in the midst of the flattering calm to burst upon him like an
earthquake, and overwhelm him with the sense of his own baseness. This
being resolved upon, my wife undertook to manage the business herself, as she
652 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMJTII.
really had some talents for sucli au undertaking. We saw him approach, he
entered, drew a chair, and sate down. " A fine day, Mr. Burchell." '* A
very fine day, Doctor ; though I fancy we shall have 3ome rain by the shooting
of my corns." " The shooting of your hoi*ns," cried my wife in a loud fit of
laughter, and then asked pardon for being fond of a joke. "Dear madam,"
replied he, " I pardon you with all my heart, for I protest I should not have
thought it a joke had you not told me." — " JPerhnps not, sii*," cried my wife,
winking at us, " and yet I dare say you can tell us how many jokes go to an
ounce." " I fancy, madam," returned Durchell, "you have been reading a
jest-book this morning, that ounce of jokes is so very good a conceit ; and yet,
madam, I had rather see half an ounce of understanding." "I believe you
miglit," cried my wife, still smiling at us, though the laugh was against her ;
" and yet I have seen some men pretend to imderstanding that have very
little." "And no doubt," returned her antagonist, "you have known ladies
set up for wit that had none." 1 quickly began to find that my wife was
likely to gain but little at this business ; so I resolved to treat him in a style of
more severity myself. " Both wit and understanding," cried I, " are trifles
witliout integrity ; it is that wliicli gives value to every character. Tlie igno-
I'ant peasant, without fault, is greater than the philosopher with many ; for
what is genius or courage without an heart ? An honest man is the noblest
worJc of God:'
" I have always held that hackney'd maxim of Pope," returned Mr. Burcliell,
" as very unworthy a man of genius, and a base desertion of his own superiority.
As tlie reputation of books is raised not by theu* freedom from defect, biit the
greatness of tlieir beauties ; so should that of men be prized not for their ex-
emption from fault, but the size of those virtues they are possessed of. The
scholar may want prudence, the statesman may have pride, and the champion
ferocity ; but shall we prefer to these the low mechanic, who laboriously plods
through life without censure or applause ? We might as well prefer the tame
correct paintings of the Flemish school to the erroneous, but sublime anima-
tions of the Roman pencil."
" Sir," I'eplied I, " your present observation is just, when there are shining vir-
tues and minute defects ; biit when it appears that great vices are opposed in the
same mind to as extraordinary vii'tues, such a character deserves contempt."
" Perhaps," cried he, " there may be some such monsters as you describe, of
great vices joined to great virtues ; yet in my progress through life I never yet
found one instance of their existence : on tlie contrary, I have ever perceived,
that whei*e the mind was capacious, the aiTcctions were good. And indeed
Providence seems kindly our friend in tliis particular, thus to debilitate the
understanding where the heart is corrupt, and diminish the power, where
there is the will to do mischief. This rule seems to extend even to other ani-
mals ; the little vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel, and cowardly, whilst
those endowed with strength and power are generous, brave, and gentle."
"These observations sound well," returned I, " and yet it would be easy this
moment to point ovit a man," and I fixed my eye steadfastly upon him, " whose
head and heart form a most detestable contrast. Ay, sir," continued I, raising
my voice, " and I am glad to have this opportunity of detecting him in the
midst of liis fancied security. Do you know this, sir, this pocket-book ?"
" Yes, sir," returned he, with a iixce of impenetrable assurance, " that pocket-
book is mine, and I am glad you have found it." " And do you know," cried
T, " this letter ? Nay, never falter, man ; but look me full in the fiice : I say, do
}ou know this letter ?" " That letter," returned he, " yes, it was I that
wrote that letter." "And how could you," said I, " so basely, so ungratefully,
presume to write this letter ?" — " And how came you," replied he, with looks
THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD, 653
of unparalleled effrontery, " so basely to presume to break open tins letter?
Don't you know, now, I could hang you all for this ? All that I hare to
do is to swear at the next justice's, that you hare been guilty of breaking open
tlic lock of my pocket-book, and so hang you all uj) at his door." This piece
of unexpected insolence raised mo to such a pitch, that I could scarcely govern
my passion. " Ungrateful wretch, begone, and no longer pollute my dwelling
with thy baseness : begone, and never let mc see thee again ; go from my
doors, and the only punishment I wisli thee is an alarmed conscience, which
will be a sufficient tormentor!" so saying, I threw him his pocket-book, which
he took up with a smile, and shutting the clasps with the utmost composure,
left us, quite astonished at the serenity of his assurance. My wife was par-
ticularly enraged that nothing could make him angry, or make him seem
ashamed of his villainies. "My dear," cried I, willing to calm those passions
that had been raised too high among us, "we are not to be surprised that
bad men want shame ; they only blush at being detected in doing good, but
glory in their vices.
" Guilt and Shame, says the allcgoiy, were at first companions, and in the
begimiing of tlieir journey inseparably kept together. But their union was
soon fomid to be disagreeable and inconvenient to both ; Guilt gave Shame
frequent uneasiness, and Shame often betrayed the secret conspiracies of Guilt.
After long disagreement, therefore, they at length consented to part for ever.
Guilt boldly walked forward alone, to overtake Fate, that went before in the
shape of an executioner: but Shame, being naturally timorous, returned back
to keep company with Virtue, which, in the beginning of their journey, they
had left behind. Thus, my children, after men have travelled through a
few stages in vice. Shame forsakes them, and returns back to wait upon the
few virtues they have still remaining."
CHAP TEE XVI.
THE FAMILY USE AET, WHICH IS OPPOSED WITH STILL GEEATEE.
Wjiateyer might have been Sophia's sensations, the rest of the family Avna
casil}^ consoled for Mr. Burchell's absence by the company of our landlord,
whose visits now became more frequent and longer. Thougli he had been
disappointed in pi-ocuring my daughters the amusements of the town, as he
designed, he took every opportunity of supplying them with those little re-
creations which our retirement would admit of. He usually came in the
morning, and while my son and I follov^^ed our occupations abroad, ho sate
with the family at home, and amused them by describing the town, with every
part of which he was particulai-ly acquainted. He could repeat all the ob-
servations that were retailed in the atmosphere of the play-houses, and had all
the good things of the high wits by rote long before they made their way into
the jest-books. The intervals between conversation were employed in teaching
my daughters piquet, or sometimes in setting my two little ones to box to
make them sharj? as ho called it: bu.t the hopes of having him for a son-in-
law, in some measure blinded us to all his imperfections. It must be owned
that my wife laid a thousand schemes to entrap hun ; or, to s^^cak it more
tendei'ly, used every art to magnify the merit of lier daughter. If the cakes
at tea eat short and crisp, they were made by Olivia : if the gooseberry wine
was well knit, the gooseberries were of lier gathering : it was her fingers wliich
gave the pickles their peculiar green ; and in the composition of a pudding, it
was her judgment that mixed the ingredients. Then the poor woman would
sometimes tell the 'squire, that she thought him and Olivia extremely of a
size, and would bid botli stand up to see which was tallest. These instances
654 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
of cunning, which she thought impenetrable, yet which ererybody saw
through, were very pleasing to our benefactor, who gaye every day some new
proofs of his passion, which, though they had not risen to proposals of mar-
riage, yet we thought fell but little short of it ; and his slowness Avas attributed
sometimes to native bashfulness, and sometimes to his fear of ofiendiug his
uncle. An occurrence, however, which happened soon after, put it beyond a
doubt that he designed to become one of our family j my wife even regarded
it as an absolute promise.
My wife and daugliters happening to return a visit to neighbour Elambo-
rough's, found that family had lately got their pictures drawn by a limner,
who travelled the coimtry, and took likenesses for fifteen shilhngs a head.
As tliis family and ours had long a sort of rivahy in point of taste, our spirit
took the alarm at this stolen march upon us, and notwithstanding all I could
say, and I said much, it was resolved that we should have our pictures done
too. Having, therefore, engaged the limner, for what could I do ? our next
deliberation was to shew the superiority of our taste in the attitudes. As for
our neighbom''s family, there were seven of them, and they were drawn with
seven oranges, a thing quite out of taste, no variety in life, no composition in
the world. We desired to have something in a brighter style, and, after many
debates, at length came to an unanimous resolution of being di'awn together
in one largo historical family piece. This would be cheaper, since one frame
would serve for all, and it would be infinitely more genteel ; for all families of
any taste were now drawn in the same manner. As we did not immediately
recollect an historical subject to hit us, we were contented each with being
drawn as independent historical figures. My wife desired to be represented
as Venus, and the painter w^as desired not to be too frugal of his diamonds in
her stomacher and hair. Her two Httle ones were to be as Cupids by her side,
while I, with my gown and band, was to present her with my books on the
Wliistonian controversy. Olivia would be drawn as an Amazon, sitting upon
a bank of flowers, dressed in a green Joseph richly laced with gold, and a whip
in her hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep as the
painter could put in for nothing ; and Moses was to be dressed out with an
hat and white feather. Our taste so much pleased the 'squire, that he insisted
on being put in as one of the family, in the character of Alexander the Great,
at Olivia's feet. This was considered by us all as an indication of his desire to
be introduced into the family, nor could we refuse his request. The painter
was therefore set to work, and as he wrought with assiduity and expedition,
in less than four days the whole was completed. The piece was large, and it
must be owned he did not spare his colours ; for which my wife gave him
great encomiums. We were all perfectly satisfied with his performance ; but
an unfortunate circumstance had not occiu'red till the picture was finished,
which now struck us with dismay. It was so very large that we had no place
in the house to fix it. How we all came to disregard so material a point is
inconceivable ; but certain it is, we had been all greatly remiss. The picture,
therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we hoped, leaned, in a most
mortifying manner, against the kitchen wall, where the canvass was stretched
and painted, much too large to be got through any of the doors, and the jest
of all our neighbours. One compared it to Eobinson Crusoe's long-boat, too
large to be removed ; another thought it more resembled a reel in a bottle ;
some wondered how it could be got out, but still more were amazed how it
ever got in.
But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effectually raised more mali-
cious suggoslions in many. The 'squire's porti-ait being found united with
ours, wai an honour too great to escape envy. Scandalous whispers began to
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 656
circulate at o^^x expense, and our tranquillity was continually disturbed by
persons who came as friends to tell us -wbat was said of us by enemies. These
reports we always resented with becoming spirit ; but scandal ever improves
by opposition.
We once again therefore entered into a consultation upon obviating the
malice of ovir enemies, and at last came to a resolution which had too much
cunning to give me entire satisfaction. It was this : as our principal object
was to discover the honour of Mr. Thornhill's addresses, my wife undertook
to sound him by pretending to ask his advice in the choice of an husband for
her eldest daughter. If this was not found sufEcient to induce him to a
declaration, it was then resolved to terrify him with a rival. To this last
step, however, I would by no means give my consent, till Olivia gave me the
most solemn asstu'ances that she would mai'ry the person provided to rival him
upon this occasion, if he did not prevent it, by taking her himself. Such was
the scheme laid, which, though I did not strenuously oppose, I did not entirely
approve.
The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill came to see us, my girls took
care to be out of the way, in order to give their mamma an opportunity of
putting her scheme in execution ; but they only retii*ed to the next room,
whence they could overhear the whole conversation : my wife artfully intro-
duced it, by observmg, that one of the Miss Flamboroughs 'was hke to have a
very good match of it in Mr. Spanker. To this the 'squire assenting, she
proceeded to remark, that they who had warm fortunes were always sure of
getting good husbands : " But heaven help," contiuued she, " the girls that
have none. What signifies beauty, Mr. Thornhill ? or what signifies all the
virtue, and all the qualifications in the world, in this age of self-interest ?
It is not, what is she ? but, what has she ? is aU the cry."
" Madam," retui'ned he, " I highly approve the justice, as well as the novelty,
of yom- remarks, and if I were a king, it should be otherwise. It should then,
indeed, be fine times with the gu4s without fortunes : our two young ladies
shovild be the first for whom I would provide."
" Ah, SU-," returned my wife, " you are pleased to be facetious : but I wish
I were a queen, and then I know where my eldest daughter should look for an
husband. But now that you have put it into my head, seriously, Mr. Thorn-
hdl, can't you recommend me a proper husband for her ? she is now nineteen
years old, well gTown and well educated, and, in my hvmable opinion, does not
want for parts."
" Madam," replied he, "if I were to choose, I would find out a person pos-
sessed of every accomplishment that can make an angel happy. One with
prudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity ; such, madam, would be, in my opinion,
the proper husband." " Ay, sir," said she, " but do you know of any such
person?" — "No, madam," returned he, "it is impossible to know any person
that deserves to be her husband : she's too great a treasure for one man's pos-
B?ssion : she's a goddess. Upon my soul, I speak what I think, she's an
mgel." — " Ah, Mr. Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl : but we have been
thinking of marrying her to one of yom* tenants, whose mother is lately dead,
and who wants a manager ; you know whom I mean, farmer Williams ; a
warm man, Mr. Thornhill, able to give her good bread j and who has several
times made her proposals :" (which was actually the case) " but, sii'," con-
cluded she, " I should be glad to have your approbation of our choice." —
" How, madam," replied he, " my approbation ! My approbation of such a
choice ! !Never. What ! Sacrifice so much beauty, and sense, and goodiiess,
to a creature insensible of the blessing ! Excuse me, I can never approve of
856 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Deborah, " if you hare youi' reasons, that's another affair -, but I should be
glad to know those reasons." — "Excuse me, madam," -returned he, "they lie
too deep for discovery :" (laying his hand upon his bosom) " they remain
buried, rivetted here."
After lie was gone, upon general consultation, we could not tell what to make
of tlicse fine sentiments. Olivia considered them as instances of the most
exalted passion ; but I was not quite so sanguine : it seemed to me pretty
plain, that they had more of love, than matrimony, in them : yet, whatever
they might portend, it was resolved to prosecute the scheme of farmer Wil-
liams, Avlio, from my daughter's first appearance in the country, had paid her
his addresses.
CHAPTER XYII.
SCAllCELY ANY VIRTUE rOUND TO EE3IST THU POWEE OP LOIs^G AND
PLEASING TEMPTATION.
As I only studied my child's real happiness, the assiduity of Mr. Williams
pleased me, as he was in easy circumstances, prudent, and sincere. It required
but very little encouragement to revive his former passion ; so that in an
evening or two he and Mr. Thornhill met at our house, and surveyed eacli other
for some time with looks of anger, but Williams owed his landlord no rent,
and little regai'dcd liis indignation. Olivia, on her side, acted the coquette to
perfection, if that might be called acting which was her real character, pre-
tending to lavish all her tenderness on her new lover. Mr. Thornhill appeai'ed
quite dejected at this preference, and with a pensive air took leave, though I
own it puzzled me to find him so much in pain as he appeared to be, when he
had it in his power so easily to remove the cause, by declaring an honourable
passion. But whatever uneasiness he seemed to endure, it could easily be
perceived that Olivia's anguish was still greater. After any of these interviews
between her lovers, of which there were several, slie usually i*etired to solitude,
and there indulged her grief. It was in such a situation I found her one
evening, after she had been for some time supporting a fictitious gaiety —
"You now see, my child," said I, " that your confidence in Mr. Thornhiil's
passion was all a dream : he permits the rivalry of another, every way his in-
ferior, though he knows it lies in his power to secure you to himself by a can-
did declai'ation." — "Yes, papa," returned she, "but he has his reasons for
this delay : I know he has. The sincerity of his looks and words convinces
me of his real esteem. A short time, I hope, will discover the generosity of
his sentiments, and convince you that my opinion of him has been more just
than yours." — " Ohvia, my darling," retui'ued I, " every scheme that has been
hitherto pursued to compel him to a declaration, has been proposed and
planned by yourself, nor can you in the least say that I have constrained you.
But you must not suppose, my dear, that I will ever be instrumental in suf-
fering his honest rival to be the dupe of your ill-placed passion. Whatever
time you requu-e to bring your fancied admirer to an explanation shall be
granted ; but at the expiration of that term, if h.e is still regardless, I must
absolutely insist that honest Mr. Williams shall be rewarded for his fidelity.
The character which I have hitherto supported in life demands this from me,
and my tenderness as a parent, shall never influence my integrity as a man.
Name then your day, let it be as distant as you think proper, and in the mean
time take care to let Mr. Thornhill know the exact time on which I design
delivering you up to another. If he really loves you, his own good sense will
readily suggest that there is but one method alone to prevent his losing you
for ever." — This proposal, which she could not avoid considering as perfectly
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 657
just, was readily agreed to. She again renewed her most positive promise of
marrying Mr. Williams, in case of the other's insensibility ; and at the next
opportunity, in Mr. Thovnhill's presence, that day month was fixed upon for
her nuptials with his rival.
Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr. Thomhill's anxiety : but
what Olivia really felt gave me some uneasiness. In this struggle between
prudence and passion, her vivacity quite forsook her, and every opportunity of
solitude was sought, and spent in tears. One week passed away j but Mr.
Thox'nhill made no eiforts to restrain her nuptials. The succeeding week he
was still assidiious ; but not more open. On the third he discontinued his visits
entirely, and instead of my daughter testifying any impatience, as I expected,
she seemed to retain a pensive tranquillity, Avhich I looked upon as resignation.
For my own part, I was now sincerely pleased with thinking that my
child was going to be secured in a continuance of competence and peace,
and frequently applauded her I'esolution, in preferring happiness to osten-
tation.
It was within about four days of her intended nuptials, that my little family
at night were gathered round a cliarming fire, telling stories of the past, and
laying schemes for the future. Busied in forming a thousand projects, and
laughing at whatever folly came uppermost, "Well, Moses," cried I, "we
shall soon, my boy, have a wedding in the family ; what is your opinion of
matters and things in general ?" — " My opinion, father, is, that all things go
on very well : and I was just now thinking, that when sister Livy is married
to farmer Williams, we shall then have the loan of his cider-press and brewing-
tubs for nothing." — " That wo shall, Moses," cried I, " and he will sing us
Death and the Lady, to raise our spirits, into the bargain." " He has taught
that song to our Dick," cried Moses, " and I think he goes through it very
prettily." — " Does he so ?" cried I, " then let us have it : where's little Dick ?
let him up with it boldly." — " My brother Dick," cried Bill, my youngest, " is
just gone out with sister Livy : but Mr. Williams has taught me two songs,
and I'll sing them for you, papa. Which song do you choose, the Dying Swan,
or the Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog .?" — " The elegy, child, by all means,"
said T ; " I never heard that yet ; and Deborah, my life, grief you know is diy,
lot us have a bottle of the best gooseberry wine, to keep up our spirits. I have
wept so much at all sorts of elegies of late, that without an enlivening glass,
T am sure this will overcome me ; and Sophy, love, take yom* guitar, and
tlirum in with the boy a little."
AK ELEO-Y ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOa.
G-OOD people all, of every sort,
Grive ear unto my song,
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran.
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had.
To comfort friends and foes ;
The nuked every day he clad,
When lie put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there bo,
42
G58 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends ;
But when a pique began.
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran.
And swore the dog had lost liis wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye ;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light.
That shew'd the rogues they lied,
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
" A veiy good boy, BiU, upon my word, and an elegy that may truly be
called tragical. Come my children, here's Bill's health, and may he one day
be a bishop."
" With all my heart," cried my wife ; " and if he but preaches as well as he
sings, I make no doubt of him. The most of his family, by the mother's side,
could sing a good song : it was a common saying in our country, that the
family of the Blenkinsops could never look straight before them, nor the Hug-
ginsons blow out a candle ; that there were none of the Grrograms but could
sing a song, or of the Marjorams but could tell a story." — " However that be,"
cried I, " the most vulgar ballad of them all generally pleases me better tlian
the fine modern odes, and things that petrify us in a single stanza ; pro-
ductions that we at once detest and praise. Put the glass to your brother,
Moses. The great fault of these elegiasts is, that they are in despair for
griefs that give the sensible part of mankind very little pain. A lady loses her
muff, her fan, or her lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs home to versify the
disaster."
" That may be the mode," cried Moses, " in sublimer compositions ; but the
Banelagh songs that come down to us are perfectly famihar, and all cast in
the same mould : Colin meets Dolly, and they hold a dialogue together ; he
gives her a fairing to put in her hau*, and she presents him with a nosegay ;
and then they go together to chm'ch, where they give good advice to young
nymphs and swains to get married as fast as they can."
" And very good advice too, " cried I, " and I am told there is not a place
in the world where advice can be given with so much propriety as there i for
as it persuades us to marry, it also furnishes us with a wife ; and surely that
must be an excellent market, my boy, where we are told what we want, and
supplied with it when wanting,"
" Yes, sir," returned Moses, " and I know but of two such markets for wives
in Europe, Ranelagh in England, and Eontarabia in Spain. The Spanish
market is open once a year, but our English wives are saleable every night."
" You are right, my boy," cried his mother, " Old England is the only place
! in the world for husbands to get wives." — " And for wives to manage their
{ luisbands," interrupted I. " It is a proverb abroad, that if a bridge were
, built across the sea, all the ladies of tlio continent would come over to tako
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 669
pattern from ours : for tlieve are no such wires in Europe as oiir own. But
let us have one bottle more, Deborah, my life, and Moses give us. a good song.
Wliat thanks do we not owe to Heaven for thus bestowing tranquillity, health,
and competence. I think myself happier now than the greatest monarch upon
earth. lie has no such fire-side, nor such pleasant faces about it. Yes, De-
borah, we are now growing old : but the evening of our life is likely to be
liappy. We are descended from ancestors that knew no stain, and we shall
leave a good and virtuous race of children behind us. While we live
they will be our support and our pleasure here, and when we die they will
transmit our honour untainted to posterity. Come, my son, we wait for a
song : let us have a chorus. But where is my darling Olivia ? That little
cherub's voice is always sweetest in the concert." Just as I spoke Dick came
running in, " O papa, papa, she is gone from us, she is gone from us, my
sister Livy is gone from us for ever." — " Q-one, child !" " Yes, she is gone off
with two gentlemen in a post-chaise, and one of them kissed her, and said he
would die for her ; and she cried vei'y much, and was for coming back ; but
he persuaded her again, and she went into the chaise, and said, O what will
my poor papa do when he knows I am undone !" — " Now then," cried I, " my
children, go and be miserable ; for we shall never enjoy one hour more. And
O may Heaven's everlasting fury light upon him and his ! Thus to rob me of
my child ! And sure it will, for taking back my sweet innocent that I was
leading up to Heaven. Such sincerity as my chilcl was possessed of! But all
our earthly happiness is now over ! G-o, my children, go, and be miserable
and infamous : for my heart is broken within me !" — " Pather," cried my son,
" is this yoin* fortitude ?" " Fortitude, child ! Yes, he shall see I have forti-
tude ! Bring me my pistols. I'll pursue the traitor. Wliile he is on earth I'll
pursue liim. Old as I am, he shall find I can sting him yet. The villain ! the
perfidious villain !" — I had by this time reached down my pistols, when my
poor wife, whose passions were not so strong as mine, caught me in her arms.
*' My dearest, dearest husband," cried she, " the Bible is the only weapon that
is fit for yoiu' old hands now. Open that, my love, and read our anguish into
patience, for she has vilely deceived us." — " Indeed, sir," resumed my son, after
a pause, " your rage is too violent and unbecoming. You shoidd bo my
mother's comforter, and you increase her pain. It iU suited you and your
reverend character, thus to curse your greatest enemy : you should not have
cursed him, villain as he is."-»"I did not cin*se, him, child, did I?" "In-
deed, sir, you did ; you cursed him twice." — " Then may heaven forgive me
and him if I did. And now, my son, I see it was more than human benevo-
lence that first taught us to bless our enemies ! Blessed be his holy name for
all the good he hath given, and for all that he hath taken away ! But it is
not, it is not a small distress that can wring tears from these old eyes, that
have not wept for so many years. My child! — To undo my darling! May
confusion seize — Heaven forgive me, what am I about to say ! You may re-
member, my love, how good she was, and how charming ; till this vile moment
all her care was to make us happy. Had she but died ! But she is gone, the
honour of our family contaminated, and I must look out for happiness in
other worlds than here. But, my child, you saw them go off: perhaps he
forced her away ? If ho forced her, she may yet be innocent." — " Ah no, sir I"
cried the child ; " he only kissed her, and called her his angel, and she wept
very much, and leaned upon his arm, and they drove off very fast." — "She's
an imgratefid creature," cried my wife, who could scarcely speak for weeping,
" to use us thus. She never had the least constraint put upon her affections.
The vile strumpet has basely deserted her parents without any provocation —
thus to bring yoiu' gray hairs to the grave, and I must shortly follow."
660 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
In this manner that night, the first of our real misfortunes, was spent in the
bitterness of complaint, and ill-supported sallies of enthusiasm. I deter*
mined, howerer, to find out our betrayer, wherever he was, and reproach his
baseness. The next morning we missed our wretclied child at breakfast,
where she used to give life and cheerfulness to us all. My wife, as before,
attempted to ease her heart by reproaches. " Never," cried she, " shall that
vilest stain of om* family again darken these harmless doors. I will never
call her daughter more, No, let the strumpet live with her vile seducer : she
may bring us to shame, but she shall never more deceive us."
" Wife," said I, " do not talk thus hardly : my detestation of her guilt is as
great as yours ; but ever shall this house and this heart be open to a poor re-
tm*ning repentant sinner. The sooner she returns from her transgression, the
more welcome shall she be to me. For the first time the very best may err ;
art may persuade, and novelty spread out its charm. The first fault is tlie
child of simplicity ; but every other the ofispring of guilt. Yes, the wi'etchcd
creature shall be welcome to this heart and this house, though stained wiLli
ten thousand vices. I will again hearken to the music of her voice, again will
I hang fondly on her bosom, if I find but repentance there. My son, bring
hither my Bible and my staff; I will pursue her, wherever she is, and though
I cannot save her from shame, I may prevent the continuance of inquity."
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PUESUIT OP A FATHEE TO EECLAIM A LOST CHILD TO TIETUE.
Though the child could not describe the gentleman's person who handed his
sister into the post-chaise, yet my suspicions fell entirely upon our young land-
lord, whose character for such intrigues was but too well known. I therefore
directed my steps towards Thorn] lill-castle, resolving to iipbraid him, and, if
possible, to bring back my daughter : but before I had reached his seat, I was
/act by one of my parishioners, who said he saAv a young lady resembling my
daughter, in a post-chaise with a gentleman, whom, by the description, I could
only guess to be Mr. Burchell, and that they drove very fast. This informa-
tion, however, did by no means satisfy me. I therefore went to the young
'squire's, and though it was yet early, insisted upon seeing him immediately :
he soon appeared witli the most o^Den familiar air, and seemed perfectly
amazed at my daughter's elopement, protesting upon his honour that he was
quite a stranger to it. I now therefore condemned my former suspicions, and
could turn them only upon Mr. Burchell, who, I recollected, had of late
several private conferences with her : but the appearance of another witness
left me no room to doubt of his villainy, who averred, that he and my daugh-
ter were actually gone towards the Wells, about thirty miles off, where there
was a great deal of company. Being driven to that state of mind in which
we are more ready to act precipitately than to reason right, I never debated
with myself, whether these accounts might not have been given by persons pur-
posely placed in my way to mislead me, but resolved to pursue my daughter and
lier fancied deluder thither. I walked along with earnestness, and inquired of
several by the way ; but received no accounts till, entering the town, I was
met by a person on horseback, whom I remembered to have seen at the 'squire's,
and he assured me, that if I followed them to the races, which were but thirty
miles farther, I might depend upon overtaking them, for he had seen them
dance there the night before, and the "whole assembly seemed charmed with
my daughter's performance. Early the next day I walked forward to the
races, and about four in the afternoon I came upon the coarse. The company
made a very brilliant appearance, all earnestly employed in one pursuit, that of
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 061
plcasiu'e ; how different from mine, that of reclaiming a lost child to rirtiie!
I tliouglit I perceived Mr. Burchell at some distance from me ; but, as if lio
dreaded an interview, upon my approaching liim, he mixed among a crowd, and
I saw him no more. I now reflected that it would be to no piu-pose to con-
tinue my pursuit farther, and resolved to return home to an innocent family,
who wanted my assistance. But the agitations of my mind, and the fatigues
I had undergone, threw me into a fever, the symptoms of which I perceived
before I came off the course. This was another luiexpected stroke, as I was
more than seventy miles distant from home : however I retired to a little ale-
house by the road-side, and in this place, the usual retreat of indigence and
frugality, I laid me down patiently to wait tlie issue of my disorder. I lan-
guished here for nearly three weeks ; but at last my constitution prevailed,
though I was unprovided with money to defray the expenses of my entertain-
ment. It is possible tlie anxiety from this last circumstance alone might have
brought on a relapse, had I not been supjslied by a traveller, who stopped to
take a cursory refreshment. This person was no other than the philanthropic
bookseller in St. Paul's church-yard, who has written so many little books for
children : he called himself their friend ; but he was the friend of all mau-
khid. He was no sooner alighted, but he was in haste to be gone ; for he was
ever on business of the utmost importance, and was at that time actually com-
piling materials for the liistory of one Mr. Thomas Trip. I immediately re-
collected this good-natiu-ed man's red pimpled face ; for he had published for
me against the Deuterogamists of the age, and from him I boj'rowed a few
pieces, to be paid at my return. Leaving the inn, therefore, as I was yet but
weak, I resolved to return home by easy joimieys of ten miles a day. My
health and visual tranquillity were almost restored, and I now condemned that
pride which had made me refractory to the hand of correction. Man little
knows what calamities are beyond his patience to bear till he tries them ; as
in ascending the heights of ambition, which look bright from below, every
step we rise shews us some new and gloomy prospect of hidden disappoint-
ment : so in our descent from the summits of pleasure, though the vale of
misery below may appear at first dark and gloomy, yet the busy mind, still at-
tentive to its own amusement, finds as we descend something to flatter and to
please. Still, as we a])proach, the darkest objects appear to brighten, and the
mental eye becomes adapted to its gloomy situation.
I now proceeded foi-ward, and had walked about two hours, when I perceived
what appeared at a distance like a waggon, which I was resolved to overtake ;
but when I came up to it found it to be a strolling company's cart, that was
carrying their scenes and other theatrical funiiture to the next village, where
they were to exhibit. The cart was attended only by the person who
drove it, and one of the company, as the rest of the players were to follow tho
ensuing day. Good company upon the road, says the proverb, is the shortest
cut, I therefore entered into conversation with the poor player ; and as I once
had some theatrical powers myself, I disserted on such topics with my usual
freedom : but as I was pretty much unacquainted with the present state of the
stage, I demanded who were the present theatrical writers in vogue, who the
Drydens and Otways of the day. — "I fancy, sir," cried the player, "few
of our modern dramatists would think themselves much honoured by being
compared to the writers you mention. Dryden's and Rowe's manner, sir, are
quite out of fashion ; our taste has gone back a whole century, Fletcher, Ben
efonson, and all the plays of Shakspcare, arc the only things that go down."
— " How," cried I, " is it possible the present age can be pleased with
that antiquated dialect, that obsolete humour, those over-charged characters,
which abound in the works you mention?" — "Sir," returned my com-
662 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
panion, " the public think nothing about dialect, or humour, or cliaractei* ; for
that is none of their business, they only go to be amused, and find themselves
happy when they can enjoy a pantomime under the sanction of Jonson's or
Shakspeare's name." — "So then, I suppose," cried I, " that our modern
dramatists are rather imitators of Shakspeare than of nature." — *' To say
the truth," returned my companion, " I don't know that they imitate any thing
at all ; nor indeed does the public require it of them : it is not the composi-
tion of the piece, but tlie number of starts and attitudes that may be intro-
duced into it, that elicits applause. I have known a piece, with not one jest
in the whole, shrugged into popularity, and another saved by the poet's throw-
ing in a fit of the gripes. No, sir, the works of Congreve and Farquharhave
too much wit in them for the present taste ; our modern dialect is much more
natural."
By this time the equipage of the strolling company was arrived at the village,
wliich, it seems, had been apprised of our approach, and was come out to gaze
at us ; for my companion observed, that strollers always have more spectators
without doors than within. I did not consider the impropriety of my being in
such company tiU I saw a mob gather about me. I therefore took shelter, as
fast as possible, in the first ale-house that offered, and being shewn into the
common room, was accosted by a very well-dressed gentleman, who demanded
whether I was (he real chaplain of the company, or whether it was only to be
my masquerade character in tlie play. Upon my informing him of the truth,
and that I did not belong in any sort to the company, he was condescending
enough to desire me and the player to partake in a bowl of punch, over which
he discussed modern politics with great earnestness and interest. I set him
down in my own mind for nothing less than a parliament-man at least ; but
was almost confirmed in my conjectures, when upon asking what there was in
the house for supper, he insisted that the player and I should sup with him
ftt his house : with which request, after some entreaties, we were prevailed on
to comply.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE DESCRIPTION OP \ PEESON DISCONTENTED "WITH THE PRESENT GOVERN-
MENT, AND APPREHENSIVE OP THE LOSS OF OUR LIBERTIES.
The house where we were to be entertaind lying at a small distance from the
village, ou.r inviter observed, that as the coach was not ready, he would con-
duct us on foot, and we soon arrived at one of the most magnificent mansions I
had seen in that part of the countiT-. The apartment into which we were shewn
was perfectly elegant and modern ; he went to give orders for supper, while
the player, with a wink, observed that we were perfectly in luck. Our enter-
tainer soon returned, an elegant supper was brought in, two or three ladies in
easy dishabille were introduced, and the conversation began with some spright-
liness. Politics, however, were the subject on wliich our entertainer cliiefly
expatiated : for he asserted that liberty was at once his boast and his terror.
After the cloth was removed, he asked mo if I had seen the last Monitor, to
which replying in the negative, " What ! nor the Auditor, I suppose ?" cried
he "Neither, sir," returned I. "That's strange, very strange," replied my
entertainer. "Now I read all the politics that come out. The Daily, the
Public, the Ledger, the Chronicle, the London Evening, tlie Whitehall Even-
ing, the seventeen magazines, and the two Eeviews ; and though they hate
each other, I love them all. Liberty, sir, liberty is the Briton's boast, and by
all my coal-mines in Cornwall I reverence its guardians." "Then it is to be
hoped," cried I, " you reverence the king." "Yes," returned my entertainer,
" when he does what we would have him ; but if he goes on as he has done of
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 663
late, I'll never trouble myself more witli his matters. I say nothing. I think
only. I could have directed some things better. I don't think there has
been a sufficient number of advisers : he should advise with every person
willing to give him advice, and then we should have things done in another
guess manner."
" I wish," cried I, " that such intruding advisers were fixed in the pillory.
It should be the duty of honest men to assist the weaker side of our constitu-
tion, that sacred power that has for some years been every day declining, and
losing its due share of influence in the state. But these ignorants still con-
tinue the same cry of liberty, and if they have any weight, basely throw it into
the subsiding scale."
*' How," cried one of the ladies, " do I live to see one so base, so sordid, as
to be an enemy to liberty, and a defender of tyrants ? Liberty, that sacred
gift of heaven, that glorious privilege of Britons !"
*' Can it be possible," cried our entertainer, " that there should be any found
at present advocates for slavery ? Any who are for meanly giving up the
privileges of Britons ? Can any, sir, be so abject ?"
" No, sir," replied I, " I am for liberty, that attribute of Glods ! Glorious
liberty! that theme of modem declamation. I would have aU men kings. I
would be a king myself. We have all natui'ally an equal right to the throne ;
we are all originally equal. This is my opinion, and was once the opinion of
a set of honest men who were called Levellers. They tried to erect themselves
into a commimity, where all should be equally free. But, alas ! it would
never answer ; for there were some among them stronger, and some more
cunning than others, and these became masters of the rest ; for as sm'e as your
groom rides your horses, because he is a cunninger animal than they, so surely
will the animal that is cunninger or stronger than he, sit upon his shoulders
in turn. Since then it is entailed upon humanity to submit, and some are
born to command, and others to obey, the question is, as there must bo tyrants,
whether it is better to have them in the same house with us, or in the same
village, or stiU farther oif, in the metropolis. Now, sir, for my own part, as I
naturally hate the face of a tyrant, the fartlier off he is removed from me, the
better pleased am I. The generality of mankind also are of my way of think-
ing, and have unanimously created one king, whose election at once diminishes
the number of tyrants, and puts tyranny at the greatest distance from the
greatest number of people. Now the great, who were tyrants themselves
before the election of one tyrant, are naturally averse to a power raised over
them, and whose weight must ever lean heaviest on the subordinate orders.
It is the interest of the great, therefore, to diminish kingly power as much as
possible ; because whatever they take from that is naturally restored to them-
selves ; and all they have to do in the state, is to undermine the single tyrant
by which they resume their primaeval authority. Now the state may be so
circumstanced, or its laws may be so disposed, or its men of opulence so
minded, as all to conspire in carrying on this business of undermining
monarchy. For, in the first place, if the circumstances of our state be such as
to favour the accumulation of wealth, and make the opident still more rich,
this will increase their ambition. An accumulation of wealth, however, must
necessarily be the consequence, when, as at present, more riches flow in from
external commerce than arise from internal industry ; for external commerce
can only be managed to advantage by tlie rich, and they have also at the same
time all the emoluments arising from internal industry ; so that the rich, with
us, have two sources of wealth, whereas the poor have but one. For this
reason, wealth, in all commercial states, is found to accumulate, and aU such
have hitherto in time become aristocratical. Again, the very laws also of this
664 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
country may contribute to the accumulation of wealth ; as when by their
means the natural tics that bind the rich and poor together are broken,
and it is ordained that the rich shall only marry with the rich ; or when the
learned are held imquahfied to serve their country as counsellors merely from
a defect of opulence, and wealth is thus made the object of a wise man's am-
bition ; by these means I say, and such means as these, riches will accumulate.
Now the possessor of accumulated wealth, when furnished with the necessaries
and pleasures of life, has no other method to employ tlie superfluity of his
fortune but in purchasing power. That is, differently speaking, in making de-
pendants, by purchasing the liberty of tlie needy or the venal, of men who are
willing to bear the mortification of contiguous tyranny for bread. Thus ^ach
every opulent man generally gathers round him a circle of the poorest of the
people ; and the polity abounding in accmnulated wealth, may be compared
to a Cartesian system, each orb with a vortex of its own. Those, however,
who are willing to move in a great man's vortex, are only such as must bo
slaves, the rabble of mankind, whose souls and whose education are adapted
to servitude, and who know nothing of liberty except the name. But there
must f till be a large number of the people without the sphere of the opulent
man's influence, namely, that order of men which subsists between the very
rich and the very rabble ; those men who are possessed of too large fortunes
to submit to the neighbouring man in power, and yet are too poor to set up
for tyranny themselves. In this middle order of mankind are generally to be
lound all the arts, wisdom, and virtues of society. This order alone is known
to be the true preserver of freedom, and may be called the people. Now it
may happen that this middle order of mankind may lose all its influence in a
state, and its voice be in a manner drowned in that of the rabble : for if the
fortune sufficient for qualifying a person at present to give his voice in state*
affairs be ten times less than was judged sufficient upon forming the constitu-
tion, it is evident that greater numbers of the rabble will tlius be introduced
into the political system, and they, ever moving in the vortex of the great,
will follow where greatness shall direct. In such a state, therefore, all that
the middle order has left, is to preserve the prerogative and privileges of the
one principal governor with the most sacred circumspection. For he divides
the power of the rich, and calls oif the great from falling with tenfold weight
on the middle order placed beneath them. The middle order may be com-
pared to a town of which the opulent are forming the siege, and of which the
governor from without is hastening the relief. While the besiegers are in
dread of an enemy over them, it is but natural to offer the townsmen the
most specious terms ; to flatter them with sounds, amuse them with privi-
leges ; bat if they once defeat the governor from behind, the walls of the town
will be but a small defence to its inhabitants. What they may then expect,
may be seen by turning our eyes to Holland, Grenoa, or Venice, where the laws
govern the poor, and the rich govern the law. I am then for, and would die
for, monarchy, sacred monarchy ; for if there be any thing sacred amongst
men, it must be the anointed Sovereign of his people, and every diminution
of his power in wai*, or in peace, is an infringement upon the real liberties of
the subject. The sounds of liberty, patriotism, and Britons, have already
done much ; it is to be hoped that the true sons of freedom will prevent their
ever doing more. I have known many of those pretended champions for
liberty in my time, yet I do not remember one that was not in his heart and in
his family a tyrant."
My wa,rmth, I found, had lengthened lliis harangue beyond the rules ol
good breeding : but the impatience of my entertainer, who often strove to inter-
rupt it, could bo restrained no longer. " What," cried he, " then I have been
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 665
all tills wliilo entertaining a Jesuit in parson's clothes ; but by all the coal-
mines of Cornwall, out he shall pack, if my name be Wilkinson." I now
found I had gone too far, and asked pardon for the warmth with which I had
spoken. " Pardon," returned he in a fury, " I think such principles demand
ten thousand pardons. What, give up hberty, iDroperty, and, as the Grazct-
tcer says, lie down to be saddled with wooden shoes ! Sir, I insist upon your
marching out of this house immediately, to prerent worse consequences, sir, I
insist upon it." I was going to repeat my remonstrances : but just then v^'e
heard a footman's rap at the door, and the two ladies cried out, "As sm-e as
death there is our master and mistress come home." It seems my entertainer
was all this while only the butler, who, in his master's absence, had a mind to
cut a figure, and be for a while the gentleman himself: and to say the truth,
he talked politics as well as most country gentlemen do. But nothing could
now exceed my confusion upon seeing the gentleman and his lady enter, nor
was their surprise, at finding such company and good cheer, less than om's.
" Grentlemen," cried the real master of the house to me and my companion,
" my wife and I arc your most humble servants ; but I protest this is so un-
expected a favour, that we almost sink under the obligation." However
unexpected our company might be to them, theu's, I am sure, Avas still more
so to us, and I was struck dumb with the apprehensions of my own absurdity,
Avhen whom should I next see enter the room but my dear Miss Arabella Wilmot,
who was formerly designed to be married to my son G-eorge, but whose match
was broken off as already related. As soon as she saw me, she flew to my arms
Avith the utmost joy.—" My dear sir," cried she, " to what happy accident is it
that we owe so unexpected a visit ? I am sure my imcle and aunt will be in
raptures when they find they have the good Dr. "Primrose for their guest."
Upon hearing my name, the old gentleman and lady very politely stepped up,
and welcomed me with most cordial hospitality. Nor could they forbear
smiling upon being informed of the natm-e of my present visit ; but the un-
fortunate butler, whom they at first seemed disposed to turn away, was at my
intercession forgiven.
Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, now insisted upon
having the pleasure of my stay for some days, and as their niece, my charming
pupil, whose mind in some measure had been formed under my own in-
structions, joined in their entreaties, I comijlied. That night I was shewn to
a magnificent chamber, and the next morning early. Miss Wilmot desired to
walk with me in the garden, which was decorated in the modern manner.
After some time spent in pointing out the beauties of the place, she enquired
with seeming unconcern, when last I had heard from my son George. "Alas !
Madam," cried I, " he has now been neai-ly thi-ee years absent, without ever
waiting to his friends or me. Where he is I know not ; perhaps I shall never
see him or happiness more. No, my dear Madam, we shall never more see
such pleasing hours as were once spent by our fire-side at Wakefield. My
little family are now dispersing yerj fast, and poverty has brought not only
want, but infamy upon us."
The good-natured gu-l let fall a tear at this account ; but as I saw her pos-
sessed of too much sensibility, I forbore a more minute detail of our suirer-
ings. It was, however, some consolation to me to find that time had made no
alteration in her affections, and that she had rejected several offers that had
been made her since our leaving her part of the country. She led me round
all the extensive improvements of the place, pointing to the several walks and
arbours, and at the same time catching from every object a hint for some new
question relative to my son. In this manner we spent the forenoon, till the
bell summoned us in to dinner, where we found the manager of the strolliug
066 THE rrORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
company that I mentioned before, who was come to dispose of tickets for the
Fair Penitent, which was to he acted that eyening, the part of Horatio by a
young gentleman who had neror appeared on any stage. He seemed to be
very wann in the praises of the new performer, and averred that he never saw
any who bid so fair for excellence. Acting, he observed, was not learned in a
day ; " But this gentleman," continued lie, " seems born to tread the stage.
His voice, his figure, and attitudes, are aU admirable. We caught him up
accidentally in our journey down." This account, in some measure, excited
our curiosity, and at the entreaty of the ladies, I was prevailed upon to accom-
pany them to the play-house, which was no other than a barn. As the com-
pany with which I went was incontestably the chief of tlie place, we were
I'cceived with the greatest respect, and placed in the front seat of the theatre,
where we sate for some time with no small impatience to see Horatio make
his appearance. The new performer advanced at last, and let parents think
of my sensations by their own, when I found it was my unfortunate son. He
was going to begin, when turning his eyes upon the audience, he perceived
Miss Wilmot and me, and stood at once speechless and immovable. The
actors behind the scene, who ascribed this pause to his natui-al timidity, at-
tempted to encourage him ; but histead of going on, he burst into a flood of
tears, and retired oil' tlie stage. I don't know what were my feelings on this
occasion : for they succeeded with too much rapidity for description : but I
was soon awaked from this disagreeable reverie by Miss Wilmot, who, pale
and with a trembling voice, desired me to conduct her back to her uncle's.
When got home, Mr. Arnold, who was as yet a stranger to our extraordinary
behaviour, being informed tliat the new performer was my son, sent his coach
and an invitation for him ; and as he persisted in his refusal to appear again
upon tlie stage, the players put another in his place, and we soon had him with
us. Mr. Arnold gave him the kindest reception, and I received him with my
usual transport ; for I could never countei-feit false resentment. Miss Wil-
mot's reception was mixed with seeming neglect, and yet I could perceive she
acted a studied part. The tumult in her mind seemed not yet abated : she
said twenty giddy things that looked like joy, and then laughed loud at her
own want of meaning. At intervals she would take a sly peep at the glass, as
if happy in the consciousness of irresistible beauty, and often would ask ques-
tions without giving any manner of attention to the answers.
CHAPTER XX.
THE niSTOEY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND PUESUINa NOVELTY, BUT
LOSING CONTENT.
After we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely offered to send a couple of her foot-
men for my son's baggage, which he at first seemed to decline ; but upon her
pressing the request, lie was obliged to inform her, that a stick and a wallet
were all the movable things upon this earth that he could boast of. " Wiiy,
ay, ray son," cried I, " you left me but poor, and poor I find you arc come
back ; and yet I make no doubt jou have seen a gi-eat deal of the world." —
"Yes, sir," replied my son, "but travelling after fortune is not the way to
secure her ; and indeed of late I have desisted from the pursuit." — " I fancy,
sir," cried Mrs. Arnold, " that the account of your adventures would be
amusing : the first part of them I have often heard from my niece ; but could
the company prevail for the rest, it would be an additional obligation." —
" Madam," j-eplied my son, " I promise you the pleasure you have in hearing,
will not be half so great as my vanity in repeating them, and yet in the whole
narrative I can scarcely promise you one adventure, as my account is rather of
THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. ^^*J
what I saw than "what I did. The first misfortune of my life, which you all
know, was great ; but though it distressed, it could not sink me. No person
ever liad a better knack at hoping than I. The less kind I found fortune at
one time, the more I expected from her another, and being now at the bottom
of her wheel, every new revolution might lift, but could not depress me. I
proceeded, therefore, towards London in a fine morning, no way uneasy about
to-morrow, but cheerful as the birds that cai'olled by the road ; and comforted
myself with reflecting, that London was the mart where abilities of every kind
were sure of meeting distinction and reward.
*' Upoii my arrival in town, sir, my first care was to deliver your letter of
recommendation to our cousin, who was himself in little better circumstances
than I. My first scheme, you know, sir, was to be usher at an academy, and
I asked his advice on the afiair. Our cousin received the proposal with a true
Sardonic grin. Ay, cried he, this is indeed a very pretty career that has been
chalked out for you. I have been an usher at a boarding-school myself; and
may I die by an anodyne necklace, but I had rather be an under-turnkey in
Newgate. I was up early and late ; I was brow-beat by the master, hated for
my ugly face by the mistress, worried by the boys within, and never permitted
to stir out to meet civility abroad. But are you sure you are fit for a school ?
Let me examine you a little. Have you been bred apprentice to the business ?
No. Then you won't do for a school. Can you dress the boy's hair ? No.
Then you won't do for a school. Have you had the small-pox ? No. Then
you won't do for a school. Can you lie three in a bed ? No. Then you will
never do for a school. Have you got a good stomach ? Yes. Then you will
by no means do for a school. No, sir, if you are for a genteel easy profession,
bind yourself seven years as an apprentice to turn a cutler's wheel ; but avoid
a school by any means. Yet come, continued he, I see you are a lad of spirit
and some learning, what do you think of commencing author, like me ? You
have read in books, no doubt, of men of genius starving at the trade : At pre-
sent I'll shew you forty very dull fellows about town that live by it in opulence.
All honest jogtrot men, who go on smoothly and dully, and write history
and politics, and are praised : men, sir, who, had they been bred cobblers,
would all their lives have only mended shoes, iDut never made them.
" Finding that there was no great degree of gentility affixed to the character
of an usher, I resolved to accept his proposal ; and having the highest respect
for literature, hailed the antiqua Mater of G-rub Street with reverence. I
thought it my glory to pursue a track which Dryden and Otway trod before
me. I considered the goddess of this region as the parent of excellence ; and
however an intercourse with the world might give us good sense, the poverty
she entailed I supposed to be the nurse of genius ! Big with these reflections,
I sate down, and finding that the best things remained to be said on the wrong
fciide, I resolved to write a book that should be wholly new. I therefore
dressed up three paradoxes with some ingenuity. They were false, indeed,
but they wei-e new. The jewels of truth have been so often imported by
others, that nothing was left for me to import but some splendid things that
at a distance looked evei-y bit as well. Witness, you powers, what fancied
importance sate perched upon my quill while I Avas vi^riting. The whole
learned world, I made no doubt, would rise to oppose my systems ; but then
I was prepared to oppose the whole learned world. Like the porcupine I sate
self-collected, with a quill pointed against every opposer."
"Well said, my boy," cried I, "and what subject did you treat upon? I
hope you did not pass over the importance of Monogamy. But I interrupt,
go on ; you publislied your paradoxes ; well, and what did the learned world
Bay to your, paradoxes .^"
THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
*' Sir," replied my son, " the learned world said notliing to my paradoxes }
notliing at all, sir. Every man of them was employed in praising liis friends
and himself, or condemning his enemies : and, unfortunately, as I had neither,
I suffered tlic cruellest mortification, neglect.
" As I was meditating one day in a coffee-house on the fate of my paradoxes,
a little man happening to enter the room, placed himself in the box before me,
and after some preliminary discourse, finding me to be a scholar, drew out a
bundle of pi-oposals, begging me to subscribe to a new edition he was going to
give to the world of Propertius with notes. Tliis demand necessarily produced
a reply that I had no money ; and that concession led him to inquu'c into the
nature of my expectations. Finding that my expectations were just as great
as my purse, I see, cried he, you are unacquainted with the town, I'll teach
you a part of it. Look at these ])roposals, upon these very proposals I have
subsisted very :omfortably for twelve years. The moment a nobleman returns
froju his travels, a Creolian arrives from Jamaica, or a dowager from lier
country seat, I strike for a subscription. I first besiege their hearts with flat-
tery, and then pour in my proposals at the breach. If they subscribe readily
the first time, I I'cnew my request to beg a dedication fee. If they let me
have that, I smite them once more for engraving their coat of arms at the top
Thus, continued he, I live by vanity, and laugh at it. But, between ourselves,
I am now too well known, I should be glad to borrow your face a bit ; a
nobleman of distinction has just returned from Italy ; my face is familiar to his
porter ; but if you bring this copy of verses, my life for it you succeed, and
we divide the spoil."
*' Bless us, G-eorge," cried I, " and is this the employment of poets now !
Do men of their exalted talents thus stoop to beggary ! Can they so far dis-
grace their calling, as to make a vile traffic of praise for bread ?"
" Oh no, sir," returned he, " a true poet can never be so base ; for wherever
there is genius there is pride. The creatures I now describe are only beggars
in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves every hardship for fame, so he is equally
a, coward to contempt, and none but those who are unworthy protection con-
descend to solicit it.
" Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, and yet a fortune
too humble to hazard a second attempt for fame, I was noAV obliged to take a
middle course, and write for bread. But I was unquahfied for a profession
where mere industry alpne was to ensure success. I could not suppress my
lui'king passion for applause ; but usually consumed that time in efforts after
excellence which takes up but little room, when it should have been more ad-
vantageously employed in the diffusive productions of fruitful mediocrity.
My little piece would therefore come forth in the midst of periodical publica-
tions, unnoticed and unknown. The public were more importantly employed,
than to observe the easy simplicity of my style, or the liarmony of my
periods. Sheet after sheet was thrown off to oblivion. My essays were
buried among the essays upon liberty, eastern tales, and cures for the bite of
a mad dog : while Pliilautos, Philalethes, Philelutheros, and Philanthropos,
all wrote better, because they wrote faster, thau I.
" Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but disappointed authors,
like myself, who praised, deplored, and despised each other. The satisfaction
we found in every celebrated writer's attempts was inversely as their merits.
I found that no genius in another could please me. My unfortunate para-
doxes had entirely dried up that source of comfort. I could neither read nor
write wit]i satisfaction ; for excellence in another was my aversion, and writing
was my trade.
" In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was one day sitting on a
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. G69
bench in St. James's Park, a young gentleman of distinction, who had been
my intimate acquaintance at the university, approached me. We sahited each
other with some hesitation, he almost ashamed of being known to one who
made so shabby an appearance, and I afraid of a repulse. But my suspicions
soon vanished; for Ned Thornhill was at the bottoin a very good-natured
fellow."
"What did you say, George?" interrupted I. — "Thornhill, was not that his
name ? It can certainly be no other than my landlord." — " Bless me," cried
Mrs. Arnold, "is Mr. Thornhill so near a neighbour of yours ? He has long
been a friend in our family, and we expect a visit from him shortly."
"My friend's first care," continued my son, "was to alter my appearance by
a very fine suit of his own clothes, and then I was admitted to his table, upon
the footing of half-friend, half-underling. My business was to attend him at
auctions, to put him in spirits when he sate for his picture, to take the left
hand in his chariot when not filled by another, and to assist at tattering a
kip, as the phrase was, when we had a mind for a frolic. Besides this, I had
twenty other little employments in the family. I was to do many small
tilings without bidding ; to carry the cork-screw ; to stand godfather to all
the butler's children; to sing when I was bid ; to be never out of humour;
always to be humble, and, if I could, to be very happy,
" In the honourable post, however, I was not without a rival. A captain of
mariners, who was formed for the place by nature, opposed me in my patron's
affections. His mother had been laundress to a man of quality, and thus he
early acquired a taste for pimping and pedigree. As this gentleman made it
the study of his life to be acquainted with lords, though he was dismissed from
several for his stupidity, yet he found many of them who were as dull as him-
self, that permitted his assiduities. As flattery was his trade, he practised it
with the easiest address imaginable; but it came awkward and stiff from me;
and as every day my patron's desire for flattery increased, so every hour being
better acquainted with his defects, I became more unwiUing to give it. Thus I was
once more fairly going to give up the field to the captain, when my friend found
occasion for my assistance. This was nothing less than to fight a duel for him,
with a gentleman whose sister it was pretended he had used ill. I readily
complied with his request ; and though I see you are displeased at my conduct,
yet as it was a debt indispensably due to friendship, I could not refuse. I under-
took the affair, disarmed my antagonist, and soon after had the pleasure
of finding that the lady was only a woman of the town, and the fellow
her bully and a sharper. This piece of service was repaid witli the warmest
professions of gratitude ; but as my friend was to leave town in a few days, he
knew no other method of serving me, but by recommending me to his uncle
Sir William Thornhill, and another nobleman of great distinction who enjoyed
a post under the government. When he was gone, my first care was to carry
his recommendatory letter to his uncle, a man whose character for every vir-
tue was universal, yet just. I was received by his servants with the most hos-
pitable smiles ; for the looks of the domestics ever transmit their master's benevo-
lence. Being shown into a grand apartment, where Sir William soon came to
me, I delivered my message and letter, which he read, and after pausing some
minutes, Pray, sir, cried he, inform me what you have done for my kinsman to
deserve this warm recommendation ? But I suppose, sir, I guess your merits,
you have fought for him ; and so you would expect a reward from me for
being the instrument of his vices. I wish, sincerely wish, that my present re-
fusal may be some punishment for your guilt ; but still more, that it may be
some inducement to your repentance. — The severity of this rebuke I bore
patiently, because I knew it was just. My whole expectations, now therefore,
670 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
lay in my letter to the great man. As the doors of the nobility are almost
ever beset with beggars, all ready to tlu'ust in some sly petition, I found it no
easy matter to gain admittance. However, after bribing the servants witli
half my worldly fortune, I was at last shewn into a spacious apartment, my
letter being previously sent up for his lordship's inspection. During this
anxious interval I had full time to look roimd me. Every thing was grand
and of happy contrivance ; the paintings, the furniture, the gildings, petrified
me with awe, and raised my idea of the owner. Ah, thought I to myself, how
very great must the possessor of all these things be, who carries in his head the
business of the state, and whose house displays half the wealth of a kingdom :
sure his genius must be unfathomable ! During these awful reflections I heard
a step come heavily forward. All, this is the great man himself! No it was
only a chambermaid. Another foot was heard soon after. This must be he !
No, it was only the great man's valet de chambre. At last his lordship actually
made liis ajjpearauce. Are you, cried he, the bearer of this here letter ? I
answered with a bow. I learn by this, continued he, as how that — But just
at that instant a servant delivered him a card ; and without taking farther no-
tice, he went out of the room, and left me to digest my own happiness at
leisure. I saw no more c.r him, till told by a footman that his lordship was
going to his coach at the door. Down I immediately followed, and joined my
voice to that of three or four more, who came, like me, to petition for favours.
His lordship, however, went too fast for us, and was gaining his chariot door
with large strides, when I hallooed out to know if I was to have any reply.
Ho was by this time got in, and muttered an answer, half of which only I
heard, the other half was lost in the rattUng of his chariot wheels. I. stood
for some time with my neck stretched out, in the postm*e of one that was
listening to catch the glorious sounds, till, looking round me, I found myself
alone at his lordship's gate.
"My patience," continued my son, "was now quite exhausted : stuug with
the thousand indignities I had met with, I was willing to cast myself away, and
only wanted the gulf to receive me. I regarded myself as one of those vile
things tliat nature designed should be thrown by into her lumber-room, there
to perish in obscm-ity. I had still however half a guinea left, and of that I
thought fortune herself shovdd not deprive me : but in order to be sure of this I
was resolved to go instantly and spend it while I had it, and then trust to oc-
currences for the rest. As I was going along with this resolution, it happened
that Mr. Crispe's office seemed invitingly open to give me a welcome reception.
In this office Mr. Crispe kindly offers all his majesty's subjects a generous pro-
mise of thirty pounds a year, for which promise all they give in retmni is their
liberty for life, and permission to let him transpoi't them to America as slaves.
I was happy at finding a place where I could lose my feai's in desperation and
entered this cell, for it had the appearance of one, with the devotion of a
monastic. Here I found a nmnber of poor creatm-es, all in circumstances like
myself, expecting the arrival of Mr. Crispe, presenting a true epitome of Eng-
lish impatience. Each untractable soul at variance with fortune, wi*eaked her
injuries on their own hearts : but Mr. Crispe at last came down and all our
murmurs were hushed. He deigned to regard me with an air of peculiar appro-
bation, and indeed he was the first man who for a month past talked to me with
smiles. After a few questions, he found I was fit for every thing in the world. He
paused a while upon the properest means of providing for me ; and slapping
his forehead as if he had found it, assm'ed me, that there was at that time an
embassy talked of fi'om the synod of Pennsylvania to the Chickasaw Indians,
and that lie would use his interest to get me made secretary. I knew in my
heart tliat the fellow lied, and yet his promise gave me pleasm*e, there waa
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 071
Bomething so magnificent in the sound. I fairly therefore divided my half
guinea, one half of which went to be added to his thirty tliousand pounds, and
with the other half 1 resolved to go to the next tavei-n to be there more haxDpy
than he.
" As I was going out with that resolution I was met at the door by the cap-
tain of a ship, with whom I had formerly some little acquaintance, and he
agreed to be my companion over a bowl of punch. As I never chose to make
a secret of my circumstances, he assiu'ed me that I was upon the very point of
ruin in listening to the office-keeper's promises ; for that he only designed to
sell me to the plantations. But, continued he, I fancy you might by a much
shorter voyage be very easily put into a genteel way of bread. Take my advice.
My ship sails to-morrow for Ajusterdam. What if you go in her as a passenger ?
The moment you land, all you have to do is to teach the Dutchmen English,
and I '11 warrant you'll get pupils aud money enough. I suppose you under-
stand English, added he, by this time, or the deuce is in it. I confidently as-
sured him of that ; but expressed a doubt whether the Dutch would be willing
to learn English. He affirmed with an oath that they were fond of it to dis-
traction ; and upon that affirmation I agreed with his proposal, and embaj'ked
the next day to teach the Dutch English in Holland. The wind Avas fair, our
voyage short, and after having paid my passage with half my movables, I foimd
myself as fallen from the skies a stranger in one of the principal streets ol
Amsterdam. In this situation I was unwilling to let any time pass unemployed
in teaching. I addressed myself therefore to two or three of those I met,
whose appearance seemed most promising ; but it was impossible to make our-
selves mutually understood. It was not till this very moment I recollected,
that in order to teach the Dutchmen English, it was necessary that they should
first teach me Dutch. How I came to overlook so obvious an objection is to
me amazing ; but certain it is I overlooked it.
" This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts of fairly shipping back
to England again ; but falling into company with an Irish student who was re-
tui'ning from Louvain, our conversation tm-ning upon topics of litei'ature, (for
by the way it may be observed that I always forgot the meanness of my circum-
stances when I could converse upon such subjects,) from him I learned that
there were not two men in his whole university who understood Grreek. This
amazed me. I instantly resolved to travel to Louvain, and there live by teach-
ing Grreek : and in this design I was heartened by my brother student, who
tlu'ew out some hints that a fortune might be got by it.
" I set boldly forward the next morning. Every day lessened the burthen
of my movables, like -iEsop and his basket of bread ; for I paid them for my
lodgings to the Dutch as I travelled on. Wlien I came to Louvain, I was
resolved not to go sneaking to the lower professors, but openly tendered my
talents to the principal himself. I went, had admittance, and ofi'ered him my
service as a master of the G-reek language, which I had been told was a deside-
ratum in his university. The principal seemed at first to doubt of my
abilities : but of these I offered to convince him, by turning a part of any
G-reek author he should fix upon into Latin. Finding me perfectly earnest in
my proposal, he addressed me thus : You see me, young man, continued he ;
I never learned Grreek, and I don't find that I have ever missed it. I have
had a doctor's cap and gown without Grreek ; I have ten thousand florins a
year without Grreek ; I eat heartily without Greek, and in short, continued he,
as I don't know Greek, I do not believe there is any good in it.
" I was now too far from home to think of returning ; so I resolved to go
forward. I had some knowledge of music, with a tolerable voice, and now
turned what was my amusement into a present means of subsistence. I passed
672 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
among tlie harmless peasants of Flanders, and among sucb. of the French as
•were poor enough to be very merry ; for I ever found them sprightly m pro-
portion to their wants. Whenever I approached a peasant's house towards
night-fall, I played one of my most merry tunes, and that procured me not
only a lodging but subsistence for the next day. I once or twice attempted
to play for people of fashion ; but they always thought my performance
odious, and never rewarded me even with a trifle. This was to me the more
cxtraoi'diuavy, as whenever I used in better days to play for company, when
playing was my amusement, my mvisic never failed to throw them into rap-
tures, and the ladies especially ; but as it was now my only means it was
received with contempt : a proof how ready the world is to underrate those
talents by which a man is supported.
" In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no design but just to look
about me, and then to go forward. The people of Paris are much fonder of
strangers that have money than of those that have wit. As I could not boast
much of either, I was no great favourite. After walking about the town four
or five days, and seeing the outsides of the best houses, I was preparing to
leave this retreat of venal hospitality, when passing through one of the principal
streets, whom should I meet but our cousin to whom you first recommended me.
This meeting was very agreeable to me, and I believe not displeasing to iiim.
He inquired into the nature of my journey to Paris, and informed me of his
own business there, which was to collect pictures, medals, intaglios, and an-
tiques of all kinds, for a gentleman in London, who had just stepped into taste
and a large fortune. I was the more surprised at seeing our cousin pitched
upon for this office, as he himself had often assured me he knew nothing of the
matter. Upon asking how he had been taught the art of a cognoscento so
very suddenly, he assured me that nothing was more easy. The wliole secret
consisted in a strict adherence to two rules : the one, always to obseiwe tlie
picture might have been better if the painter had taken more pains ; and the
other to praise the works of Pietro Perugiuo. But, says he, as I once taught
you how to be an author in London, I'll now undertake to instruct you in the
art of picture-buying at Paris.
" With this proposal I very readily closed, as it was living, and now all my
ambition was to live. I went therefore to his lodgings, improved my dress by
his assistance, and after some time accompanied him to auctions of pictures,
where the English gentry were expected to be purchasers. I was not a little
surprised at his intimacy with people of the best fashion, who referred them-
selves to his judgment upon every picture or medal, as to an unerring standard
of taste. He made very good use of my assistance upon these occasions ; for
when asked his opinion, he would gravely take me aside and ask mine, shrug,
look wise, return, and assure the company that he could give no opinion upon
an affair of so much importance. Yet there was sometimes an occasion for a
more supported assurance. I remember to have seen him, after giving his
opinion that the colouring of a picture was not mellow enough, very delibe-
rately take a brush with brown varnish, that was accidentally lying by, and
rub it over the piece with great composure before all the company, and then
ask if he had not improved the tints.
" When he had finished his commission in Paris, he left me strongly recom-
mended to several men of distinction as a person very proper for a travelling
tutor ; and after some time I was employed in that capacity by a gentleman
who brought his ward to Paris, in order to set him forward on his tour
through Europe. I was to be the young gentleman's governor, but with a
proviso that he should always be permitted to govern himself. My pupil in
fact understood the art of guiding in money concerns much better than I. He
.THE VICAR OF WAKEPlELD. 6^^
Was heir to a fortune of about two hundred thousand jDounds, left him by an
Uncle in the West Indies ; and his guardians, to qualify him for the manage-
ment of it, had bound him apprentice to an attorney. Thus avarice was his
prevailing passion : all liis questions on the road were how money might be
saved : which was the least expensive course of travel : whether any thing
could be bought that would turn to account when disposed of again in London.
Such curiosities on the way as coidd be seen for nothing he was ready enough
to look at ; but if the sight of them was to be paid for, he usually asserted
tliat he had been told they were not worth seeing. He never paid a bill that
he would not observe how amazingly expensive traveUing was, and all this
though he was not yet twenty-one. Wlien arrived at Leghorn, as we took a
w^alk to look at the port and shipping, he inquii-ed the expense of the passage
by sea home to England. This, he was informed, was but a trifle compared
to his returning by land ; he was therefore unable to withstand the tempta-
tion J so paying me the small part of my salary that was due, he took leave,
and embarked with only one attendant for London.
" I now therefore was left once more upon the world at large ; but then it
was a thing I was used to. However, my skill in music could avail me nothing
in a country where every peasant was a better musician than I j but by this
time I had acquired another talent, which answered my purpose as well, and
this was a skill in disputation. In all the foreign imiversities and convents
there are upon certain days philosophical theses maintained against every ad-
ventitious disputant ; for which, if the champion opposes with any dexterity,
he can claim a gratuity in money, a dinner, and a bed for one night. In this
manner therefore I fought my way towards England, walked along from city
to city, examined mankind more nearly, and, if I may so express it, saw both
sides of the ]Dicture. My remarks, however, are but few: I found that
monarchy was the best government for the poor to live in, and common-
wealths for the rich. I found that riches in general were in every country
another name for freedom ; and that no man is so fond of liberty himself as
not to be desirous of subjecting the will of some individuals in society to his
own.
" Upon my arrival in England I resolved to pay my respects first to you,
and then to enlist as a volunteer in the first expedition that was going for-
ward ; but on my journey down my resolutions were changed, by meeting an
old acquaintance who I found belonged to a company of comedians that were
going to make a summer campaign in the country. The company seemed not
much to disapprove of me for an associate. They all, however, apprised me
of the importance of the task at which I aimed ; that the pubhc was a many-
lieaded monster, and that only such as had very good heads could please it ;
that acting was not to be learned in a day ; and that without some traditional
shrugs which had been on the stage, and only on the stage, these hundred
years, I could never pretend to please. The next difficulty was in fitting me
with parts, as almost every character was in keeping. I was driven for some
time from one character to another, till at last Horatio was fixed upon, which
the presence of the present company has happily hindered me from acting."
CHAPTEE XXL
THE SHORT CONTINrANCE OF PEIENDSHIP AMONaST THE VICIOUS, WHICH
IS COEVAL ONLY WITH MUTUAL SATISPACTION..
My son's account was too long to be delivered at once ; the first part of it
was begun that night, and he was concluding the rest after dinner the next i
day, when the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's equipage at the door seemed to j
make a pause in the general satisfaction. The butler, who was now become
" ' **' I
674, THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH
my friend in tlie family, informed me with a wliisper tliat the 'squire liacl
akeady made some overtures to Miss Wihnot, and that her aunt and uncle
seemed highly to approve the match. Upon Mr. Thornhill's entering, he
seemed at seeing my son and me to start back j but I readily imputed that to
surprise and not displeasure. However, upon our advancing to salute him, he
returned our greeting with the most apparent candour ; and after a short
time his presence served only to increase the general good humour.
After tea he called me aside to inqiure after my daughter j but upon my
informing him that my inquhy was imsuccessful, he seemed greatly sur-
prised ; adding, that he had been since frequently at my house in order to
comfort the rest of my family, whom he left perfectly well. He then asked if
I had communicated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot or my son j and upon my
replying that I had not told them as yet, he greatly approved my prudence
and precaution, desiriug me by all means to keep it a secret : " Tor at best,"
gried he, " it is but divulging one's ovm infamy ; and perhaps Miss Livy may
not be so guilty as wo all imagine." We were here interrupted by a servant,
who came to ask the 'squire in, to stand up at country- dances : so that he left
me quite pleased with the interest ho seemed to take in my concerns. His ad-
dresses, however, to Miss Wihnot were too obvious to be mistaken : and yet
she seemed not perfectly pleased, but bore them rather in compliance to the
will of her aunt than from real inclination. I had even the satisfaction to see
her lavish some kind looks upon my unfortunate son, which the othei' could
neither extort by his fortune nor assiduity. Mr. Thornhill's seeming com-
posure however not a little surprised me : we had now continued here a week
at the pi'cssing instances of Mr. Ai'nold ; but each day, the more tenderness
Miss Wilmot shewed my son, Mr. Thornhill's friendship seemed proportionably
to increase for him.
He had formerly made us the most kind assurances of using his interest to
serve the family ; but now his generosity was not confined to promises alone :
the moraing I designed for my dej)artm'e, Mr. Thornhill came to me with
looks of real pleasure to inform me of a piece of service he had done for his
friend G-eorge. This was nothing less than his having procm-ed him an ensign's
commission in one of the regiments that was going to the West Indies, for
which he had promised but one hundred pounds, his interest having been
Buf&cient to get an abatement of the other two. *' As for this trifling piece of
service," continued the yomig gentleman, " I desu'e no other reward but the
pleasure of having served my Mend ; and as for the hundred pounds to be paid,
if you are imable to raise it yourselves, I will advance it, and you shall repay
me at your leisure." This was a favour we wanted words to express om* sense
of : I readily therefore gave my bond for the money, and testified as much
gratitude as if I never intended to pay.
G-eorge was to depart for town the next day to secure his commission, in
pxu-suance of his generous patron's directions, who judged it highly expedient
to use dispatch, lest in the mean time another should step in with more ad-
vantageous proposals. The next morning therefore our young soldier was early
prepared for his departure, and seemed the only person among us that was
not afiected by it. Neither the fatigues and dangers he was going to encounter,
nor the fi-iends and mistress (for Miss Wilmot actually loved 1dm) he was
leaving behind, any way damped his spirits. After he had taken leave of the
rest of the company, I gave him all I had, my blessing. " And now, my boy,"
cried I, "thou art going to fight for thy country, remember how thy brave grand-
father fought for his sacred King, when loyalty among Britons was a virtue.
G-o, my boy, and imitate him in all but his misfortunes, if it was a misfortune
to die with Lord Falkland. Gro, my boy j and if you fall, though distant, ex-
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 675
poaed, and unwept by tliose that love you, tlie most precious tears are those
with which heaven bedews the unburicd head of the soldier."
The next mornmg I took leave of the good family that had been kind
enough to entertain me so long, not without several expressions of gi-atitudo
to Mr. Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them in the enjoyment of all that
liappmess which affluence and good-breeding procure, and returned towards
home, despairing of ever finding my daughter more, but sending a sigh to
heaven to spare and to forgive her. I was now come within about twenty
miles of home, having hired a horse to carry me, as I was yet but weak, and
comforted myself with the hopes of soon seeing all I held dearest upon earth.
But the night coming on, I put up at a little public-house by the road-side,
and asked for the landlord's company over a pint of wine. We sate beside his
kitchen fire, which was the best room in the house, and chatted on politics
and the news of the country. We happened, among other topics, to talk of
young 'Squire Thornhill, who, the host assured me, was hated as much as his
uncle Sir William, who sometimes came down to the country, was loved. Ho
went on to observe, that he made it his whole study to betray the daughters
of such as received him to their houses, and after a fortnight or three weeks
possession, turned them out unrewarded and abandoned to the world. As
we continued our discourse in this manner, bis wife, who liad been out to get
change, returned, and perceiving that her husband was enjoying a pleasure in
which she was not a sharer, she asked him, in an angry tone, what he did
there, to which he only replied in an ii-onical way, by drinking her health.
" Mr. Symmonds," cried she, " you use me very ill, and I'll bear it no longer.
Here three parts of the business is left for me to do, and the fourth left un-
finished ; while you do nothing but soak with the guests all day long, whereas
if a spoonful of liquor were to cure me of a fever, I never touch a drop." I
now found what she would be at, and immediately poured her out a glass,
which she received with a courtesy, and drinking towards my good health,
*' Sir," resumed she, " it is not so much for the value of the liquor I am angry,
but one cannot help it when the house is going out of the windows. If the
customers or guests are to be dunned, all the burthen lies upon my back, he'd
as lief eat that glass as budge after them himself. There now above stairs wo
have a young woman who has come to take up her lodgings here, and I don't
believe she has got any money by her over- civility. I am certain she is very
slow of payment, and I wish she were put in mind of it." — "What signifies
minding her?" cried the host, "if she be slow she is sure." — "I don't know
that," replied the wife ; " but I know that I am sure she has been here a fort-
night and we have not yet seen the cross of her money." — " I suppose, my
dear," cried he, "we shall have it all in a lump." — "In a lump!" cried the
other, " I hope we may get it any way ; and that T am resolved we will this
very night, or out she tramps bag and baggage." — " Consider, my dear," cried
the husband, " she is a gentlewoman, and deserves more respect." — " As for the
matter of that," returned the hostess, " gentle or simple, out she shall pack
with a cassarara. O-entry may be good things where they take j but for my
part I never saw much good of them at the sign of the Harrow." — Thus sayiuf,
she ran up a narrow flight of stairs that went from the kitchen to a room
overhead ; and I soon perceived by the loudness of her voice, and the bitter-
ness of her reproaches, that no money was to be had from her lodger. I could
hear her remonstrances very distinctly : " Out, I say, pack out tliis moment,
tramp, thou infamous strumpet ! or I'll give thee a mark thou won't be the
better for this three months. What ! you trumpery, to come and take up an
honest house without cross or coin to bless yourself with ! come along, I say."
— "O dear madam," cried the stranger, "^ity me^ pity a poor abandoned
676 THE WORKS OF OLlVM GOLDSMITH.
creature for one night, and deatk will soon do tlie rest." — I instantly knew
the voice of my poor ruined child OHvia. I flew to her rescue, while the
woman was dragging her along by the hair, and I caught the dear forlorn
wretch in my arms. — " Welcome, any way welcome, my dearest lost one, my
treasure, to yom' poor old father's bosom ! Though the vicious forsake thee^
there is yet one in the world that will never forsake thee j though thou hadst
ten thousand crimes to answer for, he will forget them aU." — " O my own
dear," — for minutes she could no more — "my own dearest good papa! Could
angels be kinder ! How do I deserve so much ! The villain, I hate him, and
myself, to be a reproach to such goodness. You can't forgive me. I know
you cannot." — " Yes, my child, from my heart I do forgive thee! Only re-
pent, and we both shall yet be happy. We shall see many pleasant days yet,
my Olivia !" — " Ah ! never, sh*, never. The rest of my wretched life must be
infamy abroad and shame at home. But, alas ! papa, you look much paler
than you used to do. Could such a thing as I am give you so much uneasi-
ness ? Sm'ely you have too much wisdom to take the miseries of my guilt
upon yom-self." — " Our wisdom, young woman," replied I. — " All, why so cold
a name, papa ?" cried she. " This is the fii-st time you ever called me by so
cold a name." — " I ask pardon, my darling," returned I ; " but I was going to
observe, that wisdom makes but a slow defence against trouble, though at last
a sure one."
The landlady now retm-ned to know if we did not choose a more genteel
apartment ; to which assenting, we were shown a room where we could con-
verse more freely. After we had talked ourselves into some degree of tran-
quilHty, I could not avoid desiring some account of the gradations that led to
her present wretched situation. " That villain, sir," said she, "fron. the first
day of our meeting made me honourable though private proposals."
" Villain indeed," cried I ; " and yet it in some Measure surprises me, how
a person of Mr. Burchell's good sense and seeming honour could be guilty of
(such deUberate baseness, and thus step into a family to undo it." 4-
*' My dear papa," retm'ned my daughter, "you labour under a strange
mistake ; Mr. Burchell never attempted to deceive me : instead of that he
took every opportunity of privately admonishing me against the artifices of
Mr. Thornhill, who I now find was even worse than he represented him." —
" Mr. Thornhill," interrupted I, " can it be ?" — " Yes, sir," returned she,
"it was Mr. Thornhill who seduced me, who employed the two ladies as he
called them, but who in fact were abandoned women of the town without
breeding or pity, to decoy us up to London. Their artifices, you may remem-
ber, would have certainly succeeded but for Mr. Burchell's letter, who directed
those reproaches at them which we all applied to ourselves. How he came
to have so much influence as to defeat their intentions still remains a secret to
me ; but I am convinced he was ever our warmest, sincerest friend."
" You amaze me, my dear," cried I ; " but now I find my fii'st suspicions of
Mr. Thornhill's baseness were too well grounded: but he can triumph in
secm'ity, for he is rich and we are poor. But tell me, my child, sure it was no
small temptation that could thus obliterate all the impressions of such an
education, and so virtuous a disposition, as thine?"
" Indeed, sir," replied she, " he owes all his triumph to the desire I had of
making him, and not myself, happy. I knew that the ceremony of our mar-
riage which was privately performed by a popish priest, was no way binding,
and that I had nothing to trust to but his honour." — " What!" interrupted I,
" and were you indeed married by a priest, and in orders ?" — " Indeed, sir, we
were," replied she, " though we were both sworn to conceal his name." —
" Why, then, my child, come to my arms again, and now you are a thousand
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 677
times more -welcome than before ; for jou are now his wife to all intents and
purposes ; nor can all the laws of man, though written upon tables of adamant,
lessen the force of that sacred connexion."
"Alas! papa," replied she, "you are but little acquainted with his vil-
lainies : ho has been married abeady by the same priest to six or eight wives
more, whom, like me, he has deceived and abandoned."
" Has he so ?" cried I, " then we must hang the priest, and you shall in-
foi-m against him to-morrow." — "But, sir," retiu-ned she, "will that be right,
when I am sworn to secrecy .?" — " My dear," I replied, " if you have made
such a promise, I cannot, nor will I tempt you to break it. Even though it
m^ benefit the public, you must not inform against him. In all human in-
stitutions a smaller evil is allowed to procure a greater good : as in politics, a
province may be given away to secure a kingdom ; in medicine, a limb may
be lopped off to preserve the body. But in religion the law is written, and
inllexible, never to do evil. And this law, my child, is right : for otherwise,
if we commit a smaller evil to procure a greater good, certain guilt would be
thus incurred, in expectation of contingent advantage. And though the ad-
vantage should certainly follow, yet the interval between commission and
advantage, wliich is allowed to bo guilty, may be that in which we are called
away to answer for the things we have done, and the volume of human actions
is closed for ever. But I interrupt you, my dear ; go on."
" The very next morning," continued she, " I found wliat little expectations
T was to have from his sincerity. That very morning he introduced me to two
unhappy women more, whom like me he had deceived, but who lived in con-
tented prostitution. I loved him too tenderly to bear such rivals in his
affections, and strove to forget my infamy in a tumult of pleasures. With this
view J danced, dressed, and talked; but still was luihappy. The gentlemen
who visited there told me "every moment of the power of my charms ; and this
only contributed to increase my melancholy, as I had thrown all their power
^lite away. Thus each day I grew more pencive, and he more insolent, till
at last the monster had the assurance to offer me to a young Baronet of his
acquaintance. Need I describe, sir, how his ingratitude stung me ? My an-
swer to this proposal was almost madness. I desired to part. As I was going
lie offered me a purse ; but I flung it at him with indignation, and burst from
likn in a rage, that for a while kept me insensible of the miseries of my situa-
tion. But I soon looked round me, and saw myself a vile, abject, guilty thing,
without one friend in the world to apply to. Just in that interval a stage
coach happening to pass by, I took a place, it being my only aim to be driven
at a distance from a wretcli I despised and detested. I was set down here,
where, since my arrival, my own anxiety and this woman's unkindnoss have
been my only companions. The hours of pleasm-e that I have passed with my
mamma and sister now grow painful to me. Their sorrows are much ; but
mine are greater than theirs, for mine are mixed witli guilt and infamy."
" Have patience, my child," cried I, " and I hope tilings will yet be better.
Take some repose to-night, and to-morrow I'll carry you home to your mother
and the rest of the family, from whom you will receive a kind reception.
Poor woman, this has gone to her heart : but she loves you still, Olivia, and
will forget it."
CHAPTER XXII.
OFFENCKS AEE EASILY PAP.DOXED WHERE THERE IS LOVE AT BOTTOM:.
The next morning I took my daughter behind me, and set out on my return
bonac. As we travelled along, I strove by every persuasion to calm her sorrows
678 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
and fears, and to ai*m her with resolution to bear the presence of her offended
motlier. I took every opportunity from the prospect of a fine country, through
•which wo passed, to observe how much kinder Heaven was to us than we to
each other, and that the misfortunes of nature's making were very few. I
assured her, that she should never perceive any change in my affections, and
that during my life, which yet might be long, she might depend upon a
guardian and an instructor. I armed her against the censures of the world,
shewed her that books were sweet unreproaching companions to the miserable,
and that if they could not bring us to enjoy life, they would at least teach us
to endure it.
Tlie hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night at an inn by the
way, within about five miles from my house ; and as I was willing to prepare
my family for my daughter's reception, I determined to leave her that night
at the inn, and to return for her, accompanied by my daughter Sophia, early
the next moi-ning. It was night before we reached our appointed stage :
however, after seeing her provided with a decent apartment, and having
ordered the hostess to prepare proper refreshments, I kissed her, and proceeded
towards home. And now my heart caught new sensations of pleasure the
nearer I approached that peaceful mansion. As a bird that had been frighted
from its nest, my affections outwent my haste, and hovered round my little
fire-side with all the rapture of expectation. I called up the many fond things
I had to say, and anticipated the welcome I was to receive. I already felt my
wife's tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones. As I walked
but slowly, the night waned apace. The labourers of the day were all retired
to rest ; the lights were out in every cottage -, no sounds were heard but of
the shriUing cock, and the deep-mouthed watch-dog at hollow distance. I
approached my little abode of pleasure, and before I was within a furlong of
the place, oiu' honest mastiff came running to welcome me.
It was now near midnight that I came to knock at my door : all was still
and silent : my heart dilated with unutterable happiness, when, to my amaze-
ment, I saw the house bursting out in a blaze of fire, and every aperture red
with conflagration ! I gave a loud convulsive outcry, and fell upon the pave-
ment insensible. This alarmed my son, who had till this been asleep : and he
perceiving the flames instantly waked my wife and daughter, and all running
out naked and wild with apprehension, recalled me to life with their anguish.
But it was only to objects of new terror ; for the flames had by this time
caught the roof of our dwelling, part after part continuing to fall in, while the
family stood with silent agony looking on as if they enjoyed the blaze. I gazed
upon them and upon it by tui-ns, and then looked round me for my two little
ones ; but they were not to be seen. O misery ! " Where," cried I, " where
are my little ones ?" — " They are burnt to death in the flames," says my wife
calmly, " and I will die with them." — That moment I heard the cry of the
babes within, who were just awaked by the fire, and nothing could have stopped
me. " Where, whei'e are my children ?" cried I, rushing through the flames,
and biirsting the door of the chamber in which they were confined, " Where
are my little ones ?" — " Here, dear, papa, here we are," cried they together,
while the flames were just catching the bed where they lay. I caught them
both in my arms, and snatching them through the fire as fast as possible, just as
I was got out, the roof sunk in. " Now," cried I, holding up my children, " now
let the flames burn on, and all my possessions perish. Here they are, I have
saved my treasui'e. Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we shall yet
bo happy." Wo kissed our little darlings a thousand times ; they clasped us
round the neck, and seemed to share our transports, while their mother laughed
aod wept by tui-ns.
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. G7r^
I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and after some time began to
perceive that my arm to the shoulder was scorched in a terrible manner. It
was tlierefore out of my power to give my son any assistance, either in at-
tempting to save our goods, or preventing the flames spreading to our corn.
Bj this time the neighbom-s were alarmed, and came running to our assistance ;
but all they could do was to stand, like us, spectators of the calamity. My
goods, among which were the notes I had reserved for my daughters' fortunes,
were entirely consumed, except a box witli some papers that stood in tlie
kitchen, and two or three tilings moi*e of little consequence, which my sou
brought away in the beginning. The neighbours contributed, however, what
they could to lighten our distress. They brought us clothes, and furnished
one of our out-houses with kitchen utensils ; so that by daylight we had
another, though a wretched, dwelling to retire to. My honest next neighbour
and his children were not the least assiduous in providing us with every thing
necessary, and ofiering whatever consolation imtutored benevolence could
suggest.
When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity to know the cause of
my long stay began to take place : having therefore informed them of every
particular, I proceeded to prepare them for the reception of our lost one ; and,
though we had nothing but wretchedness now to impart, I was willing to pro-
cure her a welcome to what we had. This task would have been more difficult
but for our recent calamity, which had humbled my wife's pride, and blunted
it by more poignant afflictions. Being unable to go for my poor child myself,
as my arm grew very painful, I sent my son and daughter, who soon returned,
supporting the wretched dehnquent, who had not the courage to look up at
her mother, whom no instructions of mine could persuade to a perfect recon-
ciliation ; for women have a much stronger sense of female error than men.
" All, madam," cried her mother, " this is but a poor place you are come to
after so much finery. My daughter Sophy and I can afibrd but little enter-
tainment to persons who have kept company only with people of distmction.
Yes, Miss Livy, your poor father and I have sufiered very much of late ; but
I hope Heaven will forgive you." — ^During this reception, the unhappy victim
stood pale and trembling, unable to weep or to reply ; but I could not con-
tinue a silent spectator of her distress ; wherefore assuming a degree of severity
in my voice and manner, which was ever followed with instant submission,
" I intreat, woman, that my words may now be marked once for all : I have
here bi'ought you back a poor deluded wanderer ; her retmni to duty demands
the revival of our tenderness. The real hardships of our life are now coming
fast upon us, let us not, therefore, increase them by dissension among each
other. If we live harmoniously together, we may yet be contented, as there
are enough of us to shut out the censuring world, and keep each other in
countenance. The kindness of heaven is promised to the penitent, and let
ours be directed by the example. Heaven, we are assured, is much more
pleased to view a repentant sinner, than ninety-nine persons who have sup-
ported a course of undeviating rectitude. And this is right ; for that single
effort by which we stop short in the down-hill patl^, to perdition, is itself a
greater exertion of virtue than an hundred acts of justice."
CHAPTEE XXIII.
NONE BTJT THE GUILTY CAN BE LONG AND COMPLETELY MISEEABLE.
Some assiduity was now required to make our present abode as convenient as
possible, and we were soon again qualified to enjoy our former serenity. Eeing
disabled myself from assisting my son in our usual occupations, I read to my
I 680 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
family from the few books that were saved, and particularly from such as, by
amusing the imagination, contributed to ease the heart. Our good neigh-
bours too came every day with the kindest condolence, and fixed a time in
which they were all to assist at repah-ing my former dwelling. Honest farmer
WiUiams was not last among these visitors, but heartily oiFered his friendship.
He would even have renewed his addresses to vc\j daughter ; but she rejected him
in such a manner as totally repressed his future solicitations. — Her grief seemed
formed for continuing, and she was the only person of our little society that a
week did not restore to cheerfulness. She now lost that unblushing innocence
which once taught her to respect herself, and to seek pleasure by pleasing, —
Anxiety now had taken strong possession of her mind, her beauty began to be
impaired with her constitution, and neglect still more contributed to diminish
it. Every tender epithet bestowed on her sister brought a pang to her heart
and a tear to her eye ; and as one vice, though cured, ever plants others where
it has been, so her former guilt, though driven out by repentance, left jealousy
and envy behind. 1 strove a thousand ways to lessen lier care, and even
forgot my own pain in a concern for hers, collecting such amusing passages of
history as a strong memory and some reading could suggest. — " Our hap-
piness, my dear," I would say, '' is in the power of one who can bi'ing it
about a thousand unforeseen ways that mock our foresight. If example
be necessary to j)rove this, I'll give you a story, my child, told us by a grave,
though sometimes a romancing, historian.
" Matilda was married very yoimg to a Neapolitan nobleman of the first
quality, and found herself a widow and a mother at the age of fifteen. As
she stood one day caressing her infant son in the open window of an apart-
ment which hung over the river Volturna, the child with a sudden spring
leaped from her arms into the flood below, and disappeared in a moment.
The mother, struck with instant surprise, and making an effort to save him,
plunged in after j but far from being able to assist the infant, she herself with
great difficiilty escaped to the opposite shore, just when some French soldiers
were plundering the countiy on that side, who immediately made her their
prisoner.
" As the war was then carried on between the French and Italians with
the utmost inhumanity, they were going at once to perpetrate those two ex-
tremes suggested by appetite and cruelty. This base'resolution, however, was
opposed by a young officer, who, though their retreat required the utmost ex-
pedition, placed her behind him, and brought her in safety to his native city.
Her beauty at first caught his eye ; her merit soon after, his heart. They
were married ; he i*ose to the highest posts ; they lived long together and were
happy. But the felicity of a soldier can never be called permanent : after
an interval of several years, the troops which he commanded having met with a
repulse, he was obliged to take shelter in the city where he had lived with his
wife. Here they suflfered a siege, and the city at length was taken. Few
histories can produce more various instances of cruelty than those which tlie
French and Italians at that time exercised upon each other. It was resolved
by the victors upon this occasion to put all the French prisoners to death ;
but particularly the husband of the unfortunate Matilda, as he was principally
instrumental in protracting the siege. Their determinations were in general
executed almost as soon as resolved upon. The captive soldier was led forth,
and the executioner with his sword stood ready, while the spectators in gloomy
silence awaited the fatal blow, which was only suspended till the general, wlio
presided as judge, should give the signal. It was in this interval of anguish
and expectation, that Matilda came to take her last fai'ewell of her husband
and deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the cruelty of fate, that
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 681
had saved her from perishing by a premature death in the river Volturna, to
be the spectator of still greater calamities. The general, who was a young
man, was struck with surprise at her beauty, and pity at her distress j but
with still stronger emotions when he heard her mention her former dangers.
He was her son, the infant for whom she had encountered so much danger.
He acknowledged her at once as his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest
may be easily supposed : the captive was set free, and all the happiness that
love, friendship, and duty can confer on each, was united."
In this manner I would attempt to amuse my daughter ; but she listened
with divided attention ; for ]ier own misfortunes engrossed all the pity she
once had for those of another, and nothing gave her case. In company slio
dreaded contempt ; and in solitude she only found anxiety. Such was the
colour of her wretchedness, when we received certain infoi'mation that Mr.
Thornhill was going to be married to Miss Wilmot, for whom I always sus-
pected he had a real passion, though he took every opportunity before me to
express his contempt both of her person and fortune. This news only served
to increase poor Olivia's affliction ; such a flagrant breach of fidelity was more
tlian her courage could support. I was resolved, however, to get more cei'tain
information, and to defeat if possible the completion of his designs, by sending
my son to old Mr. Wilmot's, with instructions to know the truth of the
report, and to deliver Miss Wilmot a letter intimating Mr. Thornhill's con-
duct in my family. My son went in piu'suance of my directions, and in three
days returned, assuring xxs of the truth of the accoimt ; but that he had found
it impossible to deliver the letter, which he was therefore obliged to leave, as
Mr. Tliornhill and Miss Wilmot were visiting round the country. They were
to be married, lie said, in a few days, having appeared together at Church the
Sunday before lie was there in great splendour, the bride attended by six
young ladies, and he by as many gentlemen. Their approaching nuptials filled
the whole country with rejoicing, and they usually rode out together in the
grandest equipage that had been seen in the country for many years. All the
friends of both families; he said, were there, particularly the 'squire's luiele,
Sir William Thornhill, who bore so good a character. He added, that nothing
but mirtli and feasting were going forward ; that all the country praised the
young bride's beauty, and the bridegi'oom's fine person, and that they were
immensely fond of each other ; concluding, that he could not help thinking
Mr. Tliornhill one of the most happy men of the world.
'•Why, let him if he can," returned I : ""but, my son, oboerve this bed of
straw and unsheltering roof j those mouldering walls and humid floor; my
wretched body thus disabled by fii*e, and my children weeping I'ound me for
bread : you have come home, my child, to all this ; yet here, oven here, you see
a man that would not for a thousand worlds exchange situations. Oh, my child-
ren, if you could but learn to commune with your own hearts, and know wliat
noble company you can make them, you would little regard the elegance ar.d
splendours of the worthless. Almost all men have been taught to call life a
passage, and themselves the travellers. Tlie similitude still may be impx-oved
I when we observe that the good arc joyful and serene, like ti'avellers that are
going towards home : the wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers that
; are going into exile."
I My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered by this new disaster,
I interrupted what I had farther to observe. I bade her mother support her
I and after a short time she recovered. She appeared from that time more calm,
, and I imagined had gained a new degree of resolution : but appearances de-
j ceived me ; for her tranqudlity was the languor of overwrought resentment.
I A supply of provisions charitably sent us by my kind parisliioners, seemed to
683 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
diffuse new elieerfulness amongst the rest of tlie family ; nor was I displeased
at seeing th.em once more sprightly and at ease. It would hare been unjust
to damp their satisfactions, merely to condole with resolute melancholy, or to
burthen them with a sadness they did not feel. Thus once more the tale
went round, and the song was demanded, and cheerfulness condescended to
hover round our little habitation.
CHAPTER XXIY.
FEESn CALAMITIES.
The next morning the sun arose with peculiar warmth for the season ; so that
we agreed to breakfast together on the honeysuckle bank : where while we
sate, my youngest daughter at my request joined lier yoice to the concert on
the trees about us. It Avas in this place my poor Olivia fii'st met her seducer,
and every object served to recal her sadness. But that melancholy which is
excited by objects of pleasiu'e, or inspired by sounds of harmony, soothes the
heart instead of corroding it. Her mother too upon this occasion felt a
pleasing distress, and wept, and loved her daughter as before. " Do, my pretty
Olivia," ci'icd she, " let us have that little melancholy au* your papa was so
fond of; your sister Sophy has already obhged us. Do, child, it will please
your old father." She complied in a manner so exquisitely pathetic ao
moved me.
When lovely woman stoops to folly.
And finds too late that men betray.
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt aAvay ?
The only art her guilt to cover.
To hide her shame from eveiy eye,
To give repentance to her lover.
And wring his bosom, is — to die.
As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an interruption in her voice
from sorrow gave peculiar softness, the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's equipage
at a distance alarmed us all, but particularly increased the uneasiness of my
eldest daughter, who, desirous of shunning her betrayer, returned to the house
with her sister. In a fcAV minutes he was alighted from his chariot ; and
making up to the place where I was still sitting, inquired after my health witli
his usual air of familiarity, " Sir," replied I, " your present assurance only
serves to aggravate the baseness of your character ; and there was a time when
I would have chastised your insolence for presuming thus to appear before
me. But now you are safe ; for age has cooled my passions, and my calling
restrams them."
" I vow, my dear su'," returned he, " I am amazed at all this ; nor can I
understand what it means ! I hope you don't think your daughter's late ex-
cursion with me had any thing criminal i"»i. it."
" Gro," cried I, " thou art a wretch, a poor pitiful wretch, and every way a
liar : but yom* meanness secures yoii from my anger ! Yet, sir, I am de-
scended from a family that would not have bomie this ! And so, thou vile
thing, to gratify a momentary passion, thou hast made one poor creature
wretched for life, and polluted a family that had nothing but honour for their
portion."
"If she or you," returned he, "are resolved to be miserable, I cannot help
it. But you may still be happy : and whatever opinion you may have formed
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 683
of mo, you shall erer find me ready to contribute to it. We can marry her to
another in a short time, and what is more, she may keep her lover beside ; for
I protest, I shall ever continue to have a true regard for her."
I found all my passions alarmed at this new degrading proposal j for though
the mind may often be calm under great injiu-ies, little villainy can at any
time get within the soul, and sting it into rage. — " Avoid my sight, thou rep-
tile," cried I, "nor continue to insult me with thy presence. Were my brave
son at home he would not suffer this j but I am old and disabled, and every
way undone."
"I find," cried he, "you are bent upon obliging me to talk in an harsher
manner tlian I intended. But as I have shewn you what may be hoped from
my friendship, it may not be improper to represent what may be the conse-
quences of my resentment. My attorney, to whom your late bond has been
transferred, threatens hard, nor do I know how to prevent the course of
justice, except by paying the money myself, which, as I have been at some
expenses lately, previous to my intended mai'riage, is not so easy to be done.
And then my steward talks of driving for the rent : it is certain he knows his
duty ; for I never trouble myself with afiairs of that nature. Yet still I could
wish, to serve you, and even to have you and your daughter present at my
marriage, which is shortly to be solemnized with Miss Wilniot ; it is even the
request of my charming. Arabella herself, whom I hope you will not refuse."
" Mr. Thornhill," replied I, " hear me once for aU : as to your marriage
with any but my daughter, that I never will consent to ; and though your
friendship could raise me to a throne, or your resentment sink me to the
grave, yet would I despise both. Thou hast once wo fully, irreparably deceived
me. I reposed my heart upon thine honour, and have foimd its baseness.
Never more therefore expect friendship from me. Gro, and possess what
fortune has given thee, beauty, riches, health, and pleasure. G-o, and leave
me to want, infamy, disease, and sorrow. Yet, humbled as I am, shall my
heart still vindicate its dignity ; and thougli thou hast my forgiveness, thou
shalt ever have my contempt."
" If so," returned he, " depend upon it you shall feel the efiects of this in-
solence, and we shall shortly see wliich is the fittest object of scorn, you or
me." — Upon which he departed abruptly.
My wife and son, who were present at this interview, seemed terrified with
the apprehension. My daughters also, finding that he was gone, came out
to be informed of the result of our conference, which when known alarmed
them not less than the rest. But as to myself, I disregai'ded the utmost
stretch of his malevolence : he had already struck the blow, and now I stood
prepared to repel every new effort ; like one of those instruments used in the
art of war, whicli however thrown still presents a point to receive the enemy.
We soon, hov^''ever, found that he had not threatened in vain ; for the very
next morning his steward came to demand my annual rent, which by tlie train
of accidents already related I was unable to pay. The consequence of my in-
capacity was his driving my cattle that evening, and their being appraised and
sold the next day for less than half their value. My wife and children now
therefore intreated me to comply upon any terms, rather than incur certain
destruction. They even begged of me to admit his visits once more, and used
all tlieir little eloquence to paint tlie calamities I was going to endure ; — the
terrors of a prison in so rigorous a season as the present, with the danger that
threatened my health from the late accident that happened by the fire. But
I continued inflexible.
" Wiiy, my treasures," cried I, " why will you thus attempt to persuade me
to the tiling that is not right ? My duty has taught me to forgive him ; but
THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
my conscience will not permit me to approve, Woiild you liaye me applaud
to the world what my heart must internally condemn ? Would you have me
tamely sit down and flatter our infamous betrayer; and to avoid a prison
continually suflPer the more galling bonds of mental confinement. No, never.
If we are to be taken from this abode, only let us hold to the right, and
wherever we arc thrown we can still retire to a charming apartment, when we
can look round om* own hearts with intrepidity and with pleasure !"
In tliis manner we spent that evening. Early the next morning, as the
snow had fallen in great abundance in the night, my son was employed in
clearing it away, and opening a passage before the door. He had not been
thus engaged long when he came running in, with looks all pale, to tell us,
that two strangers, whom he knew to be oflicers of justice, were making
towards tlie house.
Just as he spoke they came in, and approaching the bed where I lay, after
previously informing me of their employment and business, made me their
prisoner, bidding me prepare to go with them to the coimty gaol, which was
eleven miles off,
" My friends," said I, " this is severe weather on which you have come to
take me to a prison ; and it is particularly unfortunate at this time, as one of
my arms has lately been burnt in a terrible manner, and it has thrown me into
a slight fever, and I want clothes to cover me, and I am now too weak and
old to walk far in s\ich deep snow : but if it must be so — "
I tlien turned to my wife and children, and directed them to get together
what few things were left us, and to prepai'e immediately for leaving this
place. I intreated them to be expeditious, and desired vay son to assist his
eldest sister, who, from a consciousness that she was the cause of all our
calamities, was fallen, and had lost anguish in insensibility, I encouraged my
wife who, pale and trembling, clasped our affrighted little ones in her arms,
tliat clung to her bosom in silence, dreading to look round at the strangers.
In the mean time my youngest daughter prepared for our depai-ture, and as
she received sevei-al liints to use dispatch, in about an hour we were ready to
depart.
CHAP TEE XXy.
NO SITUATION, HOWEVER WRETCHED IT SEEMS, BUT HAS SOME SORT OF
COMFORT ATTENDING IT.
We set forward from this peaceful neighbourhood, and walked on slowly.
My eldest daughter being enfeebled by a slow fever, which had begun for
some days to undermine her constitution, one of the officers, who had an horse,
kindly took her behind him ; for even these men cannot entirely divest them-
selves of humanity. My son led one of the little ones by the hand, and my
wife the other, while I leaned upon my youngest girl, whose tears fell not for
her own but my distresses.
We were now got from my late dwelling about two miles, when we saw a
crowd running and shouting behind us, consisting of about fifty of my poorest
parisliioncrs. These with dreadful imprecations soon seized upon tlie two
oflicers of justice, and swearing they would never see their minister go to gaol
wliile they had a drop of blood to shed in his defence, were going to use them
with great severity. The consequence might have been fatal had I not imme-
diately interposed, and with some difficulty rescued the officers from the hands
of the enraged multitude. My children, who looked upon my delivery now
as certain, appeared transported with joy, and were incapable of containing
their raptures. But they were soon undeceived, upon hearing me address the
poor deluded people wlio caine as they imagined to do me service.
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 685
" WTiat ! my friends," cried I, " and is this the way you love me ! Is tliis
the manner yon obey the instructions I have given you from the pulpit I
Thus to fly in the face of justice, and bring down ruin on yourselves and me !
Which is your ringleader ? Shew me the man that has thus seduced you.
As siu-e as he lives he shall feel my resentment. Alas ! my dear, deluded flock,
return back to the duty you owe to Grod, to your covmtry, and to me. I shall
yet perhaps one day see you in greater felicity here, and contribute to make
your lives more happy. But let it at least be my comfort when I pen my fold
for immortahty, that not one here shall be wanting."
They now seemed all repentance, and melting into tears came one after the
other to bid me farewell. I shook each tenderly by the hand, and leaving
them my blessing, proceeded forward without meeting any farther interruption.
Some hours before night we reached the town, or rather village ; for it con-
sisted but of a few mean houses, having lost all its foi"mer opulence, and
retaining no marks of its ancient superiority but the gaol.
Upon entering we put up at an inn, where we had such refreshments as
could most readily be procured, and I supped with my family with my usual
cheerfulness. After seeing them properly accommodated for that night, I
next attended the sheriff's officers to the prison ; which had formerly been
built for the purposes of war, and consisted of one large apartment strongly
grated and paved with stone, common to both felons and debtors at certain
hours in the four and twenty. Besides this, every prisoner had a separate cell,
where he was locked in for the night.
I expected upon my entrance to find nothing but lamentations and various
soimds of misery ; but it was veiy difierent. The prisoners seemed all em-
ployed in one common design, that of forgetting thought in merriment or
clamour. I was apprised of the usual perquisite required upon these occasions,
and immediately complied with the demand, though the little money I had was
very near being all exhausted. This was immediately sent away for liquor,
and the whole prison soon was filled with riot, laughter, and profaneness.
"How!" cried I to myself, "shall men so very wicked be cheerful, and
shall I be melancholy! I feel only the same confinement with them, and I
think I have more reason to be happy."
With such reflections I laboiu-ed to become cheerful ; but cheerfulness was
never yet produced by efibrt, which is itself painful. As I was sitting there-
fore in a corner of the gaol in a pensive posture, one of my fellow prisoners
came up, and sitting by me entered into conversation. It was my constant
rule in life never to avoid the conversation of any man who seemed to desire
it : for, if good, I might profit by his instruction ; if bad, he might be assisted
by mine. I found this to be a knowing man of strong unlettered sense, but a
thorough knowledge of the world, as it is called, or, more properly speaking,
of human nature on the wrong side. He asked me if I had taken care to pro-
vide myself with a bed, which was a circumstance Lhad never once attended to.
" That's unfortunate," cried he, "as you are allowed here nothing but straw
and your apartment is very large and cold. However, you seem to be some-
thing of a gentleman, and, as I have been one myself in my time, part of my
bed-clothes are heartily at your service."
I thanked him, professing my surprise at finding such humanity in a gaol
in misfortunes : adding, to let him see that I was a scholar, that " The
sage ancient seemed to imderstand the value of company in affliction, when
he said. Ton kosmon aire, ei dos ton etairon ; and in fact," continued T, "what
is the world, if it affords only solitude ?"
** You talk of the world, sir," returned my fellow prisoner : " the world is
in its dotage, and yet the cosmogony or creation of the world has puzzled the phi'
THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMTTH.
losophers of every age. What a medley of opinions have they not broached ujjon
the creation of the world. Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lu-
canus, have all attempted it in vain. The latter has these words, Anarchon ara
Jcai atelutaion to pan, which implies " — " I ask pardon, sir," cried I, " for inter-
rupting so much learning ; but I think I have heard all this before. Have I
not had the pleasure of once seeing you at Welbrirlgo fair, and is not your
name Ephraim Jenkinson?" At this demand he only sighed. "I suppose
you must recollect," resumed I, " one Doctor Primrose, from whom you bought
a horse."
He now at once recollected me ; for the gloominess of the place, and the
approaching night, had prevented his distinguishing my features before. —
" Yes, sir," returned Mr. Jenkinson, " I remember you perfectly well ; I
bought a horse, but forgot to pay for him. Yoiu* neighbour Flamborough is
the only prosecutor I am any way afraid of at the next assizes : for he intends
to swear positively against me as a coiner. I am heartily sorry, sir, I evt:r
deceived you, or indeed any man ; for you see," continued he, shewing his
shackles, " what my tricks have brought me to."
" Well, sir," replied I, " your kindness in offering me assistance when you
could expect no retvu'u, shall be repaid with my endeavours to soften, or totally
suppress, Mr. Flamborough's evidence, and I will send my son to him for
that purpose the first opportunity ; nor do I in the least doubt .but he Avill
comply with my request j and as to my own evidence, you need be under no
uneasiness about that."
" Well, sir," cried he, " all the return I can make shall be yours. You shall
have moi'e than half my bed-clothes to-night, and I'll take care to stand youv
friend in the prison, where I think I have some influence."
I thanked him, and could not avoid being surprised at the present youthful
change in his aspect ; for at the time I had seen him before he appeared at
least sixty. — '* Sir," answered he, " you are little acquainted with the world ;
I had at that time false hair, and have learned the art of counterfeiting every
age from seventeen to seventy. Ah ! sir, had I but bestowed half the pains in
learning a trade that I have in learning to be a scoundrel, I might have been
a rich man at this day. But, rogue as I am, still I may be your friend, and
that, perhaps, when you least expect it."
We were now prevented from farther conversation by the arrival of the
gaoler's servants, who came to call over the prisoners' names, and lock up for
the night. A fellow also with a bundle of straw for my bed attended, who led
me along a dark narrow passage into a room paved like the common prison,
and in one corner of this I spread my bed and the clothes given me by my
fellow prisoner ; which done, my conductor, who was civil enough, bade me a
good night. After my usual meditations, and having praised my Heavenly
Corrector, I laid myself down, and slept with the utmost tranquillity till morning.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A EEFOEMATION IN THE GAOL. TO MAKE LAWS COMPLETE THEY SHOITLD
EEWAED AS WELL A3 PUNISH.
The next morning early I was awakened by my family, whom I found in tears
at my bed-side. The gloomy strength of every tiling about us, it seems, had
daunted them. I gently rebuked their sorrow, assuring them I had never
slept with greater tranquillity, and next inquired after my eldest daughter,
who was not among them. They informed me that yesterday's uneasiness
and fatigue had increased her fever, and it was judged proper to leave her
behind. My next care was to send my son to procm'e a room or two to lodge
the family in, as near the prison as conveniently could be found. He obeyed j
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. eS?"]
but could only find one apartment, wlaich was hired at a small expense for hia
mother and sisters, the gaoler with humanity consenting to let him and hia
two Httle brothers lie in the prison with me. A bed was therefore prepared
for them in a corner of the room, which I thought answered yery conveniently.
I was willing however previously to know, whether my little children chosu
to lie in a place which seemed to fright them upon entrance.
" Well," cried I, " my good boys, how do you like your bed ? I hope you
are not afraid to lie in this room, dark as it appears."
" No, papa," says Dick, " I am not afraid to he anywhere where you are."
"And I," says Bill, who was yet but four years old, "love every place best
that my papa is in."
After this I allotted to each of the family what they were to do. My
daughter was particularly directed to watch her declining sister's health ; my
wife was to attend me ; my little boys were to read to me : " And as for you,
my son," continued I, " it is by the labour of your hands we must all hope to
bo supported. Your wages as a day labourer wiU be fully sufficient with
proper frugality to maintain us all, and comfortably too. Thou art now six-
teen years old, and hast strength, and it was given thee, my son, for very
useful purposes ; for it must save from famijie your helpless parents and
tamily. Prepare then this evening to look out for work against to-morrow,
and bring home every night what money you earn for our support."
Havmg thus instructed him and settled the rest, I walked down to the com-
mon prison, where I could enjoy more ah- and room. But I was not long
there when the execrations, lewdness, and brutahty, that invaded me on every
Bide, drove me back to my apartment again. Here I sate for some thne pon-
dering upon the strange infatuation of wretches who, finding all mankind in
open arms agamst them, were labouring to make themselves a future and a
tremendous enemy.
Their insensibmty excited my highest compassion, and blotted my own uneasi-
Qcss Irom my mmd. It even appeared a duty incumbent upon me to attempt to
reclaim them. I resolved therefore once more to return, and in spite of their
contempt to give them mj advice, and conquer them by perseverance. Going
tJierelore among them again, I informed Mr. Jenkinson of my desio-n at
which he laughed heartily, but communicated it to the rest. The proposal
was received with the greatest good humom% as it promised to afford a new
tund ot entertainment to persons who had now no other resource for mirth
Out what could be derived from ridicule or debauchery. '
I therefore read them a portion of the service with a loud unajffected voice, and
found my audience perfectly merry upon the occasion . Lewd whispers, groans
of contrition burlesqued, winking, and coughing, alternately excited laughter.
However, I contmued witli my natural solemnity to read on, sensible that what I
did might amend some, but could itself receive no contamination from any.
After reading I entered upon my exhortation, which was rather calculated
at first to amuse than to reprove. I previously observed, that no other motive
but their welfare could induce me to this ; that I was their fellow-prisoner,
and now got nothing by preaching. I was sorry, I said, to hear them so very
prolane j because they got nothing by it, but might lose a great deal : " For bo
assured, my friends," cried I, " for you are my friends, however the world
may disclaim your friendship, though you swore twelve thousand oaths in a
day, it would not put one penny in your purse. Then what signifies calling
every moment upon the devil, and courting his friendship, since you find how
scurvily he uses you ? He has given you nothing here, you find, but a mouth-
ful of oaths and an empty belly : and by the best accounts I have of him, he
wiU give you nothing that's good hereafter.
THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
" If used ill in our dealings with one man, we naturally go elscwliere. WeM
it not worth your while then just to try how you may hke the usage of another
master, who gives you fair promises at least to come to him ? Surely, my
friends, of all stupidity in the world his must be the greatest who, after rob-
bing an house, runs to the tliief- takers for protection. And yet how are you
more wise ? You are all seeking comfort from one that has already betrayed
you, applying to a more malicious being than any thief-taker of them all ; for
they only decoy and then hang you ; but he decoys and hangs, and what is
worst of all, will not let you loose after the hangman has done."
When I had concluded, I received the compliments of my audience, some
of whom can:w3 and shook me by the hand, swearing that I was a very honest
fellow, and that they desired my farther acquaintance. I therefore promised
to repeat my lectm*e next day, and actually conceived some hopes of making
a reformation here ; for it had ever been n\j opinion that no man was past
the hour of amendment, every heart lying open to the shafts of reproof if the
archer could but take a proper aim. When I had thus satisfied my mind, I
went back to my apartment, where my wife prepared a frugal meal, while Mr.
Jenkinscn begged leave to add his dinner to ours, and partake of the pleasui*e,
as he was kind enough to express it, of my conversation. He had not yet seen
my family, for as they came to my apartment by a door in the narrow passage
already described, by this means they avoided the common prison. Jenkin-
8on at the first interview therefore seemed not a little struck with the beauty
of my youngest daughter, which her pensive air contributed to heighten ; and
my little ones did not pass vxnnoticed.
"Alas, doctor," cried he, " these children are too handsome and too good for
such a place as tliis !"
" Why, Mr. Jenkinson," replied I, " thank Heaven my children are pretty
tolerable in morals j and if they be good, it matters little for the rest."
" I fancy, sir," returned my fellow prisoner, " that it must give you great
comfort to have all this little family about you."
*• A comfort ! Mr. Jenkinson," replied I, *' yes, it is indeed a comfort, and I
Would not be without them for all the world j for they can make a dmigeon
seem a palace. There is but one way in this life of woimding my happiness,
and that is by injuring them."
" I am afraid then, sir," cried he, " that I am in some measure culpable :
for I think I see here" (looking at my con Moses) " one that I have injured,
and by whom I wish to be forgiven."
My son immediately recollected his voice and features, though he had before
Been him in disguise ; and taking him by the hand with a smile forgave him.
" Yet," continued he, " I can't help wondering at what you could see in my
face to think me a proper mark for deception."
" My dear sir," returned the other, " it w^as not your face, but your white
stockings and the black riband in your hair, that allm-ed me. But no dispa-
ragement to your parts, I have deceived wiser men than you in my time ; and
yet with all my tricks, the blockheads have been too many for me at last."
"I suppose," cried my son, " that the narrative of such a life as yours must
be extremely instructive and amusing."
" Not much of either," returned Mr, Jenkinson. " Those relations which
describe the tricks and vices only of mankind, by increasing our suspicion in
Life, I'etard our success. The traveller that distrusts every person he meets,
and turns back upon the appearance of every man that looks like a robber,
seldom arrives in time at his journey's end."
*' Indeed, I think from my own experience, that the knowing one is tho
silliegit fellow under the sun. I was thought cunning from my very child-
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 689
hood : wlien but seveu years old the ladies would say tlmt I was a perfect
little man ; at fourteen I knew the world, cocked my hat, and loved the
ladies ; at twenty, tliougli I was perfectly honest, yet every one thought me so
cunning that not one would trust me. Thus I was at last obHged to turn
sharper in my own defence, and have lived ever since, my head throbbing
with schemes to deceive, and my heart palpitating with fears of detection. I
used often to laugh at your honest simple neighbour Flamborough, and one
way or other generally cheated him once a year. Yet still the honest man
went forward without suspicion, and grew rich while I still continued tricksy
and cunning, and was poor without the consolation of being honest. "How-
ever," continued he, *' let me know your case, and what has brought you hei'e ;
perhaps, though I have not skill to avoid a gaol myself, I may extricate my
friends."
In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him of the whole train of acci-
dents and follies that had plunged me into my present troubles, and my utter
inability to get free.
After hearing my story and pausmg some minutes, he slapped his forehead
as if he had liit upon something material, and took liis leave, saying he would
try wliat could be done.
CHAP TEE XXYIL
THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED.
The next morning I communicaced to my wife and children the scheme I liad
planned of reforming the prisoners, which tliey received with universal disap-
probation, alleging the impossibility and impropriety of it ; adding, tluit my
endeavours would no way contribute to their amendment, but miglit probably
disgrace my calling.
" Excuse me," returned I, " these people, however fallen, are still men, and
tliat is a very good title to my affections. Good counsel rejected retiu'us to
enrich the giver's bosom ; and though the instruction I communicate may not
mend them, yet it will assuredly mend myself, H these wretches, my children,
were princes, there would bo thousands ready to offer their ministry ; but in
my opinion the heart that is buried in a dungeon is as precious as that seated
upon a throne. Yes, my treasures, if I can mend them I will ; perhaps they
Avill not all despise me. Perhaps I may catch up even one from the gulpli,
and that will be great gain ; for is there upon earth a gem so precious as the
human soul ?"
Thus saying I left them, and descended to the common prison, where I
found the prisoners very merry, expecting my arrival, and each prepared with
some gaol trick to play upon the doctor. Thus, as I was going to begin, one
turned my wig awry, as if by accident, and then asked my pardon. A second,
who stood at some distance, liad a knack of spitting through his teetli, which
fell in showers upon my book. A third would cry Amen in such an affected
tone as gave the rest great delight. A fom'th had slily picked my pocket
of my spectacles. Put there was one whose trick gave more universal
pleasure than all the rest ; for observing the manner in which I had disposed
my books on the table before me, he very dexterously displaced one of tliem,
and put an obscene jest-book of his own in the place. However, I took no
notice of all that this mischievous group of little beings could do ; but went
on, perfectly sensible that what was ridiculous in my attempt Vv^ould excite
mirth only the first or second time, while what was serious would bo per-
manent. My design succeeded, and in less than six days some were penitent,
and all attentive.
41
690 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
It was now that I applauded my perseverance and address at thus giving
sensibility to 'wretches divested of every moral feeling ; and now began to
think of doing them temporal services also, by rendei'ing their situation some-
what more comfortable. Then* time had hitherto been divided between
famine and excess, tumultuous riot and bitter repining. Their only employ-
ment was quarrelling among. each other, playing at cribbage, and cutting to-
bacco stoppers. From this last mode of idle industi-y I took the hint of
setting such as chose to work, at cutting pegs for tobacconists and shoemakers,
the proper wood being bought by a general subsci'iption, and when manu-
factured, sold by my appointment ; so that each earned something every day :
a trifle indeed, but sufficient to maintain him.
I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the pimishment of immorality,
and rewards for peculiar industry. Thus in less than a fortnight I had formed
them into something social and humane, and had the pleasure of regarding
myself as a legislator, who had brought men from their native ferocity into
friendship and obedience.
And it were highly to be wished, that legislative power would thus direct
the law rather to reformation than severity : — that it would seem convinced
that the work of eradicating crimes is not by making punishments familiar but
formidable. Then, instead of our present prisons, which find or make men
guilty, wliich inclose wretches for the commission of one crime, and return
them, if returned alive, fitted for the perpetration of thousands, we should
see, as in other parts of Europe, places of penitence and solitude, where the
accused might be attended by such as could give them repentance if guilty, or
new motives to virtue if innocent, And this, but not the increasing pmiish-
ments, is the way to mend a state : nor can I avoid even questioning the
validity of that i-iglit which social combinations have assumed, of capitally
punisliing offences of a slight nature. In cases of mm*der their right is ob-
vious, as it is the duty of us all, from the law of self-defence, to cut off* that
man who has shewn a disregard for the life of another. Against such all
nature arises in arms ; but it is not so against him who steals my property.
Natural law gives me no right to take away his life, as by that the horse he
steals is as much his property as mine. If, then, I have any right, it must be
from a compact made between us, that he who deprives the other of his horse
shall die. But this is a false compact ; because no man has a right to barter
his life any more than to take it away, as it is not his own. And, besides the
compact is inadequate, and would be set aside even in a court of modern equity
as there is a great penalty for a very trifling inconvenience ; since it is far better
that two men should live, than that one man should ride. But a compact
that is false between two men is equally so between an hundred, or an hundred
thousand ; for as ten millions of circles can nevei* make a square, so the united
voice of myriads cannot lend the smallest foundation to falsehood. It is thus
that reason speaks, and untutored nature says the same thing. Savages that
ai'e directed by natural law alone are veiy tender of the lives of each other ;
they seldom shed blood but to retaliate former cruelty.
Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, had but few executions in
times of peace ; and in all commencing governments that have the print of
nature still strong upon them, scarcely any crime is held capital.
It is among the citizens of a I'efined community that penal laws, which are
in the hands of the rich, are laid upon the jjoor. Government while it grows
older seems to acquire the moroseness of ago ; and as if our property were be-
come dearer in proportion as it increased, as if the more enormous our wealth
the more extensive our fears, all our possessions are paled up with new edicts
every day, and hung round with gibbets to scare every invader.
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 691
»— — ■ ^
I cannot tell whether it is from the number of om* penal laws, or the
licentiousness of our people, that this country should shew more convicts in a
year than half the dominions of Europe united. Perhaps it is owing to both ;
for they mutually produce each othei*. When by indiscriminate penal laws a
nation beholds the same punishment affixed to dissimilar degrees of guilt, from
perceiving no distinction in the penalty, the people are led to lose all sense of
distinction in the crime, and this distinction is the bulwark of all morality :
thus the multitude of laws produce new vices, and new vices call for fresh
restraints.
It were to be wished then that power, instead of contriving new laws to
punish vice, instead of drawing hard the cords of society till a convulsion come
to burst them, instead of cutting away wretches as useless before we have tried
tlieir utility, instead of converting correction into vengeance, it were to be
wished that we tried the restrictive arts of government, and made law the
protector, but not the tyrant, of the people. We should then find that crea-
tures, whose souls are held as dross, only wanted the hand of a refiner ; wo
should then find that creatures now stuck up for long tortures, lest luxury
sliould feel a momentary pang, might, if properly treated, serve to sinew the
state in times of danger j that as their faces are 'like ours, their hearts are so
too 5 that few minds are so base as that perseverance cannot amend j that a
man may see his last crime without dying for it j and that very little blood
will serve to cement our security.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
HAPPINESS AND MISERY EATHEE THE EE3ULT OP PEUDENCE THAN OF VIETFE
IN THIS LIFE ; TEMPOEAL EVILS OE FELICITIES BEING- EEGAEDED BY HEAVEN
AS THINGS MEEELY IN THEMSELVES TEIFLING AND UNWOETHY ITS CAEE
IN THE DISTEIBDTION.
I HAD now been confined more than a fortnight, but had not since my arrival
been visited by my dear Olivia, and I greatly longed to see her. Havin^ com-
municated my wishes to my wife, the next mornhig the poor girl entered my
apartment, leaning on her sister's arm. The cliange Avhich I saw in her
countenance struck me. The numberless graces that once resided tliere were
now fled, and the hand of death seemed to have moulded every feature to
alarm me. Her temples were sunk, her forehead was tense, and a fatal pale-
ness sate upon her cheek.
" I am glad to see thee, my dear," cried I ; "but why this dejection, Livy P
I hope, my love, you have too great a regard for me to permit disappointment
thus to undermine a life which I prize as my own. Bo cheerful, child and
we yet may see happier days." '
''You have ever, sir," replied she, "been kind to me, and it adds to my pain
that 1 shaU never have an opportunity of sharing that happiness you promise.
Happiness, I fear, is no longer reserved for me here ; and I long to be rid of a
place where I have only found distress. Indeed, sir, I wish you would make
a proper submission to Mr. ThornhiU ; it may in some measiu^e induce him to
pity you, and it will give me relief in dying."
"Never, child," replied I, "never will I be brought to acknowledge my
daughter a prostitute ; for, though the world may look upon your ofience with
scorn let it be mine to regard it as a mark of credulity, not of guilt. My
dear, I am no way miserable in this place, however dismal it may seem : and
be assured, that while you continue to bless me by living, he shall never have i
my consent to make you more wretched by manying another."
Alter the departm-e of my daughter, my fellow prisoner, who was by at tliis !
4d — 2 l'
692 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITU.
interview, sensibly enongli expostulated upon my obstinacy in refusing a sub-
mission which promised to gire me freedom, irle observed, that tlie rest of
my family was not to be sacrificed to the peace of one child alone, and she the
only one who had offended me. "Besides," added he, " I don't know if it be
just thus to obstruct the xmion of man and wife, which you do at present, by
refusing to consent to a match you cannot hinder, but may render unhappy."
" Sir," replied I, " you are unacquainted with the man that oppresses us. I
am very sensible that no submission I can make could procure me liberty even
for an hour. I am told, that even in this very room a debtor of his, no later
than last year, died from want. But, though my submission and approbation
could transfer me from hence to the most beautiful apartment he is possessed
of; yet I would grant neither, as something whispers me that it would be
giving a sanction to adultery. While my daughter lives, no other marriage of
his shall ever be legal in my eye. Were she removed, indeed, I should be the
basest of men, from any resentment of my own, io attempt putting asunder
those who wish for an union. No, villain as he is, I should then wish him
married to prevent the consequences of his future debaucheries. But now
should I not be the most cruel of all fathers, to sign an instrument wliich
must send my child to the grave, merely to avoid a prison myself : and thus,
to escape one pang, break my child's heart with a thousand ?"
He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but could not avoid observing,
that he feai-ed my daughter's life was already too much wasted to keep me long
a prisoner. " Howevei'," continued he, " though you refuse to submit to tlie
nephew, I hope you have no objections to laying yoiu* case before the uncle,
who has the first character in the kingdom for every thing that is just and
good. I would advise you to send him a letter by the post, intimating all his
nephew's ill usage ; and my life for it that in three days you shall liave an
answer." I thanked him for the hint, and instantly set about complying ;
but I wanted paper, and luiluckily all our money had been laid out that
moi'ning in provisions : however, he supplied me.
For the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety to know what re-
ception my letter might meet with ; but in the mean time was frequently
solicited by my wife to submit to any conditions rather than remain here, and
every hour received repeated accounts of the decline of my daughter's health.
The third day and tlie fourth arrived, but I received no answer to my letter :
the complaints of a stranger against a favourite nephew were no way likely to
succeed ; so that these hopes soon vanished like all my former. My mind,
however, still supported itself, though confinement and bad air began to make
a visible alteration in my health, and my arm that had suffered in the fire
grew worse. My children, however, sate by me, and while I was stretched on
my straw, read to me by turns, or listened and wept at my instructions. But
my daughter's health declined faster than mine ; every message from her con-
tributed to increase my apprehensions and pain. The fifth morning after I
had written the letter which was sent to Sir William Thornhill, I was alarmed
with an account that she was speechless. Now it was that confinement was
truly painful to me ; my soul was bursting from its prison to be near the pil-
low of my child, to comfort, to strengthen her, to receive her last wishes, and
teach her soul tlie way to Heaven ! Another account came. She was expiring,
and yet I was debarred the small comfort of weeping by her. My fellow
prisoner some time after came with the last account. He bade me be patient.
She was dead ! — The next morning he returned, and found me with my two
little ones, now my only companions, who were using all their innocent efforts
to comfort me. They intreated to read to me, and bade me not to cry, for I
was now too old to weep. " And is not my sister an angel now, papa ?" cried
THE VICAR OF WAKEFlUn. C93
the eldest, " and wliy then are you sony for her ? I Avisli I were an angel ont
of this fnghtful place, if my papa were with me." " Yes," added my younffc^t
darling, " Heaven, where my sister is, is a finer place tlian this, and there are
none but good people tliere, and the people here are rery bad."
Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prattle, by observing that, now
my daughter was no more, I should seriously think of the rest of my family,
and attempt to save my own life, which was every day declining for want of
necessaries and wholesome air. He added, that it was now incumbent on me
to sacrifice any pride or resentment of my own to the welfare of those who
depended on me for support ; and that I was now, both by reason and justice
obliged to try to reconcile mj landlord. '
"Heaven bo praised," replied I, "there is no pride left me now, I should
detest mj own heart if I saw either pride or resentment lurking there. On
the contrary, as my oppressor has been once my parishioner, I hope one day
to present up an unpolluted soul at the eternal tribunal. No, sir, I have no
resentment now, and though he has taken from me what I held dearer than
all his treasures, though he has wrung my heart, for I am sick almost to
fainting, very sick, my fellow prisoner, yet that shall never inspire me with
vengeance. I am now willing to approve his marriage, and if this submission
can do hiin any pleasure, let him know, that if I have done him any iniurv I
am sorry for it." J J J
Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink and wfote down my submission nearly as I
have expressed it, to which I signed my name. My son was employed to
carry the letter to Mr. Thornhill, who was then at his seat in the country.
He went, and in about six hours returned with a verbal answer. He had
some difficulty, he said, to get a sight of his landlord, as the servants were
insolent and suspicious ; but he accidentally saw him as he was going out
upon business, preparing for his marriage, which was to be in three days
He continued to inform us that he stepped up in the humblest manner aivi
delivered the letter, which when Mr. Thornhill had read, he said that all sub-
mission was now too late and imnecessary ; that he had heard of our applica-
tion to his uncle, which met with the contempt it deserved; and as for the
rest, that all future applications should be directed to his attorney, not to
him. He observed, however, that as he had a very good opinion of 'the dis-
cretion of the two young ladies, they might have been the most agreeable
intercessors.
"Well, sir," said I to my fellow prisoner, "you now discover the temper of
the man that oppresses mo. He can at once be facetious and cruel ; but let
liim use me as he will, I shall soon bo free, in spite of all his bolts to' restrain
me, I am now drawing towards an abode that looks brighter as I approach
it : this expectation cheers my afflictions, and though I leave an helpless family
of orphans behind me, yet they will not be utterly forsaken ; some friend,
perhaps, will be found to assist them for the sake of their poor father, and
some may charitably relieve them for the sake of their heavenly Father."'
Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen that day before, appeared
with looks of terror, and making efibrts, but unable to speak. " Why my
love," cried T, " why will you thus increase my afflictions by your own?
What though no submissions can turn our severe master, thouoh J,o has
doomed me to die in this place of wretchedness, and though we have lost a
darling child; yet still you will find comfort in your other children when I
shall be no more. "We have indeed lost," returned she, "a darliucr child.
My Sophia, my dearest is gone, snatched from us, carried ofi* by ruffians '"
"How! madam," cried my fellow prisoner, "Miss Sophia carried off by
villains ." sure it cannot be."
604, THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Slio could only answer witli a fixed look and a flood of tears. But one of
the prisoner's wives, who was pi'esent, and came in with her, gave lis a more dis-
tinct account : she informed us that as my wife, my daughter, and herself, were
taking a walk together on the great road a little way out of the village, a post-
chaise and pair drove up to them and instantly stopped. Upon which a well-
dressed man, but not Mr. Thornhill, stepping out, clasped my daughter round
tlic waist, and forcing her in, bade the postillion drive on, so that they were out
of sight in a moment.
" Now," cried I, " the sum of my miseries is made up, nor is it in the power
of any tiling on earth to give me another pang. What ! not one left ! not to
leave me one ! the monster ! the child that was next my lieart ! she had the beauty
of an angel, and almost the wisdom of an angel. But support that woman,
nor let her fall. Not to leave me one !"
" Alas ! my husband," said my wife, " you seem to want comfort even more
than I. Our distresses are great ; but I could bear this and more, if I saw you
but easy. They may take away my children, and all the world, if they leave
me but you."
My son, who was present, endeavoui'od to moderate her grief; he bade us
take comfort, for he hoped that we might still have reason to be thankful. —
" My cliild," cried I, " look round the world, and see if there be any happiness
left me now. Is not every ray of comfort shut out ; while all our bright pros-
pects only lie beyond the grave !" — " My dear father," returned he, "I hope
there is still something that will give you an interval of satisfaction ; for I
have a letter from my brother Q-eorge." — " What of him, child ?" interrupted
I, " does he know our misery ? I hope my boy is exempt from any part of what
his wretched family suffers?" — "Yes, sir," returned lie, "lie is perfectly gay,
cheerful, and happy. His letter brings nothing but good news ; he is the
favourite of his colonel, who promises to procure him the very next lieutenancy
that becomes vacant !"
" And are you sure of all this," cried my wife, " are you sure that nothing ill
has befallen my boy ?" — *' Nothing indeed, madam,'' returned my son, " you shall
see the letter, which will give you the higliest pleasure ; and if any thing can
procure you comfort, I am sure that will." — "But are you sure," still repeated
she, " that the letter is from himself, and that he is really so happy ?" — "Yes,
Madam," replied he, " it is certainly his, and he will one day be tlie credit and
the support of our family !" — " Then I thank Providence," cried she, " that my
last letter to him has miscarried. — Yes, my dear," continued slic turning to me,
" I will now confess, that though the hand of Heaven is sore upon us in other
instances, it has been favourable here. By the last letter I wrote my son,
which was in the bitterness of anger, I desu'ed him, upon his mother's blessing,
and if ho had the heart of a man, to see justice done his father and sister, and
avenge our cause. But thanks be to Him that directs all things, it has mis-
carried, and I am at rest." " Woman," cried I, " thou hast done very ill, and
at another time my reproaches might have been more severe. Oh! what a
tremendous gulph hast thou escaped, that would have buried both thee and him
in endless ruin. Pi'ovidence, indeed, has here been kinder to us than we to our-
selves. It has reserved that son to be the father and protector of my children
when I shall be away. How unjustly did I complain of being stripped of every
comfort, when still I hear that he is happy and insensible of our afflictions ;
still kept in reserve to support his widowed mother, and to protect his brothers
and sisters. But what sisters has he left? he has no sisters now, they are all
gone, robbed from me, and I am undone." — " Father," interrupted my son, " I
beg you will give me leave to read this letter, I know it will please you."
Upon which, with my permission, he read as follows.
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 605
HoNouKED Sir,
I have called off my imagination a few moments from the pleasures that
BmTomid me, to fix it upon objects that are still more pleasing, the dear little
fire-side at home. My hmcy draws that harmless group as listening to every
line of tliis with great composure. I view those faces witli delight which
never felt the deforming hand of ambition or distress ! But whatever your
happiness may be at home, I am sure it will be some addition to it to hear
that I am perfectly pleased with my situation, and every way happy here.
Our regiment is countermanded, and is not to leave the kingdom ; the
colonel, who professes himself my friend, takes rae with him to all companies
where he is acquainted, and after my first visit I generally find myself re-
ceived with increased respect upon repeating it. I danced last night with
Lady G- , and could I forget you know whom, I might be perhaps success-
ful. But it is my fate still to remember others while I am myself forgotten
by most of mj absent friends ; and in this number I fear, sir, that I must
consider you ; for I have long expected the pleasure of a letter from liome to
]io purpose. Olivia and Sophia too promised to write, but seem to have for-
gotten me. Tell them they are two arrant little baggages, and that I am this
moment in a most violent passion with them : yet still, I know not how, though
I want to bluster a little, my heart is respondent only to softer emotions. Then
tell them, sir, that after all, I love them affectionately, and be assured of my
ever remaining
Your dutiful son.
" In all our miseries," cried I, " Avhat thanks have we not to return, that
one at least of our family is exempted from what we suffer. Heaven be his
guard, and keep my boy thus happy to be the supporter of his widowed
mother, and the father of these two babes, which is all the patrimony I can
now bequeath him. May he keep their innocence from the teniptations of
want, and be their conductor in the paths of honour !" I had scarcely said
these words when a noise like that of a tumult seemed to proceed from the
prison below : it died away soon after, and a clanking of fetters was heard
along the passage that led to my apartment. The keeper of the prison entei'ed,
holding a man all bloody, wounded and fettered with the heaviest irons. I
looked with com]5assion on tlie wretch as he approaclied me, but with horror
when I found it was my own son. — "MyG-eorge! My Geoi'ge ! and do I
behold thee thus. Wounded ! Fettered ! Is this thy Iiappiness ! Is this
the manner you return to me ! O that this sight could break my heart at
once, and let me die !"
" Where, sir, is your fortitude ?" returned ray son with an intrepid voice.
" I must suffer ; my life is forfeited, and let them take it."
I tried to restrain my passions for a few minutes in silence, but I thought I
should have died with the effort. — " O my boy, my heart weeps to behold thee
thus, and I cannot, cannot help it. In the moment that I thought thee
blessed, and prayed for thy safety, to behold thee thus again ! Chained,
wounded ! And yet the death of the youthful is happy. But I am old, a very
old man, and liave lived to see this day. To see my children all untimely
falling about me, while I continue a wretched survivor in the midst of ruin!
May all the curses that ever sunk a soul fall heavy upon the murderer of my
children ! May he live, like me, to see "
*' Hold, sir," replied my son, " or I shall blush for thee. How, sir, forgetful
of your age, your holy calling, thus to arrogate the justice of Heaven, and fling
those curses upward that must soon descend, to crush thy own gray head witli
destruction ! No, sir, let it be your care now to fit me for that vile death I
696 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH
must shortly suffer, to arm rae with hope and resolution, to gire mo courage to
drmk of that bitterness which must shortly be my portion."
" My child, you must not die : I am sure no offence of thine can deserve so
vile a piuiishment. ]\Iy Grcorge could never be guilty of any crime to make
his ancestors ashamed of him.
" Mine, sir," returned my son, " is, I fear an unpardonable one. When I
received my mother's letter from home, I immediately came down, deter-
mined to punish the betrayer of our honour, and sent him an order to meet
me, which he answered, not in person, but by despatching four of his domestics
to seize me. I wounded one who first assaulted me, and I fear desperately ;
but tlie rest made me their prisoner. The coward is determined to put
tlie law in execution against me ; the proofs are undeniable ; I have sent a
challenge, and as I am the first transgressor tipon the statute, I see no hopes
of pardon. But you have often charmed me with your lessons of fortitude ;
let me now, sir, find them in your example."
" And, my son, you shall find them. I am now raised above this world,
.ind all the pleasures it can produce. From this moment I break from my
heart all the ties that held it down to earth, and will prepare to fit us both for
eternity. Yes, my son, I will point out the way, and my soul shall guide
yours in the ascent, for we will take our flight together. I now see and am
convinced you can expect no pardon here, and I can only exhort you to seek it
at that greatest tribunal where we both shall shortly answer. But let us not
be niggardly in our exhortation, but let all our fellow prisoners have a share :
good gaoler, let them be permitted to stand here while I attempt to improve
them." Thus saying, I made an effort to rise from my straw, but wanted
strength, and was able only to recline against the wall. The prisoners as-
sembled themselves according to my directions, for tlicy loved to hear my
counsel ; my sou and his mother supported me on either side ; I looked and
saw that jione were wanting, and then addressed them with the following
exhortation.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE EQUAL DEALINGS OE PllOYIDENCE DEMONSTEATED WITH BEGAED TO
THE HAPPY AND THE MISERABLE HERE BELOW. THAT EEOM THE NATURE
OF PLEASURE AND PAIN, THE WRETCHED MUST EE EEPAID THE BALANCE
OF THEIR SUFFERINGS IN THE LIFE HEREAFTER.
My friends, my children, and fellow sufferers, when I reflect on the distribu-
tion of good and evil here below, I find tliat much has been given man to
enjoy, yet still more to suffer. Though we should examine the whole world,
we shall not find one man so happy as to have nothing left to wish for ; but
we daily see thousands who by suicide shew us they have nothing left to hope.
In this life, then it appears that we cannot be entirely blessed, but yet we
may be completely miserable.
Why man should thus feel pain, why our wretchedness should be requisite
in the formation of imiversal felicity ; why, when all other systems are made
perfect by the perfection of their subordinate parts, the great system should
require for its perfection parts that are not only subordinate to others, but
imperfect in themselves ; these are questions that never can be explained, and
might be useless if known. On this subject Providence has thought fit to
elude our curiosity, satisfied with granting us motives to consolation.
In this situation man has called in the friendly assistance of pliilosophy ;
and Heaven, seeing the incapacity of that to console him, has given him the
ftid of rehgion. The consolations of philosophy are very amusing, but often
THE VICAR OF IVAKEFIELD. 697
fallacious. It tells us that life is filled with comforts if wo will but enjoy
them ; and on the other hand, that though we unavoidably have miseries here,
life is short, and they will soon be over. Thus do these consolations destroy
each other ; for if life is a place of comfort, its shortness must be misery, and
if it be long, our griefs ai*e protracted. Thus philosophy is weak ; but reli-
gion comforts in an higher strain. Man is here, it tells us, fitting up his mind,
and preparing it for another abode. When the good man leaves the body and
is all a gloi'ious mind, he will find he has been making himself a heaven of
liappiness here, while the wretch that has been maimed and contaminated by
his vices, shrinks from his body with terror, and finds that he has anticipated
the vengeance of Heaven. To religion then we must hold in every circum-
stance of life for our truest comfort ; for if already we are happy, it is a
pleasure to think that we can make that happiness unending ; and if we are
miserable, it is very consoling to think that there is a place of rest. Thus to
the fortunate religion holds out a continuance of bliss, to the wretched a
change from pain.
But though religion is very kind to all men, it has promised peculiar re-
wards to the unhappy ; the sick, the naked, the houseless, the heavy-laden,
and the prisoner, have ever most frequent promises in our sacred law. The
author of our religion everywhere professes himself the wretch's friend, and,
unlike the false ones of this world, bestows all his caresses upon the forlorn.
The unthinking have censured this as partiality, as a preference without merit
to deserve it. But they never reflect that it is not in the power even of Heaven
itself to make the offer of u.nceasing felicity as great a gift to the happy as to
the miserable. To the first, eternity is but a single blessing, since at most it
but increases wliat they already possess. To the latter it is a double advan-
tage ; for it diminishes their pain here, and rewards them with heavenly bliss
hereafter.
But Providence is in another respect kinder to the poor than the rich ; for
as it thus makes the life after death more desirable, so it smooths the passage
tlicre. The wretclied have had a long familiarity with every face of tei-ror.
The man of sorrows lays himself quietly down, without possessions to regret,
and but few ties to stop his departure : he feels only nature's pang in the final
separation, and this is no way greater than he has often fainted under before ;
for after a certain degree of pain, every new breach that death opens in the
constitution, nature kindly covers with insensibility.
Thus Providence has given the wretched two advantages over the happy in
this life, greater felicity in dying, and in heaven all that superiority of pleasure
I which ai'ises from contrasted enjoyment. And this superiority, my friends,
is no small advantage, and seems to be one of the pleasures of the poor man in
I the parable ; for though he was already in heaven, and felt all the raptures it
1 could give, yet it was mentioned as an addition to his happiness, that he had once
been wi'etched, and now was comforted ; that he had known what it was to be
miserable, and now felt what it was to be happy.
Thus, my friends, you sec religion does what philosophy could never do : it
shcAVS the equal dealings of Heaven to the happy and the unhappy, and levels
all human enjoyments to nearly the same standard. It gives to both rich and
poor the same happiness hereafter, and equal hopes to aspire after it ; but if
the rich have the advantage of enjoying pleasure here, the poor have the end-
less satisfaction of knowing what it was once to be miserable, when crowned
with endless felicity hereafter ; and eveji though this should be called a small
advantage, yet being an eternal one, it must make up by dui'ation what the
temporal liappiness of the great may have exceeded by intenseuess.
These are, therefore, the consolations Avhich the wretched have peculiajr to
698 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
tlicmselTes, and in which ihcy are abore the rest of mankind ; in other rc«
spccts they are below them. They wJio woidd know the miseries of the poor,
mnst see life and endui*e it. To declaim on the temporal advantages they
enjoy, is only repeating what none either believe or practise. The men who
have the necessaries of living are not poor, and they who want them must be
miserable. Yes, my friends, avc mnst be miserable. No vain efforts of a re-
fined imagination can soothe the wants of nature, can give elastic sweetness to
the dark vapour of a dungeon, or ease to the tln*obbings of a broken heart.
Let the philosopher from his couch of softness tell us that we can resist all
these. Alas! the effort by which we resist them is still the greatest pain!
Peath is slight, and any man may sustain it ; but torments are dreadful, and
these no man can endvu-e.
To us then, my friends, the promises of happiness in heaven should be pecu-
liarly dear; for if our reward be in tliis life alone, we are then indeed of all
men the most miserable. When I look round these gloomy walls, made to
terrify as well as to confine us ; this light that only serves to shew the horrors
of the place, those shackles that tyranny has imposed, or crime made neces-
sary ; when I survey these emaciated looks, and hear those groans, oh ! my
friends, what a glorious exchange would heaven be for these. To fly through
regions unconfined as air, to bask in the sunshine of eternal bliss, to carol over
endless liymns of praise, to have no master to thi'caten or insult us, but the
form of G-oodness himself for ever in our eyes ! when I think of these things,
death becomes tlic messenger of very glad tidings ; when I think of tliese
things, his sharpest arrow becomes the staff of my support ; Avhen I think of
tlaeso things what is lliere in life worth having ? when I think of these things,
what is there that should not be spurned away ? kings in their palaces should
groan for such advantages ; but we, humbled as we are, should yearn for tliem.
And sliall these things be ours? Ours they will certainly be if we but
try for them ; and what is a comfort, Ave are shut out from many tempta-
tions that would retard our pursuit. Only let us try for them, and they
will certainly be ours, and what is still a comfort, shortly too ; for if wo
look back on a past life it appears but a very short span, and whatever we
may think of the rest of life, it will yet be found of less duration ; as we grow
older the days seem to grow shorter, and our intimacy with time ever lessens
the perception of his stay. Then let us take comfort now, for we shall soon
be at our journey's end ; we shall soon lay down the heavy burthen laid by
Heaven upon us ; and though death, the only friend of the wretched, for a
little while mocks tlie weary traveller witli tiie A'iew, and like his liorizou still
flies before him ; yet Wxq time will certainly and shortly come when we shall
cease from our toil ; when the luxuriant great ones of the world shall no more
tread us to the earth ; when we shall think with pleasiu'e of our sufferings
below ; when we shall be surrounded with all our friends, or such as deserved
our friendship ; when our bliss shall be iniufcterable, and, still to crown all,
unending.
C H A P T E E XXX.
HAPPIEE PEOSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAE. LET TS BE INFLEXIBLE, AND POE-
rUNE WILL AT LAST CHANGE IN OUE PAVOUE.
AVuEN I had thus finished, and my audience was retired, the gaoler, who was
one of the most humane of his profession, hoped I would not be displeased, as
■what he did was but his duty ; observing, that he must be obliged to remove
my son into a stronger cell, but that he should be permitted to revisit me every
morning. I thanked him for his clemency, and, gi'asping my boy's hand, bade
him farewell, and be mindful of the great duty that was before hiin.
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
I again therefore laid me clown, and one of my little ones sate by my bcd-sidc
reading, wlicn Mr. Jenkinson entering informed me that there was news of my
danghter; for that she was seen by a person about two liours before in a
strange gentleman's company, and that they had stopped at a neighbouring vil-
lage for refreshment, and seemed as if returning to town. He had scarcely de-
livered this news when tlie gaoler came, with looks of haste and pleasure, to m-
form me that my daughter was found. Moses came running in a moment after,
crying out that his sister Sophy was below, and coming up with our old friend
Mr. Burchell. " i • i i i i
Just as he delivered this news my dearest girl entered, and, with looks al-
most wild with pleasure, ran to kiss me in a transport of affection. Her
mother's tears and silence also shewed her pleasure.—" Here, papa," cried the
charming girl, " here is the brave man to whom I owe my delivery^; to tins
gentleman's intrepidity I am indebted for my happiness and safety—" A kiss
from Mr. Burchell, whose pleasure seemed even greater than hers, interrupted
what she was going to add.
"Ah, Mr. Burchell," cried I, "this is but a wretched habitation you now
find us in ; and we are now very different from what you last saw us. You
were ever our friend : we have long discovered our errors with regard to you,
and repented of our ingratitude. After the vile usage you then received at iny
hands, I am almost ashamed to behold your face ; yet I hope you'll forgive
me, as I was deceived by a base ungenerous wretch, who under the mask of
friendship has undone me."
" It is impossible," replied Mr. Burchell, " that I should forgive you, as you
never deserved my resentment. I partly saw your delusion then, and as it was
out of my power to restrain, I could only pity it!"
" It Avas ever my conjecture," cried I, " that your mind was noble ; but now
I find it so. But tell me, my dear child, how hast thou been relieved, or who
the ruffians were who carried thee away."
"Indeed, sir," replied she, "as to the villain who carried me off I am yet
ignorant. For as my mamma and I were walking out, he came behind us, and
almost before I could call for help, forced me into the post-chaise, and in an
instant the horses drove away. I met several on the road to whom I cried out
for assistance ; but they disregarded my intreaties. In the mean time the ruf-
fian himself used every art to hinder me from crying out : he flattered and
threatened by turns, and swore that if I continued but silent he intended no
harm. In the mean time I had broken the canvas that he had drawn up, and
whom should I perceive at some distance but your old friend Mr. Burchell,
Avalking along with his usual swiftness, with tlie great stick for whicli we used
so much to ridicule him. As soon as we came Avithin hearing I called out to
him by name, and intreated his help. I repeated my exclamations several times,
upon which with a very loud voice he bade the postillion stop ; but the boy
took no notice, but drove on with still greater speed. I now thought he could
never overtake us, when in less than a minute I saw Mr. Burchell come
running up by the side of the horses, and with one blow knock the postilHon
to the ground. The horses when he was fallen soon stopped of themselves, and
the ruffian stepping out, with oaths and menaces drew his sword, and ordered
liim at his peril to retire ; but Mr. Burchell running up shivered his sword to
pieces, and then pursued him for near a quarter of a mile ; but he made his
escape. I was at this tiaie come out myself, willing to assist my deliverer; but
he soon returned to me in triumph. The postillion, who was recovered, was
going to make his escape too; but Mr. Burchell ordered him at his peril
to mount again and drive back to town. Finding it impossible to resist, he re-
luctantly complied, though the wound he liad received seemed to me at least
^00 THE WORKS OF OLIVM GOLT)SMlTiL
to be dangerous. lie continued to complain of the pain as we drove along, bo
tliat ho at last excited Mr. Burchell's compassion, who, at my request, ex-
changed liira for another at an inn where we called on our return."
"Welcome then," cried I, "my child, and thou her gallant deliverer, a
thousand welcomes. Though our clieer is but wretched, yet our hearts ni-e
ready to receive you. And now, Mr. Burchell, as you have delivered my girl,
if you tliink her a recompense slic is yours ; if you can stoop to an alliance Avitli
a family so poor as mine, take her ; obtain her consent, as I know you have
her heart, and you have mine. And let me tell you, sir, tliat I give you no
small treasure ; she has been celebrated for beauty, it is true, but thr.t ia not
my meaning, I give you up a treasure in her mind."
"But I suppose, sir," cried Mr. 33urchell, " that you are apprised of my cir-
cumstances, and of my incapacity to support her as she deserves ?"
" If your present objection," replied I, " be meant as an evasion of my offer,
I desist : but I know no man so worthy to deserve her as you : and if I coidd
give her thousands, and thousands sought her from me, yet my honest bravo
Burcliell should be my dearest choice."
To all this his silence alone seemed to give a mortifying refusal, and, with-
out the least reply to my offer, he demanded if we could iiot be furnished with
refreshments from tlie next inn, to which being answered in the affirmative, he
ordered them to send in tlie best dinner that could be pi'ovidcd upon such
short notice. lie bespoke also a dozen of their best wine ; and some cordials
for me ; adding with a smile, that he would stretch a little for once ; and
though in a prison, asserted he was never better disposed to be merry. The
waiter soon made his appearance with preparations for dinner, a table was
lent us by the gaoler, who seemed remarkably assiduous, the wine was disposed
in order, and two very well-dressed dislies were brought in.
My daughter had not yet heard of her poor brother's melancholy situation,
and we aU seemed unwilling to damp her cheerfulness by the relation. But
it was in vain that I attempted to appear cheei'ful, the circitm stances of my
unfortunate son broke thi'ough all efforts to dissemble : so that I was at last
obliged to damp our mirth by relating his misfortunes, and wishing that he
might be permitted to share with us in this little interval of satisfaction.
After my guests were recovered from the consternation my account had pro-
duced, I requested also that Mr. Jenkinson, a fellow prisoner, might be ad-
mitted, and the gaoler granted my request with an air of unusual submission.
The clanking of my son's irons was no sooner heard along the passage than his
sister ran impatiently to meet him ; while Mr. Burchell in the niean time
asked me if my son's name were George, to which replying in the affirmative
he still continued silent. As soon as my boy entered the room, I could per-
ceive he regarded Mr. Biu'chell with a look of astonishment and reverence.
" Come on," cried I, " my son ; though we are fallen very low, yet Providence
has been pleased to grant us some small relaxation from pain. Thy sister is
restored to us, and there is her deliverer ; to that brave man it is that I am
indebted for yet having a daughter ; give him, my boy, the hand of friend-
ship, he deserves our warmest gratitude."
My son seemed all this while regardless of what I said, and still continued
fixed at respectful distance. — " My dear brother," cried his sister, " why don't
you thank my good deliverer? the brave should ever love each other."
He still continued his silence and astonishment, till our guest at last per-
ceived himself to be known, and assuming all his native dignity desired my
son to come forward. Never before had I seen any thing so truly majestic as
the air he assumed upon this occasion. The greatest object in the imiverse,
Bays a certain philosopher, is a good man struggling with adversity j yet there
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 701
w still a greater, which is the good man that comes to reheve it. After he had
regarded my son for some time with a superior air, " I again find," said he,
*' unthinking boy, that the same crime" — But here he was interrupted by one
of the gaoler's servants, who came to inform us that a person of distinction,
who had driven into town with a chariot and several attendants, sent his re-
spects to the gentleman' that was with us, and begged to know when he should
tliink i:)roper to be waited upon—" Bid the fellow wait," cried our guest, " till
I shall have leisure to receive him;" and then turning to my son, "T again
find, sir," proceeded he, " that you are guilty of the same offence, for which
you once had my reproof, and for which the law is now preparing its justest
punishments. You imagine, perhaps, that a contempt for your own life gives
you a right to take that of another : but where, sir, is the difference between a
duellist who hazards a hfe of no value, and the murderer who acts with greater
security ? Is it any diminution of the gamester's fraud, when he alleges that
he has staked a counter ?"
" Alas ! sir," cried I, " whoever you are, pity the poor misguided creature ;
for what he has done was in obedience to a deluded mother, who, in the bit-
terness of her resentment, required him upon her blessing to avenge her quar-
rel. Here, sir, is the letter, which will serve to convince you of her impru-
dence, and diminish his guilt."
He took the letter, and hastily read it over : " This," says lie, " though not a
perfect excuse, is such a palliation of his fault, as induces me to forgive him.
And now, sir," continued he, kindly taking my son by the hand, " I see you
are surprised at finding me here ; but I have often visited prisons upon occa-
sions less interesting. I am now come to see justice done a worthy man, for
whom I have the most sincere esteem. I have long been a disguised spectator
of thy father's benevolence. I have at his little dwelling enjoyed respect un-
contaminated by flattery, and have received that happiness that courts could
not give, from the amusing simplicity round his fire-side. My nephew has
been apprised of my intentions of coming here, and, I find, is arrived ; it Avould
be wronging him and you to condemn him without examination : if there be
injury, there shall be redress ; and this I may say without boasting, that none
have ever taxed the injustice of Sir William Thornhill."
We now found the personage whom we had so long entertained as an harm-
less, amusing companion, was no other than the celebrated Sir William Thorn-
hill, to whose virtues and singularities scarcely any were strangers. The poor
Mr. Burchell was in reality a man of large fortune and great interest, to whom
senates listened with applause, and whom party heard with conviction ; who
was the friend of his country, but loyal to his king. My poor wife, recol-
lecting her former familiarity, seemed to shrink with apprehension; but
Sophia, who a few moments before thought him her own, now perceivmg the
immense distance to which he was removed by fortune, was unable to conceal
her tears.
" Ah, sir," cried my wife with a piteous aspect, " how is it possible that I
can ever have yoiu' forgiveness ? the slights you received from me the last
time I had the honour of seeing you at our house, and the jokes which I au-
daciously threw out, these jokes, sir, I fear can never be forgiven."
"My dear good lady," retm'ned he with a smile, "if you had your joke, I
had my answer : I'll leave it to all the company, if mme were not as good as
yours. To say the truth, I know nobody whom I am disposed to be angry
with at present but the fellow who so frighted my little girl here. I had not
even time to examine the rascal's person so as to describe liim in an advertise-
ment. Can you tell me, Sophia, my dear, whether you should know him
again .?"
702 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
" Indeed, sir," replied she, " I can't be positive ; yet now I recollect ho liad
a large mark over one of his eyebrows." " I ask pardon, madam," interrupted
Jenkiuson, who was by, " but be so good as to inform mo if the follow wore
liis own red hair?" — "Yes, I think so," cried Sophia. — "And did your
honour," continued he, turning to Sir William, " observe the length of lu's
logs?" — "I can't be sure of tlieir length," cried the Baronet, "but I am con-
vinced of their swiftness ; for he outran me, wliich is what I thought few men
in the kingdom could have done." — "Please your honour," cried Jenkinson,
" I know the man : it is certainly the same ; tlie best runner in England ; lie
has beaten Pinwire of Newcastle ; Timothy Baxter is his name, I know him
perfectly, and the very place of his retreat this moment. If your honour will
bid Mr. gaoler let two of his men go with me, I'll engage to produce him to
you in an hour at farthest." Upon this the gaoler Avas called, who instantly
appearing, Sir William demanded if he knew him. "Yes, please your
honour," replied the gaoler, " I know Sir William Thornhill well, and every
body that knows any thing of him will desire to know more of him." — " Well,
then," said the Baronet, " My request is, that you will permit this man and
two of your seiwants to go upon a message by my authority ; and as I am in
the commission of the peace, I undertake to secure you." " Your promise is
sufficient," replied the other, " and you may at a minute's warning send them
over England Avhenever your honour thinks fit."
In pursuance of the gaoler's compliance, Jenkinson was despatched in searcli
of Timothy Baxter, while avc were amused with the assiduity of our youngest
boy Bill, who had just come in and climbed up to Sir William's neck in order
to kiss him. His mother was immediately going to chastise his familiarity,
but the worthy man prevented her ; and taking the child all ragged as he was
upon his knee, "What, Bill, you chubby rogue," cried he, " do you remember
your old friend Burchell?^ and Dick too, my honest veteran, are you here?
you shall find I have not forgot you." So saying, he gave each a large piece
of gingerbread, which the poor fellows ate very heartily, as they had got that
morning but a very scanty breakfast.
We now sate down to dinner, which was almost cold ; but previously, my
arm still continuing painful, Sir William wrote a prescription, for he had made
the study of physic his amusement, and was more than moderately skilled in
the profession : this being sent to an apothecaiy who lived in the place, my
arm was dressed, and I found almost instantaneous relief. We were waited
upon at dinner by the gaoler himself, who was willing to do our guest all the
honoiu' in his power. But before we had well dined another message was
brought from his nephew, desiring permission to appear in order to vindicate
liis innocence and honour ; with which request the Baronet complied, and de-
sired Mr. Thornhill to be introduced.
CHAPTER XXXI.
I'OEMEE BENEVOLENCE NOW EEPAID WITH UNEXPECTED INTEREST.
Me. Thornhill made his appearance with a smile, which he seldom wanted,
and was going to embrace his uncle, which the latter repulsed with an air of
disdain. " No fawning, sir, at present," cried the Baronet, with a look of
severity, " the only way to my heart is by the road of honour ; but here I only
see complicated instances of falsehood, cowardice, and oppression. How is it,
sir, that this poor man, for whom I know you professed a friendship, is used
thus hardly ? His daughter vilely seduced as a recompense for his hospitality,
and he himself thrown into a prison, perhaps but for resenting the insult ?
His son too, whom you feared to face as a man — "
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 703
" Is it possible, sir," interrupted his uepliew, " tliat my uucle could object
that as a crime, whicli his repeated instructions alone have persuaded me to
avoid ?"
" Yoiu' rebuke," cried Sir William, " is just ; you have acted in this in-
stance prudently and well, though not quite as your father would have done ;
my brother indeed was the soul of honour; but thou — yes, you have acted in
this instance perfectly right, and it has my warmest approbation."
" And I hope," said his nephew, " that the rest of my conduct will not be
found to deserve censure. I appeared, sir, with this gentleman's daughter at
some places of public amusement : thus what was levity, scandal called by a
harsher name, and it was reported that I had debauched her. I waited on
her father in person wilHng to clear the thing to his satisfaction, and he re-
ceived me only with insult and abuse. As for the rest, with regard to his
being here, my attorney and steward can best inform you, as I commit tlie
management of business entirely to them. If he has contracted debts, and is
unwilling or even unable to pay them, it is their business to proceed in tliis
manner, and I see no hardship or injustice in pursuing the most legal means
of redress."
" If this," cried Sir William, " be as you have stated it, there is nothing
unpardonable in your offence; and though you.r conduct might have been
more generous in not suffering this gentleman to be oppressed by subordinate
tyranny, yet it has been at least equitable."
*' He cannot contradict a single particular," replied the 'squire ; " I defy
liim to do so, and several of my servants are ready to attest what I say. Tlius,
sir/' continued he, finding that I was silent, for in fact I could not contradict
him, " thus, sir, my own innocence is vindicated ; but though at your in treaty
I am ready to forgive this gentleman every other offence, yet his attempts to
lessen me in your esteem excite a resentment that I cannot govern. And this
too at a time when his son was actually preparing to take away my life ; tliis,
I say, was such guilt that I am determined to let the law take its course. I
have here the challenge that was sent me, and two witnesses to prove it ; one
of my servants has been wounded dangerously ; and even though my uncle
himself should dissuade me, which I know he will not, yet I will see public
justice done, and he shall suffer for it."
"Thou monster," cried my wife, "hast thou not had vengeance enough
already, but inust my poor boy feel thy cruelty ? I hope that good Sir Wil-
liam will protect us, for my son is as innocent as a child ; I am sure he is, and
never did harm to man."
" Madam," replied the good man, " yom* wishes for his safety are not greater
than mine ; but I am sorry to find his guilt too plain ; and if my nephew
persists — " But the appearance of Jenkinson and the gaoler's two servants
now called off our attention, who entered bawling in a tall man very genteelly
dressed, and answering the description already given of the ruffian who had
carried off my daughter. — " Here," cried Jenkinson, pulling him in, " here wo
have him ; and if ever there was a candidate for Tyburn, this is one."
The moment Mr. Thornhill perceived the prisoner and Jenkinson who had
him in custody, he seemed to shi-ink back with terror. His face became palo
with conscious guilt, and he would have withdrawn ; but Jenkinson, who per-
ceived his design, stopped him. — " What, 'squire," cried he, " are you ashamed
of your two old acquaintances, Jenkinson and Baxter ? but this is tlie w;iy
that all great men forget their friends, though I am resolved we will not forget
you. Our prisoner, please your honour," continued he, turning to Sir Wil-
liam, "has already confessed all. This is the gentleman reported to bo so
dangerously wounded : ho declares tliat it was Mr. Thornhill who first put him
701 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
upon tliis affair ; that he gaye liira the clothes he now wears to appear like a
gentleman, and furnished him with the post-chaise. The plan was laid between
them, that ho should carry off the young lady to a place of safety, and that
there he should threaten and terrify her ; but Mr. Tliornhill was to come in
in the mean time, as if by accident, to her rescue, and that they should fight
awhile," and then he was to run off, by which Mr. Tliornhill would have tlie
better opportunity of gaining her affections himself under tlie character of her
defender."
Sir William remembered the coat to have been worn by his nephew, and all
the rest the prisoner himself confirmed by a more circumstantial account; con-
cluding, that Mr. Thornhill had often declared to him that he was in love with
both sisters at the same time.
" Heavens !" cried Sir William, "what a riper have I been fostering in my
bosom ! And so fond of public justice too as he seemed to be ! Eut he shall
have it ; secure him, Mr. gaoler — yet hold, I fear there is not legal evidence to
detain him."
Upon this, Mr. Tliornhill with the utmost humility intreated that two such
abandoned wretches might not be admitted as evidences against him, but that
his servants should be examined. — "Your servants!" replied Sir William,
" wretch, call them yours no longer : — but come let us hear what those fellows
liave to say ; let his butler be called."
When the butler was introduced, he soon perceived by his former master's
looks that all his power was now over. " Tell me," cried Sir WilHam sternly,
" have you ever seen your master and that feUow dressed up in his clothes in
company together?" "Yes, please your honour," cried the butler, "a
thousand times : he was the man that always brought him his ladies," — " IIow,"
interrupted young Mr. Tliornhill, " this to my face !" — " Yes," replied the but-
ler, "or to any man's face. To tell you a truth, Master Tliornhill, I never
cither loved or liked you, and I don't care if I tell you now a piece of my mind."
— '' Now then," cried Jenkinson, " tell his honour whether you know any thing
of me." — " I can't say," replied the butler, "that I know much good of you.
The night that gentleman's daughter was deluded to our house you were one of
them." — " So then." cried Sir William, " I find you have brought a nqyj fine
witness to prove your innocence : thou stain to humanity ! to associate with
such wretches !" (But continuing his examination) " You teU me, Mr. but-
ler, that tliis was the person who brought him this old gentleman's daughter."
— " No, please your honour," replied the butler, " he did not bring her, lor the
'squire liimself undertook that business ; but he brought the priest that pre-
tended to marry them." — " It is but too true," cried Jenkinson, " I cannot
deny it ; that was the employment assigned me, and I confess it to my con-
fusion."
" Grood heavens !" exclaimed the Baronet, " how every new discovery of his
villainy alarms me. All his guilt is now too plain, and I find his prosecution
was dictated by tyranny, cowardice, and revenge ; at my request Mr. gaoler,
set this young officer now your prisoner free, and trust to me for the consequences.
I '11 make it my business to set the affair in a proper light to my friend the
magistrate who has committed him. But where is the unfortunate young
lady herself "i let her appear to confront tliis wretch ; I long to know by what
arts ho has seduced her. In treat her to come in. Where is she T^
"Ah sir," said I, " that question stings me to the heart : I was once indeed
happy in a daughter, but her miseries — " Another interruption here prevented
nie ; for who should make her appearance but Miss Arabella Wilniot, who was
next day to have been married to Mr. Thornhill. Nothing could equal her sur-
prise at seeing Sir William and his nephew here before her ; for her arrival
THE VICAft OP JVAKEPIEID. 705
^as quite accidental. It happened that she and the old gentleman her father
were passing through the town on their way to her aunt's, who had insisted
tliat her nuptials with Mr. Thomhill should be consummated at her house ; but
stopping for refreshment, they put up at an inn at the other end of the town.
It was there from the window that the young lady happened to observe one of
my little boys playing in the street, and instantly sending a footman to bring
tlie child to her, she learned from him some account of our misfortunes ; but
was still kept ignorant of young Mr. Thomhill's being the cause. Though her
father made several remonstrances on the impropriety of going to a prison to
visit us, yet they were ineffectual ; she desired the child to conduct her, which
he did, and it was thus she surprised us at a juncture so unexpected.
Nor can I go on without a reflection on those accidental meetings, which^
though they happen every day, seldom excite our surprise but upon some ex-
traordinary occasion. To what a fortuitous concurrence do we notowe every
pleasure and convenience of our lives. How many seeming accidents must
unite before we can be clothed or fed. The peasant must be disposed to
labom*, the shower must fall, the wind fill the merchant's sails, or nuntfefers
must want the usual supply. ^ . , • i
We aU continued silent for some moments, while my charming pupil, which
was the name I generally gave this young lady, united in her looks compassion
and astonishment, which gave new finishings to her beauty. " Indeed, my dear
Mr. Thornhill," cried she to the 'squire, who she supposed was come here to
succour and not to oppress us, " I take it a little unkindly that you should
come here without me, or never inform me of the situation of a family so dear
to us both; you know I should take as much pleasure in contributing to
the relief of my reverend old master here, whom I shall ever esteem as you can.
But I find that, like your imcle, you take a pleasure in doing good in secret."
"He find pleasure in doing good!" cried Sir William, interrupting her.
" 1^0, my dear, his pleasures are as base as he is. You see in him, madam, as
complete a villain as ever disgraced humanity. A wretch, who after having de-
luded this poor man's daughter, after plotting against the innocence of her sis-
ter, has thrown the father into prison, and the eldest son into fetters, because
he had courage to face her betrayer. And give me leave, madam, now to con-
gratulate you upon an escape from the embraces of such a monster."
" O goodness," cried the lovely girl, " how have I been deceived ! Mr. Thorn-
hill informed me for certain that this gentleman's eldest son. Captain Primrose,
was gone off to America with his new-married lady."
" My sweetest miss," cried my wife, " he has told you nothing but false-
hoods. My son G-eorge never left the kmgdom, nor ever was married. Though
you have forsaken him, he has always loved y ou too well to think of any body
else ; and I have heard him say he would die a bachelor for yoiu* sake." She
then proceeded to expatiate upon the sincerity of her son's passion, she set his
duel with Mr. Thornhill in a proper light, from thence she made a rapid
digression to the 'squire's debaucheries, his pretended marriages, and ended
with a most insulting picture of his cowardice.
" G-ood heaven !" cried Miss Wilmot, " how very near have I been to the
brink of ruin! Ten thousand falsehoods has this gentleman told me! Ho
had at last art enough to persuade me that my promise to the only man I es-
teemed was no longer binding, since he had been unfaithful. By his falsehoods
I was taught to detest one equally brave and generous !"
But by this time my son was freed from the incumbrances of justice, as the per-
son supposed to be wounded was detected to be an impostor. Mr._ Jenkinson
also, who had acted as his valet-de-chambre, had dressed up his hair, and fur-
nished liim with whatever was necessai-y to make a genteel appearance. Ha
45
'7C^ THE WORkS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
now therefore entered, handsomely dressed in his reghnentals, and, ■without
Tanity (for I am above it ), he appeared as handsome a fellow as ever wore a
military dress. As he entered, he made Miss Wilmot a modest and distant bow,
for he was not as yet acquainted with the change which the eloquence
of his mother had wrought in his favour. But no decorums could
restrain the impatience of his blushing mistress to be forgiven. Her
tears, her looks, all contributed to discover the real sensations of her heart, for
having forgotten her former promise, and having suffered herself to be deluded
by an impostor. My son appeared amazed at her condescension, and could
scarcely believe it real. — " Sure, madam," cried he, " this is but delusion ! I
can never have merited this ! To be blessed thus is to be too happy." — " No,
sir," repUed she, " I have been deceived, basely deceived, else nothing could
have ever made me unjust to my promise. You know my friendship, you have
long known it ; but forget what I have done, and as you once had my warmest
vows pf constancy, you shall now have them repeated ; and be assured that if
your Arabella cannot be yours, she shall never be another's." — "And no other's
you shall be," cried Sir William, " if I have any influence with your father."
This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who immediately flew to the
inn where the old gentleman was, to inform him of every cu'cumstance that
had happened. But in the mean time the 'squire perceiving that he was on
every side undone, now finding that no hopes were left fi*om flattery or dis-
simulation, concluded that his wisest way would be to turn and face his
pursuers. Thus laying aside all shame, he appeared the open hardy villain.
" I find then," cried he, " that I am to expect no justice here ; but I am
resolved it shall be done me. You shall know, sh'," turning to Su' "William,
*' I am no longer a poor dependent upon your favoui's. I scorn them. No-
thing can keep Miss Wilmot's fortune from me, which, I thank her father's
assiduity, is pretty large. The articles and a bond for her fortune are signed,
and safe in my possession. It was her fortune, not her j)erson, that induced
me to wish for this match ; and possessed of the one, let who wiU take the
other."
This was an alarming blow ; Sir William was sensible of the justice of his
claims, for he had been instrumental in drawing up the marriage articles
himself. Miss "Wilmot therefore perceiving that her fortune was irretrievably
lost ; turning to my son, she asked, if the loss of fortune could lessen her value
to him. " Though fortune," said she, " is out of my power, at least I have
my hand to "give."
" And that, madam," cried her real lover, " was indeed all that you ever had
to give ; at least, all tliat I ever thought worth the acceptance. And I now
protest, my Arabella, by all that's happy, your want of fortune this moment
increases my pleasiu'e, as it serves to convince my sweet girl of my sincerity."
Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a httle pleased at the danger his
daughter had just escaped, and readily consented to a dissolution of the match.
Bat finding that her fortune, which was secured to Mr. ThornhiU by bond,
would not be given up, nothing could exceed his disappointment. He now
saw that his money must all go to enrich one who had no fortune of his own.
He could bear his being a rascal, but to want an equivalent to his daughter's
fortune was wormwood. He sate therefore for some minvites employed in the
most mortifying speculations, till Sir Wilham attempted to lessen his anxiety.
— "I must confess, sir," cried he, " that your i)resent disappointment does not
entirely displease me. Your immoderate passion for wealth is now justly
punished. But though the young lady cannot be rich, she has still a compe-
tence sufficient to give content. Here you see an honest young soldier who is
willing to take her without fortune j they have long loved each other, and for
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 707
the friendship I bear his father, my interest shall not be wanting in his pro-
motion. Leave then that ambition -which disappoints you, and for once adinit
that happiness which courts your acceptance."
" Sir William," replied the old gentleman, " be assured I never yet forced
her inclinations, nor will I now. If she still continues to love this young gentle-
man, let her have him with all my heart. — There is still, thank heaven, some
fortune left, and your promise will make it something more. Only let my old
friend here (meaning me) give mo a promise of settling six thousand pounds
upon my girl if ever he should come to his fortune, and I am ready this night
to be the first to join them together."
As it now remained with me to make the young couple happy, I readily
gave a promise of making the settlement he required, which from one who
had such little expectations as T, was no great favour. — ^We had now therefore
the satisfaction of seeing them fly into each other's arms in a transport. —
"After all my misfortunes," cried my son Greorge, "to be thus rewarded.?
Sure this is more than I could ever have presumed to hope for. To be pos-
sessed of all that's good, and after such an interval of pain ! My warmest
wishes could never rise so high!"
" Yes, my Greorge," retui-ned his lovely bride, " now let the wretch take my
fortune ; since you are happy without it, so am I. Oh, what an exchange have I
made from the basest of men to the dearest, best ! — Let him enjoy our fortune
I now can be happy even in indigence." — "And I promise you," cried the 'squire
with a malicious grin, " that I shall be very happy with what you despise." —
" Hold, hold, sir," cried Jenkiuson, " there are two words to that bargain. As
for that lady's fortune, sir, you shall never touch a single stiver of it. Pray,
your honour," continued he to Sir William, " can the 'squire have this lady's
fortune if he be married to another ?" — " How can you make such a simple de-
mand ?" replied the Baronet ; " undoubtedly he cannot." "I am sorry f jr that,"
cried Jenkinson ; " for as this gentleman and I have been old fellow sporters,
I have a friendship for him. But I must declare, well as I love him, that his
contract is not worth a tobacco-stopper, for he is married already." — " You
lie, like a rascal," returned the 'squire, who seemed roused by this insult ; " I
never was legally married to any woman."
" Ladeed, begging your honour's pardon," replied the other, " you were ;
and I hope you will shew a proper return of friendship to your own honest
Jenkinson who brings you a wife ; and if the company restrains their curi-
osity a few minutes, they shall see her." — So saying he went oif with his usual
celerity, and left us all unable to form any probable conjecture as to his design.
— " Ay, let him go," cried the 'squire ; " wliatever else I may have done, I
defy him there. I am too old now to be frightened with squibs,"
" I am surprised," said the Baronet, " what the fellow can intend by this.
Some low piece of humour, I suppose." — "Perhaps, sir," replied I, " he may
liave a more serious meaning. For when we reflect on the various schemes
tliis gentleman has laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one more artful
tlian the rest has been found able to decsive him. When we consider what
numbers he has ruined, how many parents now feel witli anguish the infamy
and contamination which he has brought into their families, it would not sur-
prise me if some one of them — Amazement ! Do I see my lost daughter ! Do
I liold her! It is, it is my life, my happiness. I thought thee lost, my
Olivia, yet still I hold thee— and still thou shalt live to bless me." Tlie
warmest transports of the fondest lover were not greater than mine, when I
saw him introduce my child, and held my daughter in my arms, whose silence
only spoke her I'aptures.
" And art thou returned to me, my darling," cried I, " to be my comfort in
708 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
age !" — " That slie is," cried Jenkinson, " and make much of her, for she ig
your own honourable child, and as honest a woman as any in the whole room,
let the other be who she will. And as for you, 'squu'e, as sure as you stand there,
this young lady is your lawful wedded wife. And to convince you that I speak
nothing but truth, here is the license by which you were married together."
— So saying, he put the license into the Baronet's hands, who read it, and
found it perfect in every respect. " And now, gentlemen," continued he, " I
find you are surprised at all tliis ; but a few words will explain the difficulty.
That there 'squire of renown, for whom I have a great friendship, but that's
between ourselves, has often employed me in doing odd little things for him.
Among the rest, he commissioned me to prociu'e him a false license and a false
priest, in order to deceive this young lady. But as I was very much his
friend, what did I do but went and got a true license and a true priest, and
married them both as fast as the cloth could make them. Perhaps you'll think
it was generosity that made me do all this. But no. To my shame I confess it,
ray only design was to keep the license and let the 'squire know that I could
prove it upon him whenever I thought proper, and so make him come down
whenever I wanted money." A burst of pleasure now seemed to fill the whole
apartment ; our joy reached even to the common room, where the prisoners
themselves sympathized.
And shook their chains
In transport and rude harmony.
Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even Olivia's cheek seemed
flushed with pleasure. To be thus restored to reputation, to friends and
fortune at once, was a rapture sufficient to stop tije* progress of decay, and
restore former health and vivacity. But perhaps among all there was not one
who felt sincerer pleasure than I. Still holding the dearly loved child in ray
arms, I asked my heart if these transports were not delusion. " How coiild
you," cried I, turning to Mr. Jenkinson, " how could you add to my miseries
by the story of her death ? But it matters not ; my pleasm'e at finding her
again is more than a recompense for the pain."
" As t3 your question," replied Jenkinson, " that is easily answered. I
thought the only probable means of freeing you from prison, was by submit-
ting to the 'squire, and consenting to his marriage with the other young lady.
But these you had vowed never to grant while your daughter was living;
tliere was therefore no other method to bring things to bear, but by per-
suading you that she was dead. I prevailed on your wife to join in the deceit,
and we have not had a fit opportunity of undeceiving you till now."
In the whole assembly now there only appeared two faces that did not glow
with transport. Mr. ThornhiU's assurance had entii'cly forsaken him : he now
saw the gulpli of infamy and want before him, and trembled to take the
plunge. He therefore fell on his knees before his uncle, and in a voice of
piercing misery implored compassion. Sir William was going to spurn him
away, but at my request he raised him, and after pausing a few moments,
" Thy vices, crimes, and ingratitude," cried he, " deserve no tenderness ; yet
tliou shalt not be entirely forsaken : a bare competence shall be supplied to
support the wants of life, but not its follies. This young lady, thy wife, shall
be put in possession of a third part of that fortune which once was thine, and
from her tenderness alone thou art to expect any extraordinary supplies for
tlie future." He was going to express his gratitude for such kindness in a set
speech ; but the Baronet prevented him by bidding him not aggravate his
meanness, which was already but too apparent. He ordered hun at the same
time to be gone, and from all his former domestics to choose one such as ho
should think proper, which was all that should be granted to attend him.
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 709
As soon as he left us, Sir William very politely stepped up to his new niece
with a smile and wished her joy. His example was followed by Miss Wilmot
and her father ; my wife too kissed her daughter with much affection, as, to
use her own expression, she was now made an honest woman of. Sophia and
Moses followed in turn, and even our benefactor Jenkinson desired to be ad-
mitted to that honour. Our satisfaction seemed scarcely capable of increase.
Sir William, whose greatest pleasure was in doiug good, now looked round
with a countenance open as the sun, and saw nothing but joy in the looks of
all except that of my daughter SoiDhia, who for some reasons we could not
comprehend, did not seem perfectly satisfied. "I think noAV," cried he with
a smile, "that all the company except one or two seem perfectly happy.
There only remains an act of justice for me to do. You are sensible, sir,"
continued he, turning to me, " of the obligations we both owe Mr Jenkinson.
And it is but just we should both reward him for it. Miss Sophia will, I am
sure, make him very happy, and lie shall have from me five hundred pounds
as her fortune, and upon this I am sure they can live very comfortably to-
gether. Come, Miss Sophia, what say you to this match of my making. Will
you have liim ?" — M}- poor girl seemed almost sinking into her mother's arms
at the hideous proposal. — "Have him, sir!" cried she faintly. "No sir,
never." — " What," cried he again, " not have Mr. Jenkinson, your benefactor,
a handsome young fellow with five hundred pounds and good expectations !" —
" I beg, sir," returned she, scarcely able to speak, " that you'll desist, and not
make me so very wretched." — " Was ever such obstinacy known," cried he
again, " to refuse a man whom the family has such infinite obhgations to, who
has preserved your sister,, and who has five hundred pounds ! What, not have
him!" — "No, sir, never," replied she angrily; "I'd sooner die first." — "If
that be the case tlien," cried he, '■' if you wiU not have him — I think I must
have you myself." And so saying he caught her to his breast with ardour.
" My loveliest, my most sensible of girls," cried he, " how could you ever think
your own Burchell could deceive you, or that Sir William Thornhill could
ever cease to admire a mistress that loved him for himself alone. I have for
some years soxight for a woman, who, a stranger to my fortune, could think
that I had merit as a man. After having tried in vain, even amongst the pert
and the ugly, how great at last must be my rapture to have made a conquest
over such sense and such heavenly beauty!" Then tm'ning to Jenkinson,
" As I cannot, sir, part with this young lady myself, for she has taken a fancy
to the cut of my face, all the recompense I can make is to give you her for-
tune, and you may call upon my steward to-morrow for five hundred pounds.
Thus we had all our compliments to repeat, and Lady Thornhill underwent
the same round of ceremony that her sister had done before. In the mean
time Sir William's gentleman appeared to tell us that the equipages were
ready to carry us to the inn, where every thing was prepared for our reception.
My wife and I led the van, and left those gloomy mansions of sorrow. The
generous Baronet ordered forty pounds to be distributed among the prisoners ;
and Mr. Wilmot, induced by his example, gave half that sum. We were
received below by the shouts of the villagers, and I saw and shook by the hand
two or three of my honest parishioners who were among the number. They
attended us to our inn, where a sumptuous entertainment was provided, and
coarser provisions were distributed in great quantities among the populace.
After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the alternation of pleasure
I and pain which they had sustained during the day, I asked permission to
I withdraw ; and leaving the company in the midst of their mirth, as soon as I
I found myself alone I poured out my heart in gratitude to the G|-iver of joy as
} well as of sorrow, and then slept undistiu'bed till morning.
710 THE WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE CONCLUSION
The next morning as soon as I awaked I found my eldest son sitting by my
bed-side, who came to increase my joy with another turn of fortune in my
favour. First having released me from tlie settlement that I had made the
day before in his favour, ho let me know tliat my merchant who had failed in
town was arrested at Antwerp, and there had given up effects to a much
greater amount than what was due to his creditors. My boy's generosity
pleased me, almost as much as this unlooked-for good fortune. But I had
some doubts whether I ought in justice to accept his olFer. While I was
pondering upon this, Sir William entered the room, to whom I commuicated
}ny doubts. His opinion was, that as my son was already possessed of a very
aflhient fortune by liis marriage, I might accept his offer without any hesita-
tion. His business, however, was to inform me, that as he had the night be-
fore sent for the licenses, and expected them every hour, he hoped that I
would not refuse my assistance in making all the cooipany happy that
morning. A footman entered while we were speaking, to tell us tliat the
messenger was retm*ned, and, as I was by this time ready, I went down, where
I found the whole company as- merry as affluence and innocence coidd make
them. However, as they were now preparing for a very solemn ceremony,
their laughter entirely displeased me. I told them of the grave, becoming,
and sublime deportment they sliould assume upon this mystical occasion, and
read them two homilies and a thesis of my own composing, in order to prepare
them. Yet they still seemed perfectly refractory and imgovernable. Even as
we were going along to church, to which I led the way, all gravity had quite
forsaken them, and I was often tempted to turn back in indignation. In
church a new dilomma arose, which promised no easy solution. This was,
which couple should be married first ; mj son's bride warmly insisted that
Lady Thornhill (that was to be) sliould take the lead ; but this the other re-
fused with equal ardour, pi'otesting she would not be guilty of such rudeness
for the world. The argument was supported for some time between both
with equal obstinacy aiid good breeding. But as I stood all this time with
my book ready, I was at last quite tired of the contest, and shutting it, " I
perceive," cried I, " that none of you have a mind to be married, and I think
we had as good go back again ; for I suppose there will be no business done
here to-day." — This at once reduced them to reason. The Baronet and his
lady were first married, and then my son and his lovely partner.
I had previously that morning given ordei's that a coach should be sent for
my honest neighbour Flamboi'ough and his family, by Avhich means, upon our
return to the inn, we had the pleasure of finding the two Miss Flamboroughs
alighted before us. Mr. Jenkinson gave his hand to the eldest, and my son
Moses led up the other ; (and I have since found that he has taken a real
liking to the girl, and my consent and bounty he shall have, whenever he
thinks proper to demand them.) We were no sooner returned to the inn, but
numbers of my parishioners, hearing of my success, came to congratulate me ;
but among the rest were those who rose to rescue me, and whom I formerly
rebuked Avith such sharpness. I told the story to Sir WilHam, my son-in-law,
who went out and reproved them with great severity ; but finding them quite
disheartened by his harsh reproof, he gave them half-a-guiuea apiece to drink
his health and raise their dejected spirits.
Soon after this we were called to a very genteel entertainment, which was
dressed by Mr. Thornhill's cook. And it may not be improper to observe witb
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 711
respect to that gentleman, that he now resides in quality of companion at a
relation's house, being very well liked, and seldom sitting at the side-table,
except when there is no room at the other ; for they make no stranger of him.
His time is pretty much taken up in keeping his relation, who is a little
melancholy, in spirits, and in learning to blow the French-horn. My eldest
daughter, howeyer, still remembers him with regret ; and she has eren told
me, though I make a great secret of it, that when he reforms she may be
brought to relent. But to return, for I am not apt to digress thus, when we
were to sit down to dinner our ceremonies were going to be renewed. The
question was, whether my eldest daughter, as being a matron, should not sit
above the two young brides ; but the debate was cut short by my son G-eorge,
who proposed that the company should sit indiscriminately, every gentleman
by his lady. This was received with great approbation by all, excepting my
wife, who I could perceive was not perfectly satisfied, as she expected to have
liad the pleasure of sitting at the head of the table and carving all the meat
for all the company. But notwithstanding this, it is impossible to describe
our good humour. I can't say whether we had more wit among us now than
usual ; but I am certain we had more laughing, which answered the end as
well. One jest I particularly remember : old Mr. Wilmot drinking to Moses,
whose head was turned another way, my son replied, " Madam, I thank you."
Upon which the old gentleman, winking upon the rest of the company, ob-
served that he was thinking of his mistress. At which jest I.thought the two
Miss Hamboroughs would have died with laughing. As soon as dinner was
over, according to my old custom, I requested that the table might be taken
away, to have the pleasure of seeing all my family assembled once more by a
cheerful fire-side. My two little ones sate upon each knee, the rest of the
company by their partners. I had nothing now on this side of the grave to
wish for ; all my cares were over, my pleasiu'e was imspeakable.. It now only
remained that my gratitude in good fortune should exceed my former sub-
mission iu adversity.
THE END.
BILLING, PBINTEB, GUILDFOKD, SUEllEY
BKdAbwAY, LUBGAT* Hill,
LONDON, E.O.
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